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Silas was well aware that Oskar Rex, the great brooding land baron who worked so closely with lord ByeWill had deep pockets.
Oftentimes Silas would find bottles of expensive wine at his doorstep–packaged in wonderfully deep red bottles topped with a black lace around the neck. They were much more expensive than anything Silas would ever buy. The gifts never stopped there though; Silas would usually find his mailbox full of handwritten letters, or receive calls telling him that he was booked for an all expense paid journey across the continent. But it all made sense–after all, Rex was a land baron.
One drowsy morning, Silas awoke to a knock at his door; opening it revealed a fellow dressed in a stained brown coat along with a darker brown dress shirt. He said little, only offering a friendly smile and a hand as he presented a letter.
Before Silas could even touch or read the letter, he knew it was from Rex. The envelope itself carried an authority about it, and as he twisted the letter over in his hand, a wax seal decorated with a small picture of a hyacinth clipping clung to the paper.
Silas peeled it off carefully, holding the little glob in his hand. It was warm from the mailman’s hands, but it still held a hard shape. He bit down the silly grin coming to his face and stashed the wax seal in an antique box he’d gotten some time ago. Inside were already dozens, perhaps even a hundred of those little wax seals; they were all misformed, red circles imprinted with the same hyacinth picture.
Then, Silas moved on to the letter itself. It was a thin sheet of browned paper scented like fresh Hyacinth blooms–
“Dear Silas,” It started, “I do hope this letter finds you well. I won’t take too much of your time, as I understand how consuming the field of archaeology can be. I'm writing to inform you of a new plot I have recently obtained. There’s a certain spot in the garden that I believe may be interesting to you. Of course, as usual, your trip will be fully paid, and you will temporarily reside in the property manor. I will also be spending around a week there, so I’d prefer you to come as soon as you possibly can, but of course, I understand if you are busy with another site.”
It ended with a, “Yours, Oskar Rex,” and then Saps flipped over the paper to see the address written on the back.
Rex was usually this snippy; he didn't do exposition. And throughout Silas’ time working with him, he’d learned to appreciate that efficiency.
Silas casted the letter to a stray table as he sat back on the old bed of the cheap inn he’d been staying at for three days.
On one hand, Silas was busy; he was in the midst of a dig site, lent to him by an old fellow with a shifty attitude. While Silas sifted through some days, the man would linger around, watching Silas as if he were some sort of walking lottery ticket. He’d stroke his long white beard and interrogate Silas about every speck of dirt afterwards. Additionally, Silas was forced to pay for his own rooming–in the form of this cheap inn with hard sheets and old, creaking beds.
So when the thought of a warm bed and nice, lavish meals popped into his head, he got the crazy impulse to leave everything behind and run across the country to get there.
Silas was a smart, logical man; a professor and codebreaker. He fell back, laying himself sideways on the bed so he could stare at the ceiling while a loopy smile grew over his face and a fuzzy feeling filled his brain.
He could imagine it all now! the warm aroma of breakfast wafting up the manor stairs; the knock on his door from a lovely servant carrying a tray of more food than Silas had even seen in the last week; the warm fury blankets and soft bed; a peaceful digging site, with no creeping man over his shoulder; it sounded like pure paradise, and it would be, because Rex always took good care of Silas. He spoiled him rotten like one of the small purse dogs rich people in New York carry around in their handbags.
Silas ended up drifting off with those fuzzy thoughts stroking his mind; in the morn, he drowsily leaned up and stumbled into the bathroom. When he gazed at his messy white hair, his usual ponytail half undone, and the smudged state of his glasses, he remembered the night before. And in less than an hour, Silas was rushing out the door with his bags, and a letter of resignation for the old man and his empty dig site stuck to the motel door.
As Silas hurried into the town post office, he was already recounting the phone number in his head; Rex had written it on the paper next to the address, but Silas knew that landline number better than he knew his own age.
He cast his bags to a bench and snatched up the phone; madly, he turned the dial until the call started–
With only a brief explanation, Silas had been bought a one way train ticket across the country. Rex had swiftly added a healthy amount to Silas’ personal funds too (which he hadn’t asked for but he appreciated none the less). The train came only fifteen minutes later, and after scooping up his bags and jostling other passengers on the platform, he was on the train.
Staff greeted him, and as he handed over his ticket, the worker’s posture erected. They immediately lifted his bags away and escorted him through the train.
