Oliver propped himself up on his hands to greet the three men blocking the alleyway. They stared down at him, casting dark shadows that crept closer. He cleared his throat.
“S-sorry, I uh… thought you were someone else. Can I help you?” He spoke in a deeper voice, hoping to feign masculinity. The men looked between themselves.
“What's yer name, darlin?” The middle one cooed. Oliver presumed he was the first one to arrive in the alley and looked to be in his early twenties with scruffy brown hair and a sharp nose. He was small, and everything about him screamed sharp. Not in the way the duke did, where his presence made you feel helplessly, mercilessly in danger, but in a way that made sure you knew he had less than pure intentions.
Oliver glared and crossed his arms, slumping back on the wall. “Oliver.” He almost spat the word at them.
It wasn’t even a second later that one of the other men laughed at him. Loudly. It was a short, mocking laugh. Fuelled by disbelief. He was a tall, lanky man, but clearly had muscle on him, surely a dock hand, with hair like straw and spotted skin. It was weathered and Oliver couldn’t help but compare the feature to Saorise, Faolan and Athena, who all were speckled beautifully, whereas this man simply looked older than he presumably was, skin wrinkled by the sun.
The sharp man had clearly found his response funny, as he looked between the others once more, this time sharing mocking grins. The last man was quiet, his eyes perceptive, Oliver could tell that much just by looking at him. They both were perceptive in that right. This man’s gaze stared through you as if reading your soul like a book. He wasn’t particularly short, nor was he tall, he wasn’t skinny or wide and he wasn’t lean or muscular. Oliver wondered if he was anything other than perceptive. Perhaps cruel.
“Something funny, guys?”
“Nah, nah, mate. Don’ mean to offend ya! We jus’ never f’ought we’d see som’n like you ‘round ‘ere.” The sharp man said defensively, hand held up in ‘surrender’. “Y’know, tranny-like.”
It was the first time Oliver had heard the word and immediately, he hated it. It was the way this man said it, the way he looked over Oliver when he said it, the way his smile widened when he said it, the way it crept over his skin.
He sat up. The cold, empty void in his stomach grew further. “What did you just call me?”
The weathered man and the sharp man stepped deeper into the alley, encroaching on the already limited space between them. Oliver got to his feet, taking blind steps backwards.
“You ‘eard me.”
Another step. “We know what you are.”
Step. “A bitch who wants to be a bloke.”
Step. “Playing dress-up.”
Step.
Thud.
*** SKIP THE FOLLOWING SCENE IF NEEDED - TW FOR SA ***
Oliver’s back hit a wall, and he turned his head, planning to escape around the first of many corners in this winding path when hands slammed down around his head. Thick fingers gripped his chin, turning it to face the sharp man, whose grin had grown hungry. The weathered man held his arms against the wall, as the sharp man grinned down at him, hands grasping his scratched face. Oli’s fear grew hot, and a rage brewed in his gut, his arms struggled against the grip of the weathered man.
“Ya’ voice gave you away.” The sharp man almost seemed to enjoy the way Oliver’s eyes had widened, drinking in the fear that hid deep inside his soul. The perceptive man peered down the alley, watching. “You ‘ave the look of a man.”
He twisted Oli’s head, gripping his cheeks harshly. “...Sorta’”
“Good ‘nough for me.” His grip loosened, softening around Oliver’s cheeks. “Aint sodomy if you ain't a man” A hand slipped under Oliver’s shirt and his skin itched. He snapped out of his fearful frozen daze and began to squirm and fight away the hands grabbing at him.
“G-get the fuck off of me!” He screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks as his legs kicked out widely. “Help!” He screeched into the air, his voice suddenly feeling hoarse.
A hand clasped over his mouth, silencing his cries. He kept kicking out, to the annoyance of the men and eventually found purchase in between the legs of the weathered man, who crumpled to the ground in pain.
Oliver ripped his head out of the hand, sharply biting down on the boney fingers. The sharp man cried out, recoiling as he clenched onto the now, bleeding fingers on his hand. Oliver shoved them off and darted around the corner, steps thundering. He couldn’t hear their steps following, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t know if he could.
*** INITIAL SCENE OVER FOLLOWING SCENE DEPICTS DISSOCIATIVE TRAUMA RESPONSES AND A PANIC ATTACK ***
Eventually, he found himself at a dead-end, and with heavy breaths turned in a circle, looking for where he could go next. All that was left was the way he came.
He couldn’t tell if they were following him. Is that sound the beating of his heart or of heavy footfalls? His exhaustion caught up with him and he fell to his knees, shuffling back against one of the side walls, hidden from sight by a large pile of empty crates.
His wide eyes stared into the blurring stones as he heaved in deep breaths, each thicker than the last, each one choking back more and more of a sob.
It took him a while to notice the hot tears falling down his cheeks, the warm mid-day sun now falling over his face, the sound of birds chirping and distant children’s laughter, the sweat pooling between his fingers that gripped his dirt-covered tunic, the sound of his heartbeat slowing, the taste of iron and blood on his tongue from the bite. His breaths slowly returned to normal, and once his heartbeat had retreated out of his ears and back into his ribcage, he realised how quiet it was.
