Chapter Text
Rumors had it there was a Manor somewhere deep into the woods of Glasgow, buried by long and solid branches, trees closing in on it as if to protect the mansion itself. A natural wooden dome, perfectly lifted to hide the Manor from those who had no business with it.
A fulfilling life. Wealth. Love.
There was no space for anybody who held such things close to their heart already; the Manor was not suitable for them as it refused to make them its inhabitants.
No, had they knocked at its door, it would have not welcomed them with a warm meal nor the promise to obtain a better life.
This Manor was capable to offer one whatever they may seek.
A missing loved one, the realization of the self, the thrills only adrenaline could give.
You name it, you can have it.
But this manor was also said to be haunted by the ghosts of those who had lost their life inside its walls.
"Don't venture forth into the woods," a concerned mother would tell her young daughter. "That Manor might lure you in and I'll lose you forever."
"It's cursed," some bratty children would declare to another peer of them, cornering them. "I dare you to go in."
They were ignorant in front of what truly happened inside its blood stained walls, while rightfully being afraid.
The Knight knew it all too well.
Because he himself was one of its inhabitants.
Rumors had it the Manor was going to host another guest on that day.
What they looked like, their name or occupation, nobody knew.
For now.
It was a matter of time, after all.
Every secret would have been unveiled, every knot would be combed.
In the vast dining room of the Manor there was an almost empty but well adorned table, devoid of any presence that wasn't the Knight's, who was situated at the head of it. He limited himself to sip his tea, a rich blend of ingredients, rose petals softly floating in it through mixed camomile. His elbows weren't touching the tablecloth, forearms resting instead alongside it.
Bringing the refined cup to his mouth, the liquid wet his lips and rolled down his tongue, warming up his throat.
His gaze shifted onto the empty chairs. He eyed them through his eyelashes as he placed the teacup down.
An external presence, any possible passerby who could have stumbled upon him, would have deemed the man's gaze to be as cold as a winter's day. The type to force one to bolt doors and windows to prevent a blizzard from crashing in, snow everywhere and bodies that gradually lost their warmth, unable to push through the freezing wind.
An odd sight compared to the gentle smile that graced his visage, rosy lips curled gently, but perhaps too mechanically. A smile too perfectly crafted for it to be considered genuine.
But that would have been the interpretation of someone led by ignorance, whose eyes were blind to the fiery ardor that was shining behind his gaze.
What role could that upcoming gentleman — or lady — possibly fill?
The aberrant monster? The evil relative? Or the princess that needed to be rescued?
The stage curtains were about to be opened, everything was ready.
The stage, the Manor.
The actors, its inhabitants.
What kind of story this was, only time would have revealed that.
With one hand he caressed the knight helmet that was laying on the table, fingers lingering against its metal. It was perfectly mended, not a speck of dust on it, nor a tinge of rust.
The White Knight.
That was his role.
Had he met another knight in shining armor, a typically hotheaded hero, it surely would have been problematic.
He shook his head lightly — ashen curly hair brushing against the fair skin of his face — and then, he pushed against the edge of the table, chair screeching against the wooden floor.
With that, he got up.
Before leaving the room, he didn't forget to retrieve the helmet from the table.
After all, he could never leave it behind.
The Matador had been tapping his foot into the inside of the carriage that was leading him to his destination, his scarred chin resting on his hand, a letter — his invitation to the Manor — gripped by his other. It was open, but slightly crimpled from being folded many times.
After reading its content way too often, he had memorized it all.
A ticking sound was tapping against the ceiling of the coach, tiny drops of water striking its windows.
Despite having the letter in his hand, the Matador was looking outside instead of going through those pages again.
He had traveled for long, resting barely, for a total of three whole days. He had left his home country by steamship and crossed the Bay of Biscay from the Bilbao port to reach the Southampton one. There, he had finally arrived to Glasgow by locomotive, hopping onto the carriage that seemed to wait for him only right outside the railway station.
Since that moment, hours had passed, the Manor still not in sight.
The Matador and the coachman - whose visage he could not see at all: he was wearing a hat that covered it, while the collar of the jacket was all the way up, hiding the lower part - were extricating themselves from thick forests.
As if it was a bad omen, it had started raining, no less.
The man's honey eyes shifted from the outside scenery onto the letter. It was next to his thigh, left hanging loosely. They read:
"Well aware of the thrills you seek, we await you to a place where your constant search of adrenaline can be satiated, a place that can grant you glory, fame and wealth."
Then, his eyes scanned the very last sentence:
"You are hereby invited to Oletus Manor. It will be our pleasure to have you as our guest."
The letter was signed by Baron DeRoss.
He hummed, eyes darting to the window again.
He couldn't help a smile from forming on his lips the moment the Manor had appeared in front of his eyes: the carriage didn't even have to stop, as the black gate that kept intruders outside opened as if moved by an external, albeit invisible force.
The estate seemed to be a 2-story country house with a slate roof and with Jacobean chimneys. It appeared to be cornered with hamstone quoins and had two towers — one square, one octagonal — with gargoyles in the shapes of dogs and griffins. Majestic and imposing, it stood imperturbable, ignoring the rain.
Once the coach had stopped right in front of the small staircase that lead to the main entrance, the coachman had opened the carriage's door for the Matador.
The man had stepped out of it, grabbing a small luggage only — he had brought with himself only a few things. Truth be told, he didn't think he would need much, merely some clothes and his beloved muleta.
He was unbothered by the rain: it wet his hazel locks of hair, the small braids on the sides of his visage were getting soaked with water, while his clothes were getting heavier by being drenched. The fake rose on the left side of his chest was turning a darker shade of red, as the letter he was still holding had become soggy.
He lifted his gaze to take all in the sight of the Manor.
He squinted, as he let go of the luggage, one hand raised to block the rain from getting into his eyes. That still didn't stop the drops from tracing his cheeks, sliding down his jaw and meeting at the chin, falling then onto his bare collarbone.
As he looked up, he noticed a silhouette standing behind one of the first floor's window. With no doubt, it was staring at him.
That shadow appeared to not be intimated by his gaze: perhaps because it was able to clearly see the new guest — stare at his auburn hair, notice his fair skin — unlike the guest himself, who had no possibility to discern the true looks of the shadow.
It didn't leave.
It kept on observing.
Never stopped, not even when the Matador had hopped onto the stairs — six of them — and entered through the door that, just like the gate, seemed to have readily welcomed the new guest inside by opening — completely unprompted — itself.
He heard the sounds of reins being pulled, the trotting of horses, a carriage turning around.
The Matador didn't look back.
He had no reason to.
Inside, he looked up towards the big staircase that lead to the first floor, finding no one. It seemed like there was nobody ready to see him.
"Quite the warm welcome," he murmured, revealing a foreign accent. He placed one hand on his hip as he looked at the interiors of the building.
He could have said that was indeed a luxurious place, but hid behind thick layers of dust. As he shook his head, he looked down, revealing he had left his footprints on the floor. He was also dripping water, making the wooden planks soggy.