They walked through a couple of cars, walking past many open seats, each leaving Silas more confused as to why he wasn't being seated there. His anxiety slowly rose until they hit the last cart and Silas was petrified in the doorway.
Instead of the normal, classic cars filled with many tables of four, Silas had been placed in the lavish car. The worker placed his things at the furthest table and left him be–
Even with such a short notice, Rex had bought Silas the most expensive tickets he could. Silas slid into the booth and stared out the window, amazing at the large window that stretched almost to the ceiling.
Silas rarely enjoyed such pampered experiences; he hadn’t the money for that. If it were up to him, he’d buy the cheapest tickets for the cheapest train. He wouldn’t indulge in the complementaries, or the responsive service; he’d throw himself in some uncomfortable corner and wait for the train to slowly make its way to Rex’s current estate.
But, lucky for him, Oskar Rex was paying.
The train ride felt like a dream; Silas was accommodated for every breath he took. Each hour, a worker would check in with him, and by the fourth hour, a platter of food was brung out.
It was a rich, thick stew with a side of homemade sour dough; as Silas timidly lifted the bread and pawed at it, he realised that in the past week, he hadn’t eaten any real meals. That made him smile again; Rex was always feeding him well.
Silas nibbled on the meal for around an hour, until the bread had been reduced to half and the stew had gotten too cold to enjoy. He called over a worker, and soon the table was cleared again.
He spent the rest of the journey watching the window and reading through notes. He studied diagrams from the book he’d borrowed from Lord Byewill, tracing his fingers over the illustrations, imagining that he was holding those artifacts himself. Ancient terracotta from South America; scraps of fur from a coat in Russia. Silas found himself giddy; that tingling excitement of wonder and urge to search flowed through him from the book, and suddenly, sitting still became hard.
So for the last hour of the ride, Silas wriggled in his chair. He tapped on the table, bounced his leg, played with the buttons of the slightly frayed brown coat he wore; a worker walked by and despite his timid nature, he had a brief conversation with them.
Eventually, Silas’ painful impatience was alleviated. The train pulled to a stop, and before the workers could escort him out, he’d gathered all his bags and dashed out the door.
[_________________________________]
Silas was shocked at the very least.
In front of him was the most ornate Mansion, one that seemed as if it was pulled straight from a movie set. He looked at the decorated doors with their lavish carvings and shining wood and expected a man in a pressed suit to walk out and sneer at him and his dusty coat and his scuffed oxfords.
A man in a suit did walk out, only he did not sneer; he marched up with calculated calmness and a polite smile, cooing across the yard–
“Silas Saparata,”
Silas smiled back, almost dropping his bags. He took a couple steps forward and met the man with reciprocated pleasure,
“Mr Rex, thank you so much for the opportunity, I actually couldn’t thank you. you enough,” He rambled, wishing to drop all of his bags so he could shake Rex’s hand, “I don’t feel like I was able to express that over the phone well enough!”
Rex sighed, “Believe me Silas; you most definitely were.” He turned away briefly, motioning to a servant near the door, and to the one who had picked Silas up from the train station with the manor car. “Let the servants take your bags and we’ll have a tour,”
“One of us could tour him if you’d like, Lord Rex,” the car driver offered as he scooped Silas’ suitcase away. He had rich brown hair and freckles that littered his face like a spray of mud.
“I’m alright to do it, Timothy.” he dismissed. “Please take his bags to the guest room; the one across from my own,”
The servant nodded, stealing Silas’ belongings and disappearing into the mansion. Silas watched him leave with a bit of worry; part of him wondered if he'd see his things again. Inside those bags was a lot of sentimental value; he had Byewill’s book, his spare set of glasses, his favorite bow tie, the antique box filled with wax seals–
He cut his own longing short, turning back to the distinguished Rex.
Rex looked serious in a grave manner, but Silas knew this to be his norm; in fact, Rex actually looked a little comfortable. His purple eyes calmly rested on Silas’ face and his mouth curved into a neat smile. His ravenlike black hair was a controlled chaos; it hung low and choppy, but it wasn't tangled in the slightest. It reflected all the colors on the spectrum as the light hit it; Silas had always thought that Rex’s hair was a threaded oil spill. Today, Rex was dressed in a somewhat casual attire composed of a button up with a dull purple vest that matched the tone of his pupils.
He always carried himself with an air of authority–the kind that oppressed but allured others. He spoke calmly–elegantly. Each time Silas meets up with this man, he finds it hard to imagine him not being able to attract a woman; he had always found it strange that Rex had not settled down yet. He had money, status, looks…
“Shall we set off?” He probed. Silas nodded quickly as to not keep him waiting, and soon, they’d set off.
