Icarus, p.14
Icarus, page 14
Sorrel kept up a quiet conversation about the giant party they were planning for his grandmother, and Icarus listened. Asking him leading questions to make him talk more.
He was calm with Sorrel. It was like being in a Beatrix Potter novel with little squirrels doing laundry and rabbits mending fences. Sorrel didn’t ask anything of him, and as delightful as it was with Celestina and Luca, Sorrel didn’t pressure Icarus to do anything, he just trailed next to him timidly. It was relaxing.
Sorrel lived in a house that looked like a cottage, with white shutters and brown wood slats. It smelled like baking bread when they went in and ivy was climbing the windows.
Sorrel’s grandmother was ornery and demanding, but she had Sorrel’s dishwater eyes.
She sat, large and imposing, swaddled in a crochet blanket on a pink seersucker couch. Her white hair lit orange in the golden hour sun.
“Where did you find this one?” she asked her grandson, voice soft as the rushes.
Sorrel, who was sitting behind him eating chips and watching, just shrugged.
Icarus spent an hour filling in her hollows and crests in lead, then sprayed the paper with some heavy-duty hairspray borrowed from the bathroom.
Then he gently placed the paper in her trembling hand.
Her eyes flicked up at Sorrel, who went to the back of the room to figure things out in the kitchen.
“Salieri,” she said, jutting her chin at Sorrel.
One of Mozart’s rivals. A cruel word.
Icarus urgently didn’t like this woman.
“Haydn,” he countered. “It was lovely to meet you, ma’am.”
Sorrel’s grandmother leaned back to glare at him, but didn’t say another word.
Ambrosia
Sorrel’s mom worked nights, but before she left she had prepared a small tea party for them. Finger sandwiches, a few shortbread cookies with jam, rolls of ham and cheese, cream in a little carafe, water just boiled on the stove. The choice of Earl Grey or English breakfast, both decaf of course.
Sorrel seemed a bit embarrassed, but not so much that he wasn’t grateful.
Icarus, on the other hand, was thrilled. It was adorable. If this was Luca’s house he would have begun making fun of him immediately, but he couldn’t do that to Sorrel, so instead he just glowed with delight.
They moved to the back porch to eat, leaving Sorrel’s grandma inside.
“She’s not very nice,” Icarus said immediately.
Sorrel just shrugged. “I think she thinks she’s being encouraging. Tough love generation and all that.”
That would make sense. He wished he had as easy of an excuse for his dad.
“So . . . Mina Silvestri . . .?” Icarus started. He felt nosey about it, they would be a weird couple.
Sorrel made a few expressions before taking the bait. “She used to live a few houses down from me. I like her energy? She’s full of . . .”
“Pep?” Icarus suggested.
“Confidence. I wish I had her confidence,” Sorrel said, popping a cookie in his mouth.
“She’s . . . certainly something. She was at the party I went to. She dragged her nails across my face and tried to hand-feed me a sandwich.”
Sorrel laughed and Icarus realized it was the first time he’d heard him do that so openly.
“Hmm. Yeah,” he said when he finished. “That’s what I like about her.”
Icarus gazed at Sorrel and the lavender glow on him from the setting sun.
He pulled out his phone and texted Celestina for the first time.
Icarus: Hey Celestina, this is Icarus. I made a new friend and I want you to meet him. Is that ok?
Celestina replied immediately.
Celestina: What? Yes. Omg yes. Who is it?
Icarus: Sorrel McAllister. Sorrel’s into Mina, so he’ll probably want to talk about that.”
“What are you doing?” Sorrel asked, peering over Icarus’s shoulder.
Icarus let him. “I’m setting up a hangout with Celestina, you, and Luca maybe, if you want.”
Sorrel locked eyes with him. “You don’t have to do that for me,” he said seriously.
Icarus leaned back and met Sorrel’s resolve equally. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”
Sorrel broke their connection and looked out toward the grass, the wildflowers at the edge of his yard, and the sun glowing red in a sea of indigo.
“I don’t like to owe people,” Sorrel said.
That, Icarus understood.
He picked up a cookie. “You don’t owe me anything. Consider it payment for this.”
Choke
Sorrel was busy every day of this week, but would be available while Icarus was busy at Helios’s. Luca and Celestina decided they would meet up without Icarus, then do something together when he got back.
Now all Icarus had to do was figure out how to ask his dad about taking time off.
He had missed school pretty regularly for years, but it was always for something his dad wanted to do, never him. And even then, not for vacation, only work trips.
Even without the torque, Icarus had enough money saved up to buy a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, twice over. Not needing to ask his dad for money or help before leaving wouldn’t be suspicious.
He waited until Friday to bring it up, watching his father’s temperament closely.
Cotton
Angus was in the workshop doing something noisy, again. Perhaps making paints.
They had rows and rows of shelves of paint and dye, oil, latex, acrylic, watercolor, gauche, encaustic. But historical paints, organic paints, would occasionally have to be made from scratch the hard way.
They’d had plants drying in the sun for weeks, packages showing up from China, Egypt, Brazil; the room smelled sharply of piss from the Indian yellow sitting innocently in a lump. Somehow still making the space reek from inside a sealed box.