"Oh," he mumbled, slight concern in his voice.
It was in that moment that a voice had reached him.
"You'll have to clean that up yourself, I fear."
The matador looked up again towards the staircase. There, he saw a man standing at the top, with what seemed being a helmet tucked under his arm, his other hand on the stair rail. He had spoken with perfect intonation, no fluctuations in his voice, a crystal clear cadenza. There was no light to brighten the traits of his visage, conveniently hidden by shadows, unlike the rest of his body. The Matador couldn't make heads or tails of what he looked like, but, considering the juvenile voice he had spoken with, he could tell it must have belonged to a young man.
He squinted, as he tried to fight with the darkness.
His clothes seemed to be — as unusual as it sounded — medieval looking: he was wearing a blackboard green tunic with puffed leg-of-mutton sleeves, a padded white vest over it, high-waisted dark green trousers with golden buttons and leather knee boots.
His proper-looking attire could possibly be indicator of noble blood, the Matador had deduced.
"It seems like this place has no servants, that is what I mean," he had spoken again, still without stepping into the light but also lifting the hand he had placed on the stair rail. He looked at it for a moment, then he lowered it, leaving it hanging loosely alongside his body.
The stair rail must have been dusty, too.
Standing so above him, it could only seem as if the mysterious man was looking down on the new guest.
Ignoring that unflattering impression, the Matador put up a grin, chin pushed forward. "You won't help me?"
"No."
The former was clearly jesting, but a sharp refusal — worded slowly but with conviction — had cut through his antics.
Perhaps most people would have been taken aback by it, but the Matador let out with a hearty laughter no hesitation. It resounded in the almost empty Manor, filling its hollow rooms.
"Then tell me where a mop is and I'll clean it," he shook his head again to push away the hair from his face since it was sticking to it. Except that merely resulted in him shaking off the rain off himself like a wet dog would shake off the water from itself after a bath, causing the floor to get even damper.
But he didn't seem to notice that, as he grinned widely.
The man at the top of the staircase didn't have a visible reaction. He stared at the man for a second, until he decided to bow slightly, head lowering just a bit, almost imperceptibly.
"Very well. But I suggest you change into drier clothes first," he said, but he seemed to imply he would not have told him where to find a mop had he not changed beforehand. "If you want to follow me…"
He waited at the top of the staircase and didn't move of an inch, as he waited for the other man to reach him.
The Matador took the hint in a split second.
Luggage and letter in hand — the latter was a soggy mess — he hopped towards the staircase, closing the distance with big strides. One step, two steps, three… Seventeen steps in total formed the staircase. Despite starting walking up the stairs almost running, his pacing had slowed down the closest he had got to the other man.
He had halted right before reaching the top, as the Knight stood still in front of the Matador.
He was taller than average, but, standing where he was, a step below the other man, the Matador watched as the mysterious silhouette hovered over him. In his mind, he thought that — close as they were — the Manor's inhabitant could probably count the freckles on his face.
With such proximity, he could finally discern the traits of his visage. His gaze shifted from his cordial smile to his eyes, two gems of different colors: hazel and blue, as ashen locks adorned his pale cheeks and framed his chiseled jaw.
The Matador waited, until the Knight stepped to the side, his smile stretching slightly, an arm lifted to show him the way. He had felt himself being scrutinized under that polite gaze of his.
With that, the former had reached the top of the staircase, at last, walking up the last step.
The latter escorted the new guest of the Manor along one of its long hallways.
"The rooms for the guests are this way," he declared.
For someone who so adamantly had kept on staring at the Matador until a moment ago, that man was now not paying him a second glance. He was walking with confident steps and stretched back until he finally stopped in front a row of rooms the Matador could have bet they were devoid of any human presence.
"You are free to choose one for yourself," he said, back close to the wall but not touching it.
"Making you wait would make me come across as rude, so…" the Matador peeked inside one of the rooms, the closest one to him. "This one will do."
He heard a stifled chuckle from behind him. "Oh, I assure you someone like you doesn't have to concern himself with that."
The Matador shot him a glance: he followed the Knight's gaze onto him. He was no fool, he could tell the other man was observing the state of his worn-out boots and his mud-stained trousers.
If, at first glance, those words could sound like proper courtesy, the laugh that had preceded them and his judgemental stare seemed to suggest something else entirely.
It was mockery.
Almost as if the new guest could not in any way break the already settled inhabitant's peace for being a commoner.
The Matador stepped inside the room. Then, he let go of the luggage he was carrying, which hit the ground raising dust.
"You're right, señor," he said without turning around. "I doubt someone of your kind could ever feel impressed by someone else."
Only then did he side glance the other man.
That was no flattery. It was derision disguised as adulation, a critique to his numbness and arrogance.
In other simpler words, what he meant to say but the context didn't allow was: 'señor, you have a stick up your narrow minded ass.'
He studied him, only to notice his polite smile had a brief jolt. Small wrinkles had formed around his eyes, betraying his composure. Earlier, during each and every one of his polite beams, the area around his eyes was flat. They were devoid of any actual emotion.
He had understood.
"Very well," he commented. "I'll look forward to see how you will perform from now onward."
The Matador held the Knight's gaze; he was still holding that soaked letter in his hand. "Likewise."
And, with that, the mysterious man entered one of the other rooms, closing the door behind him.
It looked like the Matador, who was still dripping water, would have needed to look for a mop by himself, after all.
The Matador opened his luggage — a leather carryall — to find a change of clothes.
He first retrieved a towel that he used to dry his hair and face.
Then, he grabbed a white flannel shirt and a pair of black trousers. He tossed his shoes to the side, only to unbutton his wet clothes later. As he dressed up again, he carefully picked the red rose from his damp shirt to place it on his dry one. It didn't matter if it was wet still.
He left the room in search of tools that could help him clean up the mess he had made. This place was bound to have an utility room, as big as it was, he hoped. As he closed the door of the room that now belonged to him, he cast a glance to the one where the other man had taken refuge in. It was the one in front of his.
How unfortunate.
Was it too late to pick another room? Not that it mattered, considering it appeared there were just them in that Manor.
The Matador kept in a sigh, as he distanced himself from his room and climbed down the stairs, careful not to use the handrail. The utility room was probably going to be on the ground floor, he deduced.
He walked through the vast hallway, reaching the main hall. He started opening door after door, ignoring the double ones. He highly doubted he could find the storage room into a perfectly adorned one.
After what it must have been a good ten minutes, he found it at the end of a hallway, its interior as dusty as the rest of the Manor.
He traced his steps back to the main hall and from the main hall up the stairs, careful to mop every drop of water from the floor.
Once in front of the Knight's room, he shot it a glance. He couldn't hear a single sound coming from behind that door.
As snobbish as he was, he at least was a quiet neighbor.
He was indeed so quiet, it looked like he wasn't keen on leaving his room: once done mopping, the Matador had looked around the Manor in complete solitude, deeming it a good idea to get familiar with the estate.
They had met again during dinner: hunger was capable to move even the most avoidant ones.
