Old and Wrinkly

Elochian

I am lost in the moment.

Lost in the red and pink lights bearing down on Quentin.

Lost in his hair as it tosses back and forth, and the few strands sticking to his forehead.

Lost in his whole body as he plays, like he’s dancing in place. The way he throws his head back, exposing the strained tendons in his neck, and the hint of inky branches which tease the hollow of his throat.

Lost in the beat as it thuds throughout the shop, throughout my soul.

A hand rests on my shoulder, but I don’t flinch. Michael whispers, “You’re crying.”

I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve and say nothing, only continue watching. Primo is on the cello, and I don’t recognize the guitarist, pianist, or bass, but the entire group plays like they’ve been doing so for years. Quentin’s jacket was draped over his knee at the beginning of the set, but now it’s crumpled on the floor beside him. A sheer black blouse clings to his chest, and the puffy sleeves once cuffed at the wrists are now pushed up to his elbows. The frilly neckline draws attention to his Adam's apple, I’ve never noticed how prominent it was before until now, and I wonder what—

“Hmm.” I turn away.

Michael raises a brow, hand falling from my shoulder. They’re in a feminine elf form, dressed in casual clothes. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Completely fine.”

“Your—” They lean closer, whispering despite the fact the music essentially drowns all other conversation. “Your fangs.”

As much as I hate to, I leave the stage area in favor of an ice cold drink. Thankfully the snack bar is empty, everyone else is watching the musicians. Last I knew, Primo doesn’t play much anymore, and by the crowd’s reaction, that may still be the case. His main love is the cello, but he can play anything. Or maybe it’s Quentin they’re all fawning over. They’re all looking at him, and how could they not?

I drain a cup of water, then fill the disposable moss cup only to drain it again. I run my tongue over my teeth, and I wince upon drawing blood. They’re receding, if not slowly. Michael leans against the counter beside me, facing the opposite direction. “That’s new,” they say.

I sigh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Michael grins at me. “I’m proud of you.”

I raise a brow.

“Not about that. For bringing Quentin here. He’s having fun, when was the last time you saw him like this? And reconnecting with someone from your past, I know it’s been … well, you haven’t seen him in a while.”

I take another sip of water, but slower this time. The music changes tune, abandoned by the drums. Hesitantly, I say, “I used to come here all the time. It was my place before it was ours, but after he died, I couldn’t—it was too hard. But I think he would’ve wanted me to take it back.”

Michael’s smile softens. “And you’re doing okay?”

I open my lips, then pause when I see Quentin squeezing through the crowd, waving like a madman when he sees me. I exhale, “Yes.”

Quentin combs a hand through his wild hair, laughing a little upon joining us. I love his little laughs, how he can’t contain the joy inside him. I don’t know why, but the world stops right then for a moment. It replays in my mind, juxtapositioned by the images of him broken and bedbound, unrecognizable.

Oblivious to my plight, he restarts the world with a breathless question. “Hey, how’d I do?”

I reach for his hand, pulling him close when he obliges me. His eyes widen, and so does his smile. I whisper, “You’re brilliant.” I bend down, leaving a tentative kiss on his cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay till the end, I—I needed a moment.”

“That’s alright. Are you ready to go?”

I wince. “If I say yes, will you be disappointed?”

“Not at all. We can come back, right?”

I chuckle, disarmed by his eyes bigger than saucers. “Of course. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” He shrugs, his nonchalance betrayed by the way he licks his bottom lip. He glances at Michael, and winks. “Hi.”

Michael smiles, clearly pleased that Quentin recognized them despite the fact they’ve never used this particular form before. “Hello, Quentin.”

When Quentin unfolds his jacket, I wordlessly take it from him. He bites back a smile, saying nothing as I help him into it. I turn him towards me, buttoning it to his chin. The three of us take our leave, but instead of heading east to the trolley station with us, Michael goes the opposite direction. A few short minutes after we start our walk, a pigeon flies overhead. Quentin chuckles, shaking his head. We’re hand in hand again, and my heart is settled.

“How can you always tell?” I ask, looking over at him. 

“Oh,” he says, wrinkling his nose as he thinks. Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess if anything, it’s you. There’s a certain way you stand when they’re next to you.”

I stare at him. “How I stand.”

“Yeah! I don’t know.” He laughs abruptly. “To be honest, it’s like the stick comes out of your ass whenever he’s near, and your wings don’t shake as much.”

