Icarus, p.2
Icarus, page 2
Julian pushed the drink back, narrowing his eyes. “I’m going to stop bringing coffee if you don’t start doing your work. The Morning Person thing is obvious; that’s why I’m bringing it in the first place.”
Icarus nodded. “Okay. That’s fair . . . A bit . . . authoritative but fair.”
Julian smacked the top of Icarus’s hand when he wrapped it back around the cup.
“You’re too smart to become a fuck-up. Don’t be pathetic.”
Icarus was about to ask why Julian cared so much, but class was beginning to start.
Bide
The sun lit up the small curls on the back of Julian’s neck. His tag was sticking up out of his brown striped sweater.
Icarus leaned on his hand and stared.
Julian wouldn’t be angry if Icarus tucked it back in. He would probably just bat at his hand and say something snappy.
But if he touched Julian’s tag, he might accidentally touch Julian’s neck.
If he touched Julian’s neck, he would know what Julian felt like. If he knew what Julian felt like, Icarus was afraid he wouldn’t forget it.
Icarus didn’t get touched very often and the few times it happened by accident it felt . . . like so much. His face burned when someone handed him something and their fingers brushed. It made his chest feel tight and out of order, like the discord of strumming your fingers across all the strings of a guitar.
Julian scratched absentmindedly at the place where the thick fabric square irritated his skin but still didn’t push the tag inside.
Julian wasn’t mean but he wasn’t exactly nice. Icarus couldn’t just do things to him and assume he’d react normally. Julian was like . . . if someone had fused a bully and a nerd and a mom together into one. Unpredictable.
Luca
There was a track that circled the hill. You could travel it in a loop for the full gym period if you didn’t feel like playing. Icarus preferred this unless Mr. Collins specifically dragged him over to do team sports. Mostly because it was easier.
“Why do we always have to walk the mile?” Luca griped. “We could be playing kickball. You’re so freakin’ good at it.”
“You’re good at kickball too,” Icarus reminded Luca. “You could totally opt to not walk with me. That’s always an option on the table.”
Luca sighed dramatically and pushed his fingers through his wavy brown hair. “Whatever man. I’m fine on the field, but not crazy like you. I’m sure if there was an Olympic track for kickball, you’d get a scholarship.”
“This is better though. I like having at least one class where we don’t have to try our hardest and we can just wander outside for a while.” Icarus looked up at him, fondly.
Luca was quiet for a bit, gazing off at the other kids playing in the field. Then he pushed Icarus hard with one arm.
“Yeah yeah, whatever. Stop giving me doe-eyes or I’ll ditch you and join them.”
“I’ll stop doing it when you stop liking it,” Icarus shot back, with an eyebrow wiggle.
Luca huffed and pushed him again.
“You get on my nerves,” he said, the tips of his ears pinking. “Anyway. Are you ready to listen to what happened with Amber last night or do we have to do more manly bonding before you give me advice?”
Icarus listened. He thought about what Luca looked like at night, pleasantly drunk and laughing with everyone else. How he saved his memories of it for Icarus in third-period gym.
Celestina
Celestina was one of those popular girls who just did whatever she wanted whenever she felt like it.
He had to admit that it thrilled him. As they passed each other in the hallway, she yanked Icarus by his backpack and pulled him outside, right toward the parking lot.
“I wasn’t planning to ditch today,” he said, struggling against her grip.
“You look exhausted this morning so we’re taking a nap,” she announced.
“What?”
“You look like a wet ghost—haven’t you ever heard of self-care?” Celestina said, making a beeline for her pickup truck, which was parked all the way at the back corner.
Icarus stood there, overwhelmed, as Celestina tossed a blanket into the bed of the truck. Then she hopped in and turned to stare down at him expectantly.
“Get in, weirdo. I know you already have horrible attendance.”
Icarus scrambled over the side. “You don’t have to be like this.”
Celestina scowled. “I do actually.” She turned away from him to untie the sleeping bag she kept in her truck and unzip it into a fluffy comforter. “Lie down.”
Icarus scrunched low. Celestina tossed the comforter over them both and the world plunged into darkness.
“Mom-friends are supposed to be nice,” he muttered, shifting until he was comfortable.
“Niceness and kindness are two different things,” Celestina said, suddenly much quieter now that they were under the cover.
The small pricks of sunlight that filtered through the cloth cast her in a gentle glow. Celestina looked back at him with her brown eyes and brown skin, and Icarus thought of a painting of a sable in winter. She reached over and touched the neck of his sweater.
“All of your clothes are so soft,” Celestina remarked. “What fabric softener does your mom use?”
His sweater was cashmere, but Celestina’s truck was rusted and she colored in spots of wear on her boots with Sharpie.
“Downy,” Icarus lied. “And a cup of vinegar in with the wash. I do my own laundry.”
Celestina hummed and closed her eyes.
“I’ll have to try that someday.”
Icarus wanted to take off his sweater right then and there and give it to her. He wanted to buy her an entire new truck. Instead, he scrunched a bit closer and closed his eyes too. Helplessly.
