“Shall I shower first?”

“I already washed up earlier.”

“Alright then.”

With those final words, Cecil disappeared into the bathroom. Finally left alone, Cyrus flopped down on the bed. After that day in the forest, Cecil had returned to being a dependable brother seemingly without incident. To be precise, rather than returning, it would be more accurate to say he had grown up.

After that day, Cecil rarely cried, and though he was already quiet, he became even more reserved. Yet he desperately formed relationships with others. He behaved like someone who believed that by acting that way, he could shake off all the sins he had committed with his brother.

When his brother acted that way, Cyrus felt endlessly miserable, but at the same time, it reassured him that it was proof that Cecil still hadn’t forgotten what had happened between them.

“…F*ck.”

It was a terrible feeling. Did his brother know this feeling? Or was he acting that way because he felt this way? Cyrus wanted to grab Cecil by the shoulders and shake him, asking what he was thinking.

The sound of water splashing came from the bathroom. Reflexively, his p*nis stiffened at the sound. He hadn’t touched or seen Cecil’s body even once since that day. Just imagining how Cecil’s grown body might have changed sent heat to his c*ck. Cyrus irritably got up and paced around the room.

If he could have been a little more cold to Cecil, he would have packed his things and left for class by now. But he couldn’t leave and was pacing here, wondering if there might be a change in Cecil’s feelings today. It was stupid and foolish. As he rubbed his face and walked aimlessly around the room, the water sounds suddenly stopped.

“You didn’t go ahead?”

“No. I wanted to go together.”

Even as Cecil said this, he was already perfectly dressed in new clothes. Since the day they started sharing the dormitory, Cecil had never once come out casually dressed or accidentally exposed his bare skin. Some days, that thorough defense made Cyrus laugh hollowly, and other days, it made him furious to the core. But then again, like this,

“…I’ll dry your hair for you.”

When facing him, he would be defeated once more. With a helpless feeling, Cyrus snatched the towel from Cecil’s hand. This much at least was something a brother could do. Silently praying desperately that Cecil wouldn’t refuse, he sat him down on the bed.

Fortunately, Cecil didn’t resist. He had probably calculated in his mind whether this kind of behavior was appropriate between brothers. Inwardly sneering at his predictable thoughts, Cyrus rubbed the moisture from his hair while Cecil obediently surrendered his body.

The gesture that seemed to permit this much was reassuring, but at the same time, it felt like it was saying this is the limit of what I allow you, making him feel miserable and wretched once again.

The morning sunlight poured in through the large window, and the room was quiet. Cecil’s hair was jet black, appearing to have absorbed all color. Cyrus unconsciously found himself fiddling with that hair, wanting to kiss it. Cecil gently pushed his hand away, not as a rejection, and smiled.

“I think it’s dry now. Thanks. Let’s get going.”

At that clear rejection, Cyrus almost sneered but deliberately hid it as he put away the towel. In their first year at the academy, he and his brother were still in a subtle psychological battle.

*

Half a year into the academy, Cyrus was at his wit’s end because of Cecil, who was gathering more and more followers with each passing day.

Especially in Artin language class, where two classes were combined, the female students’ courtship was extraordinary, perhaps because they could only see Cecil then.

Classic love letters, homemade snacks of unknown ingredients, or deliberately bumping shoulders—a female student from Alesia’s class even openly challenged him to a duel. And Cecil responded to all these courtships with a shy smile.

Even Cyrus, who had seen that serene and pure smile since birth, often found himself speechless, not to mention those with no immunity.

‘Everyone’s lover…’

Cyrus inwardly mocked the nickname while resting his chin on his hand and looking at the professor. Whoever came up with it, the nickname was quite fitting. Glancing at the seat next to him, he saw Cecil concentrating on taking notes.

Though not as flamboyantly beautiful as Alesia or Cyrus, his eyes, drawn with what looked like an extremely fine brush, contained tranquility, and his softly angled face had a unique elegance. Additionally, his unusually long eyelashes accentuated a strange melancholy. Like a beautiful knight from a fairy tale who seemed like he would grant any wish if you cried and embraced him.

Is this what attracted people? This atmosphere that made it seem like he would grant any request.

Thinking about it, it seemed so. And believing that to be true instantly irritated him. That calm back, always serene despite making people’s insides boil. Cyrus felt like mischievously biting his brother and longtime crush to make him cry.