Angus was grinding for aquamarine when Icarus approached him from behind.
“Respirator, Icarus,” he called, somehow hearing footsteps over his own noise. Icarus put the regular hospital-style paper mask down and picked up the heavy-duty respirator mask with big plastic filters on the sides and the accompanying goggles. He also slipped on a pair of gloves. Icarus hadn’t been planning on assisting, but he knew his father’s wrists were starting to hurt. He had begun wearing his braces again.
“Vine black, if you’re helping,” Angus grunted.
Icarus crossed the room and opened the fridge. Vine black was charcoal made from grape vine twigs, and they only made it in small batches. He pulled out a large Tupperware container and removed a few tablespoons. Then he grabbed the glass muller, a large piece of sheet glass, and the linseed oil Angus had made a few months ago.
He set himself up, sifting the powdered charcoal until he was left with a fine dust. Icarus poured the charcoal onto the glass pane and introduced it to the linseed. He didn’t begin to speak until he and his father were both mixing at the same rhythm.
“I want to take a trip next week,” Icarus said. “I need you to sign me out of school.”
The charcoal was still gritty beneath the glass muller, but it would be smooth soon. He rubbed it faster.
Angus was quiet for a bit. “Do you have any work or projects that would coincide with this absence?”
“No.”
They ground together while Angus thought. Icarus looked down at his work, refused to meet his father’s eyes. The charcoal needed more linseed, but if he ground it like this, sticky and black, it would go faster. It was a cheater’s technique.
“Do you need to take anything with you? Any weapons or gear?”
“No, sir.”
Icarus’s goggles were fogging, he must be sweating beneath them. He could feel his father watching him.
“I . . . need some time away. I’ll be back by Sunday morning for church.”
Angus had stopped grinding, but continued again.
“You are nearly a man grown,” he said, echoing his earlier words. “There aren’t many places where you haven’t been. Or many places where you couldn’t go.”
Icarus stayed quiet.
“You’ve never asked for this,” Angus continued. “You’ve also never let me down.”
The pestle swirled like a metronome. Icarus added more linseed and swirled the paint counterclockwise.
“You can go. Bring me back something beautiful if you can.”
“Thank you, Dad.” A drop of sweat from his hair landed on the glass pane and he swirled it in with the rest.
They sat in silence for the rest of the time, until Icarus bottled his paint in a small silver tube.
Until his glass pane had been washed, rubbed with alcohol, and washed again. Until he had brought the pane, linseed oil, and glass muller to his father’s side. There, he lingered for a moment.
“Can I . . . buy something from you?”
Chateau Latour Bordeaux
Icarus carried the bottle of wine from his father’s workroom to his closet.
He wrapped it in gauze and placed it at the bottom of his backpack.
Rush
It was midnight when he arrived. Backpack full of clothes and proper climbing gear.
Icarus thought for a moment about using the front door, wished this once he could. But he didn’t.
Helios was sleeping when he got there, back to the window and snoring lightly. Icarus slipped into his room, quiet, thief-like, and took off his climbing gear. He put on a T-shirt and black sleep-shorts.
“Helios.”
Helios didn’t move, just sighed in his dream.
Icarus crawled into bed beside him, close enough to touch but not bridging the divide. Curled toward his warmth and closed his eyes.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
Helios turned over and breathed into the dark.
Orion
The light was different, behind his eyelids. Icarus’s room was always dark in the mornings, but Helios’s room in the Black house was awash with sunshine. More than he ever imagined this room would get. He could almost smell it in the air.
Icarus stayed heavy and lax, sinking into the blankets like a warm snowdrift. The mattress was too soft beneath him, but the difference was good. It was how he knew he wasn’t home.
“Sweetheart.”
Icarus opened his eyes all the way.
Helios was brilliant in this sun. He had to shield his gaze against it. Had to look at the space beside him through the shadow of his own hand. Helios’s hair spilled across the pillow, violent, sanguine, eyelashes flax-gold. He was blood in milk, he was the skin of a Pink Lady apple, he was honey warmed in a hot spoon over tea. He was looking at Icarus lazy and indulgent. Not surprised in the least to wake up not alone.
He was three and a half inches away from Icarus’s shoulder.
And like a rush, the thought occurred to him: he had never seen Helios during the daytime.
“Here you are,” Helios whispered.
He reached across the forbidden space, fingertips hesitant. Icarus held his breath. Helios’s lips were chapped, he had a hangnail on his index finger, his T-shirt was gray, he had sleep in his eyes, and he was still . . . so much.
Icarus could feel himself breathing too hard. Being embarrassing, as Helios grazed his cheek.
“Am I allowed?” Helios asked, voice still rough from sleep.
Icarus closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded.
The Sky
Helios touched him tentatively. Brushing the pads of his fingers, kitten-like, over Icarus’s face.
He smoothed down Icarus’s eyebrows, over the crest of his nose, tapping just once on the tip. He skimmed the paper-thin skin beneath Icarus’s eyes, lilac with lack of sleep. He fit his index finger into the hollow beneath Icarus’s cheekbone, thumbed the generous swell of it. Dragged his hand down Icarus’s jaw, felt the cleft of his chin.
