Mikhail stepped out of the bathroom after finishing his shower with clean water, the door shutting behind him with a sharp clack. The prince shook his wet hair, releasing the scent of the expensive shampoo provided by Basamiel Academy. He winced now and then as the towel scraped against his palm, stinging from a fresh abrasion.
It had been a rare chance to enjoy a warm shower.
“Come over here.”
Adrian tapped the table as if he’d been waiting for Mikhail to emerge. Mikhail shot him a look that screamed, Are you out of your damn mind?, but still glanced at the spot Adrian had tapped with his finger. Sitting there, as bold as ever, was the flowerpot the prince had shattered the first time they met.
“I thought we were done talking about the damn pot.”
Mikhail curled up one side of his lips in a smirk. The sight of the flowerpot—painstakingly glued back together at the edges where it had broken—stirred a prick of guilt in the prince.
“What?”
Adrian tilted his head at Mikhail’s curt remark, then let out a short laugh—pffft.
“This isn’t about making you pay for the pot.”
If it were, I’d have done this ages ago. Adrian chuckled lightly, waving a hand at the prince standing by the desk.
“Your hand.”
He abruptly held out his pristine palm—flawless and unmarred—right in front of Mikhail’s chest. Mikhail raised an eyebrow, staring down at the offered hand.
“Give me your hand. I’m trying to fix it. What do you plan to say at the Academy infirmary if they ask about a mana scar that appeared out of nowhere?”
Adrian repeated himself to the still-skeptical prince who hadn’t budged. Only then did Mikhail, hesitating, extend his wrecked palm. But the doubt in his expression lingered.
Adrian took a moment to look down at Mikhail’s palm, where torn skin oozed thin trails of red. He cradled the back of Mikhail’s hand in his own and brought it closer to his face. Then he gently blew on the wounds—whooo.
In that breath, the injuries seemed to scatter like dust swept away by wind—fweeeesh—then, as if nothing had happened, they reassembled right at the center of his palm.
“It’s definitely a mana scar.”
Adrian nodded, recognizing the unnatural movement of the wounds. He gave a small jerk of his chin toward an empty chair by his desk.
“Sit there for a moment.”
“……”
Mikhail deliberated briefly on whether to follow the advice of someone who clearly knew a lot about his injury.
The prince walked over to Adrian’s desk, dragging a chair behind him with a screech—screeech—then dropped into the seat next to Adrian with a surly look on his face.
“I’m sitting.”
“Good boy.”
Adrian plucked a few leaves from the mangled plant sprouting from the once-destroyed flowerpot.
“The plant you threw out the window? It’s called Diena. Mana scars can’t be treated with ordinary medicine. You have to draw out the mana clinging to the wound using another conduit.”
As he gave a rough explanation for the ever-skeptical prince, the Gold Dragon’s hands moved quickly. He tossed a few green leaves into a deep bowl. Swish—he laid out a few tools from his dorm luggage onto the desk, which was now beginning to resemble a makeshift alchemist’s lab.
“……”
Mikhail silently watched from beside him as Adrian ground the leaves with a glass rod—scrape, scrape. He poured the juice into a glass cup, then added a stream of clean water. The murky green liquid now swirled with strange plant fragments floating lazily within.
“…Don’t tell me I’m supposed to drink that.”
At the prince’s mutter, Adrian’s eyes flicked in his direction.
Strike—he lit a match and fired up a small lamp, placing the transparent cup on the wire stand above it with a casual clink.
“I’d love to say yes, but unfortunately, no.”
As the water began to boil, the green fragments inside writhed and churned with the rising bubbles, gradually losing their shape like powder dissolving in water.
The once-green concoction lost its hue, turning crystal clear as though it had never been anything else. The strange leafy clumps vanished completely, not a trace of them remaining.
As if that had been the result he’d been hoping for, Adrian gave a satisfied nod and swept his fingers across the drawers beside the desk. He was searching for the specific compartment where he’d stored something. His hand confidently stopped at the fifth drawer, as if suddenly remembering, and click—he opened it. What he pulled out was a tightly rolled piece of cloth.
