Pawn

They were in Elias’ room. It was a lot smaller than one would have imagined it to be, considering Elias was the heir to his late father’s company. But Elias always said it was because he had no taste for the life of a baron, and preferred to just have the essentials.

It reflected in the way he dressed, too. His wardrobe was filled with the same, dark blue hues. Intense, but subtle. His fashion sense stuck out like a sore thumb among the glitter and glamor of his associates, and he stuck out even more when he was placed beside Myres. Myres was the epitome of glitter and glamor; he had makeup on every patch of skin he could get away with revealing, as well as thick purple eyeshadow that made his amber eyes almost glow, especially in the dark. Elias was pale, yet hauntingly beautiful. Myres was enchanting, dark, and tempting. Myres pulled people in, and Elias kept people at a distance, but they were still equally as charmed.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Eli.” Myres was wearing black this time, but it was still as glittery as he always was. He was just beside Elias’ door, staring at his statue of a fiancé, who was just standing in the middle of the room. Elias was not making eye contact.

The air was thick with silence and tension ever since the two of them got back. Things tend to be tense around Elias — his guardedness was a product of his upbringing, after all. But this tension was a different kind; the kind that even the wily likes of Mystogan Myres couldn’t smile and crack a joke through.

There was something about the way Elias held himself that made Myres choose to say something so uncharacteristically formal. Myres had always hated formalities, he found them as constricting as the corsets his mother wore to make her waist as slim as a swan. Perhaps it was because Elias hasn't so much as glanced at Myres ever since he saw his father’s body, nor did he lean into Myres’ touch like he usually did.

Or maybe it was nothing. At least, Myres hoped it was.

Was it because they just came back from the funeral? No, he started being distant before then, but Myres struggled to pinpoint when. He tried to look into Elias’ blue-gray eyes for answers, but they were as cloudy and as unreadable as a distant storm. Something was brewing inside them, Myres thought, but he didn’t know what.

He took it as a challenge — to try and pry it out of Elias.

Well, there was also a small part of him that did it because he couldn’t bear another moment of this deafening silence.

“But… you’re the head of Villaruel Hotels now, aren’t you? Maybe it’s for the best.” He tried to lighten the mood. That’s what he was good at, after all — being the entertainer. Being the son of a casino tycoon meant he was raised on card tricks and wine; that was all the employees had to keep a child quiet and happy.

But Elias still didn’t budge. Alright, Myres thought, irritated. Ignore me then. I’m going to have to force you to talk, whether you like it or not.

“At least it wasn’t a big loss. You were never fond of your father, were y–?“

What happened next happened so fast that Myres had no time to react, no time to cry out in pain. It didn’t even register in Myres’ head that he let out a strained choking noise, like a gurgle in his throat upon slamming into Elias’ ivory bedroom walls. It was unseemly. And Myres would have been embarrassed if he weren’t being pinned to the wall by the wrists by his fiancé, who was now overcome with a thunderous anger.

No, it almost looked murderous.

“Don’t you dare mention my father like that.” Elias’s voice was shaky. His voice hadn’t been shaky like this since the first day these two met, Myres realized — back when Elias was much softer, much more open. The years of learning how to run a business did not treat Elias kindly, and they forced him to close himself from everyone in the world.

Everyone but the person he loved most, of course. Myres.

To Myres, who spent the last three years getting to know the ins and outs of Elias, knew that he was on guard. He was trying to keep all of his emotions from spilling out, but he was doing as good a job as a broken dam. His raw anger bled through the cracks of his throat like bright red blood.

Myres would’ve been surprised to see this much vulnerability from him if he were given even just a second more to think. But Elias did not give him that reprieve.

“Especially from you. You—“ Elias faltered. He faltered as if the mere mention of Myres was a boulder on his shoulder to carry. He suddenly looked tired, and for the first time, in grief.

“I want you out of my sight. If I see you anywhere near me or my family or our business, I will see to it that you get locked up like the slippery accomplice you really are.”

Myres opened his mouth to object; to question half of the words Elias was saying. What was Elias even trying to say? There was obviously a huge gap of information separating the two of them, and it seemed about as large as the ocean.

“Did I— did I do something wrong, Elias?”

He thought that that would calm Elias. Being submissive, docile. It was a foolish thought.

“You really want me to say it?”

Myres tried, anyway. He lowered his gaze, as if in supplication. He could feel his breaths coming in shallow huffs, wondering if he’d have a bump on his head from the impact earlier. “Please, Elias,” he said, — pleaded, almost, — “I’m not a mind reader.”

Elias pauses, eyes clouded with nothing but hurt and confusion.

“You helped kill my father.”

He said it like it was fact. If the silence was thick in the beginning, it was almost suffocating now. Every breath felt heavy in his lungs, like thick, toxic fumes from a volcano. And though Myres felt like he was drowning, his mouth was as dry as a desert, and he could feel every muscle, every minute movement his throat made.

“Your father died of a heart attack,” he forced himself to say.