Oskar Rex showed Silas around like he was a man interested in purchasing the house (of course this wasn’t true, as Rex was very aware of the depleting funds in Silas’ bank accounts; he was the one who filled it up most of the time anyways). They walked through the plaza, with the large fountain filled with crystal blue water and a marble statue planted in the center. They walked along the hedges and railings, aweing at the damp blooms of flowers and ornate carvings in the railing bars.
When they finished the tour of the plaza, they cut through the house. Rex showed Silas the impressive stretching hallways that towered tens of feet tall;The ceilings were so far away, staring at them for too long gave Silas a dose of vertigo. They visited the dining room, with the long dark oak stained dining table; they visited the kitchen, and the personal chefs were already crowding over a pot, preparing for the morn's breakfast; they skimmed through the ballroom, and the lounge, and the bathrooms, and eventually the sleeping quarters. They didn't go in yet; Rex wanted to save that for the moment they turned in for the night, and the sun had only just dropped by the time they’d arrived. He insisted they visit one last location; the evening garden.
Rex boasted that one of the most lavish things about the manor was the set of two gardens it bolstered. One garden bloomed brightly in the sun; it was prime for mourning or midday tea parties surrounded by butterflies and azalea flowers. Then, there was the second garden born of the night; it was an elegant place that Rex had been itching to show Silas; he described it so many times with so many words, but usually the meaning of “romantic” was sitting on the tip of his tongue.
So naturally, the tour concluded with the most mesmerizing, picturesque part, that had been described all afternoon as the pinnacle of Silas’ days.
To get to the garden, Rex led him through one of the tall and long hallways. They walked till a clear glass door framed with detailed swirls of dark wood came into view. Rex picked up his pace at that, dragging Silas to barrel through with him; he pushed open the door, and nearly drug Silas through.
Immediately, a chill settled over Silas, and he bundled his arms into his chest, and thanked his timid nature for not allowing one of Rex’s servants to steal his coat. He peeked over at Rex, and the short cut sleeves on his dress shirt, but he seemed to be indifferent. He pressed on off of the manor's back porch, completely indifferent to the temperatures and entranced by the grass. He made it a couple steps before twisting around and inquiring to Silas, “Is something the matter?”
Silas swallowed his protests quickly, and despite the cold, he unfolded his arms, “Of course not Mr Rex; A chill is all,”
“Oh,” He turned away, resting his arms behind his back as he waited for Silas to catch up, “Yes, I forget how cold the nights get here.”
“I shall be alright; I have my coat.” he assured, tugging at his sleeve to reaffirm. Rex nodded to him, and they pressed on.
“This is an evening garden, Silas. Unlike the typical gardens, this one blooms best at night.” He started.
Silas nodded, before a sweet smell hit him. It was so sickeningly floral it nearly froze him. It looped around his head and licked at his mouth; If Silas would let himself have a vivid enough imagination, he could taste it, and it tasted like a sugary cigarette.
“Is that aroma the blooms?” he asked.
Rex nodded, with his smile tilting up, “Yes, that’ll be the moonflowers.”
And moonflowers they were.
They were white funnels that glowed a soft tone of blinding cyan; their color was such a sanctified white, Silas had to desaturate the color in his own mind to avoid falling into the delusion that these flowers came from a far away eudamonia. The flowers came from vines, the thick green stems of which wrapped elegantly through small fencing pieces, with pictures of moon phases engraved along the pillars. If Rex wasn’t breathing next to him, Silas would believe he’d been trapped in some majestic oil painting after wandering down the wrong hallway in the mansion.
At last, Silas breathed a delicate gasp. “Wow,”
“Pretty aren't they? And the frangrance–” Rex crouched, brushing one finger against a flower; Silas hadn't noticed till now, but he was wearing deep maroon gloves. He smiled to himself, humming as the flower rested against his finger, “You know, I’m not usually one for perfumes and such, but it’d be lovely to have this around during the day, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but I think that’d be a little…much to have around all the time,” He breathed out a chuckle, “It’s a wonderful aroma of course, but the floral makes me a little nauseous.”
