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Grief was a strange phenomenon.
In the early evening, Silven sat atop the blankets of his bed, nestled away in the comfort of his dorm room. It felt strange being back at the Lyceum so soon after the disaster of a Court Mage Selection Exam he had endured.
Cassadee, one of the academy's star students, was the one who came out on top. Silven was beyond happy for her. She was his friend, after all. And he may not have won himself, but his efforts were rewarded with knighthood—which, to him at least, was a whole lot better.
But what good was a victory when one of the people he cherished the most wasn't with him to commemorate it?
Sure, being officially knighted was a huge step in the right direction for restoring his family's honor, and he was boundlessly thankful for the opportunities it would pave for his future, but this was only just the beginning. There were still many hurdles in his path, and without his favorite person by his side to celebrate this jumpstart, he was a tad bit remorseful. It was an empty feeling, as though he was missing a part of himself, yet expected by others to act as if he were whole.
Just the other week, Silven was talking to Gervan about the quickly-approaching selection exam, entirely unaware that the man he proudly claimed to be his closest friend had been overencumbered by the weight of a heinous crime. He hid it so well. With that usual air of calm professionalism he maintained, it had Silven questioning if he ever really knew him at all. Just how much of the man he spent countless hours with, day and night, was real, and how much of him was nothing but an act meant to mislead?
There were parts of Silven that wanted to seethe over all of this. Pieces of him that felt betrayed by Gervan. For all that he did, and all that he hid. Killing Headmaster Leymar, using dark magic and succumbing to its corruption, putting others in danger just for an increased chance of becoming the next court mage—it made his stomach churn and his skin crawl.
Deep down, there was even a segment within him, nurtured by the belief that he had to preserve his family name, that wondered if this could somehow be the universe's way of punishing him in advance for abandoning the Grenvalden legacy. After all, he wasn't blind to what this kind of love implied for his already tarnished bloodline.
And then there were parts of Silven that mourned. Pieces that grieved, drenched in nauseating guilt over losing Gervan. He read the arrest report, stating duress and coercion from the Adamant Syndicate, and he couldn't help but feel like a bad friend. For not realizing things sooner, for not stepping in to help, for not offering more support—
Not that Gervan would've accepted any.
Gervan had always been incredibly skilled at reading others, but he kept himself relatively closed off, rarely opening up or outwardly expressing intense emotions. He was always willing to lend a hand, but clinged to independence whenever he could. Far too often, he would work through his problems alone, as if his entire purpose was to prove himself to the world.
In a way, Silven supposed it was. That was usually the case with these higher noble families, wasn't it? Showing that you're worth the name you carry? Spending your entire life chasing a purpose to be worthy of the recognition tied to the blood running through your veins?
And of course, this was already going to be more difficult for Gervan. Silven recognized this.
But to stoop so low…
Silven couldn't empathize with his actions. He would never truly understand what drove him to do the things he did, and he couldn't relate to his experiences on a personal level. Similarly, he didn't want to sympathize with said actions either, knowing that Gervan would hate the very notion of implied pity, but oh, he did.
He thought of how despite the fact that Gervan's arcanic talents and amiable nature made him as noticeable as a lone star in a blanket of darkness, his determination to stand out among his family and peers drove him to desperation, ruining everything that he had spent so long working towards.
This filled Silven with sorrow.
Then guilt.
As he sat alone in his room, he could only think about how the Lyceum wasn't the same without Gervan. How he wasn't the same without him. Countless times already, Silven had caught himself glancing down while out in public, expecting to be met with the familiar sight of his best friend by his side. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his polite, kind smile resting upon a face framed by vibrant blues, adorned by the ornate, throne-like backrest of his chair.
And even though that same face had encroached upon a path of dark magic to the point of corruption of both the body and mind, Silven still cared about him. Even if it was no longer mutual, with rejection fueled by amplified negative emotions, Silven still adored him. Even though Gervan had hurt him, a violent encounter resulting in injury that demanded medical treatment, Silven still loved him.
