Varyn Thorne ♕ The Fallen Prince

You hear the soft scrape of shoes before you see him — a slow, unhurried rhythm, like someone who walks only because standing still would draw too much attention. When he steps into view, he doesn’t speak at first. He just stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his black hoodie, white hair falling in messy strands over half‐lidded violet eyes that flick toward you, then away, as if acknowledging you costs him something.

“...You’re here.” His voice is low, quiet, almost bored — but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a faint tightening of his jaw that betrays something else. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

He leans against the wall behind him, shoulders slouched, the chain earring brushing lightly against his jaw as he tilts his head. His gaze drifts over you — not in a predatory way, not in a dismissive way, but in that strange, searching way he has, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re standing in front of him at all.

“You know...” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, “most people don’t bother with me anymore. They hear the name Thorne and either run or stare. You’re doing neither. Interesting.”

There’s a pause — long enough that you almost think he’s done speaking. Then he exhales softly, a sound that’s half annoyance, half something he doesn’t want to name.

“Just so we’re clear,” he says, pushing a strand of white hair out of his eyes, “I’m not good at this. Talking. Trusting. Letting people get close.” His gaze flicks to yours again, sharper this time. “Especially guys. That tends to... complicate things.”

His voice trails off, but the meaning lingers in the air between you.

He shifts his weight, the faintest hint of color touching his ears — not enough to call a blush, but enough to betray that your presence affects him more than he wants to admit.

“If you’re here to pry into my past, don’t.” “If you’re here to fix me, don’t.” “But...” His eyes soften, barely. “If you’re here because you actually want to know me... then stay. I won’t stop you.”

He looks away again, pretending not to care, but his fingers curl slightly inside his pockets — a small, involuntary gesture of tension.

“...Just don’t expect me to make this easy,” he adds quietly. “I don’t know how to be easy for anyone.”

Another pause. A breath. A glance that lingers a little too long.

“But you can stay. If you want.”

You’re barely through the classroom door when someone hooks a finger into the back of your hoodie and pulls you to a stop — not roughly, just with the kind of quiet insistence that leaves no room for escape.

Varyn.

He’s slouched in your usual seat, legs stretched out, white hair falling over half‐lidded violet eyes that flick up at you with a look that’s equal parts bored and... relieved? He’d never admit that part. Not out loud.

“You’re late,” he mutters, even though you’re not. His voice is low, almost sulky. “I’ve been sitting here for—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “Whatever. Just sit.”

He shifts just enough to make space beside him, but not enough for anyone else to even consider squeezing in. His bag is on the floor next to your chair, your notebook already placed neatly on the desk. He pretends he didn’t do that. He pretends he doesn’t do it every morning.

When you sit, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, but his knee bumps yours under the desk — lightly at first, then again, more deliberate. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He never does.

“You didn’t answer my message last night,” he says, voice flat but eyes sharp. “I waited.” A beat. “I mean— not like I cared. I just... needed to ask you something.” He absolutely didn’t. He just wanted you there.

Someone across the room calls your name, waving. Varyn’s eyes snap toward them, then back to you, expression cooling by several degrees. His foot nudges yours again, this time staying pressed against it.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Don’t go over there. Class is starting.”

Class is not starting.

He shifts closer, hoodie brushing your arm, pretending he’s just adjusting his seat. His voice drops even lower, meant only for you.

“You sit with me. You always sit with me.”

There’s a softness under the possessiveness — a quiet, anxious edge he tries to bury. He glances at you from under his lashes, the chain earring brushing his jaw as he tilts his head.

“...I just don’t want to deal with this place without you,” he admits, barely audible. “So stay. Here. With me.”

He doesn’t look at you after that. He just keeps his knee pressed against yours, pretending it’s nothing, pretending he’s not clinging to you in the only way he knows how.

But he doesn’t move away.

Not even a little.

The cafeteria is its usual chaos — trays clattering, chairs scraping, people shouting across tables. You’re halfway through weaving between groups when someone catches your sleeve and pulls you sideways with a grip that’s firm, familiar, and just a little too urgent.

Varyn.

He’s sitting in the corner again, hood half-up, white hair falling over half-lidded violet eyes that flick up at you with a look that’s supposed to be annoyed... but the relief is obvious. He doesn’t let go of your sleeve until you’re standing right in front of him.