As solitary and dusty as the Manor was, when the Matador had gone into the pantry, he half expected to find it empty: the perspective of feeding himself with only dreams and illusions was downing on him.
To say he was taken aback the moment he laid eyes on all the food stored into it was surely an euphemism.
"They will not let you or me starve. Obviously," he heard a voice — the same as before — coming from behind him.
"Obviously," the Matador repeated, turning around to face the Knight.
Something wasn't right: the Knight's face was the same as before; the clothes as well. So it couldn't be any of that.
What wasn't right was what the man was holding in his hands.
Red cloth draped over a sword.
The Matador's muleta.
Except it was in the Knight's hands right now. He was holding it horizontally over his chest.
Once realization had hit the Matador, the Knight had raised the muleta to the level of his visage, so that it was obscuring its lower part, but not hiding his heterochromatic eyes.
The Matador took a step forward, almost leaping at the Knight who, unbothered, spoke again.
"A bullfighter, then? Is that what you are?" He stated as he pulled the red cloth with a swift movement, revealing the sword underneath.
The Matador could see himself in the blade, as it caught glimpses of his visage: his honey eyes reflected right under the Knight's.
His clenched fists were ready, but his brain had decided not to play right into the Knight's provocations.
"And is a thief what you are then? I thought you'd be above such petty acts," he settled on saying instead.
The Knight shook his head, the blade almost caressing the skin under the eyes. "I do not mean any harm," he reassured, finally lowering the blade. "Let's see what you are made of, bullfighter."
He declared and so he tossed the muleta to the Matador, after wrapping the blade with the red cloth.
The other man readily caught it with one hand as the Knight had already started walking away.
The Matador stared at his back. He never stopped, he never bothered looking behind himself to see if he was being followed.
"Such arrogance…" the Matador muttered.
He really didn't wish to play along, but that was an affront to him. He couldn't let go of what had just happened. He would have risked appearing like a spineless coward who didn't bat an eye at an insult to his person.
No, he had to go after him.
And so he did.
He followed the other man until the two of them had found themselves into what appeared to be a training room.
On his way to the center of the room, the Knight had pulled out a sword from a weapon rack, making it slide effortlessly along his side.
Only then did he face the Matador, revealing a sly smile on his lips.
He raised his sword towards the other man, his cold gaze set on him. "On guard, bullfighter."
The 'bullfighter' shook his head, looking down for a split second only, as an amused grin stretched on his visage.
"It's your unlucky day, señor. I never back off in front of a fight," he declared, looking up and raising his own blade, directing its pointy edge to the Knight. "I never lose."
"Let our swords do the talking," the Knight proclaimed and so he leaped towards the Matador. His sword hit the other man's, who swiftly had parried the first attack and was now counterattacking.
The metallic clangs caused by steel hitting steel resounded into the room, filling it with a rhythmic cacophony.
When the Matador tried thrusting his blade, the Knight had stepped aside with one fast motion.
When the Knight attempted to swing the edge of his blade, the Matador had dodged, pirouetting and creating an opening: almost tripping on his feet, the Knight had left his back exposed.
The Matador downed his sword on him, but the Knight grabbed the red cloth that was hanging from the Matador's side.
He pulled it and raised it up, obstructing the other man's sight, a calculated motion for the Knight to get back on his feet and to stop the Matador's attack.
He couldn't surely slice through something so dear to him, could he?
The Matador took a step back, the look of astonishment on his face quickly turned into one of delight.
"You use the strategies of a bullfighter against a bullfighter?" He laughed, so boisterously he could deafen someone. The cloth was laying on the ground between the pair.
The Knight was in combat position again, the sword firmly gripped in his hands. "You know what they say about bringing a knife to a gunfight, don't you?"
The Matador pushed his chin forward, his eyes gleaming — if not burning — with ardor. "Oh, I do. Although I should warn you I'm not as unprepared as you think I am," he commented as the knight waltzed around the Matador.
"I believe I know as much I need to know about you," the Knight replied, eyes closing ever so slightly, eyelashes casting shadows onto the skin of his cheeks.
That look again.
As if he was scrutinizing him, by studying every small detail of his appearance. Of his movements.
The Matador hummed. "Can't say I'm surprised. You answered the way I thought you would, señor," he said, gesticulating with the sword, swinging it mid air. "I've got you all figured out and we've met not even five hours ago, that's unbelievable."
The knight halted his movements, an unimpressed look on his visage, the corners of his mouth slightly turned downward, uncaring eyes.
"I doubt you know anything about me, señor."
His last word was hissed past his lips. He had lowered his sword just a bit, just enough for the Matador to know that if he hadn't already hit a sensitive spot, he could have very soon had he continued.
"Ah, no?" He raised his blade further. He started walking around the Knight, tracing circles. "I've stepped into the Manor only today and that was enough for me to understand your arrogance prevents you from being truthful. What I see is a poor noble who has made his blue blood his whole identity."
The Knight scoffed. He had lowered his head, only to throw it back the moment he had spoken again, a sneer resting gracefully on his lips. The sword was now placed downward, along his side, pointy edge facing the ground. "Those are some big words coming from someone like you."
"Proving my point much?" The Matador snickered, raising one eyebrow. "Am I wrong or are you not denying my words?"He tilted his head. He grinned through sealed lips. "Dale, we both know you're hollow inside."
Something had flickered in the Knight's eyes.
It wasn't the anger the Matador was expecting to see what had darted in them.
It was something even more visceral, raw, primordial.
Hatred.
His grip on the sword tightened. He leapt towards the Matador.
The honey-eyed man knelt, grabbed the red cloth at his feet and tossed it to the Knight, who was breaking under his very own sight. In a split second the Matador had disorientated his enemy and pirouetted past him.
The Knight gasped when he felt something cold and metallic press against the back of his head: the Matador was holding his blade against him.
It was checkmate.
A defeat for the Knight.
A victory for the Matador.
He grinned, the Knight on the ground, hands and knees pressed against the floor.
There was something deeply satisfying in seeing him like that, his blade against his soft skin. One swing, one cut, and blood would have been spilled, staining those refined clothes of something so dirty but alive, white floor covered in red.
At least the Matador knew where to find a mop now.
"As I've said, I never lose, señor," he declared, visibly beaming, sweat embedded on his forehead. A single drop had traced his temple, sliding down onto his jaw.
He couldn't see the look of disbelief into the Knight's visage, his bewildered eyes. His lips were disclosed, corners turned downward. His fingers clawed at the floor, but grasped nothing.
He lowered his head.
A second, two seconds, three seconds.
That's all he needed to catch his breath.
He raised his head again, a polite smile was now dancing on his lips.
"I suppose one shouldn't use a bullfighter's strategies against a bullfighter if he's not ready to reap what he sowed," he simply commented, composed voice, but his fingers still tried vainly to grasp at the floor.
The Matador noticed that, as he eyed the silly-looking gesture. His gaze narrowed, head tilted slightly, sword still raised.
"You could say so."
The Knight spoke again, this time sounding more annoyed than before. "Care to move that blade away from my neck now? We wouldn't want to make a mess in this room, would we?"
