002 | beast; the dragon's treasure found in noise

Noah Bellamy abandoned his lands but failed to find himself. He was a dragon whose destiny was assigned at birth, caged in the confines of his surging blood and loneliness.

This was a creature destined for solitude. Day, after day, he would become consumed by a chilling silence that eroded his bones.

Then came a day when his routine shattered—splintered to pieces by an arrogant, irritating voice that plagued days and reformed his reality. The dragon did not expect the voice to engrave itself so deeply, that to be without the noise was to be without air.

He felt a void in his chest that left him breathless.

This is the story of a spark of curiosity that was snuffed.

—— +++ ——

There is a buzzing around Noah's ears that refuses to leave, appearing and disappearing before he can grasp what he wants to say or do.

The buzzing manifests in a pale, pink-haired man whose gaze is carved of beautiful green, a jewel that has been dulled.

There is an aching loneliness in his eyes, Noah notices, familiar with the edges of sadness that he knows all too well. He wears the same loneliness, buried within his black gaze.

The man flirts and jeers, laughs and teases, going from smiling to coldness within minutes.

Students say there is a problem with his brain—he's simply mad, not to be understood, not to be bothered with. He is frightening and terrible, a true murderer who takes care of the royal family's filthy tasks in the shadows—

—a mutt for the royal family.

It's all speculation of course; when is it not? There are many rumours surrounding the royal family and it is entirely particular how the Crown Prince remains revered, while their 'mutt' holds the weight of despise.

Perhaps this odd contradiction is so displeasing, that Noah does not turn the man away.

Kaden always smiles, but it never appears real. Noah looks to his side as he holds his books tightly in hand, walking down the hallway with whispering students.

"Now, dearest Bellamy, although you have rejected me thousands of times—"

Noah has not, he wants to argue.

"—might you spare some of your delicate and noble time for a date? I'll be able to brag about it for days, and well, a handsome partner is always a bonus."

Kaden talks and talks, but his eyes dart around as he observes his surroundings. His voice takes a filthy hitch, and disgusted gazes surround him.

For a second, Kaden's gaze goes blank as he takes in the whispers and the insults that crowd his ear. His smile hangs there, loosely on his lips, a flimsy thing.

One swipe, and it will easily fade away like a smudge of paint on a canvas. One swipe and the perfect curved line will fall, revealing the mess behind it.

One swipe to uncover the mask that Kaden Chauvet wears.

Noah's eyes shift, narrowing slightly as his hold on the books tightens. "I am free tonight—"

"Look at the time, dear dragon. I have to go."

Kaden smiles, but Noah sees it. The shifting expression, the confusion, the desperate need to flee. Kaden always comes running, teasing and flirting—but the moment Noah says anything positive, he flees.

The dragon watches the escaping back quietly in the crowded halls.

He wonders, if he reaches out—what sort of face will that man make? Or will he slip away like a snake, skillfully untangling himself from the dragon's sharp claws?

Such thoughts aren't appropriate.

Noah holds his books tightly and turns in the opposite direction. There are limits to imagination and dithering thoughts that can not be chased.

It is Noah who knows best how to abandon his dreams.

How to resist curiosity.

The days pass, and days turn into weeks that turn into years and suddenly—suddenly, he sees it.

Tears, a precious thing, fall down those tired, exhausted green eyes that have continued to dull over the years, losing a gleam that would've been much suited for them.

"See you next time, dearest dragon."

Once again, he runs away. This time, it is not a place where Noah can reach him. Time passes; it is a cruel, blistering thing that weathers his soul.

Noah endures the cruelty that Reed curses with him, the endless vials of blood, and a constant state of weakness where he can barely move. The door beside him, locked with a heavy chain, never opens.

One evening in the damp and foul air that consumes the underground, the door to the staircase opens, and light spills inside.

A ragged man stands, silently at the entrance. There is the quiet sound of something dripping on the ground mixing with his hoarse breath before he drags himself down.

He stumbles, slamming into the cell. The noise startles Noah who jerks, narrowing his exhausted gaze. Chains bind his arms and legs, and he cannot resist whatever abuse or torture awaits him.

Noah slumps into the depths of his cells, dark eyes fixated on the slumped figure.

It is hard to make out in the darkness, and Noah's state is hardly stable enough for his senses to work properly. And yet, the head lifts, drapes of long, pale pink hair tinged with clotted blood parting, and a pair of dull, empty eyes stare into his cell.

