Extra is the Heir of Life and Death

Chapter 229 229: Don't show your face to me again

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old paper.

Dust drifted through the slanted gold of late afternoon light, turning the air hazy, almost gentle, which felt ironic considering the way Xavier stood across from me like a man about to confess to murder.

He didn't look at me at first.

He looked at the floor.

"I had a dream," he said.

I didn't interrupt.

I leaned back against one of the desks stacked near the wall, folding my arms loosely, trying to look casual even though something in his voice had already tightened my chest.

He told me everything.

The castle. The collar. The scrubbing. The sounds behind the door. The jealousy. The curiosity. The punishment.

As he spoke, his tone didn't dramatize it. If anything, it was restrained. Too restrained. Like he was trying to present evidence rather than emotion.

I listened.

When he finished describing the execution, he finally looked at me.

"I woke up ashamed," he admitted. "Not because I died. Because I cursed fate instead of admitting I was stupid."

I said nothing.

He swallowed.

"I've been feeling that way for a while."

"Feeling what way?" I asked quietly.

"Inferior."

The word didn't land like an accusation. It landed like a confession carved out of his ribs.

"I didn't used to," he continued. "When we first met, you were just… you. Smart. Weird. Calm. But normal. And then things changed. You changed."

His jaw tightened.

"You always have an answer now. You always seem two steps ahead. You handle things I can't even process. You stand in front of the class and people look at you like you're inevitable."

I almost laughed at that, but the sound died before it formed.

He stepped closer.

"I started comparing. And every time I did, I came up short."

"That's your perspective," I said evenly.

"It's reality," he shot back, though there was no heat in it yet. Just frustration. "You're… Sebastian, you're incredible. You know that, right?"

I didn't answer.

Because what was I supposed to say to that?

He exhaled shakily.

"I hated that I felt small around you. I hated that sometimes I'd see everyone gravitating toward you and I'd think—what am I even doing here? What's my role? Comic relief?"

"You're my friend," I said.

"I know."

His voice cracked slightly.

"That's the worst part. I know you never tried to overshadow me. You never mocked me. You never flaunted anything. You're just… you. And somehow that makes it worse."

I let the silence stretch.

If someone as amazing as him had been my friend—if I had been weaker, less certain, less… whatever I was becoming—I might have felt the same way.

Jealousy wasn't clean.

It was ugly and quiet and persistent.

"I don't blame you for that," I said at last.

He blinked. "You don't?"

"No. I'd probably feel the same."

He stared at me like I'd just handed him something fragile and unexpected.

"But," I added softly, "feeling something and acting on it are different things."

His gaze dropped again.

"I know."

There it was.

The weight hadn't lifted. It had only shifted.

"I've been jealous," he continued. "Not just of your… abilities. Of your life. The way things fall into place around you. The way people—"

He hesitated.

"Say it," I said.

"The way Belle looks at you."

The name hung between us.

I kept my expression neutral.

"I had a crush on her," he said quickly, as if ripping off a bandage. "I still do. I think I always will, at least a little."

That didn't anger me.

It was predictable. Belle was extraordinary. It wasn't a crime to admire her. To want her.

Even I had wanted her before anything had been certain between us.

I nodded once.

"I figured."

He laughed weakly. "Of course you did."

"It's not a sin to have feelings," I said.

He inhaled slowly.

"That's not the part that's rotting me."

My eyes narrowed slightly.

"What is, then?"

He looked up again.

And something in his expression shifted. Something darker. Less ashamed.

"Sometimes," he said, voice dropping, "I imagine what she looks like when she's not Vice-Principal Ardent. When she's just… a woman."

My posture stilled.

"That's natural," I said carefully. "Attraction isn't criminal."

He didn't stop.

"I imagine what she sounds like when she's not composed. When she's not in control. When she's—"

"Xavier."

He continued anyway.

"I imagine you not being there. I imagine you failing. I imagine her realizing you're not enough. I imagine—"

My eyes went cold before I consciously decided they would.

He swallowed but pushed forward, as if determined to finish even if it cost him.

"I imagine every night that you two aren't happy. That it falls apart. That she sees you the way I see you sometimes—too much. Too overwhelming. And that she—"

"Stop."

The word was flat.

He froze.

The classroom felt smaller.

"You're not angry about the crush," he said, almost defensively. "You said it yourself. Feelings aren't a sin."

"You're right," I replied, my voice level enough that it surprised even me.

He relaxed half an inch.

"That's not what made my expression change."

He frowned slightly.

"Then what?"

