Work Text:
Alva Lorenz did not know that Herman Zeeman had had a family.
In retrospect, this information would have changed nothing. He would still have fucked the man, regardless: wife or no wife.
Nonetheless, such a thing was difficult to overlook. Alva found it hard to believe that he had been reduced to the role of a mistress—a dirty secret, an aspect of Herman’s past that he chose to move on from and forget in the arm’s of another woman.
Some deep part of him, a part buried below layers of repression and spite, had mistakenly applied a lofty emotional weight on the partnership between them. They had worked together, slept together, failed and succeeded in equal measure—Alva genuinely believed he knew the man, knew how his mind worked. The existence of a secret wife wounded him, made worse by the fact that this information was relayed to him by none other than an accompanying secret son.
He wished he could call the bluff, insist that this was a lie and a scheme. But that was not possible. Alva had known from the moment he had lay eyes on the boy at the exposition that he was trouble. It was unmistakeable: he was Herman’s double, with his high cheekbones and prominent nose bridge. When he smiled, the corners of his lips twitched upward first, and then his grin swelled like the chorus of an orchestra. It made Alva want to reach across the table and sink his teeth into his throat.
The ghost of Herman, come back to haunt him.
On that day, the offending letter lay discarded on the surface of the table between them. It had been delivered sometime after their first encounter and had told Alva everything he had needed to know about the so-called Herman Balsa. The lofty wax seal had been broken, the parchment paper thick and yellow. The penmanship was neat and precise, written in red ink that stood boldly against the tepid colour of the paper.
Luca Balsa sat before him, eager and anxious and every bit as naïve as his father had been in his earliest postgraduate years.
“You want to work under me?” Alva asked, his voice cold and demanding.
“Very much, Sir.” Luca answered, “I was hoping the manuscript I attached would be sufficient in proving my capabilities, and—”
“Your father’s manuscript,” He interjected, pointedly, “I am supposed to blindly trust in your merit based off of your relations to your father?”
He certainly was not about to entertain these delusions of nepotism.
“Certainly not,” Luca replied, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, “As I mentioned in our first conversation, I recently graduated from the National Academy of Sciences. Which, might I add, was my father’s alma mater.” His eyes glistened, “And would I be correct in assuming you read my thesis on energy and the correlations with directional magnetism?”
Alva hesitated, “You are correct,” He confessed. Because it was true—he had read it, and he had been impressed by its hypothesis. There was no doubt in his mind that Luca was as talented as he was motivated. But the idea of Alva becoming responsible for that potential—having Luca become something for him to nurture, to mould into the best version of himself… that was too much to ask of him. Particularly when he had once been so in love with the boy’s father that he had all but abandoned reason and logic.
There was a moment of silence, during which Luca cocked his head to the side questioningly, “You invited me here for another reason,” He spoke, almost as if to himself, “and that reason has very little to do with my request.” It wasn’t a question.
Alva stared at him—his eyes lingering on dark hair and sunken eyes, the pristine appearance that he could see right through. His suit was obviously a rental, his cuffs too long for his wrists, his shirt slightly loose at the collar. Luca was merely a child masquerading as part of the bourgeoisie. In all likelihood, he had not a penny to his name. His father had made sure of that before he had died, driving their fortune into the ground and ruining his son’s prospects of a bright future.
Alva Lorenz was Luca Balsa’s last hope. And yet, he had only summoned him to his workshop in order to verify if he truly was who he said he was: Herman’s son. It was selfish and perverse and desperate. Originally, he had no intention of taking an apprentice—let alone such a fresh graduate with so little experience in such complex matters. Even whilst brimming with potential, investing in Luca was still far too much of a gamble.
And did it really even matter anymore? Herman was not the only one who had moved on. Alva had married in the years since they had last spoken, taking a wife and establishing a family of his own. He had grown and expanded his business and personal relations—did Herman really still have so much of a grip on Alva that he would damn himself into chasing after the ghost of the man?
But Alva could not bring himself to vocalise such a thing. In fact, he found himself reaching to fiddle absentmindedly with the parchment paper sitting neglected in front of him, desperate for some kind of distraction. “I suppose,” he said, “I could use your assistance on my most recent of projects.”
He watched as Luca’s face brightened, his whole demeanour changing in his triumph, “However,” Alva spoke, quickly, “There will be no further talk of this perpetual machine. The Academy discourages such inventions for a reason. A very good one, at that. I will have no part in your ideological fiction.”
The boy seemed to deflate, slightly. “But the exhibition,” He argued, weakly, “And your earliest works. I studied them during my undergraduate years. Didn’t your career begin with your developments in perpetual motion?”
“That is correct,” Alva responded, with a slight frown, “However, I have since ceased to pursue such an invention. If that is all you are interested in, I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed, should you seek my employment.”
The dejection was only momentary, and Luca nodded in reluctant agreement. “Working under you would be the highest of honours. I am prepared to make that sacrifice, in favour of your mentorship.” His voice was solemn, determined.
Alva stared at him for a long moment, before standing to his feet and collecting the letter and accompanying bundle of manuscripts. “I’ll be keeping this,” He said, ignoring the way that Luca faltered at the statement. He had clearly intended to keep his father’s works; however, Alva had no intention of leaving Herman’s notes on perpetual motion in the possession of his own son. That would be too perilous—he could not risk the boy getting any silly ideas. “Come by again tomorrow, at the same time. I’ll show you around the laboratory and introduce you to the basic concepts of my work.”