Grit
The sound of wheels on pavement shook him from sleep and he struggled against the pull to consciousness.
Celestina’s arm tightened around the back of his head and he nosed deeper into the curve of her neck, falling back asleep. He had never been this warm in his life, had never been held like this—held at all. It felt like his bones were wrapped in a quilt made of sunlight.
Suddenly Celestina gasped and sat up, wrenching the cover off them violently. Icarus groaned and covered his eyes. There were students pouring out of the building and getting in their cars to head home.
“Oh shit, it’s after school?! I’ve gotta get to practice!” Celestina exclaimed. She frantically gathered the blanket and shoved it back into its pack. Icarus rubbed his face and curled up until he could rest his cheek on his knees as she scrambled.
“I’m sorry,” Icarus said reflexively.
Celestina stopped. Without warning, she grabbed his chin and turned his face around to look at him closely.
“Much better,” she declared. “Sleep some more later.”
Icarus did all he could not to gasp and shiver. The press of her thumb and forefinger against his skin reverberated down his entire body like an electric shock. The lax, easy acceptance of touch he’d been granted in half sleep was gone entirely.
When Celestina let go and turned from him, it felt like being dropped into the middle of a snow storm without a jacket. He pressed his fingers hard into his thigh to ground himself, gritting his teeth.
“You can stay if you want. I can give you a ride home with the rest of the girls if you wait an hour,” Celestina said, oblivious.
“N-no. I’m good. Thanks for the nap,” Icarus stammered as he pulled himself up out of the truck. Celestina grinned, gave him a friendly slap on the back, and jogged off toward the school.
Icarus watched her go. Then, he stretched his aching back and started the long walk home.
Trick
It was Icarus’s job to do laundry for his whole house. It was also his job to make dinner, tidy the house, and maintain the many ferns. Move the ones in darker rooms into the sun on a schedule. Clean the ashes from their altar.
It didn’t feel great that he had to do everything most kids would consider “mom stuff,” but at the very least his father didn’t march around the house creating extra messes for him to deal with. Angus contained most of his chaos in his workshop.
Icarus dropped his bag by the door, took a soda out of the fridge, and then started on the dishes. There was machinery whirring in the back of the house, and the air smelled sharp and chemical. His father was probably working on deglazing something wood.
Icarus turned on the radio by the sink to drown out the noise.
Rock
They lived in a row house on the third of four floors, with one long main hallway and five rooms branching off on either side. The first was his father’s vault, the second was the bathroom, the third was the storage room, the fourth was the supply library, and the last and largest room—the room that should have been a formal dining room—was the workshop.
It had large windows that Angus had painted over years ago. A door had been installed in what should have been an open welcoming space. There was a large expensive island in the middle of the room with a humidifier, dehumidifier, and air purifier. Several lamps lined the left wall, each with different types of bulbs and filters attached to them. There were shelves on the right, built painstakingly into the wall, to hold a selection of tools and chemicals.
Angus himself was standing at the table, wearing a heavy-duty mask, gloves, and a headlight.
Icarus grabbed a cheap disposable mask from the bin by the door and put on a pair of gloves. He wasn’t allowed in this room without them.
Angus poured a bit of liquid onto the painting he was working on, then gently scraped away at the yellowing glaze crusting the surface.
“How was school?” Angus asked, without looking up.
Icarus shrugged. “It was okay.”
The detail work on an ermine fur–trimmed purple dress revealed itself beneath his father’s expert hand. It wasn’t a painting Icarus recognized, but it was always fun to watch old lacquer get removed.
Angus painted only two things: commissions and portraits of Icarus’s mother, Evangeline. He was grand in his variety of course, painting her in different styles and eras, historical and modern. In watercolors, oils, acrylics, every expression, every gesture. Her face peeking out of all corners of their apartment, but always wearing green. Icarus could always tell when Angus was working on something for sale or preservation. Because it wasn’t her.
“I reviewed security footage from the cameras facing Black’s property. There have been no updates to his security system unless he purchased and installed it himself, and only indoors,” Angus said. “That’s not to say your concerns are unfounded. We have senses for a reason . . .”
Angus paused and pulled up the mask he was wearing so he could look at Icarus face to face.
“However, this is not enough of a hindrance to delay your next visit. The opportunity is too good and you’ll be making several trips,” he said.
“What would you do,” Icarus asked bravely, “if he caught me?”
Angus’s eyes narrowed.
“I would pick up whatever pieces he left of you and take them home.”
Spin
Icarus was furious.
Angus’s words circled in his head as he lay in bed. Over and over again.
Angus wasn’t a real parent. It was like living with a college professor that Icarus didn’t know or like. He was fair and could be gentle, but he was also cruel and thoughtless. He had no idea what to say to anyone he was supposed to love.
He wouldn’t have to pick up “pieces” if he cared enough about taking these concerns seriously, Icarus thought bitterly.
The fact that his father had said it unflinchingly, without hesitation. Like Icarus being a sacrifice was an acceptable ending to any plan.
For a man who didn’t have much, Angus wasn’t being that careful with what he had left.