And Icarus, doing his part, tried his hardest not to vibrate clean off the bed.
Every gesture was like a crescendo in strings. His bones ached, settled like steel. His skin was so raw it nearly felt bruised. He wanted to arch his back and cry out, but he couldn’t do something like that for something as small as this. The reaction was too much.
“Oh. Don’t do that, please,” Helios whispered.
Icarus opened his eyes, confused, and saw a bit of scarlet on Helios’s finger. Helios reached out again and wiped the blood from where Icarus had been biting his lip.
“I . . . I don’t want to be loud,” Icarus admitted.
Helios wiped again, the edge of his thumb nearly touching Icarus’s mouth.
“Why not?” he said, effortless.
Why not.
Helios started again, trailing his finger from the peak of Icarus’s chin to the valley of his throat, and watched, riveted, as Icarus tilted his head back and panted. He curled his fingers in the sheets, twisting them, pulling them off Helios’s shoulder in his fervor.
“Good god. How do you even go outside?”
Icarus let out a helpless whine. “It’s . . . it’s . . .” not the same, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t.
Not with nails scratching against his collarbone, pulling at the neck of his shirt. Helios skipped across the cloth and started again at the gap of soft space on the inside of Icarus’s bicep. Strained tight.
Icarus let go of the sheet, and curled close around his arm, as if to protect it, but left it outstretched: hand open and shaking. Patient for exploration.
Helios settled his fingers into the hollow of Icarus’s inner elbow. Swirled around that spot to figure out the noise Icarus would make, then traveled farther down.
“Please please please—” Icarus found himself muttering, eyes growing wet, aching aching.
Helios hummed curiously and drew his fingers away.
Icarus took a moment to catch his breath. Sweat was beading on his hairline. No one had ever taken liberties with him like this. Even he couldn’t test his own limits like this.
“What does it feel like?” Helios asked.
Icarus looked up into Helios’s brown eyes and stayed—caught to the quick.
“Holy.”
Helios sat up in the bed, his broad back to Icarus, and wrenched his hands through his hair.
“I don’t deserve this,” Icarus heard him mutter.
Helios looked back at the mess he’d left behind. “I want to make you breakfast. Are you okay to get ready up here?”
Icarus nodded.
Helios got up, rolled his shoulders, and left the room.
Stark
Icarus’ brushed his teeth and washed his face in the bathroom nearest by. He had never seen this room before. There was never any need to be inside a bathroom when he visited this house.
He looked at himself in the mirror and just felt . . . insane.
His skin was still prickly and strange. He expected to see the trails Helios’s fingers had left reflected back at him. But there was no trace except in the flush of his own cheeks.
Icarus splashed them with cold water until that was gone too.
He got dressed quickly and followed the sounds of cooking down to the kitchen.
Burnished
Helios was making pancakes. He’d set the long breakfast table with plates and cutlery, putting his plate and Icarus’s next to each other instead of across from each other. There was milk and juice and empty glasses.
Something in Icarus’s gut tightened at the sight.
“Do you like bananas? I’m making like a caramel thing for them,” Helios said.
Icarus sat down to watch him. “Yeah,” he replied quietly.
Helios took their plates to the stove and brought them back steaming.
“I’m not amazing at cooking,” Helios said, sitting down. “But I’m amazing at this specifically. I can make a waffle and French toast version too.”
Helios’s bananas Foster pancakes were rich and buttery; the bananas were mellow and spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg. There was even a dollop of fresh whipped cream.
“Is this homemade too?” Icarus asked, poking his spoon at the topping.
Helios immediately looked bashful. “I made it yesterday before you came.”
Icarus smiled and sat back in his chair. Helios, clearly anxious, turned his attention away from him and ate a bit faster, so Icarus decided to let this one go.
“I usually go back to sleep for a while after breakfast,” Helios admitted.
“You can still do that. I’ll make myself busy,” Icarus said. The storage room was waiting for him.
“Will you leave?” Helios asked, warily.
Icarus reached out to finger the edge of Helios’s sleeve. Helios turned toward him, bending down, close enough to touch but just far enough that they didn’t.
“I’ll stay,” Icarus said.
Stress
Icarus ran his finger over the banister and thought about his own fingerprints. He sat on the stairs and wondered why Mr. Black didn’t have cameras inside. His eyes scraped the corners of the ceilings, but like always, there were no telltale glints or hunks of plastic.
He remembered the first night he’d felt like he was being watched, felt the air disturbed, because Helios was here. Like everything had shifted to follow his orbit.
Icarus left Helios to sleep and went to the back stairs. He couldn’t steal the gold torque during this vacation. After his brutal lie about only stealing art, Icarus couldn’t chance the likelihood that Helios would catch him stealing something for money. Or worse, find it stashed in his bag. He would have to come back.
More, he wasn’t exactly sure how to break it to Helios that he was leaving. Or how to ask him to come with him. Or if Helios even could. He had been planning this escape for himself for so long that making major renovations to it seemed unwise. Icarus really wasn’t the reckless type, he was cautious. Always.