He felt the sting of tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to break free as he was left alone with all these thoughts, conflicting and precarious in nature.
He needed a distraction.
In front of him, folded neatly and laying on his bed, was a Serene Lyceum academy-issued robe. With vibrant purple fabric and gold trimmings, it was a staple of nearly every fashion statement around here. Students wore them with pride, thrilled to represent the school and all that it stood for. Of course, Silven was included among them, but this particular robe was not his.
It belonged to Gervan, prior to his arrest.
Earlier in the day, before returning to campus to sulk in his room, Silven had been summoned to Holt Street to meet with Envoy Evie. Since Gervan was no longer a student at the Lyceum, and would never be graduating as one, his robe was to be returned. Evie had entrusted Silven with this menial task, as knowing that the two of them were close, she wanted to update him on the state of his custody. One final time, before the case was officially out of her hands.
Their relationship was strange. Everybody, even those who didn't know them very well or for long, was aware that they were close. But this wasn't any sort of revelation—it was never something they felt like they should try to hide. Best friends, they had called themselves. It was a fitting descriptor for how they acted in public, but they maintained it even beyond this, when they were alone with each other. They were more than that, but agreed that choosing to give what they had a more appropriate label was unnecessary and carried risks. Rumors had a tendency to spread like wildfires around the Lyceum, so this way, there was less room for potential slip-ups.
Not that it mattered anymore.
Silven had returned to campus that afternoon with the robe folded neatly in his arms and the knowledge that Gervan was in a holding cell in Savannah, just as disconnected from reality as he was when he last saw him. The news should've been unsurprising, but Silven had a habit of clinging onto hope. Perhaps with time, Gervan would come around and recognize the error of his actions. Maybe he'd even want to see him again.
Again—clinging to hope.
Silven leaned forward, reaching an arm out to grab the robe laying in front of him, letting it unfold as he brought it closer to himself. He held it up with both hands, studying the familiar pattern drawn across the fabric, and a sense of comfort washed over him as he caught the faintest hint of a familiar scent.
Sunfire blossom.
The tea that Gervan drank frequently to soothe his leg pain was made from this expensive herb. It had a strong, acquired taste, with bitterness that couldn't be masked with cream or sugar. As such, Silven wasn't a fan of the flavor, preferring sweeter things, but he supposed Gervan wasn't exactly drinking it for taste reasons.
The smell of it, however, Silven had grown fond of. It was floral and spicy, and noticeable enough to recognize how it lingered if you were familiar with it, but in a way that wasn't at all overpowering.
Naturally, he came to associate this fragrance with Gervan.
He even knew exactly how Gervan preferred this tea—steeped in freshly-boiled water for four minutes precisely, lest it be too weak and consequently ineffective, or too strong for his taste. And no additives.
Silven brought the robe closer to his face, leaning into the fabric to inhale the still-present aroma of sunfire blossom tea. He closed his eyes, a nostalgic smile pulling at his lips as he breathed in the familiar scent, indulging in this lingering reminder of Gervan.
Momentarily, he paused, his thoughts loitering on how he was expected to get this piece of clothing washed and returned to administration, erasing any evidence that it ever hung over the shoulders of his beloved. A piece of Gervan was here, in his hands, and he had to forfeit it.
He didn't want to.
With a conflicted sigh, Silven laid back, his head hitting the pillows as he brought the robe up with him, resting it beside himself and keeping a hand firmly clenched around the fabric. He turned his head, nuzzling his face into it to breathe in the comforting fragrance of his closest friend. He wished, so desperately, that he could have him here with him, even if it was just for one last time. To be near him, to hold him in his arms, and to be held in his in turn, effectively ruining what was meant to be a study session.
And yet, Gervan's grades would turn out to be nearly perfect anyway.