I laugh too, unable to stop it. “Oh, I see how it is. You think I’m stuck up.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that! You’re just … there’s two sides to you.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “There’s Lochian, then there’s Elochian. He brings out the first one.”

I bump him back. “You do too.”

He winks at me. “I try.”

The sign marking the trolley’s stop is empty, and so is the covered bench. We take a seat, and I sigh upon meeting the warmed stone. Quentin clears his throat, then says, “So, Primo’s a demon, right?”

“He is.”

“But he said he’s not in your clan.”

I tilt my head, wondering why they were talking about the clan of all things. “He is not. When Primo moved here, he made it clear he wanted to be independent. Was the way he’d always done it, he said. To the displeasure of my council, I gave him my blessing. Back then, I lived for pissing them off. I think that’s why I loved going there so much. I enjoy music, don’t get me wrong, but … I don’t know, it’s one of those places you go for the people, if you know what I mean. Like Thitwhistle’s.”

“So if you said no, what would’ve happened?”

“Hm. Nothing really, but I imagine his business would’ve been greatly impacted. Being associated with a clan can provide luck and good fortune, and it’s frowned upon for celestials to go it alone, because why would you? As it is, I don’t think many of the older demons visit there, but the young ones don’t care so much about that kind of thing.”

“Wait—how old is Primo?”

“A hundred and … four? Somewhere in there.”

“And is he young to you?”

“...Yes.”

“Ah. I see.”

I study him for a moment, the crease between his brows, his foot quietly bouncing. I stare at our thighs, pressed against the other and playing host to our joined hands. “Does the difference in our ages bother you?”

He looks at me, incredulous. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” I swallow, squeezing his hand. “The only thing that bothers me is the obvious. I … I will outlive you, Quentin. If life has her way, I will outlive you a hundred times over.”

He flinches. “And you’re okay with that?”

I release his hand and wrap my arms around his shoulders. I pull him close to my chest, and he comes easily. He tips his head back, staring up at me. I whisper, “I will stay by your side as long as you will have me.”

In all seriousness, he asks, “Even when I’m old and wrinkly?”

I break on a small laugh. “Especially then.”

He smiles, but in a flash, nervousness takes back over. “Could we—I mean, I don’t know what your plan is, but do you think we could just … eat at my place? If that’s okay with you.”

I bury a spike of anxiety by kissing Quentin’s forehead, soft and slow. I lean back and say, “Of course. There’s a deli on the way that’s open all the time, we could get something there.”

Quentin hums, resting his head on my shoulder. “That sounds nice.”

We wait for the trolley in content silence, and I think that I could stay pressed against Quentin like this forever. I listen to the music and hooting and hollering coming from deeper in the End, nothing more than a distant echo, and I wonder if it sounds like this every night. Admittedly, I’ve never been further in than Primo’s, and the realization fills me with a sense of shame. There is a whole side to Levena I haven’t seen, and yet I’m supposed to be protecting her, all of her.

Quentin says, “What did he look like?”

The question takes me off guard, rendering me speechless. After a few seconds of stiff silence, I lift my thigh and reach into my back pocket with my free hand, retrieving my wallet. I flip the bi-fold open one handed, revealing a worn picture on the inside. Quentin’s fingers gently rest over mine, and he brings the photograph closer to his face.

We were no older than Quentin is now, River Street was at our backs and the blinding summer sun was in our faces. He preferred his mayim form, and was fully shifted in the picture. Smooth, jewel toned skin with thick, ruffly gills on either side of his throat. Thin, branching horns of diamond crowned his head, and they continued down his neck and spine. Only the tips of the silver shomer marks are visible in the picture, he was dressed in a formal outfit, the same as I. His hair was the deepest blue I had ever seen, with too much vibrant hue to be called black, and he always kept it in a tight knot at the back of his neck.

“What were you doing?” His thumb sweeps over my face in the picture. “You look so happy.”

I chuckle softly, unable to help myself. “Ah, it was the day the new tunnel was built, the one that connects River Street to Syorini Lake. This was taken before the ceremony, which explains why I’m smiling in this one.”

“I have noticed you tend to have resting bitch face when it comes to pictures,” Quentin teases, then blinks up at me. “Do you … could you tell me more about him?”

“Yes, I think I could.”