"You wishing for my relationship to fail."

He opened his mouth.

"And the way you talk about her," I continued, cutting him off. "Like she's an object in your fantasies instead of a person."

His jaw tightened. "Don't twist it."

"I'm not twisting anything."

"You think you own her?" he snapped suddenly, frustration finally surfacing. "You think just because she chose you, no one else is allowed to think about her?"

"That's not what I said."

"You're acting like I committed a crime."

"You didn't commit a crime," I replied calmly. "You committed something worse."

His brows drew together.

"You let your jealousy rot into resentment."

He flinched.

"And then," I added, my tone cooling further, "you nurtured it."

"That's not fair."

"You told me you imagine us unhappy every night."

He didn't deny it.

"You told me you fantasize about her being disappointed in me."

Silence.

"You told me you wish I wasn't enough."

His fists clenched.

"Because sometimes you're not!" he burst out. "You're not human, Sebastian! You don't fail. You don't hesitate. You don't look lost. How am I supposed to stand next to that and not feel like debris?"

The word debris echoed faintly in the empty room.

I stared at him.

"You think I don't struggle?" I asked quietly.

"Not the way the rest of us do."

"You think I don't doubt myself?"

"You don't show it."

"So because I don't bleed in front of you, I don't bleed at all?"

He didn't answer.

I pushed off the desk and stood fully upright.

"You being insecure is not the problem," I said. "You being jealous is not the problem. You wishing you were in my place? Still not the problem."

He looked confused.

"The problem," I continued, "is you choosing to feed the ugliest version of those feelings."

His expression hardened.

"And what was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn't feel them?"

"No," I replied. "You were supposed to confront them before they turned into this."

He laughed bitterly. "And what is this, exactly?"

"This," I said evenly, "is you admitting you lie awake hoping your friend's happiness collapses."

The words landed heavier than I intended.

He recoiled slightly.

"I hated myself for it," he said.

"Good."

He stared at me.

"You should."

His face paled.

"I came here to be honest," he whispered.

"And I'm responding honestly."

His breathing quickened.

"You don't get to stand there like some moral monument," he snapped. "You think if the roles were reversed, you'd be perfectly noble?"

I held his gaze.

"Yes."

The certainty in my voice shocked even me.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Of course you would."

"This isn't about me being superior," I said quietly. "It's about lines."

He shook his head. "You're just angry because I said the quiet part out loud."

"No," I corrected. "I'm angry because you said it proudly."

His lips parted.

"You didn't confess that as a plea for help," I continued. "You confessed it like a challenge."

"That's not true."

"Then why does it feel like you wanted to see if I'd break?"

Silence again.

That was answer enough.

My chest felt strangely calm.

Not explosive. Not fiery.

Just cold.

"You crossed a boundary," I said at last.

He stepped forward. "So what? You're going to punch me? Cut me off? Pretend I don't exist?"

I walked past him toward the door.

He turned quickly. "Sebastian."

I paused, hand resting lightly on the handle.

"I trusted you," he said, voice cracking. "That's why I told you."

"And I listened," I replied without turning around.

"Is that it?" he demanded. "You're just going to walk away?"

I finally looked at him over my shoulder.

"Yes."

His eyes widened.

"You don't get to poison my happiness and expect me to comfort you for it."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

The words were sharp now.

"You wished for my relationship to fail. You imagined her disappointed in me. You reduced her to fantasies. And you expected what? Understanding?"

He looked small again.

But this time, I didn't feel sympathy.

"I could forgive insecurity," I said. "I could forgive jealousy. I could even forgive resentment."

My grip on the handle tightened.

"But I won't tolerate malice."

"I didn't mean—"

"You meant it enough to repeat it."

His shoulders sagged.

"Sebastian…"

"Don't."

My voice flattened completely.

"Don't soften it now because you see the consequences."

The air between us felt like glass again.

"You said you felt inferior," I continued. "You said you hated yourself for it. That's something you can fix."

He looked up weakly.

"But wishing harm on the people who care about you?" I shook my head once. "That's something else."

Tears welled in his eyes, though he refused to let them fall.

"So that's it?" he whispered.

I opened the door.

"Yes."

He took a step forward. "You're really going to end it over thoughts?"

I looked at him one last time.

"Over intent," I corrected.

The hallway outside was quiet, the golden light dimming toward evening.

"Don't show your face to me again," I said coolly.

His breath hitched.

"And if you value what little remains of your dignity," I added, "reflect on why."

I stepped out.

The door clicked shut behind me with a soft, final sound.

I didn't look back.