Elochian
I bring my fist to Quentin’s door, and hesitate. I glance at the hearth at the end of the hall separating the apartments, its ashes are long dead and cold.
I breathe, but it does nothing to calm my heart or thoughts. I shake off the trembling energy building in my wings and curse the damn things under my breath. This is all my fault, I’ve failed Quentin, failed Arlo. Any place of mine should be safe, and instead I allowed the fucking enemy into our midst.
‘Lucas’ is long gone. The bar closed early, and so far there have been no leaks regarding the security breach. Based on the quick report from Michael on the way over here, I suspected Kavelli to be the culprit. There are very few shapeshifters in Levena, and he has the most motive to hurt me. But why threaten Quentin?
And then there’s the matter of what Arlo said downstairs.
“Quen is convinced that it was someone he knows, but the magick that subjugated him was Leon’s, without a doubt. Illusion work was one of Leon’s specialties, which explains the disguise, but he wouldn’t be able to perform magick without a body. I’ve suspected possession, but this is proof.”
“But why him? Why try to get to you through Quentin?” I ask, willing myself to remain in place, to hear Arlo out instead of bolting upstairs. “No offense, but you were right there.”
“I don’t know.”
The floorboard beneath me creaks, signaling that someone is on the other side of the door. Quentin throws open the door, dressed in a one piece … pajama-type outfit with a hood pulled up over his head. The entire thing is themed to be like a unicorn with soft white fur and a golden horn, complete with a black mane and tail.
He wields a long, steel baton like he might actually know what he’s doing with it, and he’s not wearing his glasses. He’s alert, but remnants of sleep linger in the dream dust built up in the corners of his eyes. His right cheek is flushed from laying upon it, and his dark hair is damp with sweat on that side.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” He asks, stepping forward to look past me into the hall. His knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip on the baton and the sight breaks my heart. Quentin blinks at me, finally lowering the baton. “What?”
I suddenly feel very foolish for taking so long. I step past him and he follows me in, confused. He shuts the door, setting the baton down against the wall. He opens his lips, and I kiss him. He grunts against my mouth, then chases my tongue as fervently as I do his. I take his face in my hands and breathe life and love into him, unable to find any words.
He laughs onto my lips. “I should have a near death experience every day.”
“Don’t say that,” I whisper, kissing him lighter than before. “I’m so sorry, Quentin. Please, forgive me.”
“Elochian, you’re not all knowing. It’s not your fault.”
“But I—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “Please, just come to bed with me. I’m tired, and I want to hold you. Can we do that?” He glances at the door, hand falling to his side. “Where’s Michael?”
I can’t help but smile at his concern. “Arlo gave him a key for next door.”
“Oh,” he says, cheeks darkening. “My couch not good enough for him anymore?”
I laugh then, unable to do anything else. “Afraid not. Do you … could I stay the night, do you think? My morning is blessedly open, and I thought we could sleep in.”
He grins, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of smile that’s as blinding as it is beautiful. He tries to play it off, but it’s already ingrained into my memory. “Um, sure. Just … wait here a second, will you?”
“Alright.”
Quentin takes off down the hall to his room, tail shaking behind him. I chuckle, overcome with adoration for those ridiculous pajamas and his wondrous, calming lips. Seconds later, several crashes and bangs echo throughout the apartment. Before I can ask, he calls out, “I’m fine!”
I shake my head, wondering how messy his room could’ve gotten since the last time I was here. It’s been less than a week, but it feels like ages. I’ve become accustomed to him, to this place. To peace.
While the couch and immediate living space around it is neat and tidy, picture perfect one might say, the corner of the room dedicated to Quentin’s desk is another story. I find myself wandering over there, peeking inside a half empty coffee mug and skimming over scraps of lined paper. Uncapped pens, and pencils with the erasers chewed off, are scattered all over the place. A long forgotten muffin hides beneath a stack of haphazardly stapled papers, and the words on them are dissected by red pen.
