[P] ninety-nine problems

[Andras]

and i was a hand grenade
that never stopped exploding

Of course--the snakes.

Now that he sees them, round scales glinting coldly in the lamplight, or the cold winter sun, it is all he sees--their bodies swimming from sleep, curling lazily about the stranger's cheeks, glancing off the sharp curve of his jaw. Andras draws half a breath, watching them with pursed lips, wide, wide eyes and a body as stiff as a corpse.

The man says, Nothing. Why?

For a moment the hiss of the snakes meets the hiss of his magic and Andras has to swallow hard to keep it from pouring from him, faster and faster. He could fill this whole library with his magic, bring it down brick by brick, root by root, shelf by sturdy shelf. He thinks, now he is dangerous, enough to blow this man's wicked smile from his beautiful face, but not in the way that lions or gods are dangerous--like the queen of Denocte and her black hatred--but the way caged animals are dangerous, all claws and teeth and rage.

Teeth. Teeth that close tighter, but never tight enough. Claws. Hooves that root him to the wood floor that reflects his own ugly anger back up at him and his magic is banging, banging, banging at his doors like a rabid dog, all foaming jaws and bloody fangs. Rage. Rage that discharges in waves, pulsing down his spine, a pirouette from shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib to rib, hip to hip.

(Someone on the other side of the room gasps. There is a hurried sound, the bustle of several bodies fleeing at once. Those that don't are likely Deluminian, peering boredly over their books at their Warden, accosting another tourist in another dark corner of the library. Andras neither hears nor cares.)

Nothing. Why? Andras bites down on his tongue and snarls, "Perfect." This close--so close he can practically smell the white linen, the exotic spice of a wealthy Solterran household-- the light of his magic is reflected back at a thousand different angles from each scale on each bobbing snake and also the scales on the man's brow. The light in them shifts, a thin crescent rolling from one side to the other as the head tilts, the muscles stretch, and Andras' eyes slide up, up, until they are met with another pair, like molten gold, pupils like black holes.

He stares a little too long. Just a little. The hall casts long shadows over his dark back.
Andras asks, barely audible over the hum of his skin: "Why were you staring at me?"