Quentin falls asleep on my shoulder on the way back to his apartment, and I don’t have the heart to wake him up. He snores, and it’s so soft that the trolley nearly overtakes the adorable sound. I hold him close to me, fighting my own heavy lids. I focus on his scent, which isn’t hard to do considering he broke into quite the sweat while playing. Tonight he reminds me of an open pasture full of wildflowers, the same bright color as his eyes. It’s a welcome thought, especially as snow curls into the air around us with a vengeance. I watch the lights of the trolley play on his face, the way they skip over the bridge of his nose. It's a solid, strong line, one that appears unbroken. Gently, I trace my finger down the length of his nose, then along the place in his cheek where smiles grow. I stray towards his lips, but my hands falls before making contact.

We're in public, after all.

Tonight went so much better than I thought it would. I never expected to make it inside Primo’s, and yet we stayed there for hours. Reuniting with the shedim injected gold into the cracks inside my heart, and so did unloading memories and sentiment into Quentin’s waiting heart. I thought talking about an old partner would be … well, not a good thing to do, but Quentin seemed to truly enjoy talking about Bartholomew, and my life with him before.

And then there’s the fact we’re officially boyfriends. It feels like such a minor word for what we are, but I’m afraid calling us anything else will scare Quentin away. Tonight was our first date after all, and in the grand scheme of things, we haven’t known each other that long.

I know there are things he isn’t telling me. He hasn’t opened up to me, not fully, but I can’t blame him. On the surface, his past appears to be a bomb of trauma, so how much lays underneath? But I am a patient man, and I will be ready when he is.

When we come to our stop, he still doesn’t wake. Only when I cradle him in my arms and carry him off the trolley does he stir, but that’s only to nuzzle his face against my chest. Satisfaction warms my heart at the action, and I easily carry him home. Michael emerges from the shadows in his preferred male shedim form. He smirks upon seeing us, but says nothing.

“His keys are in his coat pocket,” I whisper, and as a team we manage to make it inside Thitwhistle’s without waking Quentin up. Michael locks the back door behind me, and offers to take Quentin from my arms when I shift his weight. I shake my head, so Michael wordlessly leads the way upstairs, unlocking Quentin’s apartment for me.

I’ve been in his cozy apartment a couple of times, but never farther than the foyer which separates the kitchen and small dining area from the living room and office. He’s only been in here for a few months now, but the open spaces are not without his personality.

A vintage loveseat is neatly decorated with a knitwork blanket and frilly pillows, undisturbed and picture perfect. A series of mismatched, round windows and blown up illustrations of molecules occupy the wall opposite the couch, and a television set that doesn’t work. There’s knobs and a screen, but plants grow out of the back of it. Deep purple begonias accompanied by ferns that frame their companions like wings.

I direct Michael to Quentin’s room with a series of head nods, and he has to push on the door with some force to get it to swing inwards. For some reason the first thought I have is, ‘there’s a body behind that door,’ but the look on Michael’s face after poking his head through the frame is nothing but fond exasperation.

“Clothes,” he mouths, and I smile a little.

I’ve never been in Quentin’s room before, and I’m surprised by the state of it. The rest of his apartment is clean, well tended to, but his bedroom is a fucking disaster zone. Clothes on the back of the chair, on the floor, blanketing his bed. His box spring rests directly on the floor, and small paper wrappers pile up on the side not pressed against the wall. Glasses half-full of water, and mugs completely drained of tea, judging by the stains, litter the nightstand.

His alarm clock is an old style radio, and it plays a soft rock song. Michael clears off the bed, effectively sweeping everything into a pile at the foot of the bed, and the mountain is tall enough to reach the mattress. Revealed beneath the mess is a pretty quilt neatly made across his bed, shocker. Michael pulls the blanket back, then moves to shut the radio off, but I shake my head. I kneel on the mattress and gently lay Quentin down, rolling him onto his side in an attempt to free my arm trapped beneath his shoulders.

When I finally break free he reaches out, latching onto my coat. “Ungh, don’ go.”

I chuckle breathlessly. “Were you only pretending to sleep?”

He groans. “Please.”

I swallow thickly, glancing over at Michael. Except he’s already at the door, leaving me with a little wink and smile before disappearing. I sigh, then summon courage and carefully lay behind Quentin. I open my lips to tease him, but those soft snores start up again, and I wonder if he was only talking in his sleep.

Well, I’ll only stay for a little while.

Overwhelming heat rouses me from the fog, and when I open my eyes it’s only to become lost in Quentin’s, which are lazily focused on me. The corner of his mouth quirks, and he pulls up the blanket between us to hide it. The thick comforter is big enough to cover us twice over, and it provides a sort of blanket wall between us. I’ve still got my jacket on, and so does he, although we’ve both lost our shoes.