I lift my gaze to a corkboard on the wall behind his computer, finding maps of Levena, both old and new, and newspaper clippings. I frown, studying the almost manic hodge podge of information. I understand the articles, but why the maps? And why such old ones? I lift the corner of a piece of paper, revealing a scrap underneath covered in handwritten notes.
5012 - Leviathan
6000 - Thatch born
6017 - Formation of Min
6038 - The fire
6049 - Idina was born
8021 - Shedim Immigration
8085 - Formation of Adrastus Clan
8321 - Malakim Immigration
8502 - Formation of Haniel Clan
9011 - Dusan was born
9100 - Dusan’s parents left Levena, and Dusan opened the orphanage
9016 - First Game
9447 - Elochian’s parents died
9500 - Juniper Haniel died, last archangel
9518 - Arlo was born
9538 - First time they met, beginning of Arlo’s fight w/ Leon
9612 - Leon’s death
9619 - Arlo’s Attempt
9620 - Thatch’s return
9621 - River
Quentin’s footsteps sound and I casually walk back to where I was before, thoughts churning. Quentin comes out about the same time I make it there, and his bright smile falters upon seeing me. “What’s wrong?” He asks.
At this moment, I don’t want to talk about plans, propaganda, or mysterious maps. I don’t want to ask what the timeline is about, and why it holds the intimate details of not only my life, but our friends. I simply want to hold him, and be held.
“Nothing,” I lie.
Quentin stares at me for a moment, then takes my hand and leads me to his room. When we pass the threshold and I see the bed, I freeze. Quentin nervously looks between the mass of blankets and me, chewing on his bottom lip. He says, “I … if I had known you were coming, I could’ve made it better. But Michael said you sleep better in a nest, so I thought I’d try to make you one here. It’s—I can fix—”
“No,” I say, but I have to say it twice because emotion gets in the way the first time. “No, please. This is so thoughtful of you, I love it.”
Quentin’s eyes flash up to mine. “Yeah? You don’t think it’s lame?”
“How could I think that?” I take the initiative, carefully stepping up onto the mattress and into the deep nest of blankets, pulling him with me all the while. We sit opposite each other, and when I reach for the hem of my shirt, Quentin takes a gentle hold of my wrist.
“Lochian,” he says quickly, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Did I try to initiate sex or something? Do demons use nests to—Michael said—”
I laugh. “No. I—I thought we could sleep like this, if that’s okay.” My ears burn, and I hurriedly add, “But not entirely naked. Is that okay? Am I too much?”
“Oh,” Quentin says, his panic softening into tenderness. “No, Lochian. You’re never too much for me. I’d like that.” He swallows, looking down at his hand wrapped around my wrist still. “Can I … can I have a rule?”
I nod. “Of course.”
“Can you not ask questions?”
Bandages. Blood. Shattered bones. Unrecognizable.
I do my best to not let any of it show, having to focus on breathing like normal people do. In. Out. Don’t hyperventilate. Don’t hold your breath.
I say, “Anything for you, Dot.”
He smiles, relaxing a little. “In that case, can I … help you?”
I let go of my shirt, and he releases my wrist. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
Quentin shimmies closer to me, and our knees knock together. He reaches for me, trembling fingers dimly lit by the small lamp on his bedside table. The soft pads of his fingertips graze my sides when he takes hold of my shirt. Those nervous eyes lift to mine, and an unfamiliar sensation sparks deep within me.
My gums throb when he whispers, “Is there a trick to it? Your wings, I mean.”
My lips part, and I shake my head.
He slowly lifts my shirt over my head. My wings, flexible and pliant, slip through the holes in the back of my shirt, their origin hidden by a folded over hem. He has to get up on his knees to fully thread the length of my wings through, and I hastily run my tongue over my teeth, testing for sharp points.
I don’t cut myself, but it’s close. I’ll have to be careful. I’m aroused by Quentin more often in the safety of being alone than when we’re actually together, and even now it’s not … I’m not burning for him sexually, or maybe my body is, I don’t know. But in my mind, that’s not what I want.
It’s so frustrating, and I’m hopeless in trying to explain it to him. But I don’t feel panicked by the thought of his expectations anymore, at least.