- -
True to his word, Luca arrived exactly on time the next day. And so began a partnership that Alva tried desperately to convince himself was beneficial, rather than grossly self-indulgent.
The laboratory always smelled of copper and oil. Something was always scorched, with a distinct smokiness that constantly irritated the back of the throat. It had high ceilings, dark wood flooring, and long, wide windows that went all the way to the floor. Scattered around the interior were machines in various states of completion: passion projects and hobby craft mingling senselessly with commissions sent from the government and public service. On one side of the room was a sprawling mess of hospital equipment he had received a large bursary to engineer, whereas on the table lay the workings of a machine that would sort his mail for him.
There was very little direction in his coordination, and he explained this to Luca warningly. Such a thing did not seem to unsettle the boy, who listened patiently and took notes in a leather-bound notebook like a particularly studious pupil.
Alva did not usually take on assistance with his work. His last apprentices had always quit within a matter of weeks, either bored silly of his methods or merely unimpressed by his cold demeanour. In the coming months, Luca’s main responsibilities were meagre grunt work: measuring, cleaning, and the organisation of prototypes and metals. He budgeted their finances and outsourced their materials, ordering vast amounts of gears and circuit boards whenever Alva noticed his supplies depleting at a rapid rate.
And he showed no sign of losing interest, nor a willingness to leave.
He would also regularly brew cups of exported black tea, which he would serve to Alva like a dedicated housemaid. And Alva hated it, would always tut and swat him away with a dismissive wave, “You are an inventor, Balsa. Not my maid. Act like it.”
But Luca would continue this habitual routine regardless, insistent that he enjoyed such a demeaning task. After a while, Alva stopped his complaining to instead murmur his thanks as he picked the polished China up from the ornate serving tray and took an appreciative sip of the tea. “Thank you, Balsa,” He would say, and Luca would smile his haunting smile that made Alva’s heart clench at the sight.
It wasn’t until nearing a year into this newly established relation had he allowed Luca to help in practical experiments. The first time he had handed the boy a soldering iron and instructed him to put on a pair of gloves, he was surprised by the eagerness to comply. Despite Luca’s boundless academic training, and his familiarity with the basics of such mechanics, Alva still watched over his shoulder like a hawk as he began to work.
Neat and precise, almost perfect—Alva was half convinced he wouldn’t have been able to do a better job himself.
“Well done,” He praised, placing a firm hand on Luca’s forearm and squeezing in appreciation, “Fantastic craftsmanship, Balsa.”
(He missed the giddy expression on Luca’s face, too busy turning away from him to note down something insignificant and meandering on a spreadsheet.)
From that point onwards, Alva slowly began to permit Luca more freedom in his laboratory. He took to this newfound responsibility with great enthusiasm, always willing to assist and put forth his own ideas. It was almost endearing, how excited he was to be helpful. How content he was to listen, hanging onto every word that Alva spoke when he would explain his thought processes. He’d nod along, interjecting on occasion to agree or disagree or merely to praise Alva’s genius.
Witnessing him beginning to coexist in Alva’s space was a lengthy process, but a rewarding one nonetheless. By the end of their first year together, Luca began moving around the workshop with a familiarity that was difficult to ignore. While carrying stacks of books and spare parts, his vision obscured by the sheer hulk of the objects in his arms, he would dodge the corners of tabletops and the edges of half-finished inventions with polished precision. Never did he stumble or trip, always carrying himself with a certainty that came with the long hours he would spend in Alva’s company.
He would know the layout of the room blind, Alva had remarked—half in jest. Perhaps it was time for him to rearrange the interior design.
Luca had laughed at the comment, “What, do you want me to trip over your mess and break something? And by something, I mean a bone?”
“Impossible,” Alva snorted, leaning against a desk with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a screwdriver in one hand, “You twirl around this room like a dancer.”
“Twirl?” Luca retorted, feigning offence. But then he shrugged in acceptance, “I suppose you are half right. My mother did insist I learn ballroom.”
“Ballroom?” Alva repeated, in disbelief, “Balsa knows how to dance?”
With a smug smile, Luca rose an eyebrow suggestively, “Lorenz does not?”
The cheek of him. If Alva was not so fond of him, he would have scolded him for his tone. “I have no desire to learn to dance,” He answered, honestly.
Luca put down the wires he had been fiddling with, standing to his feet and brushing his hands together in an exaggerated way. “How about I give you an actual twirl?” He asked, skipping into open space and mockingly bowing to Alva so deeply that he was almost bent in two at the hips.
Rolling his eyes, “We do not have time for this, Balsa.”
But Luca only laughed, straightening up to twirl in a circle, falling into a simple two-step pace and positioning his arms as if he were holding onto the ghostly outline of a dancing female counterpart.
“You’re ridiculous,” Alva said, but he was smiling. And as he turned back to his work, he could hear Luca humming the fractured remnants of some typical ballroom dance tune.
At some point in their arrangement, in part due to Alva’s gentle encouragement, Luca applied to the Academy’s postgraduate programme (with a shining reference from none other than Lorenz himself) and was accepted. His time in the townhouse dwindled as he prioritised his studies, and Alva would have been lying if he had said he did not miss the other’s near constant presence in his workshop.