He says, “You’re in my bed.”

“I—I didn’t mean to. I’ll—”

“No, it’s okay.” He reaches for me, taking hold of my shirt. The blanket wall collapses, pushed down by his outstretched arm. “I don’t mind, is what I mean. Unless you want to go.”

I reach out from beneath the blanket to run my fingers up and down his arm, from wrist to elbow. “What time is it?”

He swallows, then chuckles nervously. “Come on, isn’t this your superpower?”

“Not when I first wake up.”

“Fair. I have no idea, only that it’s still night.” He nods to the window at the head of his room. I glance over my shoulder to peek at the slightly ajar curtains presenting a sliver of the world outside. No twilight or dawn on the horizon, only pure darkness. My wings ache, and I have to shove away part of the comforter weighing them down. They stretch out, then relax once more against the bed.

“They don’t glow at night,” he says, followed by a curious hum.

“What?” I turn to him, only to find him falling back into sleep. In an act of pure selfishness, I gently poke his calf with my foot. I realize my boots are off, and I distantly wonder how that happened. When my sock brushes against his knee, he stirs.

“Hm?” Eyes closed, he moves to push his glasses up his nose, but I took them off earlier and put them on a pillow. He settles for swiping hair away from his eyes. It’s all mussed, and damp strands stick to his forehead. His eyes blink open, showcasing pastures veiled in early morning fog. Bits of sleep dust cling to his eyelashes, and I carefully wipe it away.

“You were talking about my wings.”

“Oh, yes. They’re so pretty, and unique. Like a snowflake.” He gasps, eyes widening. He whisper-shouts, “Elochian!”

“What?” I whisper back through a laugh.

“That should’ve been my nickname for you. You’re my snowflake.”

I make a face. “I’ll be your sunshine all day long over that.”

“That’ll have to do,” he says, his smile languid and peaceful.

After a moment I whisper, “I’ve never seen you without your glasses. Can you see me?”

“Always.” He blushes, fidgeting under the blanket. “I mean, up close like this, I can.”

A realization dawns on me, and I smirk. “You were watching me in my sleep.”

“I was n—okay, I was. Can you blame me?”

“I suppose not.” It’s my turn to pull the blanket up to my face, hiding away my nervousness. “Did you have a good time tonight? Was it too much?”

“No, it was perfect, absolutely perfect.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. One minute I’m on the trolley with you, and the next I’m here … with you. I thought I was dreaming, to be perfectly honest.”

A huff of embarrassment disguised as a small laugh escapes me. “I’m not a dream.”

Quentin lifts a shoulder, lips opening and closing a few times before he finally says, “You are to me. A very nice dream. I—it feels like this is all too good to be true. Like at any moment I’m going to wake up.”

I shift a little closer to him, and my knees bump into his. “I’m not going anywhere, Quentin. I promise.”

A glimmer of excitement alights his eyes, then he inhales sharply through his nose. On a breathless exhale, he quickly says, “I need to tell you something first, before you make that promise.” He falls quiet, averting his eyes to the blankets between us. His fingers dance beneath the heavy fabric, his nerves evident in their tempo.

I tentatively explore the unknown, seeking him out. When my fingers brush against his, Quentin looks up at me, surprised, then curls his around mine. Quentin holds onto me unlike all the times he has before, desperate and worried, and I wonder how many ways there are to hold someone’s hand, to express your feelings, your affection, only through your palm and fingers.

I say, “Quentin, I will always listen to whatever you have to say, but you do not owe me anything, you don’t have to—”

“No, I do,” he says, closing his eyes. He gives my hand a little shake. “I really do.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

He chews on his bottom lip, then says, “You remember when I said I haven’t really been in a good relationship before?”

Flashes of him in a hospital bed. Bandages soaked through. Bones. Broken, so many of them. An accident (but was it really?). With as much calm as I can muster, I say, “Yes.”

He opens his eyes then. “It was … it started when I was in school. He was a dropout, I was the gifted kid. I—I don’t even remember how we met, I feel like I should, but … maybe I blocked it out, I don’t know. But we were friends for a long time before we were anything else, and I can see now that he was—” He grimaces, fingers tightening around mine.

“He was molding me into exactly what he wanted. My mother … she had a plan for me, one I wanted no part of, and I saw him as a way out. I was graduating early, so why couldn’t I live on my own? I ran away, and for a little while it was exactly what I wanted. He treated me like I was everything. Then … I saw him for what he truly was. A monster.”