He turned his head just enough to glance at the Matador, who withdrew his sword immediately, not after showing a look of surprise, as if he had forgotten he was holding him at 'sword-point.'
"Right, right," he said, rolling the Rs. He changed his grip on the hilt, now grabbing it with his left hand. He offered his right one for the Knight to take, open palm stretching in front of his face.
He stared at it, an eyebrow raised, gaze that went from the Matador's hand to his face to his hand again.
"Come on," he said, nudging him, his hand stretching even more. "You look unsightly on the floor like that."
The Knight scoffed. He got up, ignoring the friendly gesture the Matador was offering by not taking his hand. He wiped the dust off his clothes and spoke again. "I could never be as unsightly as you are, you're all sweaty. I can't believe a simple sparring such as this has got you that riled up."
He didn't bother sticking around to listen to the Matador's answer that the Knight had stashed his sword back into the weapon rack.
"I shall see you back in the dining room for dinner. Clean yourself from all that sweat first, will you?" He said, walking away and closing the door after himself.
The Matador stared at it, then he redirected his gaze onto his hand that was now resting along his side, the blade still in his other one, the red cloth laying on the floor at his feet.
He knelt, fingers caressing it.
For a moment, he refused to move, the muleta in his hands.
He felt like he had got into trouble by going to the Manor, by meeting the Knight.
And somehow, that was making his heart thrive, his blood pumping in his veins because of the adrenaline.
He grabbed the muleta, got up and with a grin stretching on his lips, he started walking towards the door.
The Matador found the Knight sitting at the head of the table. His hands were joint in front of him, chin hid behind them, unaffected and unfocused gaze directed on nothing in particular, an empty plate on the tablecloth.
It seemed as if he was waiting.
After having mentally debated where to take place, the Matador had pulled a chair away to sit at the other head of the table, deeming it too rude to stay close to the Knight.
In all response, the Knight's gaze had shifted onto him, but the man did not speak.
The Matador stared at the empty plate in front of him, then at the Knight's. Was he missing something? The other man's gaze was fixed on him, hands still clasped together.
"Uhm…" He looked around, as if searching for someone he knew deep down would not arrive. "You said there are no servants, right?"
The Knight shifted in his chair, as he rested his back against it. "Correct."
"Then who will prepare us food?" The Matador asked, perhaps already knowing the answer to his question.
The Knight's hands weren't joint anymore: he had placed one under his chin, the other sustaining the elbow as he stared from up and down the Matador. He looked at him as if he was assessing his abilities. "Tell me, how are your cooking abilities?"
Did he hear that right?
The Matador's mouth opened only to close a second later.
"Are you suggesting I shall cook for the both of us?" He finally asked. Despite the circumstances, his lips were curled into an amused smile.
"Why, does that sound so unreasonable to you? It is better than the alterative, most likely."
"Which is…?" The Matador raised an eyebrow as a theory formed in his mind. Could it be that the other man was hesitant about picking up a wooden spoon, to turn on a stove or cut some vegetables? "Señor, do you mean to say you do not know how to cook-?" He asked, but the Knight rapidly cut him off, interrupting him.
"Starving," He raised one hand to shut him up. Amidst his composed behavior, his eyebrow had twitched just barely: annoyance. "I meant to say the other alternative would be to starve."
Well, that still didn't make any sense nor was it helping him in any way.
The Matador's efforts to suppress the grin that was forming on his lips were more or less inexistent: teeth showing, corners of the mouth turned upward, but he at least had the decency to refrain himself from laughing.
Before he could utter any actual word, the Knight had spoken again.
"And enough with the 'señor,'" he declared, moving his hand in the air just a bit, as if to shoo that very word away from him.
"Is that a request?" The Matador inquired, as he tilted his head just slightly, the grin still on his lips.
"Yes," the Knight had replied in just a heartbeat, placid voice, flat tone.
The honey-eyed man leaned forward on his chair, hands coming together in front of him, so that they would hide part of his face. Was he perhaps imitating the Knight? "You know, you have a funny way to go on and ask for things, señor."
He spoke as something flickered in his eyes.
Amusement, perhaps.
Search for trouble, possibly.
A desire to rile things up.
The Knight stared at him from under his eyelashes. "Are you seeking something from me? Get to the point," he spoke, at last. He had looked away and adjusted himself on the chair as he uttered those words before setting his gaze on him again: a series of gestures that the Matador could only interpret in his mind as calculated indifference.
"Why did you sneak into my room and steal my muleta?"
The Matador was known to be an affable man, but in that very moment his gaze couldn't hide traces of coldness.
The Knight shrugged almost imperceptibly.
"My apologies, but what does it matter now? I handed it back to you, have I not?"
The other man sighed as he averted his stare. "You look like a noble, judging from your speech and the way you move. And yet, let me tell you, you have some very poor manners."
He let out half a chuckle, crossed his arms over his chest and redirected his gaze onto the Knight, only to see him arch an eyebrow.
"You're lecturing me now? That's rich coming from you."
The other man hummed, eyes narrowed at him.
"So are we done with your little questioning?"
The Knight's gaze was detached, but annoyed.
The Matador stared at the young man. "Your name," he finally said after a moment, while the other one had arched one eyebrow again and was staring at him quizzically.
"What about it?"
The Matador sighed. "I'm asking you to tell me your name. Seriously, your manners suck," he blurted out right after. "Pardon the French."
The Knight rested his chin on his hand once more and tilted his head slightly, part of his hair swaying over his eyes. "Will that let me off the hook?"
"Maybe."
"Why? It's just a name," the Knight had asked instantly, almost without waiting for the Matador to finish speaking.
"I mean, why not?"
The Knight didn't say anything else, prompting the Matador to speak again in order to fill the awkward silence that was setting between the two of them. He chuckled as he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can't a man know the name of the gentleman he'll have to spend time with in an allegedly cursed Manor?"
The other one stared at him without ever batting his eyelashes. "No."
Well.
The Matador grinned again. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"
Once again, the Knight, narrow-eyed, merely stared at the other man, who, this time, did the same.
He didn't fill the silence with words: he looked at the 'gentleman' in front of him with stretched lips and relaxed eyes.
His smile was all knowing.
Do I make you uncomfortable?, was the actual question that was hiding behind the other.
Seconds passed by, until the Matador had gotten up, worn chair screeching because of the movement. "Then I guess I have no choice," he sighed, while the Knight had cast him a quizzical look. "Wait here, I'll be back with food."
He started walking away, but not without one last performance.
He waved his hand and, without turning around, he spoke.
"You'll owe me your name in exchange though."
The Matador made his way back to the pantry: potatoes, onions and eggs. That is what he was searching for.
He found a couple of stacks filled with vegetables on one of the sideboards; he grabbed four small potatoes and one medium sized yellow onion and brought them back to the kitchen.
He stared at them for a second or two, feeling his confidence leaving his body.