Suddenly, Silven snapped his eyes open, unmoving but blinking dazedly, appalled by the distressing realization of something—the presence of a building, distracting warmth in his core.
Why was he…?
He groaned in frustration, burying his face in the fabric by his side as if this alone would aid in hiding the shame of misplaced sexual excitement.
Nothing about this was appropriate anymore.
Hesitantly, he lowered his other hand down his body, fingers trailing down his torso, lifting the bottom of his shirt up just enough to expose the waistband of his pants. He parted his lips, letting out quick, quiet breaths as he unbuttoned them.
And then he paused again.
What was he doing? Already, a feeling of guilt lingered over him as the full weight of this situation began to settle in. He was alone in his room, inhaling the scent carried by an article of clothing that was worn by a murderer, and his body reacted with arousal?
Dura above, was he a bad person?
He decided that he'd properly digest the implications and any consequences that followed later. For now, there was an aching buildup that he felt he had to urgently remedy, his erection already straining uncomfortably against the confines of his clothes.
Slowly, he allowed his hand to continue moving, palming experimentally at himself through his pants. A quick gasp left his lips, and he bucked his hips upwards instinctively. He pulled the robe closer to himself with one hand, breathing into it as he continued grinding his clothed erection against the other, relishing in that feeling of friction.
It felt good, but it wasn't nearly enough to offer the sense of relief that he craved, triggered by this sudden bout of a lustful haze. And so he raised his hand back to his waistband, fingers momentarily ghosting over revealed skin before dipping downwards, pulling down his garments just enough to expose his cock. A quiet whine passed through his lips at the feeling, sensitive against the cool air of his room, and he immediately wrapped his fingers around his length, impatiently thrusting upwards into his grip.
He moved his thumb across the head of his cock, breath hitching reactively as he collected accumulated precum beading at the top, using it to lessen the friction of his grip, far too desperate for release to bother coating himself in something proper.
A shiver ran down his spine as he started with a few tentative strokes, painfully aware of the way another whine fell from his lips as he did this. It didn't take long for him to adopt a feverish pace soon after, jerking himself off with the sole purpose of getting this over with. His back arched slightly as his hips angled upwards, bucking up into his grip as lazy thrusts met with the desperate intent of his hand.
With his face practically buried in the scent of familiarity, and Gervan at the forefront of his thoughts, Silven allowed for his mind to go blank, focusing on nothing but this moment.
Deep breaths, overwhelmed by the otherwise subtle fragrance of sunfire blossom, gradually grew more rapid, evolving into quick, vocal pants as he felt himself getting close already. His eyes fluttered open, staring blankly across his room as he continued working his cock, his pace threatening to falter in his desperation.
And when his climax approached, it happened suddenly, offering an abrupt release to this unanticipated predicament. He bucked his hips upwards, stuttering as he came into his hand with a whimper, eyes once again shutting tightly. He rode out his orgasm with wavered thrusts, whining into the fabric of the robe he held close to him.
And then he collapsed. Eyes shot open as he withdrew his messied hand, noting the way it shook as he rested it on his stomach. There was a quick rise and fall to his chest as he attempted to steady his breathing, lying there in the aftermath.
There were definitely better ways he could've dealt with that, he immediately decided. Because now, there was a growing heat in his chest—shameful and oppressive. That feeling of bliss he chased was nothing but a fleeting distraction, brief and insignificant. And in its wake, he had to digest what he'd just done.
With a sigh, Silven sat up, making a conscious effort to not look down at himself as he pulled his pants back up. He looked to his side, down at the robe, and frowned at the sight. Previously folded neatly and awaiting his initiative to return it, it now looked unkempt and disheveled as it rested beside his pillows, a few traces of his red hair now clinging to the fabric.
Silven reached towards it, gripping onto the material with a newfound intensity, and tossed it off of his bed, a soft thump echoing through the room as it landed on the floor.
Then he laid back down.