His complete lack of control is interesting but not endearing. I look at him like a scientist looks at something under a microscope, like a biologist labeling the cross-section of a newly-discovered animal: perplexed, with deep focus, mostly objective. Like my interest in him is entirely scientific. Partially it is; I find it utterly fascinating that I have seen dirty street urchins with more control over their emotions (and their magic) than this, a man my age. Perhaps his growth was stunted as a child—emotionally, physically. Perhaps he was one of those urchins. Perhaps—
It does not even occur to me that this may be the way he wants to act. It is unthinkable that a person could be so uncontrolled on purpose.
But I am getting tired of observing. There are many reasons I did not become a scientist, and a lack of real care to wait and see results is one of them. Over the edge of the book, though I watch him: eyes bright, like amber clear and still, the pupils narrowing into concentrated slits. His magic has finally begun to recede, less lightning and more ripple. It sits on him thin as a veil.
Because of the way the light streams in overhead, I, and Andras, and all the world between us, has become a painting: oily and slick and warm, dappled by the pattern of shadows from the leaves, a shifting mosaic pushed around by the wind; I am normally not privy to such soft feelings about the beauty of the world—the desert has a way of beating it out of you—but for a brief moment I am quite enamored by the way it all looks, as if we have been taken right out of the Romantic era, where everything is soft and gauzy with suffused light.
His huff is cute. Although that is not typically a word I like to use. Endearing, or maybe it just strokes my ego—that with a few lazy words, an averted glance or two, I have managed not only to trap his attention but make him dependent on the attention I am giving to him. Now he won’t meet my eyes. His gaze is fixed on a bookshelf to my right, though there is nothing of interest to be found. It is entirely obvious that the only thing he wants to look at is anything that’s not me.
Slowly, deliberately, I climb to my feet. Smooth steps. A little roll of the shoulders, readjusting the linen on my spine as I stand fully and then stretch, playing at being feline. My stomach is helium-light and turning in my stomach like water over rocks. I feel a little light-headed.
But when I finally come to a full stand, still and straight-backed, chin jutted out stubbornly, the feeling falls right through me and disappears. I find myself a little disappointed.
“Pilate,” I say. Then I flash him a wry smile, a knowing, teasing, curl of just half my mouth, as if I am still deciding whether he is worth a whole grin. “I’d ask you yours but I know you’ll bite my head off.” I tilt my head in mock thoughtfulness. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Something like Romeo, or Prince Charming, since you’re so… sweet.”
By the last word I am half-laughing. There is too much space between us. I am beginning to itch, full of sharp desire, uncharacteristically impatient.
I step forward, just a little, because I am almost sure he will not push back.
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