"I'm not the best cook out there, but…"
He grabbed one potato — not without hesitation — and started peeling it, fingers moving carefully, albeit perhaps too slowly. Once he had peeled all of them, he cut them into thick slices. The sound of the knife he was holding hitting the cutting board resounded rhythmically in the room.
He looked at the slices he had made and hummed, satisfied: at least he was good with sharp tools.
Once he had cut the onion, too, he heated the pan by oiling it; he then added the potatoes and the onion pieces into it. He was now staring at the flame, his index and thumb adjusted its intensity.
He first settled the heat on low, but quickly changed it to a higher, more intense one.
"That will do," he hummed again, thinking maybe in that way the slices would be cooked more quickly.
He went back to the pantry and retrieved six eggs, cracked them into a mixing bowl and added some salt.
Was that the right amount?, he wondered, fingers hovering over the bowl.
He dismissed the thought. It sure was.
Then, he grabbed a fork to beat the eggs, careful not to make the now liquid yolk spill.
Once done, he checked on the potatoes. He poked them with a knife to check on their tenderness and, deeming the exterior to be soft enough, he poured them into the bowl with the eggs after draining them from the oil.
Afterwards, he placed the potatoes-eggs-onions mixture into the pan again, pouring two tablespoons of oil in it again. He cooked them until the eggs had set to the bottom of the pan, careful to occasionally swirl and shake it to prevent sticking, just like he had seen being done before back home when he was little.
It had been long, too long, since he had made that dish, but he wasn't completely hopeless to have made something good.
Shaking his head as if not to lose himself in memories, he set a plate over the top of the pan and flipped it, only to then slide the other side of the omelet inside the pan.
He rested his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow on the counter, and waited, as he stared at the mixture being cooked, its yellowness turning into crispy gold, oil frying and spurting in front of his eyes.
His gaze was unfocused, not really set on the omelet.
The other man — who he assumed was waiting for him in the dining room — occupied the spaces of his mind.
He didn't even know how to address him properly as he seemed displeased whenever he called him señor, and he had the sensation that, despite their 'agreement', he would not have revealed his actual name, not even after bringing him food.
The Matador let out a sigh, eyes widening a second after: he had forgotten the omelet on the stove for too long.
"Oh, mierda!"
The Knight had been waiting for what seemed to him like an eternity, his foot tapping on the floor with growing impatience, chin resting on his hand, forearm sustained by his elbow. He would sometimes stare at the door that lead outside of the dining room, waiting for the other man's silhouette to appear. Then he would lean back against the chair, crossed his arms and sighed, only to start tapping his foot again a second later.
After what must have been hundreds of taps on the floor and dozens of sighs did the Matador made an appearance, a covered plate in his hands. He had opened the door effortlessly, despite carrying the course, a grin on his lips.
The Knight didn't trust it.
There was a certain hesitancy in the smile that was resting on the Matador's visage: it was a little too stretched. The Knight eyed his face in search of little indicators of the man's true feelings as the latter put down the plate on the table, on a free spot in front of the Knight.
A question rose from his lips.
"What have you made?" His voice appeared to be calm yet investigatory as he kept on scrutinizing the other.
"A specialty from my country," he chuckled while rubbing the back of his neck and averting his gaze. "Although…"
The Knight narrowed his eyes.
What was he being bashful for?
"Although?" The Knight repeated, now eyeing the still covered plate.
The Matador sighed. "I got distracted and it burnt a little," an embarrassed little laugh escaped his throat.
Only then did he unveil the dish, revealing a golden — albeit a little charred on one side — omelet.
The newfound chef had started speaking again, seeming to pay no attention to the dumbfounded look on the Knight's face.
"I can have the overcooked part, no worries, " he had reassured him, a radiant beam on his face.
Becoming aware of the fact he had been staring a little too much, the Knight tried to regain composure. He cleared his throat. Then, he spoke again.
"… What is that?"
In response, the Matador appeared disoriented — if not speechless. It took him a few seconds before he spoke again, his next words had been pronounced very carefully. "I'm aware it's a bit overcooked, but c'mon… It's not that bad… right?"
He asked, hopeful for the Knight to recognize his efforts.
It really wasn't that bad.
Or so he, at least, hoped.
"No, what I mean to say is…" The Knight shook his head gently. Before finishing his sentence, he had cleared his throat again. "What kind of dish is that?"
"The dish…?" the Matador eyed the plate: it looked perfectly normal to him, perfectly white, perfectly plain. Then, he looked at the Knight again. He was pressing his lips together, while glaring at the other man.
The Matador studied the dish again, then the Knight, then — at last — the dish once more.
Oh.
Ooh.
He didn't mean the actual plate, did he?
The Matador clasped his hands together, resting them in front of himself, eyes glued to the omelet, lips pursed as he rocked on his toes once. He wasn't stupid at all, he just didn't think it was possible for someone to not know what that dish was.
He lifted his gaze again, setting it on the Knight.
"You've never had a tortilla before?" He finally asked.
He had voiced every word very carefully, tone non-judgmental, but curious. Needless to say, he even refrained himself from smiling.
The Knight, too, spoke with as much carefulness as he: "Why would I ever have had that before?"
"Because…" The Matador answered, rocking on his toes again, "it's a common Spanish omelet. I didn't think there could be someone who didn't know what it was, that's all…" his voice trailed off, as it lowered in pitch.
He wasn't looking at the Knight: he had redirected his gaze away as he gave his reply, but, not hearing an answer, he had peeked towards the other man. He caught him staring, perplexed, eyes slightly widened, parted lips and — my, oh my — pinker cheeks?
When the Knight sensed the Matador's eyes on him, he had looked away and — once again — had cleared his throat, redirecting his gaze on the tortilla before him.
"I'm sure you do not know every typical dish from my country, so why should I be knowledgeable about yours? This should be of no surprise," he declared, seemingly offering a perfectly valid reasoning.
"Thing is, señor, I don't know many things about you," the Matador glanced at the Knight again. "Such as your name. Am I wrong or did we not have a deal?"
The Knight leaned back as he pushed his chin forward. "A deal I have never agreed to, from what I remember."
Well, it was true the Matador had left the room before he could hear what the other man had to say.
Oops.
Being met with silence, the Knight spoke again. "Take your charred part and eat it, I shall have the rest."
"Right," he nodded as he slid the overcooked part into his plate, leaving the rest for the Knight: he had already cut the omelet into slices back when he was still in the kitchen. Then, he sat at the other edge of the table and, grabbing fork and knife, he cut a tinier bit from it. Only then did the Knight grab his own cutlery and sliced his own smaller portion.
The Matador glanced at the other man: his own grip on the fork looked hesitant as he stared at the food perhaps too much and for too long instead of actually eating it.
Placing down his own fork, the honey-eyed man spoke again. "The other alternative would be to starve, right?" He commented, this time making no effort to hide the teasing grin that had stretched on his lips.
He was now staring at the man, looking completely uninterested at the prospect of eating the food he had made.
Upon hearing those words, the Knight had lifted his own stare, locking eyes with the Matador: amber and sapphire met honey-stone as long eyelashes encircled that narrowed gaze.
