Elchanan TELL THE TRUTH AND RUN
Elchanan is pleasantly surprised that the stranger meets his eyes so easily. Even through the thin glass of his spectacles his gaze is lovely and intense, and the archpriest’s smile deepens when Septimus tilts his head. Pretty boy —! They are opposite in ways that Elchanan finds ludicrously attractive — how tall he is, how perfectly lean, all the places he is dark where Elchanan is not. The clink of those bright green jewels against the smooth and perfect web of his antlers.
(Were Elchanan less self-assured, he might be jealous of the trinkets. As it is, he wonders if there is any way to distract Septimus enough that he could steal them for himself.)
The stranger turns, and Elchanan watches with a subtle tilt of his head, the little smile still on his pink lips. The sun streams down, coats the two of them in a warm kind of glitter: it turns the perfect ochre of Septimus’ hair to something brighter, softer, glints off the emerald that shines from his antlers, highlights the razor-sharp edge of his cheekbone. He wonders briefly what it would be like to see the future, then realizes he shouldn’t care. (Elchanan has never been one for love, or commitment, but neither of those things matter at the moment — it is just the two of them here in the library, close enough to kiss, and that is all that is worthy of thought for now.)
“Yes.” Elchanan offers nothing more in the way of explanation, just smiles. (It has always kept him out of trouble.) He is not sure he could explain what he is looking for even if he wanted to, and why waste time pretending he does? He watches the curve of the stranger’s lips, and for a brief moment it seems as though his teeth are sharp, like a faerie’s, like a wolf’s - he can’t help blinking in surprise — no, it must be simply a trick of the light. A moment, like many, where Elchanan’s want overtakes his realism. Anyway, the potential sharpness of Septimus’ teeth is nothing compared to the very real electricity of his wingtips brushing Septimus’ side, light as a breeze, hot as a fire.
He tries (sort of) to suppress a sudden, wolfish smirk. And fails entirely. It won’t matter.
The hallways stretch out in front of them, dappled alternatively in light and dark, in empty and dirt. Elchanan is suddenly glad they are the only people to be found in this particular stretch of the atrium: “Septimus,” he repeats with a practiced air of casualty, and pretends not to notice the way his shoulder bumps against Septimus’, then his hip, as they fall into an easy, almost-matched step. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” His dark gaze slips sideways to meet Septimus’ again. “I’m Elchanan. Nice to meet you - “
And turns his gaze back toward the passage ahead of them, as if utterly unconcerned with how the conversation proceeds. Though that couldn’t be farther from the truth. |
