(It’s not exactly the prompt, but here you go)

My hands hold firmly onto a sword, pointing it towards my opponent.

But it isn’t a sword used to harm.

It is for sport.

And on this particular night, my dearest friend and I are practicing. We are restless from the night’s revelries, still in our formal wear and unable to find any other way to release. It’s been so long since a match didn’t win in a tie, and we’’re both prepared to take our victory.

“Ready to lose?” I sneer. My tight grip puts pressure on the scar at the center of my palm. New, stinging, sore. Blotches of black and blue throb on my wrists. Meanwhile, Ryan’s hands hands are smooth, unmarred, without wounds or remnants of a moment ending in pain. The gold painted on his nails glimmers in the pools of moonlight around us.

“Just because you’ve been practicing, doesn’t mean you are any closer to besting me.”

“En garde!”

When Ryan lunges first, I flee back, dodge, and parry away his attacks. While he doesn’t realize it, he follows a repetitive rythm: left, right, down, right, up, left. He strikes with strength, but nevertheless, it takes a while before the repetition breaks. But I am not foolish. I can always recognize the flicker in his eyes when he is about to think of something new.

“Could we have done this after we changed into propper attire?” His chest heaves, the many layers of his suit constricting him, along with his red sash.

“You should have thought of that before agreeing to this duel.” I lunge for his chest, but he swiftly pressed himself against the wall, out of my way. “I’m managing to work around my dress just fine.”

“I can see that.”

Around the room we circle. On and on we fight, often time just a hair away from tapping a shoulder, a thigh, a stomach. My bones are lead now, my muscles stone, and I can see him weaken as well.

But then his eyes flicker.

He turns on his heel and bounds for the door, slipping out before I can think. Tightening my sword in one hand and grabbing a fistful of my skirts in the other, I pursue him.

Winding through hallways, corridors, and classrooms, I am like a broken record. I think I’ve turned a corner when I see the same picture of the school’s founder, or the same pillar with the hidden graffiti carved in its back, or the same room number. My chest burns, my ankles throb, and I lean against the railing of a winding staircase.

He has never been this elusive. Not with me.

While I recuperate, I take the time to examine myself. My curls are flattened, and the pasty sensation of melting makeup mixing with sweat makes my cheeks sleek and moist. I need air. I need air because I cannot take the suffocating heat of the stairwell. So, I go as far as it will take me.

Then, I am on the roof.

Ryan is there, and he’s looking out onto the roof with a solemn look in his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Crickets chirp their song two measures before he answers, and it is quiet, “I forgot to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”

He looks at me as he says this, and surely he can tell the disheveled state I’m in physically. “Oh, so you’re too much of a coward,” I pause to catch my breath, “to prevent this from,” another round of heaves, “becoming a tie?”

“Not only that, but I’m also preventing this from continuing to just be a mere friendship.”

Now I’m even more confused. He steps towards me, emphasizing each sentence as his voice rises with passion, “I’m tired of fighting this, I’m tired of fighting you. You’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more.” He takes his hands and wraps them around mine, feeling the bruises, but he ignores my dirty nails. The ones I can never afford to get done like every other student at the academy. “You’ve worked harder than anyone else here to get where you are, and I cannot let you go another day feeling like you aren’t deserving of everything you’ve earned in your life.”

No words in the English lexicon can explain how I wish to respond to him. So I am silent, the way I was told to be when I’d first arrived here, heavy luggage straining every muscle I had. But I do not fear him when I don’t speak. I am comfortable with his sweet words and kind gaze. I am safe with him.

“I will forever and always be honored to be in your life, to always be the one you spar with, but now I must lay my sword to you, because I love you, more than anything I could ever love in my life.”

My heart is wild in my chest, and I say, “Don’t give up your victory like that.”

“But I want to. It’s not fair for me to constantly shield myself. I owe my heart to you after all you’ve changed within me.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

With the rounded tip of the sabre, I gently tap his chest, claiming my win and ending our streak of draws. He bows his head, accepting his loss with dignity.

“I love you too, Ryan. I wish I could speak as eloquently as you, but I’m not the best with romance.”

“That will not sway me.”

A gentle kiss on the forehead was all he gave me. I wanted more, but I couldn’t just take it from him, for that would be rude.

We return down the winded staircase back to our rooms, no words, just arms wrapped around each other. Once we arrive, we say our fairwells and retire for the night.

We’ve never had another sparring match since.