Rex hummed thoughtfully, “...I suppose it is a little much,” He sighed and stood, dusting off his spotless vest before turning around and attempting to end their journey,
“Well, I suppose that completes the tour–”
“Mr. Rex!” Silas yelped. Rex instantly raised an eyebrow, waiting for Silas to explain his interruption, but such was never received. Silas instead stared up at Rex’s hair, specifically the bangs that hung over Rex’s forehead. He grinned a little madly, and raised his finger to point, “I believe you’ve picked up a passenger from the vines!”
“A passenger?” he repeated.
Latched to Rex’s hair was indeed a visitor; it was a large insect the half size of Silas’ pointer finger. It was a dull grey colored creature with bright red eyes and clear orange wings. It calmly rested itself in Rex’s hair, occasionally rubbing together its front pair of spindly legs and flicking a clear wing.
“Mr. Rex, please stay still for a moment!” Silas chimed. He slowly moved his finger up to the insect, all to the confusion of Rex; he had not a clue what was happening–only that Silas intended to touch his hair, and some “passanger” was on him. It may have just been the moonlighting, but from Silas’ angle as he coerced the little bug onto his finger, Rex looked slightly pink in the cheeks.
Silas’ finger brushed through Rex’s hair; it was soft and warm. Thin strands slid around his skin, caressing him many, microscopic times. Rex’s hair always looked so elegant, and at this crucial moment, Silas’ silly brain was filled with the urge to touch it again. He wanted to run one finger through, or maybe two, or three, or his whole palm–
The small insect placentiously grappled onto Silas’ prodding finger, and let itself be lifted away. Successful, he lowered the creature for Rex to see (to show he wasn’t some touchy lunatic taking a chance to stroke the barron’s hair).
Rex’s eyes quietly drifted down, landing on the little creature. He stayed silent for a moment, before blurting out, “A cicada.”
“Hm, so that’s what it is,” Silas lifted the bug closer to his glasses, “I wasn’t aware this area had them; they’re dayturnal, yes?”
Rex nodded, “...they sing quite loudly in the mornings.”
“Then I hope to hear it!” he beamed. Gently, he replaced the cicada and smiled at his hands. Eventually his attention returned to Rex.
Over the course of that interaction, Mr. Rex had grown…pensive.
At last, he sighed; he regathered himself, interlocking his hands behind his back and turning in his heel, “Unless another insect decides to join us, I believe our tour has come to an end.”
Silas nodded, accompanying him to the door. The walk back to their quarters was a silent trek–an almost uncomfortable walk filled with long intervals of quiet filled by nothing but the clicks of oxfords against tile. The rooms weren’t far, and soon, Silas found himself between two doors. Rex quickly latched on to one of them, and opened it,
“You’ll be staying in the other; please don’t hesitate to let me know if anything isn’t to your liking, or if Timothy misplaced your belongings.”
“...of course,” Silas agreed as he approached his own door; it held an aura of authority–an aura of honor, which made him shiver as he reached out to clasp it.
“Good night Silas,” he called. Just in time, Silas had twisted around to bid him a pleasant night as well; he’d caught a glimpse of Rex and his slightly flushed face with a slight streak of light tangled in his hair. For a brief moment, he wondered if another pest had stowawayed with them from the garden. But as he watched the closed door, he figured that Rex was a competent man; it’d be silly for Silas to barge in just to tell him something he had likely already resolved.
So instead Silas slinked into his own room.
The place was beautiful; like a living art exhibit. The bed was massive, like it was composed of many other mattresses, all stitched together so many, many people could all lay comfortably together (But Silas was only one man, and oh–how overwhelming that vastness was!). The sheets were filled with a soft feathery material, and the pillows were like sewn clouds.
All around him were books; shelves and shelves stacked with many colorful manuals and tales. Silas ran his fingers along the spine of some, marveling at the crisp, sturdy spines.
Silas eventually settled down; his wonder being replaced by lethargy. He discarded his coat, hopped onto the bed, and started to sift through one of the bags.
He unzipped the first one, expecting to see Lord Byewill’s book–
But instead he found clothes. He shook the surprise and plunged deeper; he went so deep and thorough that he ended up overturning the entire bag and letting all the clothes spill out onto the mattress. He sifted through, trying hard to stifle the gnawing feeling in his throat as no book revealed itself. Eventually, he was stuffing all the clothes back into the bag, and reaching for another.
He did that for each and every bag, until he’d searched every inch. He found all of his other belongings: the antique box, his spare pair of glasses, the bowtie, even his favorite vest he thought he’d lost; really, he ended up finding everything but Byewill’s book. So that led him to pacing the room, wondering whether or not Byewill would ever forgive him for losing such a thing.