(And he was forced to hide his disappointment on the day that Luca walked into his laboratory, banging his hip against the edge of a filing cabinet and mumbling an irritated ouch, forgot that was there. Three months before, and he would never have made such a mistake.)
But Luca would always return to him when he was able; sometimes with an equation or a theory he needed Alva to approve, other times with savoury snacks he’d bought from a local bakery and the insistence that Alva stop working to join him for lunch.
And each time, Alva would smile. He would push his chair away from his desk, sighing as if it were a chore, and he would roll his eyes as Luca beamed at him when he said, “I suppose I could take a break, if you so demand it.”
- -
If Alva had been paying attention, it’s likely he would have noticed the concerning developments quickly enough to prevent the inevitable. As it was, he remained ignorant right up until the day that Luca decided he had had enough of playing chicken.
On that day in particular, they had completed a lofty commission from the government to design and engineer new machines that would be used in factories across the country. It had been a stressful time, full of extended deadlines and Alva’s increased irritation with the project. He hated these new industrial machines, hated how they operated and how time consuming their construction was. It was always meandering and unexciting work; so linear, so uninspiring. This new age of industry would be the death of him.
He was glad to be done with it, filing away the stacks of technical diagrams and blueprints while Luca lingered at his desk. “Do you need help with that?” He blurted out, seeming almost as if he was unsure what to do with himself.
“No, no,” Alva sighed, opening a drawer and shoving a wad of paper into it uncaringly. “We can deal with the paperwork tomorrow. You have stayed long enough, Balsa, it is far too late. Go home.”
“Oh,” Luca said, and if Alva had thought twice about it, he would have noticed the disappointment, “Are you sure?”
Pausing, he cocked a questioning eyebrow at Luca. “Is something the matter, Balsa?”
“No,” He replied, quickly, “You just seem—“ With his shoulders hunched and a conflicted expression on his face, Luca waved his hands around while looking for the right word, “Tired.”
Alva barked a laugh, “Yes, I suppose you are correct. I fear I am getting too old for all of this.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair to shut his eyes momentarily. The past few months had begun to take their toll, with all of the stress that came along with this profession. In times like these it was a good thing he had Luca—someone young and better able to handle the organisation and conferences with the commissioners, whilst Alva locked himself away in his workshop.
“Alright,” Luca said, finally. “Then I shall see you tomorrow, Sir.”
“Yes,” Alva murmured, still not opening his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow, Luca.”
There was a silence, then. It took Alva a few seconds to realise what he had said. “My apologies.” He coughed, sitting upright and finally looking at the other. “For the lack of professionalism.”
But Luca only smiled at him, turning away to collect his coat and to fold it over his arm. (The coat that Alva had bought for him—a long, black trench, with a fleece lining that ensured the boy would not freeze in the Winter months.)
He gave a curt nod and turned to leave the office. Alva did not move from where he was seated, listening as various doors opened throughout the house and Luca’s precise footsteps receded down the marble corridors and into the foyer.
Only then did he release the breath he was not aware that he had been holding.
How stupid could he be? The two of them had certainly never been on a first name basis, even after all of this time. Who was he to refer to the boy so casually, with such familiarity? If he were to continue these mindless slip-ups, Luca would doubtlessly lose respect for him and his authority. He was his mentor, his teacher—not a friend. Letting himself get too comfortable would only complicate things.
Vowing to maintain the appropriate distance he had been trying to retain between them, Alva pushed back in his chair and stood up from his desk. Walking across the length of his office, he thumbed through the countless books nestled on a large oak bookshelf and pulled out a leather-bound journal. On the corner of the front cover were the initials H.Z, and Alva pointedly ignored how weathered the spine was becoming with use.
Returning to his desk, he fell into the familiar routine of flipping through the ageing pages and allowing himself to experience the sickening sensation of nostalgia. The journal had been Herman’s—he had kept it through university, spending so much of his time scribbling inside of it that Alva could barely recall a time it had not been in his possession. Here, there were the earliest diagrams and concepts for his perpetual machine.
And Alva sighed, wondering if life would have been different if he had just given in and conformed to Herman’s devotion to this wretched invention.
According to Luca, Herman had left his family nearing a decade ago. The only contact he bothered to maintain were regular requests for money transfers and the occasional letter rambling lunacy about perpetual machinery. His death, in comparison, was much more recent. It had happened suddenly, and was punctuated by the arrival of bailiffs and an eviction from their family estate.
By this point, his mother had already succumbed to illness. Herman’s passing had effectively orphaned the man’s son.
(Alva recalled asking him, “Do you feel sad?” And Luca had closed his eyes in resignation and squared his shoulders defensively. “Not particularly.”
There had been a rehearsed sort of apathy in his voice. Alva had wanted to embrace him then, wanted to promise that he would never know grief like that again in his life. The urge had been so sudden, so inexplicable, that he had cleared his throat and offered his condolences for Luca’s mother without another word.)
A knock on the door brought him back to the present. Uncertainly, he closed the journal and opened a drawer—sliding it in as he answered, “Come in?”
It was Luca, shifting from one foot to the other in the doorway and looking rather pale. He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him and pausing to lean back against the wooden frame.
“I thought you said that you were leaving.” Alva remarked.
“I did.” He spoke.
Contrary to his words, he was making his way further into the office, walking with purpose toward where Alva was seated at his desk as he turned his chair to face him, “I changed my mind.”