Quentin sits back on his heels, his hazy eyes almost owlish as they traipse over my arms, chest, and stomach. He's always looks at me like I'm something precious, like all my imperfections are something to treasure. He smiles a little, fingers rising of their own accord to trail through the thick hair on my stomach. He blinks, remembering himself, and pulls back. “You can touch me there,” I whisper.
His smile returns, unsure. “Okay. Do you …” He tugs at the zipper of his sleepsuit, looking down before gazing back up at me. He laughs nervously. “I’m only wearing boxers under this thing. Is that alright?”
“Yes.” I reach for him. “May I?”
Quentin swallows, nodding. “Yes.”
I fumble the first time, but quickly recover. I clasp the cool metal between my fingertips and guide the zipper down. I wonder at how simple of a thing it is, a zipper. Something I thoughtlessly use everyday, and never with the care that I do now. As the teeth separate and the furry pink of the suit slackens, inches of pale skin and ink become known. I become distracted by the masterpiece beneath the fabric, and stop at his belly button.
Quentin begins to shrug the piece off, but stops when I rest my hands on his shoulders. An entire conversation unfolds through simple touches and skittering eye contact. My fingers gently squeeze his shoulders before sliding down an inch.
‘I can do that for you.’
His eyebrows lift. ‘Are you sure?’
I smile. ‘Yes.’
I shift the fabric down one sleeve at a time, marveling at his soft arms. At first I’m unsure what I’m supposed to keep quiet about, but then I see them, and another delay occurs as I try to figure out what they even are. Dozens of small burn scars, each one a perfect circle, litter the top of his shoulders from one side to the other.
Cigarette burns. He’s covered in cigarette burns.
I try not to pause for too long, but the way he stiffens beneath my hands tells all. With great difficulty I shift my attention down to the enormous linework tattoo on his chest, and my mind blanks as I realize what it is, what it truly is. Situated just beneath his collarbone is a dark brown birthmark in the rough shape of a crescent moon. A gnarled black tree originates from the twisted roots buried in his ribcage. Its dead branches cover his pectoral, and their tips surround the birthmark, highlighting it. I’d bet anything that’s his mark.
“Beautiful.” I look back up to him. “You’re beautiful, Quentin.”
He shrugs, tension loosening from his shoulders a touch. “Well I don’t know about that, but thank you.”
I rest my hand on his chest, over the heart of the tree. “I mean it.”
“Okay.”
The fresh ink on his left forearm is protected by a square of plastic, but through the clear wrap I can see bits and pieces of the new tattoo. I think of Quentin getting this alone, and my heart hurts a little.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You were busy.”
“I know, but …” I curl forward, bringing his arm to my lips. I leave a gentle kiss on his wrist, just on the other side of the tape and plastic. “It hurt, didn’t it?”
“Sometimes you have to endure a little pain before you get to the good part. Come on.”
Quentin kicks off the rest of his pajamas, and I leave my trousers on. He lays back on a mound of blankets, ones I’ve never seen in his apartment before. I pretend to be distracted by a snarl in my hair while Quentin shifts a free blanket onto his lap, his cheeks flushed as he subtly pushes down. Then he opens his arms to me, and my heart beats faster when they carefully wrap around my lower back, pulling our bare chests together. He whispers, “Is this okay?”
And I whisper back, “Yes.”
My wings stretch open, then relax on either side of us. Quentin’s chest rises and falls evenly beneath me, his skin hot and a little sweaty. He asks, “Do you want me to cover you up?”
I nod, yawning. “Mhm.”
I don’t move as he covers us up, and a pleased hum escapes me as we settle for the last time. Quentin’s breathing lulls me into that state between dreaming and awake, and I slacken in his arms. It’s not the first time we’ve fallen asleep this way, but something about tonight is different.
Like another wall has come down between us, but I’m unsure whose it is.
Sleep takes my hand, leading me into her black velvet depths. Before I fully succumb, Quentin whispers, “Your wings are so pretty.”