A cold glare, that's what it was.
Without daring to look away for a single instant, he sank his teeth into the slice, as his lips framed the golden crust, the omelet's potatoes filling his mouth. He chewed it and, finally, he gulped the grub. It slid down his throat, warming it.
"The same applies to you," he then uttered. "I suggest you stop gawking and start eating instead if you do not wish to starve, bullfighter."
A chuckle escaped from the honey-eyed man, whose gaze had been locked with the Knight's throughout it all, a satisfied grin on his visage.
Then, he sighed as he grabbed his fork again. "I've got a name, you know," he said before sinking his own teeth onto the tortilla. Being it charred, it was crispier than the Knight's slice. "Although I can't deny being a bullfighter, too."
"If you are a bullfighter, then I do not need to address you in any other way," the 'gentleman' had rebutted before biting into another slice, not after having it eyed cautiously again.
The Matador hummed, as he rested his chin on the palm of his left hand. He stared at the man across the table. "If I'm a bullfighter, what would you be?" He asked, before rapidly changing his mind. "No, no, let me guess."
Guess?
The Knight arched an eyebrow.
Did the bullfighter want to play a guessing game?
The Matador let go of the fork he was holding to start keep track of his deductions on the fingers of one hand. "Your speech is elegant and polite, you almost never — or at all? — shorten your sentences, your posture is good… Yeah, you are definitely of noble blood, but what role precisely do you have…"
The Knight seemed to stare at him with disinterest as the Matador trailed off.
"You know how to wield a sword, so a swordsman, maybe? But…"
The Knight started cutting another bit, knife digging into the slice.
"But you had a helmet with you earlier…"
The knife had halted amidst the omelet, the slice cut only for half.
Before the Matador could mumble any other word, the man had spoken.
"You will get nowhere with your guessing game," he announced.
"Why, you don't think I could guess and figure you out? I thought I've already proved you wrong earlier."
Not letting the Matador reply any further, the Knight had gotten up, half of the omelet still on the plate.
The honey-eyed man thought that was the moment the mysterious man would have walked away and left the dining room. But, instead, he had started approaching the Matador himself, the fingers of his left hand — covered by a silver gauntlet — dancing on the tablecloth.
He stopped in front of the honey-eyed man, who had pulled his chair away just a bit — half turning his body towards the Knight — and lifted his head to meet his gaze.
With his right hand, the Knight made the gauntlet slide past his left one, revealing naked fair skin. He rested the metallic glove on the table on the spot closest to him. "You just thought I would leave, didn't you? Maybe storm out of the room," he leaned slightly, just enough to hover over him, right hand grabbing the seatback of the chair he was sitting on.
That iced glare again. It was back again.
The Matador opened his mouth to speak, but the Knight was faster.
"Maybe it shall eventually occur to you you are not the only one capable of figuring the other out…" He suggested. He shifted his gaze onto the tortilla and, with his bare hand, slid off the piece skewered on the fork, a small bit that the Matador had cut a moment earlier. While barely moving his head, the Knight redirected his gaze onto the other man once more, "… or of making predictions," he concluded.
He pushed the cut piece into his mouth, lips parting again — barely, but enough for it to enter past them. He didn't start chewing it immediately: he kept the slightly overcooked piece of food pressed against his tongue.
Only after a couple of seconds did he start munching on it. Once there were no traces of food in his mouth, he leaned back, posture stretching as he let go of his grip on the chair.
He absentmindedly eyed his left index and thumb, finding them slightly oily, and then he shrugged, grabbing the gauntlet again.
"I thought you wouldn't eat charred food," The Matador mumbled, eyeing the Spanish omelet in his plate.
The Knight hummed, tilting his head almost imperceptibly as he fixed the gauntlet on his hand, an uncaring smile on his lips. "Exactly."
His gaze shifted again for a few seconds only, as he appeared to be looking at an unspecified spot on the ground. Then, he looked up again: the coldness previously seen in his gaze had left to make space for disinterest and unconcern.
Eyeing the Matador, he inhaled sharply.
Then he turned around, showing him his back. "Name's Richard Sterling," he revealed. He looked over his shoulder, glancing at the other man. "Don't forget it."
Then, the Knight — Richard — had finally walked away, leaving some of his tortilla on the plate. "Sweet dreams," he had merely wished to the other man, lightly waving one hand.
The Matador had stared at his back, half a smile on his lips.
"I couldn't even introduce myself," he commented, shaking his head slightly, amusement transpiring from his voice. "Unbelievable…"
And, with that, now completely alone, he went back to eating the rest of his charred tortilla.
Once the Matador had finished his omelet, he had gone back to the kitchen to leave the dirty plates in the sink. With a sigh he had looked at them — the cutlery, the cutting board, the pan and the dishes — and, as he shrugged, he promised to himself he would have cleaned everything in the morning: the tiredness caused by the trip was starting to weigh down on his shoulders.
After a well-needed bath — he vehemently told himself he was having one because he wanted to, not because the Knight had pretty much commented on his bad smell earlier — he had dragged his feet to his room and, almost fully naked if not for a pair of trousers, he let himself fall on the bed as he waited for sleep to come claim him.
It must have been a couple of hours after the sun had set — when the moon was now up in the highest point of the sky, obscured only by a few clouds, and the wind was howling as it hit against the heavy windows — that something had caused him to rise from his slumber.
At first, he simply tried to shut the noise up by pressing his pillow on his ears, hoping to block it the best way he knew how. Unsuccessful, he had turned to the side as he attempted the futile motion again.
Finally defeated, he laid on his back, the pillow forgotten in his hands as he stared at the ceiling.
Only one person could have been responsible for this, couldn't it?
In complete darkness, he exhaled sharply and lifted himself up.
He needed a shirt, but where the hell was it whenever he looked for one? It wasn't on the bed, not on the chair next to it and not on-
His foot caught something and he found himself face down on the wooden planks. The noise that had woken him up seemed to halt for a moment, only to resume seconds later.
Well.
It looked like his shirt wasn't on the floor either.
"Al carajo…"He mumbled through gritted teeth, lifting himself up again.
He just wanted to go back to sleep.
He decided clothes were useless and that dressing up was a social construct and so he swung the door open and left his room.
His chest was exposed, but his heart did not care.
The noise was coming from below, somewhere downstairs; having explored the Manor during the day, he had half an idea where to go: only one room could have produced such noise.
With the hallway lit by the moon outside, he didn't risk tripping on anything while he made his way to the ground floor.
Once he had climbed down each and every step of the main staircase, he traced the floor until he found himself in front of a vast room, the door completely swung open.
No wonder I could hear everything from my bed…
He shook his head, his tousled hair caressing his temples, the small braids brushing against the naked skin of his shoulders. He looked up to find the Knight sitting on a leather padded stool, a piano in front of him. He didn't need to see his hands to know his fingers were dancing on its keys.
It was, after all, music that had awoken him.
He leaned against the arched doorway as he crossed his arms.
He was awake now, not much could be done about it: might as well enjoy the free performance.