And then, suddenly, he was on his knees. Fitting himself between Alva’s legs—like he belonged there, like the emptiness was a placeholder for Luca Balsa—he nestled his cheek against Alva’s knee and peered up at him pleadingly through his eyelashes. One of his hands reached up, trailing his palm against his clothed thigh and travelling slowly up to fiddle with the hem of Alva’s untucked shirt.
His fingers breached the hemline, tracing circles against the flesh beneath with cold fingertips.
“Please,” He breathed.
“No,” Alva answered, decisively, outraged, “I can not. It would be unethical.”
“Then sue me,” Luca retorted, and he was already straightening up and using both hands now to unfasten Alva’s belt. “Don’t make me beg for it, Sir.”
The look in his eyes: Because I won’t hesitate to do so.
Alva watched in shocked silence as Luca pulled out his hardening cock from his underwear—obviously done asking for permission. And Alva was not certain he could deny him any longer even if he had, was quickly losing his composure at the sight of Luca ducking to lick a long stripe across the underside of his length.
“I’ve wanted this,” He murmured against him, lips moving across Alva’s dick with each word, “For such a long time.”
He took the head into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and letting his eyes slide shut as he swallowed it down inch by inch. “Christ,” Alva cursed, his hand instinctively moving to fist the hair at the back of Luca’s head. He felt himself hit the back of his throat, the resistance momentary as Luca shifted and guided Alva’s hands to either side of his head.
Wordlessly, he went limp, throat slack and eyes fluttering shut once again: an open invitation.
Tightening his hold, securing him steadily in place as a silent acknowledgement of the unspoken proposal, he experimentally thrusted upward once, twice—listening as Luca let out a stifled noise at the intrusion. His hands were encircling Alva’s calves for leverage, his thighs trembling with the strain of keeping himself upright and from controlling the reflex to gag. Between his legs, his cock tented in his pants.
With his head thrown back, Alva took up a relentless pace as he fucked Luca’s skull. Pulling him down on his cock as he pushed up into his mouth, his dick sliding down his throat as Luca choked. Alva held him there even as he came, listening to his desperate sounds whilst Luca’s nose remained pressed against the base of his cock and his throat spasmed around his length as he struggled to swallow it down.
When his grip finally lessened and he allowed Luca to rise, he pulled off of him with an obscene noise that had Alva groaning.
“Come here,” He ordered, voice strained. Offering Luca a hand, he half-helped, half-yanked him to his feet and guided him to sit on his lap.
With Luca straddling both of his thighs, Alva unbuttoned his pants and made quick work of the fly—pulling out Luca’s cock and beginning to fist it as the other withered in his arms. When he finally kissed him, he could taste himself on his lips and the sheer filth had him heated again at an alarming pace. “You beautiful thing,” He cooed at him.
It wasn’t long before Luca was cumming, thick ropes across Alva’s hand as he moaned like a cheap whore. His hips jerked into the ruthless pace Alva had set—fast and dirty, the slick sliding of precum coating his hand as he rubbed a thumb against the slit. Luca was boneless in his lap, panting, half-hard even after he had come.
Before Alva could begin to regret anything, Luca shifted. Lifting his head from where it had been pressed to Alva’s collarbone, he took hold of the soiled hand and lifted it to lick at the mess. He flattened his tongue against the palm, taking two fingers into his mouth to suck at them. Alva watched him do so, mesmerised—until he felt teeth sinking into the knuckles of those fingers.
“Only dogs bite, Balsa.” He reprimanded, crooking his fingers and digging his nails into the gummy roof of Luca’s mouth. The younger man only giggled in response, the sound muffled. Opening his mouth, he let Alva retract his spit-slicked fingers.
“Woof,” He slurred, mockingly. And then he stilled, averting his gaze in a way that was almost shy. Alva raised a questioning eyebrow, moving to cup Luca’s face softly, his thumb trailing gently across the unblemished skin beneath his eye.
“Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed. After that display?”
Luca winced, still not looking at him. Instead, he was fiddling idly with Alva’s hair tie. He pulled on it, releasing Alva’s hair from its hold and beginning to comb his fingers through it absently. He twirled a strand around a finger, “Sir,” He said, his voice hoarse from where Alva had fucked it raw, “I need you.”
Whatever hesitance Alva had had before that, all but disappeared at those words.
- -
When Alva awoke, the room was still dark. There was a brutal chill coming from the open window. Still fighting sleep, he turned to see Luca seated on the windowsill, illuminated by the glow of streetlamps. He was wearing one of Alva’s shirts, his bare legs on display, and he was smoking a cigarette—the long, thin kind that had recently become fashionable among the upper-classes. They were mass produced in factories by newly developed machines, especially now that the demand for tobacco had only grown with the establishment of colonies in the Americas.
With each drag of the cigarette, the room was filled with the pungent smell of smoke and seared paper. Luca hadn’t noticed him staring, at least until he sat up in bed and made a displeased noise at the display, “You shouldn’t smoke those,” He said, “It can’t be good for you.”
His voice startled Luca, who turned to him with eyes like saucers. The shock didn’t last, he was composing himself within seconds—laughing breathlessly as he flicked the still burning cigarette end out of the window. “Everyone at the Academy smokes,” He explained, almost ruefully.