Anxiety peaked, and as he paced, imagination went wild. He imagined Byewill’s reaction: he’d go deathly silent, or he’d point to the door, or he’d demand reparation payment. The last part made Silas shudder the most; he was sure that whatever the cost of this book may be, he certainly couldn’t afford it. Panic started to rise, and suddenly, Silas found himself wanting to curl into a ball.
But, Rex’s words replayed in his head–’please don’t hesitate…’
Before long, Silas was hovering in the hallway, knuckle hesitating to connect. Eventually, he found his nerve, and placed a polite, two raps on the door.
“Come In,” The answer came immediately.
Silas warily pushed open the door, already apologising–
“Mr. Rex, I apologize for knocking at such an hour, but I believe one of the servants may have misplaced my book–” But before he could finish, he was frozen.
Standing in the center of the bedroom was Oskar Rex, with Silas’ book in hand, but at that moment, it wasn’t the book that interested Silas anymore. Now, he looked up, at the Land barron’s hair–at the bangs that hung over his forehead.
Instead of raveny black, they were soft silver.
[_________________________________]
By the time sunlight flitted through the window, that streak had turned as pale as fresh snow.
Rex, despite how vivid and stark it looked, hadn’t noticed until Silas had frozen in the doorway, petrified like a deer fawn in the road. Silas stared wide eyed, his own question seeming to leave his brain completely; such a look was terrifying all on its own, but with the fact that Silas was staring at Rex…?
Slowly, Rex stepped backwards, towards the closet embedded in the side of the room.
Suddenly, Silas cleared his throat, “My–I uhm, I don’t mean to stare like that, sorry–” He hadn’t finished his shaky apology in time before Rex had pulled open the closet and found the tall mirror.
The next few hours became a blur; panicked voices, frantic hair washing, defeated faces, and rushing servants–Rex has tried so many methods to rid himself of the white streak, and the entire time, Silas had trailed.
Eventually, the ideas ran out.
“Mr. Rex,” Silas started. He looked at the barron, who now sat curled on the guest room mattress, while servants filed in and out the room; the one who’d taken Silas’ bags and drove him lingered inside the door.
“It doesn’t look bad at all–”
“Silas, I can’t go walking around like this!” He snapped. For a fracture of a vowel, Silas could hear his voice crack under the frustration, and that was such a new thing to hear from Rex that it was almost scary.
He sunk into himself, drawing his knees up and burying his face into his hands, “They’re going to think I’ve bleached my hair! You know how damaging that could be for business?"
Silas did in fact, not know.
He nodded anyway, “...but…you didn’t dye it?”
Rex popped up, glaring at Silas from his knees, “You watched it turn white–we both watched it get paler!”
“Right, I just…” Silas gripped his hand to his chest; it was the only way to keep himself from running his hand through Rex’s hair to touch the streak. He had…a sneaking suspicion of how that bang had turned white, though it was incredibly ludicrous! He pressed his hand deeper against his body and breathed, “I just don’t understand how it could…do this…”
Rex grumbled at him, “I haven't a clue, neither a way to fix it–”
“It doesn’t look bad, Mr. Rex!” He repeated. He reached forward, unable to contain his curiosity any longer; luckily, Rex reached up with his hand and deflected Silas’ hand.
“I look like a skunk.”
“Looks like a piece of Mr. Silas’s hair!” Timothy commented from across the room. Rex completely ignored him.
“I could actually dye it couldn’t I?” He sneered, “All those fools would never believe me, so i might as well dye it black.”
Silas nervously tapped his fingers against his arm, “I’ve heard dye is quite damaging.”
“Anything would be better than this, no?” He retorted. For a moment, he sulked. It was odd seeing Rex so disarrayed. Silas had relied on this man for years, but never once had he seen something startle him this much,
“Timothy, go fetch the mail.” He finally barked. He gritted his teeth and tried to straighten himself out; his legs unfolded and his hands rested in his lap, “This…whatever, shouldn’t stop me from completing my work. No matter how pestilent it is.”
Timothy bowed, and filed out the door; he pulled it close behind him, and for the first time all mourning, he and Rex were alone. There were no roaming, panicked maids or servants, just Silas and Rex idling in the tense room.
Silas too, was about to take his leave as well, but suddenly, Rex cleared his throat and rose, “...Silas…”
“...Mr. Rex?” He parroted.
Once again, as the first time had failed, he cleared the staid catch in his throat, “...last night. It’s certainly the cause of this, yes?”
