#stupidhugo

(last night I was anxious for the Latin exam and so I wrote, yes it is from the Au of the descendants, no, it is not a scene that exists in the story, but of a very, very parallel universe in which these two are less idiots in love)

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He knew that.

But he had never heard that sound before, and it drew him in.

He leaned his head past the narrow crack of the door and looked inside.

Prince Varian was seated on a finely carved wooden stool, in front of a piano—the kind Hugo had only ever seen broken and discarded in a scrap heap on the island.

His fingers moved swiftly, confidently striking the keys, producing one enchanting note after another.

He would never have imagined it—that Varian could play something so magnificent.

Another one of his hidden talents, alongside alchemy, a command of countless languages, the ability to fall asleep anywhere, that shameless beauty—

He caught himself mid-thought, teeth sinking into his tongue.

The sudden jolt made his forehead bump against the door with a dull thud.

The music stopped at once, and a pair of blue eyes turned toward him in surprise.

“You know you’re supposed to knock,” the prince said, half-turned on the stool, revealing an elegant suit.

Another meeting?

“Technically, I did knock,” Hugo replied, stepping into the room. No point hiding now, was there?

Varian gave him a knowing smile. “With your head.”

“It still counts as knocking on a door.”

The prince let out a soft laugh—a beautiful sound.

“You never told me you played the piano,” Hugo remarked. He didn’t even ask to sit; Varian shifted slightly on the bench to make room, and Hugo accepted, settling beside him. “Is that something they taught you when you became a prince?”

The space was tight. Their shoulders brushed, and if Hugo focused, he could count every freckle on the other’s face.

Varian stretched his fingers over the keys again, as if the closeness didn’t affect him in the slightest, and began to play absentmindedly. “I learned when I was younger. Before all of this,” he said, a trace of fondness in his voice.

Maybe it was a good memory.

“Play something for me,” Hugo asked.

Varian’s smile returned, and he cast him a curious glance. “What would you like to hear?”

The blond shrugged. “No idea. I’m a piano virgin, so the choice is entirely yours, maestro.”

“Maestro? That’s the best nickname you’ve ever come up with.”

“Which is why I’ll only use it this once.”

“Truly diabolical,” Varian shot back, before turning his full attention to the keys.

This time, the music was different.

Hugo waited patiently as each note wove itself into a single melody. It was slow, steady—like raindrops brushing against the surface of a lake. The notes followed one another in a sorrowful waltz that softened the heart.

He let himself be carried away by it—the gentle crescendo, Varian’s skilled fingers gliding over the keys with the same precision he used when pouring a vial of some compound… or breaking someone’s nose with a punch.

The music swelled, growing almost desperate for more notes in its continuous rise, leaving Hugo suspended in its wake.

And then it ended.

The melody softened again, fading into nothing.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, breathless. He wasn’t even sure he still had any air left. If there was something more captivating than the music, he had just discovered it was Varian playing it.

The prince smiled, turning to look at him again, a bright glint in his eyes. “I wrote it.”

“You could abandon diplomacy and become a musician,” Hugo suggested.

“If I were to abandon it for anything, it would be alchemy.”

“That position’s already taken,” Hugo said smugly.

Varian elbowed him hard. “You were doing so well. You always ruin everything.”

Hugo laughed, rubbing the sore spot. “I can’t let you win all the time, Your Highness.”

Varian made a face, but there was no real offense in it.

Curiosity about the piece returned a moment later.

“So… what made you write it?” Hugo leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his expression.

The alchemist let his hands fall into his lap. “I’m not sure. It was very spontaneous…” He tilted his head, thinking. “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I started playing…”

His gaze grew distant, searching for something. “What did it make you think of?”

Hugo tried to gather his thoughts. But all that came to mind were Varian’s fingers, the focused crease of his brows, the curve of his lips—Varian, Varian, and nothing but Varian.

“I think… it reminds me of good memories. Or walking in the sun,” he murmured.

Varian scoffed. “You hate the sun.”

“I hate what it does to my skin,” Hugo corrected.

Varian rolled his eyes.

“And you? What does it remind you of? It’s such a beautiful melody—it must bring something just as beautiful to your mind,” he pressed.

Varian bit his lip, one finger drifting over a white key. “It makes me think of… sunsets on the grass, quiet rainy evenings, the beauty of a storm… and—”

His blue eyes found Hugo’s.

They were so vast, so luminous, it was impossible to tell when you had started looking—and when you had fallen, deep into that abyss only Varian could pull you into.

He never finished the sentence. He just looked at him, as if he were the only answer.

Hugo’s mouth went dry.

He didn’t know what to do, where to find a way out of this. Varian’s gaze held him there, and his heart climbed into his throat.

Because maybe Varian thought that he… that he was…

Hugo cleared his throat. “You look very elegant dressed like that.” The first word came out a little strained.

Varian frowned slightly. “Hugo.”

“I was wondering—are they tailored? Because—”

A warm hand cut him off.

That idiot cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at him properly.

“Varian?” He never used his name—his real name. He couldn’t remember if he ever had.

On his tongue, it felt new.

It was a beautiful sound. He wanted to say it again.

Varian’s fingers brushed his cheek, right where he knew a freckle was, sending a terrible twist through his stomach.

“Do you ever stop talking?” he asked softly, so gently it barely sounded like an insult.

Hugo swallowed, but didn’t look away. “It usually takes something incredible to shut me up.”

Varian’s smile was a blade. It pierced straight through him, killing him where he sat, spilling his insides across the marble floor and that beautiful piano.

There was nothing left of him when Varian kissed him.

Hugo could only kiss him back.

He could feel the same uncertainty in the prince’s fingers as they brushed the base of his neck, their lips moving with equal intensity.

Because as absurd as this moment was—utterly impossible for Hugo to process—he didn’t want to lose it.

He moved against Varian’s lips gently, testing, tasting them, and Varian pulled him closer, closer—

“Freckles, wait,” he whispered.

He pulled back reluctantly, still leaning forward, their thighs pressed together.

Varian blinked, as if waking from a dream. His lips were glossy—fuck.

“Sorry, I just—I thought—I should have asked,” he stammered, somehow managing to sound unsure.

Which was ridiculous, because Hugo was certain his own expression was completely wrecked.

His heart clenched, spun, and died all over again.

“No, you didn’t have to, it’s just—”

“I’m sorry. It was impulsive. I should’ve asked for permission.”

“Do you remember who you’re talking to?”

“I’m not you.”

“Are you saying I’m rude?” Hugo asked, half-offended.

Varian smiled at him, something knowing in it. “You’re not exactly a model of elegance.”

Hugo scoffed. “Oh really? And you are?”

“Look at what I’m wearing!”

At that, Hugo burst out laughing, almost hysterical.

Because they were arguing. Again.

They had just kissed, and they were arguing. Again.

Varian joined in a moment later, bending forward until his forehead rested against Hugo’s.

Hugo reached for his hand, needing something to hold onto.

Their laughter faded, leaving them in a quiet, comfortable silence.

Varian tightened his fingers around Hugo’s, and Hugo found himself tracing the back of his hand.

“So…” the prince whispered.

Hugo met his gaze. “So,” he echoed.

His eyes dropped to Varian’s lips.

They were small—but now he knew how soft they were, how demanding.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t—

Sentimentos são animais soltos, selvagens. São seres leves e líquidos tais quais a modernidade de que Bauman tanto fala. Fluem pelas amarras da racionalidade tão fácil quanto a água escapa nossas mãos. Sentimentos não se domam, não se entendem. Eles seguem, são, fluem.