“Well, you are not everyone at the Academy,” Alva disputed. You are far more precious to me than they are, he had wanted to add, but he thought against it. Instead, he silently watched as Luca hastily shut the window and stood to his feet. He didn’t respond to the previous statement, too busy walking over to pull back the sheets and climb into bed besides Alva.
He smelled of cigarettes and Alva. He was spending even more time with him than he had back when he had first been his apprentice, so much so that he was beginning to turn into a permanent fixture at his residence. Oftentimes, Alva would return home to see that Luca had let himself into the house and was busying himself playing the grand piano that usually sat neglected in the lounge.
Originally bought for his wife, it was now only ever used by Luca—classically trained, nimble fingered, with his perfect renditions of Bach or Chopin.
Wordlessly, Luca shifted closer and tucked himself against his side. Burying his face in the crook of the man’s neck, he hummed in what seemed to be content. “I’ll stop, if it upsets you,” He murmured against his shoulder, and Alva sighed in some combination of relief and exhaustion.
It is during moments like these that he spent a lot of time thinking of their first kiss. How if he could, he would do it again.
Alva would have kissed him while he was deep in concentration, working long nights in the laboratory. He would have kissed him as he served him tea. He would have kissed him as he opened his postgraduate application results, all anxious and flustered at the mere thought of a rejection. And he would have kissed him again after he had read the acceptance letter enclosed—this time in celebration, not as a reassurance.
Alva was not certain as to exactly when he had fallen in love with Luca. When he attempted to decipher the precise moment that it had occurred, his mind drew blanks. Instead, he found himself questioning if there was ever any chance of him not falling for Luca. In hindsight, it seemed inevitable.
“My Luca,” He says into the dark, “You are going to be the death of me.”
Wrapping a protective arm around Luca, he pulled him even further against him. Turning to face him, he embraced him tightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead and revelling in the way Luca’s body was small enough for his larger frame to almost completely encompass. Alva felt as if he were guarding him, as if he would be able to shield him from the woes of life itself if he held onto him long enough.
“If I have any say in the matter, you’ll live a long time yet,” Luca responded.
They were quiet, for a while. Neither of them seemed much to feel like sleeping, even if the darkness outside signified that it was still far too early for either of them to rise. This wasn’t the first time they had slept together; it wouldn’t be the last.
Alva’s wedding ring lay on the bedside table next to them. He couldn’t bring himself to wear it during, even if he knew better than anybody that it was all part of an elaborate façade. He had married his wife after it became too dangerous for him to remain single: in this era, an unmarried man was far too suspicious. Wanting to lessen the risk of rumours regarding exactly why he was unmarried despite his age, he had found the first aristocrat willing to ferry off his daughter for shallow reputation purposes.
She had hated him since the moment they exchanged their vows—disappearing across Europe in the weeks following the wedding, busying herself with whatever excuse she could find to avoid her marriage bed.
Upon her return, they would make casual small talk about her journeys. He would offer her polite conversation and fund her every desire. In exchange, she allowed him to use her as part of his perfectly crafted masquerade and pointedly did not comment on his oddly close relationship with his handsome apprentice.
And Alva was relieved. And he was a fool. Yet, the thought of losing Luca was far more agonising than any alternative.
Luca was aware of this. In fact, he found it rather humorous. But he was young and naïve, not yet comprehending just how forbidden and unorthodox their affair actually was.
“He wrote about you a lot,” Luca finally said, breaking the silence. “My father. In his journals.”
They rarely, if ever, spoke about his father. Alva had gotten the impression it was a sensitive topic very early on into their relationship.
Although, on occasion, Luca would inquire about the man’s character. And Alva, in rather simplified terms, would tell him the truth: that his father was a great inventor; stubborn, idealistic, creative. That he had always been the extroverted one of the two. That it had always been Herman he had relied on.
(That he had loved him since the day he had first lay eyes on him.)
“Is that so?” Alva prompted, carefully.
“I thought he was a raving lunatic,” Luca continued, “Until I got to the Academy. You were all anyone spoke about there, too. The great Alva Lorenz. You’re somewhat of a legend, sir.”
“Stop calling me that.” He murmured, his chin resting atop of Luca’s head. “We are far past the necessity of such titles.”
“You’re always lecturing me about manners. I supposed I’d at least try to retain some kind of formality. How would you rather I refer to you?”
“Alva,” He answered, after a beat. “Just Alva.”
“Alva,” Luca echoed, “How intimate.”
And then, “People at the Academy have begun to call me Lorenz. Luca Lorenz.”
Alva closed his eyes and fought back the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. As far as he was concerned, Luca could take his name. Luca could take anything from him.
- -
And he did, take everything.
He began with his reputation.
Rumours that circulated, documents stolen. Alva was informed via a rather unpleasant letter that his contributions toward science and his academic merits were much appreciated, but his involvement in a recent scandal regarding plagiarism and a perpetual motion machine were enough to prompt an investigation into his integrity.
He informed the police of stolen property. He also vocalised his suspicions about Luca to one of his close associates, a man that served on the academic chair board—who reassured him that he would speak some sense into the boy.
The very next day, Alva learned of Luca’s expulsion from the Academy’s postgraduate programme—effective immediately.
It was no surprise to him when Luca showed up at his door that afternoon, inconsolable in his rage.
“How could you?” He seethed, pacing in the foyer of Alva’s townhouse. “How could you, Alva?”