Too bad the wooden plank under his feet had screeched right there and then, lamenting the weight pushed against it.
It was in that instant that the Knight's hands halted abruptly, the sonata interrupted with no proper end.
He didn't turn around when he spoke.
"Have you no sense of respect for music being played?"
The Matador scoffed.
If he had such arrogance to say that then…
"Have you no sense of respect for my sleep schedule?" He protested, already sensing what the Knight's next few words would be.
"Of course not," he said bluntly, still without bothering to look behind himself. His fingers were still caressing the keys, albeit absentmindedly and with no actual intention of going back to playing.
The Matador shook his head as he leaned away from the doorway and walked towards the man. "And to think you even had the thoughtfulness of wishing me sweet dreams earlier…"
The Knight's answer had died in his throat when he sensed the Matador sit next to him on the stool. He had turned around to face him. Slightly taken aback, his gaze had traveled up and down, words not being uttered for a second too long.
When the Knight did speak, he had no praise to spare for the other man.
"Have you no sense of shame, too? Are you trying to displease me?" He lamented, fixing his stare on his eyes.
The Matador huffed.
Actually, he did sorta forget about his shirt by the time he had made his way downstairs. It was of no matter anymore, though. "Since when have I been trying to please you?"
One corner only of the Knight's mouth had briefly darted up as he looked towards the keys again. "So you admit it."
"It's not like you're trying to be likeable either, so it's only fair," the Matador rebutted as he, too, eyed the piano, following the Knight's gaze.
"At least I don't show up half naked in front of a man I just got to know the name of."
"False," the Matador laughed as the Knight glanced at him, a questioning look in his eyes. It seemed like he was just about to press one of the keys when the Matador made him halt every movement.
"I know your name," he said, leaning slightly towards the Knight, an all knowing smile on his lips. "You still don't know mine," he leaned back now. "So, had you showed up shirtless in front of me, I believe that would have been way worse."
"I think you are not aware just of how nonsensical your logic is," the Knight sighed, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Besides, that is not something you'll ever catch me do." He looked at the Matador, a question lingering on his lips. "So? Where is your shirt?"
The honey-eyed man pressed his lips together. "Couldn't find it."
"How could you n-"
"It was dark and all, it's not like I wanted you to see me with my chest out. Even tripped while searching for it…" He was now rubbing the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks.
The Knight let out a sharp breath. "I think I heard you."
A few seconds of complete silence had passed, when the Matador had started chuckling — first in a subdued way, then almost boisterously. He had spoken only when the Knight had shot him another puzzled look. "All this and you still don't care to know my name."
"I told you, why does it matter? You-
"I'm just a bullfighter, yes, yes. But-" he interrupted the other man, a grin on his lips. "This is why you're losing, Richard."
Looking perplexed, the Knight quickly tried to regain composure. "Let's hear it," he sighed. "Why do you think I am losing?"
"Overlooking how I just don't 'think' that, but know that for sure…" he started explaining. "A name is power and knowing your opponent's name equals to having control over them. I am sure I do not have to clarify what I mean any further to someone like you, being a noble and all. Besides," he narrowed his eyes at the other man, all while never stop smiling. Despite his words, his beam was still a warm one. "Your refusal to learn my name, Richard, makes you predictable."
He had said his name again, merely accentuating his point.
The Knight scoffed as he averted his eyes. "Hearing you say my name sends a shiver down my spine. And I do not mean the good type."
"Exactly what I'm saying," the Matador chuckled.
He was still grinning at him, looking way too satisfied for the Knight's taste.
"I know what you're thinking," he whispered.
The Matador arched an eyebrow: he was listening.
The Knight redirected his attention to the honey-eyed man.
"You seek something from me again. Maybe you still do not know what precisely. But…" He sighed. He hated admitting defeat. "I lost my chance, I suppose, and you'll tell me your name in exchange of this. True or false?"
The Matador was staring at him, looking satisfied with his deduction. "True."
The Knight sighed again. "Why are you here, bullfighter?"
"I believe I should be the one asking that," he commented instead. "Why play the piano in the middle of the night?"
The Knight pressed his lips together. He shrugged his shoulders almost barely. "If you like guessing games so much, you may try guessing."
The Matador appeared lost in thought. "We could make this more interesting."
"What do you mean this time?" The Knight had sighed again, but — somehow — he seemed to be going along with him.
"I make a statement about you, I ask if it's true or false. You reply with either and then we move on, each makes a different statement, it can't be repeated." he explained. "We also can't elaborate more than saying true or false. If the other wishes to inquire more, he has to make another statement."
The Knight merely asked one simple question: "Why?"
"I just like giving my opponents some leverage," he commented, shrugging his shoulders. "That's all."
The Knight, who was eyeing his helmet that he had placed at the top of the piano, abruptly looked at him. "I don't need your pity," he hissed.
"It's not pity," the honey-eyed man tried to placate him. "I simply don't like winning without a fight. It's no fun if there's no actual challenge."
The Knight glanced at him as if searching for something in particular in his eyes. "You think so less of me. Were I someone else I would be offended."
"But you're not."
A beam.
"But I am not."
An agreement.
For once, they both were on the same page.
"Very well," the Knight clapped his hands. "We may," he then eyed the other man. "Entertain me, bullfighter."
As he shot him a smile, the Matador hummed, while appearing lost in thought.
At last, he finally spoke.
"You're an only child," he stated, glancing at him. "True or false?"
The knight's lips curled into a coy smile. "Off to a bad start, aren't you? False," he replied, voice as smooth as the blade of a knife.
"With that pampered attitude of yours I could have sworn you were-" the Matador commented absentmindedly, not looking at the knight anymore. "Very well, your turn now."
The Knight didn't waste a single instant thinking about what to state, that he was immediately ready to speak. "That scar on your chest-"
"So you looked at my chest?" The honey-eyed man let out a hearty laughter, as he interrupted the Knight's statement. "I'm flattered."
"Impossible not to if you present yourself like that with no warning beforehand," the other man had replied. "Does not mean it's an enjoyable sight, though."
The Matador's smile had stretched in response: the immediate answer, the way his eyebrow twitched and the displeased tone of his voice had revealed the Knight's annoyance at him.
Feeling his gaze on himself, the latter had cleared his throat. "As I was saying… the scar on your chest was caused by a bull's horns. True or false?"
"True," he nodded. It looked like he was eager to say more, but the rules of the game didn't allow it. He simply smiled, amused enough. But so did the Knight.
"Pity I couldn't see that happening."
"The results should delight you enough," the Matador laughed. "My turn now."
He rubbed his chin as he thought about what to state again. Once he had reached a conclusion, he spoke once more.
"You were never in love," he stated. "True or false?"
He saw the way the Knight had started on the stool — barely — but enough to spark interest in the Matador. The Knight was now eyeing him cautiously.
"Why on earth would you inquire about that?"
But the Matador had an answer ready, didn't he?
"I can't elaborate, remember?" He chuckled. "You'll have to answer or… well-"
Or lose.
