Chapter Text
The room was too warm, too crowded, too filled with the sharp scent of expensive perfume and the crackle of quiet conversation. Mal had never been to anything like this before—a secret meeting of Grisha, hidden away in the back rooms of a nobleman’s estate, where alliances were forged in whispers and the wrong step could mean the difference between survival and exile.
He shouldn’t be here.
He’d told Nikolai as much when the prince had first suggested it.
"This isn’t my kind of fight," Mal had said, crossing his arms as Nikolai lounged against the table in front of him, looking far too amused for someone discussing treason.
"Of course it is," Nikolai had countered. "You fought for Alina, didn’t you?"
Mal’s jaw had tightened.
That was the thing, wasn’t it? Alina wasn’t here. Not for this meeting, not for this plan. Nikolai needed allies—more Grisha willing to stand with him when the dust settled, when the Second Army was rebuilt. Alina had always been his best bargaining chip in that regard.
But Alina was gone. And Nikolai still needed someone at his side.
"That was different and plus, you don’t need me for this," Mal had muttered, not meeting his gaze.
Nikolai had tilted his head, considering. "You might be right. But they expect me to bring someone. If it isn’t Alina, it has to be someone else."
It had taken Mal longer than he’d liked to realize what he meant.
"No."
"Yes," Nikolai had grinned. "Think of it this way: I get to look taken, and you get to avoid being interrogated about why you’re here. Everyone wins."
Mal had wanted to say no again. He should have said no again.
But then he’d remembered how fragile these alliances were, how much it mattered that Nikolai find more supporters before it was too late.
And so, here he was.
Sitting beside Nikolai in a room full of strangers, pretending not to notice the way the prince’s arm was draped casually over the back of his chair, close enough that Mal could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
The worst part was, Nikolai was too good at this.
He played the role effortlessly, flashing easy smiles, letting his fingers graze Mal’s hand on the table as if it were second nature. The way he spoke was different, too—just slightly softer, like they had years of history between them. Like there was something intimate in every glance, every brush of skin.
Mal was aware of it in a way he wasn’t sure he should be.
He kept his focus on the people around them instead, studying them the way he had been trained to study his surroundings—watching for danger, for weakness. There were a handful of Fabricators in the corner, deep in conversation. A group of Squallers sitting near the fireplace, their postures guarded, their expressions wary. And near the head of the table, a man with sharp eyes and a shrewd smile who Mal suspected was the one Nikolai had come here to impress.
"Prince Nikolai," the man said smoothly, lifting his glass. "A pleasure to see you again." Nikolai’s grip on Mal’s shoulder tightened briefly before he smiled. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
"And your companion?"
Mal stiffened.
Nikolai, of course, didn’t miss a beat.
"This is Mal," he said easily, his voice warm. "My tracker. And my—" He hesitated just long enough to make it believable, then turned to Mal, his gaze softening. "—well. You know who he is."
Mal nearly choked on his own drink.
The man raised an eyebrow, amused. "I see."
"Don’t mind him," Nikolai added, squeezing Mal’s shoulder as if to steady him. "He’s not one for the political games."
Mal swallowed, forcing himself to match Nikolai’s ease. "I prefer to leave the talking to him."
A few of the gathered Grisha chuckled at that, and just like that, the tension eased.
Nikolai shifted closer, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the back of Mal’s neck as he leaned forward to engage in conversation.
Mal tried not to feel it.
Tried not to notice how easily Nikolai played the part.
Tried not to wonder if it was really just an act.
Because it had to be, didn’t it?
─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :. ───
It didn’t stop when the meeting ended.
Even after the last of the Grisha had left, Nikolai still hadn’t put any distance between them. He lingered in the doorway of the dimly lit sitting room they’d been given for the night, watching Mal with an unreadable expression.
"You were good," he said finally.
Mal huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t know about that."
"You were. Trust me."
Silence stretched between them.
Then, before Mal could think better of it, he said, "You were too good."
Nikolai blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Mal started, then stopped. His throat felt tight. "You didn’t have to sell it that hard."
Nikolai tilted his head, studying him in that way he did when he was trying to figure out if something could be turned into a joke or if it was too dangerous to touch.
Apparently, he decided it was the former.
"Well," he said, grinning, "I am very convincing."
Mal exhaled sharply. "That’s not what I—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening.
Nikolai’s grin faltered just slightly. "Mal."
Mal shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, only that it was something.
Something complicated.
Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.
"It’s fine," he said instead, turning away. "I’m going to get some sleep."
He could feel Nikolai’s eyes on his back, but the prince didn’t stop him as he crossed the room and closed the door behind him.
He let out a slow breath, leaning against the door for just a moment before forcing himself to move, to push down the tangle of emotions tightening in his chest.
It was just an act.
Just politics.
It didn’t mean anything.
...Did it?