“Luca,” He said, reaching up to rub at his temples. The ebbing of a migraine was making itself known to him. “I never intended for you to be expelled. I just want you to return the documents you took from me, and then I will speak to the chair and have you reinstated into your doctorate. So, please, just give me back my property and cease spreading these ridiculous rumours. It is a blatant defamation of my character.”
“Your property?” He repeated. In that moment, Alva knew immediately that he had ruined what little chance there was for damage control. “These inventions, all of those journals—they are not yours. They are my father’s. You stole them from him. You waited until he died. And then, like the vermin you are, you stole his lifework.”
That was certainly one way to look at it. But not entirely accurate. Alva had purchased Herman’s ideas legitimately at auction, following his death—but he never intended to recreate any of it. In a way, he had wanted to memorialise them. They were the only thing he had left of the man: his neat handwriting, his precise diagrams, the signature written on the lefthand corner of each piece of paper. He had poured over these ramblings about perpetual motion, directional magnetism, electrical currents and polarity in the months after Herman’s death. It had been his only method of grieving.
And Luca had taken them from him. Had gone through his belongings, found this most intimate of secrets—and stolen something precious.
“You wanted the credit, didn’t you?” Luca continued, “Is that was this was about? Is that why you never let me develop the perpetual motion machine for myself? You’re nothing but a selfish coward.”
“That’s enough.” Alva said, raising his voice authoritatively, “I assure you that I have no interest in your father’s dangerous, idiotic endeavours. He was a fool, and he died a fool. Need I remind you that he abandoned you, with not a penny? Your mother, did she not die due to his neglect? I should advise you to not make the same mistakes as he did.”
Luca was looking to blame somebody. Somebody who wasn’t his father. It was easier for him to place blame, to fabricate stories, than to admit that his father had truly been so selfish and flippant. But there was no deeper meaning behind the man’s abandonment; that was simply what he did. He prioritised his own intelligence, threw aside all those who he deemed useless and a hinderance to his goals. Alva knew this first hand, had always sympathised with Luca in this regard.
After all, the way that Alva saw it, they were both victims of Herman Zeeman.
But that narrative was hurtful. Too complex and difficult for such a young mind to have been able to accept. Luca wanted to believe that Herman was something other than a deadbeat, that he had no choice but to leave his son alone and orphaned in the name of a greater good.
He wanted nothing more than to villainize Alva, so that he could pretend he was worth more to his father than he ever had been.
It was sad. It was pathetic. And Alva understood: for he had originally wanted to blame Herman’s wife and son for taking the man away from him, too. But Herman had never belonged to anyone. Not even Alva.
Luca’s face contorted into something wounded. Before Alva could even theorise as to what he intended on doing, he was marching deeper into the townhouse and through the double doors of the workshop.
“Luca,” Alva called after him, his voice softening in his regret. He was being too harsh. It was not Luca’s fault that he had become so caught up in his father’s affairs. Alva had never even tried to explain the truth about Herman, deciding that somethings were better left unsaid. He saw now that that was a mistake.
Following after him, he walked into the laboratory and was surprised to see that Luca was pulling apart half-finished inventions—yanking metal, tearing fabric—and kicking spare parts across the length of the room. Books and paper lay discarded on the ground, trampled under his polished shoes as he yelled obscenities and curses. He picked up a wrench and threw it through a sheet of glass, sending it into hundreds of tiny pieces with a reverberating shattering noise.
Alva watched in horror as he took hold of an unsecured cable and pulled it from the socket of a large, industrial machine. He clutched it haphazardly between both hands. The two metal prongs attached to the thick cable sparked and fizzled, thrumming with powerful electrical currents.
If Luca so much as touched that conductive metal, it would stop his heart in moments. He would be dead before either of them could comprehend it.
And Alva was terrified for him.
“Did you kill him?” Luca demanded, his voice high and shrill and full of accusation. “Did you kill my father for his ideas? Are you going to kill me, too?”
What? Alva wanted to yell, Killed Herman? Kill Luca?
How on earth had he ever come to such a conclusion? That was impossible. He loved them both. He would die for them both, lay down his life if they asked it of him.
“I could never hurt you,” Alva tried to reason with him, “Luca, please, put that down—you’re going to electrocute yourself.“
He took a step forward, his arms outstretched as if he were soothing a frightened animal. And Luca lurched away from him with a broken sob, a half-formed sentence that Alva could not make out over the ringing in his ears and the look of grief on the boy’s face.
- -
He did not remember dying.
But as he awoke, he was unsurprised to learn of his own demise.
When he had been informed of his death, as well as the subsequent revival he had undergone, Alva had merely given a reserved nod of acknowledgement.
Luca Balsa had murdered him. And Alva felt nothing.
He was hollow. A shell, a dead man walking. He had always been something of a hermit, working and living alone. Now, however, it is what they referred to him as: The Hermit.
There was little desire to place meaning on his death, or the circumstances surrounding it. He had no idea as to what had happened to Luca in the aftermath of the incident and did not attempt to pry. He knew already that he would be unsatisfied with whatever answer he received. Animosity kept him stale, as did the knowledge that he would never be able to return to his previous life before the Manor. He would never know what became of his estranged wife, his legacy, his reputation as an inventor and academic.
He was dead. He had died, and the world had moved on. No longer shall his lungs inflate; his blood had ceased to circulate. Instead, replaced by coursing circuits of electricity and decayed, scarred flesh. His eyes were like two shining marbles, the pupils reduced to dangerous slits suspended in pools of radioactive yellow.