It was while he was secretly harboring these malicious thoughts. Cecil, who had been concentrating on taking notes, dropped his pen, which rolled over to Cyrus’s seat.

“Cyrus, the pen please.”

The profile that spoke as if it were natural, without even looking this way, was infuriating. Instead, a mischievous feeling arose, and he flicked the pen with his finger, making a small noise as it rolled on the floor.

“Ah. A mistake.”

“…”

As he raised an eyebrow and looked at Cecil, who had been quietly watching Cyrus, Cecil smiled.

“It’s okay. These things happen.”

Cecil, speaking casually, bent down to pick up the pen. His soft hair fell forward, revealing his slender nape. It was a pure-looking nape that seemed perfect for the imprint of a beast’s bite. Cyrus stared intently at that nape until Cecil straightened up, then shifted his gaze back to the professor.

The boring class continued. Grammar and vocabulary to understand another’s language. Expressions. Today, the professor had brought a letter written in a foreign language to use as class material. He gave a lengthy speech about how beautifully expressed rhetoric touches our hearts, and how understanding others through their language is such a beautiful and mysterious thing.

But Cyrus found it merely tedious. His heart had not received any response in any form for years. So he could mock the circumstances of someone who loved another so much that they learned their language to convey their feelings, as it was no different from his own situation, but it couldn’t evoke any fresh emotion.

“Write a letter in Artin language by next week. You can write to anyone. That concludes today’s class.”

The overly romantic professor’s class ended. Cecil was carelessly writing “Write a letter” in a corner of his book as today’s homework. Despite his prim and proper appearance, he had such a carefree side. Smiling faintly at that gap, Cyrus watched as Cecil gathered his books.

“Let’s go. Next is swordsmanship class.”

“Ah.”

Alesia, who had been sitting in the front row during class, approached with her friend, chattering about something.

“Cecil, how about a round with me today?”

“Sister, we already did this morning……”

Cecil made a troubled expression, but still seemed not entirely displeased as he giggled and shrugged his shoulders. He looked comfortable and at ease.

Following behind them, Cyrus suddenly became curious.

Is this what you want, brother?

A world harmless to everyone, is that what you want?

Cecil’s face, walking ahead, was spotlessly clear and clean, truly befitting his nickname of “everyone’s lover.”

Everyone’s lover.

Cyrus rolled that not-so-funny nickname on his tongue and gave a cold smile.

*

“One. Two.”

Dozens of students in push-up position went down and up again following the cadence. Sweat was dripping from Cecil’s forehead. Outside the window, flowers were in full bloom, blending with the green world, while inside the training hall, it was sweltering with heat.

The swordsmanship professor, who had once taught the siblings’ fathers, Leira and Edwin, was still robust and energetically training students as vigorously as in his prime.

“Cecil! You’ve got more grit than your father.”

“Yes!”

“Are you saying you’re better than your father?”

“What?”

Confused, Cecil failed to answer properly and reflexively asked back, then made an “oops” face. A new rule had been established in this swordsmanship class: if you couldn’t answer the professor’s question, you’d be punished. The professor grinned mischievously at this.

“Cecil will do fifty more repetitions! Everyone else, stand up!”

Cheers erupted as the students in push-up position rose to their feet. Everyone shook their stiff arms and picked up their wooden practice swords. Cecil remained in push-up position in the middle of it all. His arms felt like they would break.

“Ellen. You give him the cadence.”

“Yes.”

The student called Ellen stood in front of Cecil with a playful smile. She was a classmate with a friendly personality who had developed quite a friendship with Cecil.

“How many have you done?”

“Fi…ve.”

Beads of sweat were streaming down Cecil’s elegant forehead. His black hair was cascading down, and sweat droplets had formed even on his eyelashes. Ellen clicked her tongue and wiped Cecil’s sweat with a handkerchief embroidered with lily of the valley.

“Okay, one.”

Cecil’s body went down.

“Two.”

This time he came up, and more sweat droplets fell. It felt like his arms would break any moment. He wanted to grab the swordsmanship professor and sob that he couldn’t do any more, but Cecil clenched his molars tightly.

One, two. One, two. The repetitive cadence continued, and when he passed twenty, his arms weakened and Cecil momentarily let his stomach touch the floor before quickly resuming the proper position.

“So both your fathers attended here?”