Dry
When the itch under Icarus’s skin got bad, he climbed up to the roof to smoke.
The roof was flat, white, and industrial. The sides curled up in a way that caught rainwater and held it for days, and the edges were covered in pigeon poop, but it was as good a place as any. Since they weren’t the apartment on the very top, he’d had to negotiate with their upstairs neighbor to let him install a ladder on the side of the building.
Celestina would like it up here.
Icarus used to spend his nights walking the streets trying to make himself tired enough for sleep.
But the harsh wind and wide sky were enough to cool his blood, now that he was older.
Icarus smoked sage and clove. Angus didn’t like the smell of tobacco, and traditional cigarettes caused more noticeable damage on canvas than Icarus’s herbs ever would.
The flame in the dark and the smoke curling into the night were both, also, enough.
Icarus closed his eyes and touched where Celestina’s fingers had gripped his chin, but the magic was gone. His own hands didn’t feel the same.
Icarus took another draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke up into the sky. Then he reached behind his neck and grazed his fingertips across his nape, tickling the short spiky hairs where Julian had curls, and finally, he shivered.
Bone
Icarus awoke to yelling. He gasped to full consciousness, alarmed to find himself still on the roof. He scrambled down the ladder and hoisted himself back into the house.
“You’re going to be late.” Angus seized him by the arm and frog-marched him to the kitchen, where a bowl of oatmeal was waiting for him.
His clothes for the day were neatly pressed and folded on the table and his backpack was set out on the chair.
Angus scowled, huffed air through his nose hard in irritation, and then disappeared into his workshop.
Icarus hadn’t had oatmeal in ages.
Angus stopped making it when Icarus had gotten old enough to get himself ready. He’d also stopped ironing and folding Icarus’s clothes and bringing his school things to the front of the house. Then, after a while, he stopped cooking at all.
This morning, as uncomfortable as it was, felt like stepping back in time. Maybe some parents are better suited to parenting children instead of teenagers, Icarus thought. Maybe all they know eventually just runs out.
Even though Icarus was late and clearly in a bit of trouble, he savored the taste of his oatmeal and let the steam warm his face.
Strict
There was a test in first period, so Icarus and Julian didn’t get to talk much. Julian did tell him that his hair was sticking straight up and handed him a double-cream hot chocolate, but that was about it.
Aspen was in class today. She slung her backpack on the floor by Icarus’s and settled into the seat next to him instead of behind him like usual.
“Hey.”
Aspen was wearing her usual camo jacket and cargo pants. She smelled a bit musty, but for once Icarus didn’t mind. He was sure he still smelled like the outdoors himself.
“Where were you yesterday?” Icarus asked quietly.
Aspen shrugged and stared resolutely at her notebook. “Migraine.”
“You didn’t miss much. We’re on linear momentum and collisions now, but we barely started the chapter before class ended,” Icarus said.
Aspen nodded. She combed her fingers through her hair and began absent-mindedly twisting the ends. Icarus watched her. He wondered whether Celestina, Julian, and Luca felt about him the way he felt about Aspen: a mixture of curiosity and pity.
Icarus knew that if he didn’t talk to Aspen, no one else would.
More than that, it wasn’t a mystery as to why.
Aspen gave off very intense “stay away from me” vibes, in a way that Icarus sincerely hoped he didn’t. But that was also a thing they had in common. Aspen didn’t know why Icarus kept to himself outside of school, but she did understand both that it was important and that it wasn’t exactly what Icarus really wanted. Part of the reason Icarus liked Aspen was because it felt good that someone noticed this part of him. It was as close to knowing his secret as someone could get.
When the bell rang, Aspen stood up and faced Icarus directly.
“Some people saw you get out of Celestina’s truck with her,” she said bluntly. “You should get a handle on that unless you want attention from people like her.”
Icarus nodded and Aspen left.
Humdrum
He walked the mile with Luca and sat through the rest of the day without any issue, but still he felt anxiety creep under his skin.
Tonight was the first night of this multi-heist. He had two more before the week was done.
It went like this:
Mr. Black rarely moved his works unless he was selling them or he was adding something new to his collection.
So, Icarus would break in to take pictures. He would bring these images home and his father would study them. Angus would research their sale history and validate their origins. Mr. Black didn’t have many fakes in his home aside from theirs, but he wasn’t an infallible collector and a few slipped under even his watchful eye. Angus didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. If it wasn’t real, it remained untouched.
Then, his father would begin the reproduction. If it was a painting, there was print work involved and hideously expensive historical paints. If it was a sculpture, he would source marble, wood, plaster, gold, whatever was necessary. Depending on the piece, it could take months to complete a replica and cost thousands in supplies.
Finally, location of the work was vital to understanding how quickly Icarus could get in and out with a piece, and what tools he might need to remove it. The larger the piece, the more elaborate the break-in. Paintings were a swift in-and-out, one-and-done sort of job. Sculptures couldn’t be heavier than Icarus or Angus could carry one-handed and could only be delivered when Mr. Black was confirmed to be out of town.