But none of that mattered. For he had found faith: faith in something holy and true; a higher power that had brought him back to live forever. Most of his days were now spent in worship, kneeling at shrines and altars and clutching prayer beads as he sought for repentance. His mind was fogged and empty; religion served to fill the void left in place of his mortality.
When the rules of the Manor games were explained to him, he did not argue. If the role he was destined to serve was that of a Hunter, he would fit the part. He would don ceremonial robes and a staff infused with odd electrical currents. He would become The Hermit, in order to find a deeper meaning to the existence he now lived. He had made peace with this new reality. He accepted it.
- -
Until he saw his face.
And Alva cursed God. He cursed his existence. He cursed his wretched life and his heart that would not stop bleeding.
During one of those pointless practice matches—inexplicably, Luca stood across a courtyard. Braces on his legs, a bruise that marred his once fair skin, his posture hunched and lacking the aristocratic poise that had been drilled into him by his noble upbringing.
No one had told him that the one who had put him here was right there with him. He had assumed the passage of time since the incident had been longer—years, decades, even—but Luca did not appear much older than the last time he had seen him. Dirtier, scrawnier—yes. But still Luca. Still as familiar as the day that he had killed Alva.
Before long, Luca took off running toward a collection of ruined walls to the West. Alva watched him leave, preparing to follow after him until his attention was taken away by yet another running figure on the edge of his peripheral vision. Momentarily distracted, Alva glanced toward the other survivors stood in plain sight and decided that Luca could wait.
He wanted him alone, without the support or assistance of a team.
Pausing to set up a circuit to interrupt the deciphering of the machines, Alva readied his staff and began to pursue the first of Luca’s teammates.
And it did not take long for him to eliminate the three others.
Granted, they were poor excuses for teammates. They had only managed to decipher two of those machines before taking to harassing him in lieu of decoding—leaving Luca to finish the remaining three.
It was enough for the dungeon to reveal itself, but not enough to secure a win.
By the time he had chaired the last, remaining stunner—he paused. In comparison to the other areas that Alva had competed within beforehand, the Red Church was on the smaller side. Nonetheless, locating Luca would still prove tedious. Opening his cipher map, he fiddled with the connection slightly and rewired the circuit.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the unmistakeable noise of a missed calibration and grinned cruelly to himself. It was coming from the direction of the large church building and—if he were to squint—he could vaguely make out the shape of an antenna shaking above a cipher machine.
He walked slowly, meticulously, knowing he had time to make it to the church before Luca could finish the machine and leave to find the last one remaining. If he was lucky, the boy would not have yet passed by the dungeon.
And when Alva finally made it to the church—just in time to confront Luca before the machine clicked to completion. He was stood behind the altar at the front of the church, caught like a deer in the headlights as the resounding noise of Alva’s staff hitting the cement flooring echoed through the wide hall.
Upon closer inspection, Alva saw that there was a glowing sigil embellished on his chest, signifying he had not managed to pull away from the cipher before he had been inflicted with Alva’s polarity.
Good. That would make things easier. He could already see Luca eyeing one of the pallets between the pews, no doubt considering whether he would be able to vault over it in time and run toward the dungeon on the North of the map.
“Do not even think of it, Balsa,” He warned, brandishing his staff and threatening to stun him in place, “I think you owe me a conversation.”
“A—“ Luca began, pausing in consideration as his body language shifted to be on guard. “A conversation?”
“Yes. A conversation. Let us begin with the topic of your teammates. After all, they seemed to have an awful amount of trust in your capabilities. They left you alone to decode. And you failed to live up to those expectations. I would argue, in fact, that the loss of this match is almost entirely due to your inability to comprehend basic electromagnetism. I must say, Balsa—I’m disappointed. After everything I taught you.”
“It took longer than usual. Was that your doing?”
“Yes,”
“Your connection. It was…” He stopped, considered his words, “Similar to my own mechanics, somehow. I was able to overwrite your connection from the machines you hadn’t included in the circuit. But it was difficult.”
“Difficult,” Alva breathed, relishing in the confession.
“Have we met before?”
Time seemed to stand still.
Alva realised that when Luca looked to him, there was no recognition in his eyes. There was fear, uncertainty, shame—but nothing which told him that the boy even knew who he was. As far as Alva was concerned, he should have already been on his knees begging for forgiveness. But he was not, and he did not seem to have any plans to do so anytime soon.
Alva frowned. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Luca had not come out of the incident completely unscratched. His brain now only recalled fragments of memories: blurred faces, guilt so deep that it burned, the mental capability to comprehend circuitry and arithmetic.
He had likely even forgotten his poor excuse of father, his abandonment, how he had wept for the man.
One thing he clearly did remember.
“What was prison like?” Alva sneered, cruelly, just to see the pained expression that would flicker across Luca’s face in response.
Did you miss me? He wanted to probe further when Luca declined to answer, remaining stubbornly silent. Was the weight of my absence as heavy as the weight of the chains adorning your wrists?
“Who are you?” Luca asked, weakly, already so defeated and pathetic that it made Alva seethe. He expected a fight, an argument, a confrontation—why was Luca stood there looking so miserable? “What do you want?”
Setting aside his staff, Alva stepped closer to the other. “Remove your gloves,” He ordered.
“Why?”
“Do as I say.”