I press a gentle kiss to his knuckles, and Quentin gives me a watery smile.

“It was too late. My mother exiled me, and I was completely dependent on him. I decided to bide my time, do what it took to make him happy until I could leave, run away again. But I—I had to do things, Lochian, things I am still ashamed of, things that I will never be able to forget. Believe me, I’ve tried. But I can still see them, the people, the—”

He shudders, closing his eyes. I cup his cheek, and he flinches when my skin meets his. When my hand starts to fall away, he presses his cheek to my palm, keeping his eyes firmly shut. We stay that way for a moment, and when he opens his eyes again there’s resolve there.

“The point is, I ran away. Again. But this time, I fled hundreds of miles, zig-zagging my way through the country until I came here, to Levena. I had connections here, as threadbare as they were, but it was enough to start a new life. Eduardo gave me a part-time job while I attended university, and I started doing the things I loved again, and—well. He found me. Snared me with promises to do better, be better. And me, the idiot that I am. I believed him. Everything that happened thereafter was my own doing. A snake may shed its skin, but it's still a snake.”

“You are not at fault for a predator’s machinations. Even if you told him no, do you think he would’ve let you be? You think he would’ve been happy with that?”

“No, he wouldn’t have.”

A moment passes between us, heavy with the weight of the world.

I say, “What happened after that?”

Quentin’s nostrils flare, and his heart awakens. Its wild beat entwines with my own, and their persistent thrumming is the only sound in the world. He searches my eyes for a long moment, chewing on his cheek.

“I lost my job, graduated, and … later, by pure luck, Lindsey provided me a way out. I took it. I went back into hiding, doing my best to keep living because damn it I wasn’t going to run away again. But I never heard from him again, never saw him, and I got … complacent. Then, las—”

His voice cracks, but he soldiers on despite the new tears running freely down his cheek. “Last month, he came to my work. I—I didn’t see him, but he left me a message. Then, he—he followed us back here one night, Elochian. He’s seen me with you, and I wouldn’t put it past him to hurt you because of that. He’s jealous, and vindictive. Gods, I am so sorry. I should never have agreed to this, this was—”

I cover his lips with my thumb. I become temporarily overwhelmed by the knee-jerk reaction, and I clear my throat. “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please, don’t say it was a mistake. Don’t say you are a burden. If you truly wish it, I will return to arm’s length, but don’t push me to it in the name of protection. Haven’t we done that enough?”

“Have we?” he asks, lips trembling against my thumb. “I can’t lose you, Lochian.”

I surge forward, crashing into him. He grunts against my mouth, and his teeth nick my upper lip as we collide in a near miss. I release his hand, wrapping my arm around the small of his back while my legs bracket his hips. A thick laugh escapes him, and his fingers stroke through my hair. I can’t help but laugh a little too, and we try again.

I tilt my head, and kiss him.

He sighs, or maybe that’s me. Or maybe it’s the world exhaling, finally righting itself. The kiss deepens, our lips parting more with each push and pull, our bodies like the moon and the tides. He doesn’t give me his tongue, seeming content with this. A thought burns in the back of my head that perhaps he’ll become bored, but I smother it in another one of his tender, soft kisses.

I cinch the arm around his back tighter, bracing myself with a hand near his head, which causes his back to arch and—oh.

I break out of the moment, panting heavily.

“What’s wrong?” He whispers, wiggling in my tight grip. His eyes widen, and he goes incredibly still. “I—”

“I swear to Mithys if you say ‘I’m sorry,’ you’ll be in big trouble.”

He laughs abruptly, surprised. “I see how it is.”

I chuckle, shoulders relaxing a little. “There’s nothing to apologize for, it’s natural. I was surprised, that’s all. I … I hope you don’t take my own state personally.” I wince, wondering where the hell the weird spikes of arousal fueling my elongated fangs and morning wood are now. “It’s ha—okay, we’re not going to go with that. It’s difficult for me, sometimes …” I trail off, unsure what to say. Sorry, hope you’re okay with defective equipment?

Quentin smiles. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. Do you like kissing? Is this okay?” He lifts his head a little, nudging my nose with his. “I can, erm. We can resituate, if it makes you more comfortable.”

I smile, too. “Kissing is perfect. We can figure out the rest as we go, how’s that?”

“I like the sound of that.”