Noah's breath stagnates in his chest, trapping itself in his constricting lungs as his gaze trembles.

In his deepest misery, his mind often drifted to strange, useless places. One was the glow of noise, a floating and distant thought that once plagued him every day.

In the loneliness of his prison, the echoes of his voice were a salvation. In the confines of his mind, he'd deconstructed that voice a million times over, carving to memory every note, every tone, every breath.

He'd dared to uselessly hope that in all the misery that he drowned in, that man would stand at the bay and face the sunlight he could no longer reach.

The ragged figure breathes shallow, choked breaths that are reminiscent of a dying animal.

The stench of blood permeates the air, swallowing them both.

There is no colour in that void gaze, no flesh in the gaunt cheeks. No tease curving the tilt of his chapped lips, no will in those limp limbs.

The man stumbles, clutching the bars to drag himself into a standing position as his slender fingers curl and his whole body sways. He retracts his breathing, calming it into barely noticeable gasps, little noises of pain that he attempts to choke back.

He straightens—as if he is used to smoothening the anxious lines of his body and in turn, smoothening away all the crooked curves of fear—and fumbles with the door.

The metal creaks loudly, a dark scrapping against the ground, and it swings open.

He stares into the cell, and upon meeting Noah's gaze, a hint of clarity and embarrassment stiffens his body.

He tries to smile—Noah sees it, the way he twists his face and fails.

Groping at his pocket, he feels around and tosses something across the cell. It skids against the ground, landing before Noah.

The dragon feels it. Cold, smooth metal with grooves. A key.

"Noah Bellamy," he says, a withering voice that is faded and slowly ghosting away. It has become unfamiliar, and yet Noah still hears the precious hints of the voice he dreams of. "This is not where your end should be."

The dragon gazes at him—this now stranger—warily. "The price? Of your aid." The man's name sits on the tip of his tongue like a familiar taste, but he does not say it.

The man tries to smile again. He coughs instead, bending his body in half as he hacks, liquid spilling onto his hand. He wipes it calmly away, but there is a smudge of red on his lips.

The red gives colour to his fading life.

"A price?" He laughs and it sounds like a cry. He lifts his chin to the ceiling; there is nothing there. Or perhaps there is, in the way his eyes dart and flicker hesitantly. "What could you give me?"

Noah's throat feels dry as he unlocks the chain, a quiet clatter to the ground. He exhales, but everything is uncomfortable and he is not sure if it's merely a consequence of his imprisonment.

"Run away, face Reed, do nothing at all and sit there—"

The man sways. "What does any of it have to do with me? Whether it is salvation or ruination—what does it have to do with me?"

"This is just," and his body is falling and Noah's is running, "a little rebellion. A little proof..."

The dragon, with his tired and numb legs, rushes out and catches the man before he hits the ground, dropping to one knee.

The fool rolls, a gasping sound in the back of his throat at breaths so quiet Noah leans in closer to listen. It's distressing.

He's alive, but is he really?

And what proof does he seek—proof that he lives, proof that he can rebel, Noah doesn't know.

He spent so many days chasing after the distant voice of a man that he barely knew. Noah crouches there, feeling the warmth of the man's body sink into his skin, the way all his curves and lines form a perfect shape to hold.

The dragon doesn't want any involvement in human drama; he wants to flee and run away as he is so good at doing.

He wants to live a life pretending to be regular, pretending that he can be sane and normal and loving and everything that he is not. And yet he remains there, holding that warmth as if cradling the sun, and simply sits.

He is not sure how many hours pass when he finally stands, carefully resting the man against the bars.

There is little time left to escape, he is sure. He walks towards the stairs, hesitating at the top. The man lies still, not moving as if he is merely a corpse—he isn't, Noah has checked thrice, a dozen times over.

He wonders if that man will even remember in his waking state. His eyes were glazed and delirious.

Noah turns, stepping out of the door and into the light for the first time in many, many days. He doesn't sit to bask in freedom, quickly and quietly fleeing.

Once he's far away, he turns back towards the palace, a cold and dreary yet magnificent building that represents the crown and power.

He wants to run far, far away.

But he'll return one day. He thinks that as his wings split from his shoulder blades, and his body transforms. He will return, and he'll place that person in a safe place—a place where nobody can torment him again.

Then perhaps, when it is all over—

—perhaps he can listen to that voice more closely this time.