The Gold Dragon unrolled the fabric a little and cut out a piece roughly the size of the prince’s palm using a pair of silver scissors. Since humans had two hands, he cut out two pieces. His cool, deft fingers then retrieved a pair of tweezers from the same drawer—tools he needed to soak the freshly cut cloths into the boiling Diena extract.
Since the liquid was transparent, the fabric remained white even after being thoroughly soaked. Is he really going to put that on my wound? As he silently observed, the prince—picking up on Adrian’s intent—subtly turned his hand over and placed the back of it on the desk. Adrian gave him a nod of approval.
“You have to apply it while it’s still hot. It’ll sting a little.”
“What, that’s nothi—”
The prince started with a cocky retort, only to squeeze his eyes shut tight the moment the cloth touched his palm.
Fuck. It wasn’t just the sting of heat. It felt as if someone were branding his already raw palm with a red-hot iron, prying the wound open again just like when Adrian had blown across it earlier.
Damn it, ‘a little’?! This is ‘a little’ to you?! The prince had the sudden urge to kill his roommate. He swallowed down a groan, choking it back into his throat. A chilling noise trembled in his mouth as he bowed his head forward in pain.
Adrian, unfazed, calmly lifted the cloth with the tweezers to check the wound’s progress, then placed it back down. The pain was proof that the mana scar was being treated.
The prince remained hunched forward, his hand still resting on the desk. The white cloth covering his palm slowly began to change color from the bottom up, bleeding red in the exact shape of the original wound.
Seeing that, Adrian grinned—broad and smug.
“See? It’s gone now.”
He whisked away the red-stained cloth with his tweezers, revealing the prince’s bare palm. There was no trace left—no one would’ve guessed it had ever been injured.
Mikhail opened the eyes he’d tightly shut and stared at his hand. Just moments ago, it had been covered in blood as if badly burned. He turned it this way and that, watching it for a while, lips twitching as if trying to speak but holding it back.
Adrian, unconcerned, began tidying up the desk, which now looked like a fully functioning workshop. He folded the clean cloth several times and slid it back into the drawer. The liquid in the glass cup was poured into a separate bottle and firmly sealed with a cork. You never knew when it might come in handy again during their time at the Academy.
He picked up the flowerpot, now missing a few leaves, and walked toward the window.
…Ahem. The prince cleared his throat. Adrian turned his head sharply in response, only to find the prince still staring down at his palm.
“What? Something still hurts?”
Adrian tilted his head and asked. Mikhail frowned faintly and ran a rough hand along the back of his neck. After a moment of visible hesitation, he suddenly lifted his head. Their eyes met—Adrian’s calm golden gaze and the prince’s sharp red one, locking squarely.
Mikhail’s tightly drawn lips opened ever so slightly.
“…Thanks.”
Huh? Adrian froze for a moment, as if he’d heard something ridiculous, then curled up the corner of his mouth.
“Sure.”
The Gold Dragon placed the flowerpot back by the window—his side of the room, when divided evenly. Though the curtain blocked half the sunlight, it was still enough.
“And that side—use it however you want.”
The prince turned away sharply and rose from his chair. Screeech—he dragged it back to where it had been originally.
“What? What do you mean by that?”
Adrian clearly understood, but still played dumb with a teasing smile.
“…If you didn’t get it, forget it.”
Mikhail’s silver hair swayed in irritation. Adrian, completely unbothered by the prince’s annoyance, nudged the Diena pot slightly to the side, positioning it where it could catch more sunlight through the center of the window.
“No take-backs, got it? That means you won’t knock it over again.”
He smiled as he looked out the window. It was wide enough to hold at least ten flowerpots.
“Just the flowerpot.”
The prince added, casting another glance toward Adrian who was still eyeing the windowsill with suspicious intent. Adrian gave a vague nod while mentally counting how many medicinal herb pots he had left in the greenhouse.