That is what he meant to say, but refrained from doing.
The Knight spoke slowly. He had stared at the other man in the eyes as he told him so and admitted the truth, careful not to avert his gaze for a single instant.
"True."
The Matador's eyes had softened, not out of pity or care, but out of satisfaction. "Very well. It's your turn now."
The Knight had stretched his right palm, almost offering it to the Matador. "Show me your right hand, if you may."
"My… what?" The Matador had lifted his hand, but didn't stretch it enough for the Knight to take it. As if, instead, he was withdrawing it. Protecting it.
"You heard me," the other man had insisted, stretching his palm further.
When the Matador had drawn his hand closer to the Knight's, the Knight had grabbed it in a split second and, with a swift movement, he had turned his hand to the other side, revealing a scarred palm: a thin line was extending across the skin.
"The scar on the palm of your right hand: it was caused not by horns, but by a blade — possibly a knife or a dagger. True or false?"
Upon hearing those words, the Matador had withdrawn his hand, moving it back with a quick movement of the arm. The Knight's fingers were cold but the spot they had touched was now burning with warmth, as if Richard's own hand was melted wax imprinted on a fair envelope.
His hand was shaking now, wasn't it?
The Matador gritted his teeth as he grabbed it with his other hand, closing it in a fist.
How the hell did he even notice it?
He was looking down, eyes hidden by his hair, stare set on it.
Then, he let go of his grip, he raised his head, looked at the Knight and, with a smile that didn't reach the eyes, he said: "True."
The Knight's stern stare hadn't left him for a single instant. "Your turn, then."
The Matador shook his head lightly. "Is there even a beating heart under that cold demeanor of yours?"
He asked, as a small and feeble titter had escaped his throat and pushed past his teeth.
The Knight had stared back at him: his lips curled into a polite smile, but there was no softness in his eyes. "You may make a statement about it and I may answer."
The Matador's chuckle grew in volume.
"Very well, then," he pushed his chin forward, amused, seemingly having forgotten about what had just happened. He eyed the man at his side, who was looking at him, waiting.
At last, the Matador spoke, punctuating every word.
"You're scared," he said. "True or false?"
The Knight's eyes had widened for an instant, lips parting in surprise or — more correctly — in disbelief. Then, with a guffaw, he scowled at the Matador. "What is that supposed to even mean?"
The Matador watched as the Knight lost himself in that hearty laughter of his: he could have bet actual money that tears would have formed in Richard's eyes if he had kept that up.
"You're not answering," the Matador had observed, as he waited for the laugh to subside.
"Because," The Knight had immediately replied, putting emphasis on that very word. "There should be no need at all," he concluded, waving one hand as if to dismiss the silly assumption. "False."
"I don't know if I'm convinced, though," the Matador rebutted. He crossed his arms and shook his head, hair caressing his skin.
The Knight stared at the man as if he had lost complete interest in him. "There must truly be nothing going on in that little head of yours if you think I'm scared. I do wonder what is it like being you," he shook his head lightly. "It must be nice."
The Matador chuckled. "You make big claims to someone who saw right through that little performance of yours and who's trying to put up with you nonetheless."
Before the Knight could speak, the Matador continued, looking straight into the eye of the other man. "Truth is: you hide behind your social class, making your rank everything that there is to know about you. You cling to that little noble-ish role of yours because you have nothing going on for yourself. I don't need to ask if you have a heart in your chest, because I know you do. But it's long been dead."
The Knight didn't try to interrupt him, but his answer arrived quickly once he was done. He poignantly stared at him as if expecting more. "Well? Is your rambling speech over?" He asked, flat voice.
The Matador gave a shake of the head. "You could say so." He got up from the stool. "The game is over the moment one of the participants lies, so… I'm leaving."
He took exactly one step only before the voice of the Knight made him halt. "So you finally decided to show how much of a coward you are?"
Nobody would have had the time to count the reaction timing of the Matador: he spun around, walked that one step again and grabbed the Knight by the collar with two hands, shirt crimpling in his grasp. He pulled the man towards him, forcing him to stand slightly.
The Knight could have lied as smoothly as he wanted, but his body couldn't betray him: his eyes said it all about the surprise he was feeling.
The freckled man was staring at him through a piercing glare and flared nostrils, his skin flushed.
"Looks like I've touched a raw nerve, haven't I?" The Knight smiled, instinctively placing one of his hands over the Matador's wrist. "Good to know."
The other man hanged his head, but didn't let go of his grasp on the Knight's collar. He appeared to be breathing deeply, chest expanding and contracting, shoulders raising and lowering rhythmically.
Eventually, he looked up: there was no further distress stretching on the traits of his face, his brow was relaxed now, the corners of his mouth were no longer painfully pulled down, his teeth weren't gritted.
"If I'm a coward then what does that make you? It's telling, how you're wasting your time over this," he shook his head, as if shooing a thought away. "It's cute how you think your opinion matters so much."
The Knight chuckled. "Pretending as if I didn't almost get you, aren't you?"
He had narrowed his eyes at him. He was standing up weirdly and not properly, forcing his legs to bend awkwardly to not trip on the stool or the honey-eyed man himself.
"You didn't," the Matador denied, without still seeming to wanting to let go of his grip.
"No?" The Knight arched an eyebrow. "Then how do you call this?"
The Matador grinned. "I call this: a respectable man keeps his cool and refuses to punch down a bratty noble."
Then, he finally let go of the Knight's collar, whose hand unwrapped from the Matador's wrist, brushing the skin as it drifted away.
The noble man tried to flatten out the collar of his shirt, unsuccessfully. "That's nothing I wouldn't be able to take."
The Matador scoffed, then he raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I do punch you on the face?"
The Knight took a step forward. The pair was now standing too close to each other for any of them to actually feel comfortable: Richard was, by all means, invading the Matador's space and was now looking at him defiantly. "Would you have what it takes to?"
"I…" The honey-eyed man seemed to be taken aback. Then, he chuckled, a tinge of nervousness in his voice. "I've been hearing 'punch me in the face' coming from you since I've stepped foot in this Manor, but I thought that would stay as subtext," he rubbed the back of his neck. "Up until now, I guess-"
The Knight didn't look amused. His stare was scrutinizing.
The Matador knew what his gaze meant: he thought that, had the time come, the Matador would not have been able to actually hurt the other man.
He stared back at him.
"I would."
And so, he answered his question.
The Knight looked away as he took two steps back. His lips were curled into a smile now. "Then I suppose I'll wait to see you try," he looked up. "And I'll have fun when I'll see you fail."
He picked up the helmet from the piano and, with that, he spun on his heels and reached for the exit.
The Matador called after him. "What if I do not want to entertain you?"
Richard halted as he stood under the archway. He looked behind himself, just barely, just enough to meet the freckled man's gaze. "Then I guess you will have failed already."
Without adding further explanation, he left, disappearing into the hallway, while the Matador stared at him becoming one with the darkness.
He inhaled sharply and then he let out a heavy sigh.
He closed his fists, before also diving into it.