He felt safe in the sound of that last deep breath before it was all back to normal. Yeah. Totally back to normal. As if nothing happened.
A new bout of thumping met his ears, and panic struck his veins. At first, he tried convincing himself it was his heart. He failed to do so. He huddled his knees, trying to look and feel smaller, hidden. He planted his hands over his mouth, trying to quiet his breath and his tears.
The shoes stopped.
*** THIS IS THE END OF THE TRIGGERING CONTENT <3 ***
“Oliver…?” Vittorio’s warm voice broke, laced with concern.
Oliver was overwhelmed with relief and warmth, not just from the new round of tears. He tried to respond with words but all that came out was a choked sob. He heard Vi’s shoes speed up, dashing to meet Oliver.
A wave of guilt washed over him. How could he have not recognised Vittorio’s footsteps?
Shame drowned him. How pathetic must he look now?
How can he honestly believe he could be a man after something like this?
The prince dropped down to his level and swiftly brought him into a tight suffocating hug. Oliver tried to revel in the hug, and the warmth, but all he could think about was trying to breathe.
Stolen story; please report.
Eventually, the pair calmed, and Oliver was the first to pull out of the hug. He sniffled. Vittorio cupped a cheek in his hand, thumb brushing away some of the tears that fell. Oliver wished his heart didn’t tremble with fear at the feeling.
“Are you alright, Oli?” Vittorio asked with a whisper, his eyes scanning Oliver’s face and body for injury.
He shook. “I…” He heaved in a breath. “C-can we- get out in the open… I’m feeling awfully claustrophobic.”
Vi’s lips pursed but he stood, cradling Oliver’s torso with his arms. They began walking, Oliver leaning on Vi’s arms, his head spinning. “I found those guys.”
Oliver whipped his head around to face Vittorio, and only now noticed the bleeding scratch on his forehead. “Vi… what happened?”
“Well, they were arguing, and one of them was on the floor. I’m assuming that was your doing? Good work.” He grew silent. “I know… I mean, I can guess what they tried to do. I’m so sorry, Oliver. People are shitty.”
Oliver couldn’t help but laugh. He stared up at Vittorio’s face. He wasn’t usually one to swear and his soft face always made it feel a little strange. But his voice and his eyes were laced with a gentle rage Oliver had never seen before. It left him conflicted.
They walked in silence for a bit, until Oliver felt okay standing on his own again. “...Where are we going?” He finally said.
Vittorio smiled again. “I was thinking the training grounds… our training grounds I mean.”
Oliver grinned, raising a brow and walking ahead of the other boy. He pushed any other thoughts out of his mind. “Is it even still there? You would have thought someone would have found it and taken it apart.”
The Prince laughed. “I know you still use it.”
Oli froze, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “WOAH, WILL YOU LOOK AT THE TIME.” He set off, speed-walking out of the side street.
They had bypassed all of the main roads and the town centre. Now, they found themselves on the outskirts, with a path leading up the sloping hill where the cliff face had finally descended to a walkable level, and a path into the forest.
They took the forest path, wandering through the familiar trail. It was probably the first time Vittorio had been down there since he graduated when he was eighteen. He looked around inquisitively, finding all the old posts and tree carvings they made before they were even ten years old, now ripe with moss and vine. He smiled.
They passed by their shabby scarecrows made of sticks and grass and rope, guarding a now-dead field of acorns they had buried. Eventually, once they passed into the deeper part of the forest, where the path disappeared and so did the light peeking through the canopy, and the sound of the bustling town was far behind them, they entered a clearing.
A familiar, warm clearing in the forest, where a large oak tree sat. Of course, when they found the tree, the pair built their own little treehouse in it. Though, Oliver supposed it was far from small. They had taught themselves the meaning of hard work. Of joy and perseverance. Of love and laughter. They didn’t do it alone, as some of Vittorio’s guards and attendants had to be with him, and so they helped.
Beneath the treehouse, was a mock-training ground, with straw-stuffed sacks on sticks to slash at, red targets painted on their chests.
Vittorio’s royal advisors and attendants knew about this place, it was no secret.
What was secret was what they got up to here.
When Vittorio was old enough to sneak out, they would meet here.
Oliver stood in the middle of the ground and picked up a pair of crudely crafted wooden swords. He turned and tossed one to Vi, who caught it in one hand.
The golden prince looked down at his childhood sword, lightly chipped with the initials V.B. carved into the hilt. Oliver ran a thumb over his own worn sword, feeling the layers and layers of carved scratches that left no initial to be known. He didn’t need to look, he knew what it was like. He knew which of these swords was more used and worn.
They both stood, sword in hand, recalling the same memory. “C’mon, let’s go again?” Oliver said with a teasing tone and a grin.
Vi matched the expression and charged at Oliver.
