Bastien, who appeared to follow his every move, chuckled. “Where is your noble steed, oh gracious knight? The damsel in distress, as you can see, lost not one crystal shoe, but both.”

“If you don’t mind me carrying you--” Lawrence started, thinking too quickly, and speaking even faster.

Bastien burst into laughter, throwing his head back and startling Lawrence. He had a graceful neck, unblemished skin, and rows of teeth so translucent white that they made Lawrence think, tritely so, of strings of pearls.

A pink tongue darted out, licking the chapped lips. Still, they were lovely, and Lawrence stared. He hadn’t known men could be so beautiful. He had thought the pictures of Lukas von Keller and Bastien Hawthorne in the papers showed two handsome young men but nothing beyond that. Now, faced with one of them, the alive one, he had to reconsider what he knew.

Both Vassier and his uncle had been cautious when informing him of the nature of the relationship between the victim and his supposed murderer. But Lawrence hadn’t been shocked or disgusted; having been trapped in educational institutions with mostly other males since his teenage years, he understood enough of the longing and desire that led to such occurrences.

He’d never been one to indulge in vulnerabilities of that kind. Though he could see now, more than ever, why some vague initial attraction could very well turn into a burning, imperious need to kiss another man.

Because he wanted, against everything that stood to reason, to kiss Bastien Hawthorne out of the blue. The rogue thought shocked him. It had to be the effect of the fog, the elevation, the dizziness and breathlessness that came with them.

“You are quite forward, aren’t you? How should we do it?” Bastien looked even more attractive when he smiled than forlorn and lost like earlier. “Should I ride on your back, or will you treat me like a damsel in distress and carry me bridal style?”

Lawrence was at a loss for words. It seldom happened to him to be left without a reply. The many occasions when he didn’t answer people’s questions were usually caused by his lack of interest in their inane suggestions.

This time, however, it wasn’t by choice that he remained speechless. Along with the force of the startling attraction he experienced toward none other than the undercover investigation’s main suspect, it most likely made him appear dull and dim-witted.

Lawrence didn’t want to touch Bastien Hawthorne. It would be strange, appalling, and against the purpose of his business at Veridien.

Lawrence wanted to touch Bastien Hawthorne. His flesh was like living marble, and he yearned to know if it was warm.

“Should I choose, then?” Bastien teased him mercilessly, moving closer.

He did his best not to flinch when Bastien raised one hand and attempted to move it through Lawrence’s coarse hair. It grew too fast, and he was due for a haircut. He had planned to do it soon, but investigating the crime of the century at Veridien had made him forget about such mundane things.

Bastien snickered. “Your hair is like wool. Quite stubborn. I bet you’re the same.” The tips of his fingers grazed Lawrence’s scalp before slipping away. “Don’t worry. I like it,” Bastien added and winked. He pulled the coat around himself tighter. “Ah, my feet are freezing.”

Lawrence knew he’d be mocked for his intention but offered his opened arms nonetheless. The shocking thing was that Bastien seemed to consider accepting it by the way he moved, holding the coat together over his chest with one hand and sneaking the other out so he could wrap his arm around Lawrence’s neck.

“Bastien.”

They both stopped and turned in the direction of the sound. It was another male student, dressed in the Veridien uniform, the sun on his breast visible from afar. He had short chestnut hair and dark eyes and seemed to be irritated by what he was seeing. Lawrence noted the student’s height. He was taller than average, and a wiry, strong frame lay underneath his clothes. The way he held his hands in the pockets of his pants suggested indifference, but Lawrence knew the opposite was true. His own basic instincts warned him about this young man.

Their eyes met briefly. New school, fresh enemies – that was nothing he hadn’t experienced before.

“Anton,” Bastien drawled. “You’re ruining my fun.”

Bastien’s playful jab had teeth, Lawrence noticed. Anton moved his attention to his fellow student, and most likely friend.

“First lesson starts soon. You weren’t in your room,” Anton said in a reproachful voice he didn’t bother hiding.

“Don’t be such a guard dog,” Bastien said, abandoning Lawrence in favor of walking toward his fellow student. “I just went for a walk.”

“Barefoot?” Anton asked. Although he didn’t have an overcoat, and a thin wind was starting to blow, he took off his uniform jacket. His eyes darted briefly to Lawrence as he pushed the winter coat off Bastien’s shoulders.

Bastien was quick to catch it before it ended up falling and getting dirty. He stretched out his arm. “Sir Galahad,” he said, and Lawrence hurried to take his property back.

Anton put a protective arm around Bastien who now wore his uniform jacket and was walking with purpose in the direction of the academy.

Bastien didn’t turn to glance at Lawrence or even say goodbye. Anton, however, did and stared hard at him. A veiled menace was quickly dispatched. Lawrence understood.

Bastien Hawthorne wasn’t to be touched by the likes of him. Anton defined class disparity for him, and he’d only needed one glance to make himself sure he knew where Lawrence stood on the social ladder.

Lawrence wasn’t bothered by it at all. As long as it didn’t interfere with his investigation, he’d play by the rules imposed by the academy and those who ruled it. With students coming from powerful families, they were a part of it, even if not officially or conventionally. Lawrence had met a few such people in his life, and he knew where he stood.

***