Page 65 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
“Auden, wait,” St. Sebastian says, suddenly desperate for Auden not to go but not knowing what to say to make Auden stay. “I—you don’t have to—”
Auden adjusts the collar of his coat and blinks at him patiently, waiting for him to finish. St. Sebastian reaches for something, anything to say, anything to justify keeping Auden here for another minute.
“What was the M for?” he says, knowing it’s stupid, knowing it might start a fight, and not caring. “Can’t you tell me now? Marmite? Moldova? Muppet?”
Auden’s mouth tips the very tiniest bit at the corner. A smile. He’d made Auden smile.
“No, Saint,” Auden says. “It wasn’t for Muppet.”
He’s still smiling as he leaves.
St. Sebastian has another weekend at the Two Bridges site, but this time he’s less anxious to avoid Thornchapel and the people in it, and so he almost wishes he had the time to go over and see them, to see Poe at least, who keeps sending him random, silly text messages throughout the days, pictures of her coffee or whatever she’s working on or her hair tangled and mussed after a long narcolepsy nap.
But he can’t, and he can’t see Auden either, and so he’s keyed up and nervous come Monday, because maybe Auden won’t come back, maybe it’s over, this strange little interlude of having Auden inside his life—
And then Monday comes, and Auden comes too, stepping in and holding the door for an older patron shuffling out with a stack of mysteries and old newspapers. He shows Auden how to sort through the book drop today, how to check in returned books and movies and audiobooks, knowing it’s technically against policy to have a non-employee doing this kind of work, but not really caring. His manager manages another, much larger, branch and is only in on Wednesdays, and also St. Sebastian finds it hard to care about rules and policies when Auden is next to him, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms and his brow furrowed as he scans the books in with as much focus as if he were doing load calculations for a skyscraper.
And after they’re done and the hour is up, Auden loops his scarf around his neck and waits expectantly at the door.
“Well?” he asks when St. Sebastian doesn’t say anything. “Don’t you have something to ask me?”
And now it’s St. Sebastian’s turn to smile—a small one, but a smile nonetheless. In his head, he is counting. One two three four—
“What was the M for, Auden?” he asks as he counts.
“Surely you have more guesses.”
“Mystery? Moor? Mini Cheddar?”
St. Sebastian is rewarded with a small noise that could be a laugh. “No, Saint,” Auden says, lips tilted even more at the corners. “It’s not for Mini Cheddar.” Then he leaves.
And that’s how it goes.
Augie gets a few more workers—enough that St. Sebastian is back to helping in the office alone—and so he’s able to see Poe again, he’s able to spend weekends at the house again, listening to the others chatter and bitch and squabble, thinking it’s the best sound in the world. And Mondays belong to Auden, who stays longer and longer at the library, who starts touching St. Sebastian in small, almost-incidental ways, which gradually morph into big, deliberate ways—just like when they were teenagers. Auden will hook a finger in his belt loop to move him out of the way, maybe, or step behind St. Sebastian as he’s shelving a book and cage St. Sebastian’s boots in on either side, the front of his legs almost brushing against the back of St. Sebastian’s as Auden slowly slides a book into its place. St. Sebastian has no armor for moments like these, and can only survive knowing they’ll end by closing his eyes and dropping his head, counting silently to himself as Auden touches him.
Even though they’ve been sexual together, have hand jobs and moments with Poe between them, this feels different, this feels like more. Not spontaneous lust, not hate-fueled need, but a seduction. Like Auden is purposefully and methodically seducing him—although more than once he sees a hungry glint in Auden’s eyes, a slight rapaciousness to his expression, and St. Sebastian knows that there’s something carnivorous and greedy burning underneath all that deliberate control.
He’s excited by it. He’s terrified.
Every Monday night ends with St. Sebastian guessing what the M meant all those years ago, and Auden telling him he’s wrong. Every Monday night except this one, the Monday before the spring equinox.
The weather has softened somewhat—tempering itself in fits and starts until finally it’s truly time to hang up the heavy woolen things—and so Auden doesn’t need to put on a scarf and gloves at the door these days. But still he stands there as he pulls on his jacket, still he listens and grins at St. Sebastian’s ever-wilder guesses about that damn M.
All week St. Sebastian tries to think of the most ridiculous answers he can—Marvel, Mars Bar, marmoset—just to see this smile of Auden’s, the smile so wide there’s no mistaking the crooked hitch in his upper lip, the smile that digs a dimple so deeply into his left cheek that all St. Sebastian can think about for hours afterward is licking it.
But something’s different tonight. He can sense it even before Auden begins buttoning his jacket, almost taste the change in the air. When Auden looks up at him, his eyes are more brown than green—dark and unreadable.
“Saint,” Auden says quietly. “Ask me.”
St. Sebastian takes a breath. “What was the M for?”
“First,” Auden says, leveling that inscrutable gaze at him, “I want you to promise me that you’re coming this Friday.”
“This Friday—oh. Right. Becket’s thing.” Becket had pointed out to all of them last weekend that the spring equinox was nigh; he wanted to organize a little party to set off across the moors to watch the sunrise between two standing stones at the ancient boundary of the Thornchapel property. “Yes, I’ll be there.”
Auden steps forward. Steps forward again until he’s right in front of St. Sebastian, so close that St. Sebastian has to tilt his face up just to keep his eyes on Auden’s.
He’s going to tell me, he thinks, almost dizzily. Eight years of wondering are finally going to end.