They shared the memory of Vittorio teaching young twelve-year-old Ophelia more sword-fighting.
She had just mastered the basics and now found her premature cockiness challenged, as Vi suddenly dropped down, sweeping a leg behind hers and knocking her clean onto her back.
She slammed to the ground, groaning as Vittorio stood up, dusting himself off.
“The next lesson is; real opponents will use unfair techniques, so always remain aware.” He peered over her, grinning with competitive satisfaction.
She grumbled on the ground, long hair splayed out behind her. “You try fighting in a dress and with hair this long. It's impractical.” He planted his hands on his knees and stared down at her.
“Mhm? All I’m hearing is excuses.”
She sat up, glaring. “Hey, you know I’m more of an archer. Swords aren’t my thing…”
“You asked me to teach you self-defence.” Vi shrugged.
Lia groaned, head thrown back into the air. “Ugh, I know but it suckssssss.”
Thirteen-year-old Vittorio laughed, outstretching a hand for her to take. “C’mon, let's go again.”
The words echoed.
Vittorio’s back slammed into the hard ground after having his weight swept out from beneath him. Oliver’s boot slammed down by his head seconds later. Oliver aimed his worn wooden sword inches off of Vittorio’s chest. They both breathed heavily, staring at each other in sweaty silence for a moment.
Oliver stared down at Vittorio, that rage from earlier bubbling in his soul. He almost glared at the prince. He thought that sparring with his best friend like he used to do would take his mind off of the entire thing. But now he was just…
Angry.
He huffed out a breath through his nose. “I win.” He felt like he should have grinned victoriously. But he just couldn’t smile.
Vi’s eyes glimmered, staring wide-eyed at Oliver. Vittorio reached up slowly, brushing softly across Oliver’s cheek. “You’re beautiful…” The words slipped out under his breath, his face growing warm and red as his starry eyes glistened at the sight of Oliver. But while Vittorio’s cheeks grew warm out of child-like affection, Oliver’s grew warm with the burning pain that rose in his ribcage, threatening to scorch him, burn him, incinerate him from within. A burning rage that physically hurt and sent out a tingling, itching desire to hit and tear and break and maim.
The itching fire grew and worsened, as did Oliver’s heavy breaths, until he struck out, shoving the prince's arms away with a frustrated groan. He turned and stormed to the side of the training ground, where he threw the sword off to the side.
Vittorio sat up, confusion welling up in him. He swallowed and found his mouth dry and barren of words. What could he say?
He had never seen her angry before.
He planted a hand back into the crook of his neck and thought in silence for a moment. “If you’re mad because you think I let you win…” He began, a teasing tone inching its way into his voice. “... Let me remind you, swords aren't my thing.” He quoted Little Ophelia. “I’m more of an… administrator.”
Oliver let out a breath, like releasing hot steam, and braced himself on the shabby fencing on the boundary of the training zone.
“No, it's- I’m-” He huffed out air again, desperately trying to expel the rage in his chest. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Those stupid- Those assholes from before are just… bothering me. I feel so… angry. A-and I know why. Of course, I know why but it doesn’t serve me right now, I don’t need it. I’ve been angry my entire life so why am I, now, unable to control it? It’s just impractical. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out. I don’t- I don’t need it!”
Vittorio hurried to his feet and over to Oliver, hesitating hands hovered just above his back before finding purchase.
“I… I can’t say I understand. I- Truthfully I don’t understand at all. I didn’t know you were angry about much at all until… well, right now.” He grabbed Oliver’s chin and turned it towards him. His expression was stern, with furrowed brows and pursed lips. “I’m angry too, they’re… despicable. The wound is still fresh, I’m sure it… Time heals all wounds. They’re… Ugh, but you’re safe! You did an amazing job getting away from those disgusting vagrants, and you’re unharmed. Not a scratch on you.”
He slowly pulled Oliver into a hug, hands gently brushing through his hair. “I’m sure you’ll feel ten times better tomorrow. One bad experience shouldn’t police your life. You’ll get through this. We’ll get through this.”
Oliver felt like the correct thing to do was reach around and relish in Vittorio’s warmth and comfort, but that sinking, hollow void in his stomach was growing, battling with the flaming heat in his chest and making him feel oh-so claustrophobic and suffocated. Oliver silently prayed that the warmth Pirra and her crew had conjured within him had not been burnt up by that fire. That whatever longing soared the ocean breeze and sailed the sea had not been lost, destroyed or disregarded in his rage. Regardless, he swallowed the rising sob in his throat and clutched his shaking arms around Vi’s torso, hands gripping the smooth fabric of his vest.
“Besides,” Vittorio continued, the hand in Oli’s hair freezing suddenly. “I dealt with the pair of them.” His voice grew ever so slightly darker. It didn’t help. He didn’t feel better.
Oliver didn't even want to think about what that meant. He didn't want to dwell on what "the pair" of them meant. He didn't want to ask questions. He didn't want to worry. He didn't want to know which of the men had escaped the prince's ire.
“Thank you, Vi.”