pleasure seekers

In a city devoid of character, where little existed to steal one's breath away, the thought of abandoning it had crossed Nik’s mind more than once. The temptation to return home, to flee from the monotony, tugged at his resolve. Yet, deep down, he knew he couldn’t face his father if he chose to surrender now. Edessa, formidable and feared, was in dire need of allies, of trust, and he saw this as his chance. He, after all, was the heir apparent now.

In this pursuit, Nikólaos found himself resorting to unconventional methods. He contemplated ways to forge alliances, to establish connections that could tip the scales of power. Vince, seemingly insignificant in the grand scheme of things, held a potential key. In this delicate dance of politics and war, even the smallest partnership could become the turning point.

Today, Nikólaos dressed himself in a bordeaux blouse paired with impeccably tailored black jeans. Every fabric that touched his skin exuded quality; for someone of his stature, nothing less than the finest would suffice. A black coat cascaded down his frame, and his hands were adorned with matching black gloves.

Punctuality was a virtue he clung to as he descended to the floor of Vince’s apartment. Standing before the door, he knocked with confidence. When Vince opened the door, Nikólaos greeted him with an amused smirk, his eyes reflecting a calculated intelligence.  “My prince?” he smiled, his tone laced with innocence, though the underlying arrogance betrayed the true nature of the redheaded prince.

Sweet, innocent Vincze stood before him, and Nikólaos greeted him with a sly smile, a touch of arrogance glinting in his cerulean eyes. Throughout his life, his father had drilled into him that Iskra was nothing more than a mere ant beneath their boot, existing solely at Edessa's whim. Meeting Vincze, Nikólaos wondered if there was some truth to those words.

When asked if he wanted to come inside, Nikólaos cocked his head slightly, his eyebrows rising in curiosity. It puzzled him why he would, considering they both resided in the same building; there was no need for a pit stop in the other's room.

“Do you want me to come inside?” he drawled, his tone dripping with flirtatious confidence, his words intentionally drawn out to emphasise the question. He regarded Vincze with a bemused expression.

In the opulent halls of Edessa, where power and arrogance mingled freely, the royal family was exalted to a level rarely seen elsewhere. They were treated not as mere mortals but as living legends, their bloodline held in reverence, cloaked in awe, respect, and fear. Every move they made was dissected, every decision scrutinised. The world bowed before them, and yet, it was all a facade.

Nikólaos, accustomed to this deferential treatment, met Vincze with a superiority that seemed etched in his very bones. To him, iskra was a minuscule blip on the map, an inconsequential entity compared to the grandeur of Edessa. In his eyes, ruling his own country must have felt akin to managing a classroom of unruly children. Laughable, really.

As they spoke, Nikólaos wore a disarming smile, sweet and saccharine, yet his eyes held a glint of superiority. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear prince,” he nearly purred, feigning innocence while effortlessly calling out Vincze's anxiety. “Aren’t we similar in rank?” he continued, as if their positions were remotely comparable.

“I thought I ought to take you for a late lunch. I hope you’re hungry?” Nikólaos asked, his smile widening. He led Vincze towards the elevator, his movements deliberate.  “It will be a short ride,” he added, considering suggesting his motorbike just for the sheer amusement of watching Vincze's hair turn into a tousled mess.

Nikólaos studied Vincze's demeanour with a calculated curiosity. “That's what I wondered, too,” he mused, although the lie hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable. He knew precisely why Vincze was nervous. In fact, he wanted him to be; he wanted every word he uttered to leave Vincze breathless, hanging on to his every syllable.

When Vincze confessed his hunger, explaining that he hadn't had time to eat before Nikólaos' arrival, Nikólaos raised an elegant eyebrow, his gaze lingering on the other prince. “Were you busy?” he asked, his tone innocently inquisitive. The implication hung heavy in the air – busy doing what? Certainly not cleaning his apartment, Nikólaos thought, based on the swift glimpse he had gotten.

Vincze's inquiry about his ‘charm meetings’ caught Nikólaos off guard momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. “If you wish for an answer, you'll have to be a little more clear,” he replied, his tone gentle yet tinged with an underlying challenge. He couldn't afford to appear too arrogant, after all.

“If you're asking if you're special, then of course. Only the best for my prince,” he continued, his words laced with a deceptive innocence. With a graceful gesture, he invited Vincze to enter the open elevator first, then followed, positioning himself precisely in the middle.

Vincze deemed himself remarkably busy, although his words washed over Nikólaos like a distant murmur. With a serene smile playing on his lips, Nikólaos allowed his thoughts to wander momentarily. He recalled his mother’s tender touch, her fingers combing through his hair, remarking how fortunate he was to have inherited her easy charm. Unlike his father, who wore a menacing expression during his contemplative moments, Nikólaos effortlessly maintained an air of genuine interest, even when his mind drifted.

