I Start with a Bad Hand!

“So what really happens to them next?”

Klaus asked, overcoming the aura of disagreement from the two. Now, Klaus no longer succumbed to the darkness of the drama class. He had grown stronger.

“Ah, yes. It’s not in the script, but it connects to another story I wrote. Later, they join as mercenaries in a war organized by ‘Lamhit.'”

“‘Lamhit’ is what?”

“There’s another script he wrote. That one’s even funnier.”

Agnes answered the second prince’s question. Funny, it’s supposed to be a serious sword master narrative.

Anyway… I wanted to show this ending to Irene. She couldn’t join the practice today. Indeed, adding our drama to Irene’s schedule was too much to ask. I was curious about what Irene would think of the changed ending. After all, it was Irene who had led us to this conclusion.

“Okay, let’s stop here, and let’s practice from the beginning again. Start from the prince’s lines here.”

I pointed out the second prince’s lines in the script. His exhaled breath lightly tickled my cheek. This guy. It seemed like he sighed without wanting to make it obvious. He cleared his throat and delivered his line.

“Again today our rooster was chased! Damn those Capulet scoundrels.”

***

It was late, but I specifically went to Irene’s dormitory. I really wanted to show her the script before submitting it. As Irene read through the changed parts, she closed the script and unexpectedly criticized the ending.

“Why did you change it? The ending.”

“What?”

“…It’s really absurd.”

This was… unexpected.

But I couldn’t change the ending again. There wasn’t enough physical time. I began to persuade Irene reluctantly. There was no real need to do so, but I wanted to.

“It’s absurd, but still, at the end of this ending, they eventually escape their families. Later, in another script I wrote, they join as mercenaries. It might sound nonsensical at first, but it’s about breaking free from the family name and liberating themselves from the kind of ancient regime where individuals are bound to families…”

As I was sweating through my explanation, Irene quietly spoke up.

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

“What?”

“It’s absurd and lacks realism, but…”

I actually like the changed ending better. Irene looked at me with eyes very much like Klaus’s, a barely there smile tugging at her lips. Caught off guard by her words, I blurted out,

“I’m relieved. I changed it thinking of you, senior.”

“Me…?”

“Just, after hearing your stories, I wanted to write a better ending.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. A brief silence fell between us. In these awkward moments, I always feel like breaking a window and escaping.

“It’s getting late… I should go! See you at the next practice.”

“Yeah, sure. Take care.”

Irene escorted me to the door of the dormitory and looked at me with an indecipherable expression. After she closed the door, I leaned against it briefly, then walked away with a much lighter step towards my dormitory.

The next day, Irene announced that new costumes and backdrops needed to be created for the final evaluation of the play. What could have just failed was now on its way to failing ‘spectacularly.’

“Senior, you really don’t have to go that far. There’s not much time left.”

“Don’t worry about it. The servants from the Marquis’ estate have agreed to help.”

Was that really agreed upon with the servants? I suppressed the curiosity that almost burst out and continued hammering nails for the set. What we needed on stage were the Montague’s castle for Romeo, a tomb for Romeo and Juliano made out of fabric, and some costumes for the characters.

Initially, we planned to just wear existing clothes, but Irene insisted on having new costumes tailor-made. In the end, we compromised by altering clothes we already had to suit the play. The character played by the second prince would just wear the old, soon-to-be-discarded clothes from his or Klaus’s wardrobe.

Irene took charge of making the costumes, while Agnes was responsible for sourcing materials for the sets and costumes. The rest of us, who had nothing but our physical strength, worked hard on building the set. Thanks to our efforts, our team ended up with a background that matched the quality of the drama class’s main stage in just 30 minutes.

‘I never intended to go this far…!’

Surprisingly, the second prince helped without any complaints and actively participated in building the set. As we mechanically worked like ants, we started blurting out anything to relieve the monotony.

We talked about everything from classes we were taking, professors, favorite foods, to such trivial matters. There were unexpected stories too. Icarus mentioned he had chosen painting as an art class.

“Really? Then please show me your completed paintings next time. I’m curious.”

He had answered nonchalantly that he had chosen the painting class without much thought and didn’t have many finished paintings, but at the next gathering, he brought and neatly displayed his paintings. Most were quite decent landscapes, yet in his paintings, there was not a single person to be seen. Suddenly, someone came to mind.