Luca hesitated. But then he obviously realised Alva would get what he wanted whether he complied or not, so he began to tug off the thick gloves by their fingers, revealing his calloused hands. He dropped the pair of gloves onto the altar he was stood behind, begrudgingly presenting his hands to Alva with the palms facing upward.
Taking ahold of Luca’s wrists, he pulled him closer to him. The other let out a noise of protest at the proximity, which Alva shushed impatiently as he began inspecting his hands.
The telltale markings spiralled up past the knuckles and down each wrist. No doubt they proceeded all the way to his shoulders, crisscrossing up and down the forearms in a grotesque mass of scar tissue.
Triumphantly, Alva released his hold on the boy and began to unfasten to top buttons of his shirt. Shoving aside the bandages and fabric, he presented his neck to Luca with a cunning smile, “Like pieces of a puzzle, the two of us.”
Pupils blown wide in panic, Luca’s eyes flickered from the matching scars back to Alva’s face. He was confused, shocked still and frozen in place. “Who are you?” He asked, for a second time.
“Have you not figured it out, boy? I am the reason you went to prison.”
“Don’t remember,” Luca stammered, “I don’t know.”
The collar at his throat. Alva reached up, closing his fingers around the frail neck and tightening them in an unspoken threat. He felt the pulse thrumming beneath his palm: something he now lacked, something he did not miss.
He wanted Luca to remember. He wanted him to relive his crime, to take accountability for his actions. He wanted to see the look on the other’s face when it all came back to him: the memory of Alva, of Luca’s betrayal.
Backing him up against the altar by the hold on his neck, Alva completely closed the distance between them and pressed himself against Luca as his knees hit the wooden surface behind him. “Answer properly when I speak to you, boy.”
“You’re hurting me,” He gasped, “I don’t know who you are.”
By this point, Alva had all but forced Luca up onto the podium and had him laying back against it completely. His legs dangled over its ledge as Alva caged him down onto its surface with his body. His patience had already dispersed completely, replaced instead by an animalistic hunger. A need to dominate, to inflict what he believed to be righteous vengeance upon the one who had wronged him so terribly.
But before he did that, he wanted him to remember.
Lifting a hand, he summoned the glowing orb from the top of his staff and held it in the hand that wasn’t busy holding Luca’s struggling form down against the altar. With the palm of his hand flat against Luca’s chest, he brought the orb closer and placed it against Luca’s forehead.
“Perhaps,” Alva whispered, “I can help refresh your memory.”
Unleashing polarity, he watched as it kept Luca pinned in place with his eyes wide in agony. He was electrocuting him, sending wave after wave of polarity through his skull as Luca broke out into a sweat and his lips parted around a silent scream. .
He wanted him to remember, but all he was achieving was glassy, rolled-back eyes and a vacant expression.
“Please,” He stammered during a moment of reprieve, “Stop,”
Alva was half crazed. His fingers were contorted around Luca’s skull like a vice, emitting polarity and charges in equal measure as Luca withered and thrashed. His back was arching off of the surface he lay on in a perfect curve, his chest pressing against the length of Alva’s body in a desperate attempt to get away from the pain that only left him further at the man’s mercy.
With a broken yell, Luca suddenly released an electric shock that had Alva yanking away from him with a cry of surprise. The electric current had been unexpected, coursing through him violently enough for his limbs to seize and his immobile heart to lurch in his chest.
Clarity came in waves, and the disgust he felt for himself momentarily overpowered the sick desire for revenge. He withdrew away completely, straightening to his full height—only to be startled as Luca’s hands shot out to clutch his forearms and secure him in place.
“Alva,” He whispered, as if in prayer, as if the name were holy.
How intimate.
Immediately, white, hot rage coursed through him. “Do not call me that,” He spat, “You do not get to call me that. Not anymore, you vile thing.”
Contrary to what he had believed prior to this encounter, Alva was not hollow.
Alva was angry.
Luca had come into his life and filled it with music and laughter. He had provided the false hope that there could be something more for a lonely, eccentric inventor. Something other than delusions of perpetual motion and the legacy of Herman.
As he was now, Luca lay unmoving across the altar. His breathing was shallow and it rattled in his chest as if every gasp ached. His eyes were wet with unshed tears—when he blinked, they overflowed and trailed weakly down to each side of his face to pool at his temples and dampen his hairline.
“I remember,” He finally said. “That I would play piano while you read that morning’s newspaper.” He giggled, giddy and stupid and the noise sounded wet with his tears. “You had all of my stationery engraved with your name. Luca Lorenz. I used to pretend we were married. Was that foolish of me?”
Alva gawked at him, disbelieving. How could he be so stupid? It was beyond foolish; it was downright delusional. What sort of pipe dream had he been living, where two men could wed? How on earth had he ever entertained that idea? And why did it make Alva’s chest ache so deeply, so longingly?
“You—“ He spluttered, “What sort of nonsense?”
“I loved you,” Luca wept.
“You killed me,” Alva snarled.
And now they were both here, wherever here was. Trapped in some unending maze and forced to compete in these odd survival games.
And whereas he had once wanted so desperately to protect Luca from the world, in reality he should have been protecting himself from Luca all along.
And it was sad. It was so sad, because Alva Lorenz had not died hating Luca Balsa.
He had died wanting to hold him, wanting to tell him I am sorry he left you. I wish I could take that pain away.