“I agree. Work is a worry of the future,” Nikólaos replied, his smile warm but tinged with a hint of irony. Deep down, he knew the importance of preparation for his future role as the kingdom’s ruler, but he understood that Vincze’s concerns were of a markedly different nature. After all, one didn’t require meticulous planning to oversee a daycare centre.

When Vincze said that was not what he wanted, Nikólaos arched an eyebrow, his expression remaining composed. “Forced?” he echoed, his voice soft. As the elevator doors slid shut and the numbers on the display dwindled, he continued. “Vincze, sweet Prince,” he mused, his words deliberate, “I am the crown prince of Edessa. I do not ask, I take,” he stated, his tone honeyed but laced with an implicit warning, just as the door opened.

Vincze pondered aloud the supposed ease that came with being universally respected. Nikólaos arched a brow at the apparent naivety of his peer. “Easy?” he echoed, gesturing for Vincze to exit the elevator first before following suit and opening the door to the world beyond.

“I believe life might be simpler without the weight of expectations bearing down on you. However, I am tasked not only with leading my country to survival but to glory. People tremble at the mere thought of me, and there's nothing more perilous than a cornered Liepard,” he explained, dismissing Vincze's presumption about the intricacies of leading a nation as nothing short of laughable. If Vincze were the heir of Edessa, the consequences would have been lethal long ago.

Smirking, Nikólaos continued, “How about a ride on the bike to our destination?”

There was nothing about Vincze that remotely resembled someone worthy of ascending to a throne. He lacked the words, the language, the requisite pain to understand what it took to become a King, an emperor, a God. Instead of grasping the essence of Nikólaos's words, he seemed on the verge of an apology—expressing respect for Nikólaos, as if that had ever been the point. “Of course,” he simply sighed. Whatever.

When Vincze inquired about riding Nikólaos’s bike, for a moment, Nikólaos was tempted to ask, "Whose else’s would it be?" A foolish question. Suppressing a sigh, he opted for a smile instead. “Are you familiar with them? I could let you take the reins if you're comfortable,” he innocently suggested as they headed toward the garage boxes. Once inside, he opened one to reveal his car and bike, the latter gleaming in the light. Nikólaos approached the motorcycle, grabbing two helmets and extending one toward Vincze. Surely, he could manage to put it on.

Vincze admitted to never having driven a motorcycle, prompting Nikólaos to silently decree a ban on him ever taking the reins of his precious machine. While it wasn't quite the same as his cherished bike back home, it was undeniably a thing of beauty and considerable expense, and the prospect of a potential crash left Nikólaos decidedly unenthused.

A compliment from Vincze about Nikólaos's great taste drew a cocky grin from him. “I know,” he casually asserted, donning his own helmet on the bike before guiding it outside. He stalled it momentarily before turning back to Vincze with a question.

“Not too long,” he replied succinctly, extending a hand to ensure Vincze had secured the helmet properly. His thumb brushed over the strap beneath Vincze's chin. “Does it fit you right? There should be pressure, but nothing painful,” he calmly advised before retracting his hand. He had no intention of being responsible for the untimely demise of royalty—that was Iskra's domain.

Vincze wondered how a bike worked and Nikólaos wondered if the man had ever seen a movie. Still, he smiled sweetly at the boy and nodded.

“Indeed,” he responded. Effortlessly swinging a leg over the seat, Nikólaos settled comfortably onto his motorcycle. Gloved hands inserted the key, and with a subtle turn, the engine responded with a confident hum. He revved it, the sound echoing through the street.

“Get on and hold on tight, or I might have to make an extra trip for you,” ikólaos grinned, tapping the back seat to beckon Vincze to hop on.

Vincze possessed a certain charm, Nikólaos admitted that much. He exuded an air of delicate beauty, reminiscent of a captivating princess you'd want to bring home after a hectic day. Nikólaos couldn't help but imagine a couple of stress-relieving ways involving the man. The thought of pressing him against a wall until all that remained on his tongue was his name crossed Nikólaos's mind briefly.

However, being a gentleman, he reserved such actions for situations where they were explicitly requested, preferably begged for

As arms wrapped around him, the notion lingered in Nikólaos's mind, but he quickly brushed it aside.

“Alright.”

Engaging the bike, Nikólaos navigated the streets. Known for his disregard for speed limits, his wealth and diplomatic immunity rendered those restrictions mere suggestions. Despite his usual penchant for speed, he exercised a bit more caution this time, wanting to maintain a semblance of control as they weaved through traffic and sped toward the city.

Eventually, he halted at a sizable building, a few hundred metres away from the iconic tree that defined the city. Pulling up to the entrance, a valet attendant approached.

“Ah, my royal highness. It is a pleasure to meet both of you,” the attendant greeted with a bow. “Please. Let me take the motorcycle. My colleague will guide you inside.”

Nikólaos tapped Vincze’s upper leg, signalling for him to exit the vehicle. “Come on. Give him your helmet. Let’s enter,” he directed, removing his own helmet.