‘Hitler also… really liked landscapes without any people….’

Hmm….

“Your Highness, haven’t you painted any people?”

“People?”

“Yes. Given how well you paint landscapes, I imagine you’d be quite good at painting people too.”

He replied briefly, seeming a bit embarrassed by my question.

“I’ve never tried drawing people.”

“Is it because you don’t have a model?”

“That’s one reason, yes.”

That there’s ‘also’ another reason implied more concerns. Not adding people to his landscapes didn’t necessarily mean he was following in post-Hitler footsteps, but the hint of some misgivings about humanity, or a rejection of the human race, was slightly worrying.

“You could practice. There are plenty of models in the drama class, even just a little practice might help.”

Having more expressions to paint would be beneficial. I spoke as gently as I could, and from that day on, he started to doodle in a corner of the rehearsal room more frequently.

One day, Icarus presented me with a drawing he said was of me. It depicted me writing the script from a side view.

“No, this is…!”

Surprisingly, his drawing reflected a style reminiscent of Picasso’s, although it lacked Picasso’s genius, composition skills, basic techniques, and philosophical understanding of his art. Looking at my distorted, randomly placed features in the painting, I commented evenly,

“So this is what I look like.”

He followed with an unusually long silence, then quietly took back the drawing from my hand, saying,

“You don’t… look like this.”

He should have made that judgment while he was drawing. Now, with his insight coming too late, he was quietly trying to fold the drawing in half.

“Were you going to take this with you? I thought you were giving it to me.”

“You want to take this?”

“Yes. I was thinking of sending it to my parents back home. …Please let me have it.”

At that, he forcefully snatched the drawing back with more determination. Eventually, after I pleaded and suggested we ask someone else for their opinion, insisting that they would surely praise the painting, I managed to stop him. There was also a strategic aspect to this plan, as I anticipated the always punctual Klaus would arrive first at the rehearsal room, and he generally viewed the world optimistically.

However, as usual on such days, it was Agnes, who routinely arrived late, who first walked into the rehearsal room and encountered Icarus’s drawing. Seeing my portrait on the desk, Agnes’s expression hardened.

“What’s this? Who’s tormenting you?”

Really petty. It would be one thing if they came directly to talk, but to malign someone this way…!

Agnes yelled in anger, and while I felt warmed by her loyalty, I was simultaneously chilled by the silence from Icarus, unable to even look at him.

Once Agnes understood the full story, she closed her mouth.

“That’s… quite unique.”

Agnes’s comment was the best she could muster, and she strongly opposed my idea of sending the picture to my parents. It was the one point where she and Icarus agreed.

We eventually found a use for the drawing. We decided to stick it on the dormitory window to deter burglars from attempting to enter. Icarus muttered that he’d rather just burn it.

“So, are you planning to participate in the exhibition, Your Highness?”

I tried to lighten the somber mood. Fortunately, Agnes was involved in the drama, Irene in dance, and Klaus in the choir, so their schedules didn’t overlap.

Noticing Icarus, who had been quiet, Agnes felt awkward for having made him seem like a bully with just one drawing. He answered curtly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

As I fumbled, half-jokingly thinking we were stepping into post-Hitler territory, I continued, “I’ll definitely come to see it. You’ve painted some beautiful landscapes, after all.”

“Right. It’d be a shame to let such fine works just gather dust… I mean, the landscapes,” Agnes added, pointedly not praising the portraits. Icarus, continuing with his hammering, said he would think about it briefly. However, his lips were slightly upturned.

Agnes, initially tense around royalty, seemed to have gotten comfortable with the second prince. There was also the fact that Icarus no longer reacted sensitively to Agnes’s sometimes outrageous comments. This odd synergy was entertaining.

Once, Icarus had injured his hand with a nail. We rushed to bring ointment and bandages, but he looked at his wound with a somewhat overwrought seriousness and said, “It’s okay. I’ve experienced much worse pain than this.”

Oh…

Sometimes the second prince’s statements were far too dramatic for everyday conversation. I wondered if my inability to fully accept such statements was due to my being a modern 21st-century person, but it seemed I wasn’t the only one who found it odd.

“Doesn’t the prince sometimes speak in really strange ways?”