“Like hell he did. You know, more than anyone else in this room, that he was poisoned. That it was a coup, orchestrated by the one person who would benefit from it the most.”

Elias’ grip on Myres’ wrists tightened. Myres wasn’t sure if it was Elias’ grip that jogged his memory, or the whole villain monologue he was in the middle of reciting, but suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle began to make sense. Myres was shocked, but he wasn’t stupid. He could tell from the sheer intensity of Elias’ voice that this was all coming from the heart.

“Your mother,” Myres said, finally finding the words in his mouth. They tumbled out of him clumsily.

“So you admit it? You helped distract the guests that day so that nobody would notice my mother making her move?” Again, Elias pressed harder onto Myres’ wrists. He let out a soft gasp.

“Eli, I swear, I don’t know anything about what your mother planned. I don’t claim to know what she thinks or says. Please, think rationally—“

He felt Elias tear his hands away from Myres’ wrists. Myres gasped, and he wondered if there was a feeling more painfully pleasant than that; his arms collapsed to his side, shoulders shaming with the effort of staying so unnaturally upright for that long. Myres looked at the marks that were left by Elias’ iron grip, and then up at Elias himself.

The blonde’s long, pale hands were curled into tight fists, eyes reflecting his disgust. Myres thought Elias was going to hit him. Despite his thin frame, Elias was deceitfully strong. Myres closed his eyes instinctively, waiting to feel the strike.

But the punch never came. Instead, Myres felt himself stabbed in the gut, over and over, with Elias’ pointed words.

“Don’t call me that.” The first strike was a cold shock, like dipping your bare toes into a frozen over lake. Myres felt himself freeze, and on some level, his fear seemed to please Elias.

“And don’t tell me out of all people, to think rationally.”

Then there was the second shock — a creeping realization that Elias was using the same voice he used on beggars on the streets. The one with rusty knives and nothing but bad intentions. The ones that Elias had to beat ‘till they were broken and unrecognizable.

The voice he used on people who were perceived threats.

“What were you thinking, agreeing to anything my mother asked you to do? And just who was the real killer? It couldn’t have been either of you, because you two were both downstairs entertaining the guests. And- and I know it wasn’t any of the maids, either — I questioned all of them before going to you.”

His voice nearly broke at the last ‘you’. The storm of his anger ebbed and faded as he looked into Myres’ eyes with… confusion.

“Who was it?” He sounded so broken when he asked. Myres bit his lip. There was a certain pit in his stomach — one that only formed when you were doomed to disappoint someone. Someone you really, really love.

“I don’t know, Elias.”

Elias moved beside his desk, eyes shielded by the shadow of his hair. Myres was still by the wall, wincing as he stroked his bruising wrists. Eventually, Myres couldn’t bear to look at his fiance anymore – not when the only thing stopping Myres from running out the room was his worry.

The room stilled.

“Then if you have no use…”

A cock of a gun.

Myres’ eyes widened as he saw Elias Villaruel — the man he had once hated, had once liked, and had once loved — holding him at gunpoint. He stared at Myres like he was nothing but an insect. Myres’ cheeks burned with shame; he was brought back to his childhood, when the casino staff were scolding him for bothering the guests. It burned with fear, too, as Myres himself has witnessed what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Elias’ wrath.

“…leave.”

The moment Elias said those words, he fled. Call it instinct, call it Myres’ own cowardice, the young card dealer didn’t care. He was motivated by fear for his life, and that overrode any desire in him that wanted to know what was going on.

And that is how Myres ended up outside the entrance of the Villaruel Hotels main building, alone and wet from the rain.

Myres couldn’t tell if the rain was trying to comfort him, or if the droplets sounded more like laughter. Perhaps the world found amusement in his suffering, just as it found amusement in the suffering of thousands upon thousands. Just as Myres did, once, when he watched all those mindless gamblers lose game after game with no end in sight.

He began the slow walk back home, ignoring the sharp glares he garnered from passersby. He must have looked like a commoner.

Myres laughed to himself bitterly. Maybe he wasn’t so different from the gamblers. After all, life was the biggest game, and like all games, it was hardly fair. He had waltzed through it rich in the beginning, pleasured with all the comforts one could want as a child. He got everything he wanted when he wanted it, if he knew how and when to ask.

He remembered that fateful day — the one where he was asked to perform in front of all those guests by no one other than Mrs. Villaruel herself. Myres ordered countless servants to give him the sparkliest outfit, the grandest harp. It was all done to make that woman happy. And Myres thought he did that. Myres thought he was gaining her favor.

In the end, Myres ended up just being another pawn in someone else’s game. A distraction, he realized now, for a more sinister plot brewing in the Villaruel’s home.

Myres slicked back his hair, removing the bangs that were framing his face. He felt embarrassed before, but that was a foolishly youthful reaction. With a fire in his eyes, Myres was determined; he was never to be used as a pawn in anybody’s game ever again. He was going to harden his heart to be as solid as the sturdiest of stones, even if it meant it killed him.