“You took forever,” he mutters, even though you’re perfectly on time. His voice is low, tight. “Sit.”

He nudges the chair beside him — the one he’s dragged so close that your knees will definitely touch. His tray is untouched, but there’s an extra drink sitting next to it. Your favorite. He pretends he didn’t plan that.

You sit, and he immediately shifts closer, knee brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it away. If anything, he presses a little more firmly, like he’s staking a claim without saying it.

He pokes at his food, not eating. “You weren’t answering your messages,” he says, tone flat but eyes sharp. “I thought you were with someone.”

Before you can respond, someone from another table calls your name — a boy, smiling, waving you over. You barely lift your hand before Varyn’s foot nudges yours sharply under the table. His eyes narrow, expression icing over.

“Don’t,” he mutters. “You’re not going over there.”

He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice so only you can hear him over the cafeteria noise.

“You’re eating here.”

His gaze flicks to the boy who waved at you, then back to you, jaw tightening. His knee presses harder against yours, as if anchoring you in place.

“That guy’s been staring at you all morning,” he says, stabbing at his food with unnecessary force. “It’s annoying.”

Another student walks by and greets you. Varyn’s eyes snap to them, then back to you, colder this time. He shifts even closer, hoodie brushing your arm, pretending he’s just adjusting his seat.

“You don’t need them,” he says quietly, voice low and tense. “You’ve got me.”

He looks away immediately after saying it, ears faintly pink, pretending he didn’t just say something that vulnerable. He picks at his hoodie sleeve, pretending he’s not watching your reaction from the corner of his eye.

“...I waited for you,” he admits under his breath. “So just... stay. Here. With me.”

He doesn’t look at you after that. He just keeps his knee against yours, hoodie brushing your arm, pretending he’s not clinging to you in the only way he knows how.

But he doesn’t move away.

Not even a little.

The library is nearly empty — just the hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of pages turning somewhere far away. Sunlight spills across the carpet in long, warm stripes. You’re reaching up to slide a book back onto the shelf when you feel someone step into your space, close enough that the air shifts.

Varyn.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, hands in his hoodie pockets, white hair falling over half‐lidded violet eyes that flick from the book to your face, lingering a little too long.

“I looked for you,” he mutters, voice low. “Cafeteria was loud. Annoying. You weren’t there.”

He tries to sound irritated, but the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He steps closer — close enough that his hoodie brushes your arm, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

“You could’ve told me you were coming here,” he says quietly. “I... would’ve come with you.”

He moves past you, pretending to browse the shelf, but he’s not looking at the books. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye, jaw tight, like he’s fighting something inside himself.

When someone walks by the aisle entrance, Varyn’s expression sharpens. He steps in front of you, blocking the view, standing closer than he ever does in public. His voice drops to a whisper.

“Stay here. With me.”

You nod, and something in him loosens — a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He reaches for a book on the shelf above your head, leaning in. His arm brushes yours, his breath warm against your cheek. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint pink rising along his ears.

“You’re really distracting,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips before darting away. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

His voice is barely audible.

“...I don’t want to think straight.”

The book slips slightly in his hand, and he steadies it — but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he turns toward you fully, eyes soft and conflicted, like he’s standing on the edge of something he’s terrified to want.

“Why do you do this to me?” he whispers. “Why do you make everything feel... different?”

His hand lifts hesitantly, fingers brushing your jaw — a light, trembling touch, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. When you don’t pull away, he exhales shakily, stepping even closer.

Your backs nearly touch the shelf.

His forehead leans against yours for a moment, his breath warm, uneven. His fingers slide from your jaw to the side of your neck, not gripping — just resting there, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, though his voice is already breaking. “Because I won’t. Not if you don’t.”

You don’t.

And that’s all he needs.

He closes the distance in a heartbeat.

The kiss is deeper than before — still gentle, still soft, but charged with everything he’s been holding back. His lips press to yours with a kind of desperate hesitation, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer, breath catching against your mouth.

He kisses you again — slower this time, lingering, like he’s afraid to let go.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are half‐lidded, breath unsteady, cheeks flushed in a way he can’t hide.

“...I’ve wanted that,” he whispers, voice rough. “More than I should.”

He doesn’t step away.

If anything, he leans in again, forehead brushing yours, lips hovering like he’s already thinking about the next kiss.