Chapter Text
“I have no interest in watching gladiator tournaments, father, you know this,” Louis says, not looking up from the plate he has in front of him. He’s not feigning his disinterest even a little.
“Louis.”
Louis inhales deeply, counting to ten slowly. Above him, nothing moves. He has to look up at the end of the ten seconds. “Fine,” he says, pushing the plate away a few inches. “I’ll go, are you happy?”
His father regards him with a mostly placid look. “Ecstatic,” he says dryly, already walking away.
Louis doesn’t glare at his back as he goes, but only because his father would be able to feel it.
The arena is packed with people that night, all eagerly anticipating the bloodshed and violence. Louis rolls his eyes, sitting prim and proper at his father’s side, and gets an elbow in his ribs for his trouble.
Ugh. Bloody gladiators. Louis doesn’t understand why people are so obsessed with them. The violence alone is ridiculous, and then there’s the murder.
Louis doesn’t really pay much attention to the proceedings at first, tapping his fingers against his knees and thinking about all the things he could be doing instead of this. The competition is like every other gladiator competition Louis has been to in his life, violent and bloody and completely unnecessary. The roar of the crowd is never ending, loud and appreciative, but it’s easy enough to tune out. He’s had plenty of practice at that.
Except then it gets quiet. Louis looks up, a little confused. “I didn’t realize there was supposed to be a newcomer tonight,” he says to his father.
“Just purchased last week,” his father tells him, patting his knee. It’s a clear sign that he thinks Louis’ comment means he’s going to start paying attention, which isn’t right. Louis hates these things. He’s always hated these things.
Then the fighting starts, and Louis can’t help but watch. The new guy is smaller than some of the other gladiators, leaner, but he’s winning anyway, using his speed to his advantage. It’s no surprise when he wins, pinning the other gladiator to the ground and looking up to the King’s balcony for instruction.
For some reason, it looks more like he’s looking at Louis than his father. Louis rolls his eyes and looks away, missing the verdict entirely, and doesn’t look back again.
The banquet that night is like every other one Louis has ever been to, lavish and unnecessary. Louis does the bare minimum to make his father happy, spending most of his time sitting at a table with a glass of wine in front of him. He’s found it’s one of the best ways to get through these nights.
“Louis,” his father says, placing a hand on Louis’ shoulder and squeezing it, “I’d like you to meet Harry Styles, our newest gladiator. He’s the one who won the competition this evening.”
“Nice to meet you,” Louis says, giving Harry’s hand a dull squeeze before dropping it, letting his attention drift.
It’s re-captured in less than a single second. “Prince Louis,” Harry murmurs, low, as though it’s meant to stay between the two of them, “Did you enjoy the fight?”
“Did I enjoy watching two fully grown men beating each other for the entertainment of the bourgeoisie?” Louis asks blandly. “I suppose you could call it that.”
The only reason Louis doesn’t get scolded is because his father has already walked away.
Harry doesn’t flinch. If anything, he smiles, the curve of it slow and deep over his face. “What would you call it, then?” he asks.
Louis looks at him, the way he’s leaning over, his body posture, the blatant intent he’s displaying.
“Let me stop you right there,” Louis says, holding up a hand. “I’m not interested.”
“In what?” Harry asks, arching an eyebrow. “Gladiators?”
“Gladiators, blood sports, you, all of it,” Louis says, taking a step back. “I have better things to do with my time.”
Harry takes a step forward. A small one, but it feels vaguely threatening all the same. “My apologies, then,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Louis.”
Okay. Louis turns on his heel and walks away, inexplicably unsettled. Fucking gladiators.