princes and paupers — julian &. avriel

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Impressing his trainers was an easy feat when every single waking moment of his years were spent with his hand around a leather hilt. Royal or not, Julian’s hands, callous-pocked, did not belong to a prince but a pauper.

Many parts of him actually did not belong to a prince. Ripred, what even makes a prince? In the storybooks, they were red-cheeked men that looked like pictures of vitality and protected others, and although Julian could be the former, he was not allowed to be the latter. Because at the end of the day, he was still a Le Roux, a lion. One can teach a beast to eat a carrot, but it’ll still hunger for flesh. It was Julian’s inherited nature.

But when he caught sight of a boy by the target practice ring, missing one target – then another – he could feel the want to be a hero, or at least the person that’ll show him the ropes.

Hell, what was the harm in it? The more people I befriend, the more odds I can remove from himself, he thought to himself as he sauntered over. The flaw here, however, was that a part of Julian cared about the people he befriended, and seeing the other male’s soft features made it no better. He found his smile come on unbidden, and his hazel eyes gleamed pleasantly. “I don’t mean to impose,” and yet he was, and even more so as his unprincely fingers wrapped around the other’s own, “but if you are  interested in letting your blade make contact instead of relishing in how they have been missing, then here.”

Julian fixed the stance of the other’s hand gently. “Pressure in the fingers, not the fist. Let your wrist relax, it’s only a cog that’ll make the machinery of your hand smoother. Hold it back like this,” his fingers gently drew the other’s hand around the blade back as if nocking a bow, “and now—what’s your name?—release!”

[gamemaker kelsier]

a v r i e l .

"Sunlight lift me up
Tell me I'm enough
You know that they leave so soon
Just like you"

Avriel was born in a little house on a relatively quiet street in Nine. It was a project neighbourhood, all of the homes on it are some variation of each other and the walls are these thin things that hardly keep in the heat. They feed forests to the squat stove in the middle of the house to keep themselves warm through the winter and Avriel has spent so much time chopping firewood that the calluses on his palms stay all year long.

And the Baptiste name means nothing here but then, the Baptiste name meant nothing in Nine too.

Avriel has always existed in pieces, a figure in the early morning moving down the street with a mug of coffee that his little brother poured for him. He's the extra man at the back of the bar, the warm body to build a crowd, a side character if you will. He knows this, he's happy with this. So many men seek power and admiration but Avriel likes the cheap boots he wears for the thin soles, he can feel every cobblestone in Nine through them.

Avriel doesn't matter here and that's just how he likes it.

He throws a knife at the target ahead of him and watches it soar over it. For the hundredth time, he wonders why he can't just have a gun, it's the tool of the trade back in Nine and even he knows how to shoot. Fleur must be lethal with one of those and maybe that's the problem, no one really wants a victor from Nine.

"I don't mean to impose."

Silky smooth.

Avriel looks up to see one of the Leroux', Julian, approaching on his left. He's kept his distance from the careers this week, knowing full well that he doesn't want to be on any of their radars. The last thing he needs is to be the target of a career, he's seen just how ruthless they can be and he's certain that the Leroux family has something to prove after losing Silk last games.

Then don't.

But there's something disarming about that gentle smile and Avriel knows people pretty well, you have to in Nine. It'd be stupid not to take a free lesson from a kid whose probably been throwing knives since before he could walk, so Avriel gestures at the stack of knives on the table beside him and steps back.

Julian speaks like a prince in one of Duke's stories and Avriel finds himself sifting through the vowels and consonants for the meaning behind his words. Does everyone in One talk like that? he wonders, but it's hard to think about that when the other boy's hand is on his, touching so gently. His eyes prickle, heat forms on his cheeks as he tries to remember the last time anyone's touch was so soft but it's hard to think. His brow furrows in an effort to stop whatever his face is trying to do and Avriel follows Julian's instructions.

"You don't know?" he asks, watching as his knife flies in an arrow-straight line towards the target, "Doesn't your kind know everything about everyone by day one, or do lower districts not matter?"

Then he hears Colgate's voice in his head, telling him to try to make friends instead of being a rude asshole.

"I'm Avriel," he says and offers a sort of half-smile, the best he can do, "Thanks for the tutorial, you didn't have to do that."