EIGHT.

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Y/n arrives at the academy with much fanfare

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Y/n arrives at the academy with much fanfare.

[System Update: You have arrived at the location where Friendly Rivals take place. Good Luck!]

Y/n swallows.

He does not need a reminder that he still has to thwart a route from happening — mainly Claude, someone whose bad ending would cause death.

This is all so unnecessary, he can't help but think; is this not a giant waste of time?

Well, he can't help but be comforted by the presence surrounding him — normally, he would feel annoyed. Suffocated, even. But Y/n does appreciate the kindness that Arion shows him; as well as the words of reassurance that flow off the Prince's lips.

The academy's grand entrance looms before them: Arion opens the door and steps out, extending a hand to help Y/n step off. Y/n doesn't shy away from it, like he would, last time — he places his hand on the prince's, and he notes that it's warm. Not the uncomfortably hot kind of heat; but the reassuring warmth that allows for Y/n to smile. Y/n thinks that this does seem awfully romantic; it's not that common for a male to help another male out of the carriage.

"Are your manners excellent or do you simply go about aiding people like this?" Y/n says lightly.

"What do you think?" Arion says, amused.

"Must be manners," Y/n says.

"You know very well that's not true."

"Whatever you say, Your Highness," Y/n says. "Your word is law, isn't it? Glory be to the Empire.

"You're suddenly acting very patriotic. Have you always been this way?"

"What do you think?" Y/n lifts a brow.

"I think your years as an heir have served you well. When did you get so good at spitting out such candied things about the Empire?"

"I've always been good at that," Y/n says shamelessly, hiding a smile curving up his lips. And then: "thank you."

Arion blinks.

"For the whole arrangement," Y/n clarifies, "it must have been rather troublesome. I apologise for that."

Arion's feelings — platonic or romantic — are obvious to him. Y/n is someone who has studied every character, after all — he isn't some dense fool who cannot even understand when someone clearly holds some kind of affection towards him. And in the same vein, he knows that he's treading on dangerous waters.

Arion's expression softens — something Y/n notes with dull reluctance, and in the same contradicting thought, eagerness — and he brushes away a loose strand from Y/n's face.

"It was no trouble for me at all," he gives a light smile, "so don't beat yourself up over it. Why are you apologising for something so trivial?"

"I wasn't — "

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