An image of the night garden, and the cicada atop Rex’s head came to mind. “...I believe so.”
He nodded, a silent agreement settling in between the two. He turned away, ensuring that this topic earned some rest. He marched over to the mirror he’d rushed to earlier; it had been pulled out by one of the maids earlier and now it leaned against the wall. Rex approached and stared at himself; he gazed at his reflection like hebwere trying to memorise the face of a stranger. Of course, his attention lingered a bit too harshly on that strand of white hair.
“It really doesn't look bad. I mean that.” Silas said. He let himself melt a bit, so when his own reflection appeared behind Rex’s, it didn't look so rigid.
Rex simply hummed as a reply to the compliment.
“It…looks nice,” Silas tried with a polite smile. He dared to draw closer; close enough to where he was looking at himself peeking over Rex’s shoulder in the mirror. He adjusted his glasses, and smiled again as he stared at that streak of hair, “I think it looks pretty; it's unique, you know?”
Rex hummed again, much softer. His expression darkened, and he nearly started to stare at the floor. He expected him to dismiss, or order Silas to leave the room for such silly comments, but to his surprise, Rex softly lifted his hand and stroked his hair with two fingers.
“Hm. Timothy is right; it looks like I've somehow stolen a chunk of your hair and attached it to mine.”
Silas snorted, “Well, I suppose I don’t mind! Since it looks very pleasant on you!”
Rex clicked his tongue, “How kind.” he paused, staring up at his fingers. Silas calmly stepped around the bed, going into the closet and retrieving the mirror; Rex looked in it, gazing at himself, and although it could have very well been Silas’ imagination, he saw Rex’s expression soften. “...it's certianly…different.”
Silas nodded along. “...although, people don’t handle ‘different’ well. I’m still…unsure how this could affect me,”
“You’re plenty wealthy and powerful, so I hardly see why any commoner’s opinion would matter,”
He hummed. “I suppose you’re right, Silas, but I can't help but loathe it.”
Helplessly, Silas watched the glimmer of hope in his eyes dim. It was replaced with disdain, which Silas found to be so unfortunate; he really did look unique in a nice way. He found himself saddened as Rex huffed and stood; discarding the mirror back into the closet. He needn’t explain it, because Silas could tell very well that Rex intended to ignore this new plight.
“Timothy should be back by now; ask him to show you to the digsite when you’re ready. I…need to get dressed.”
Silas had been dismissed. He watched pitifully as Rex shambled over to his closet, casting a light glare at Silas that told him to leave. Quickly, Silas did just that. He stepped out into the hallway, a flood of dread filling him in the silence.
He felt pity for Rex; that streak of hair obviously bothered him, and even more heart jerking was the unconfirmed fact that Silas had caused that miscolorisation.
He stared down at his own hands, imagining that silky feeling from last night; he wasn't sure how or why, but he was positive that he’d done this. Even Rex seemed to somewhat agree.
And admitting that did nothing. As Rex had insisted over and over again, people loathe change. But, how strong could that loathing be? would the stringent, rich old fashioned men of their time boycott Mr. Rex for a simple stripe of hair? The horrible thought of Silas causing this loss was more than harrowing.
He shoved his hands into his face, shaking his head side to side, cursing himself. What he’d done, even if he wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, was awful. It was unforgivable!
yet at the same time…
Silas buried his face deeper when another image of Rex appeared, the stripe in his hair a blinding white. His face burned as he reimagined that scene again and again, seeing that stripe.
To Silas, that miscoloration was the completing piece to the puzzle that was Oskar Rex. It was bright and vibrant, but as Silas thought of it, his mind soothed and he smiled to himself; Rex thought of it as a blemish to his body and reputation, but Silas knew it was more than that. He’d watched Rex’s suave nature crack; he’d watched that calming, strict disposition dissolve like sugar in water…and to think Silas had done that…
Eventually, Silas stopped giggling into his palms. He wiped his hands off his vest and set off for the kitchen Rex had shown him yesterday; a wild, silly idea had come into his head and he needed to see the wine bottles to act on it.
The movement was smooth; Silas crept into the kitchen, where a crate of wine bottles sat upon a counter. He swiftly snatched a bottle by the neck, strangling it as he swiped the black lace ribbon tied over the cork. Then, he reappeared in the guest room hallway. Clumsily, he snatched up a fistfull of hair, and tied it in a sloppy bow.
Silas had no mirror, but he was sure he looked absurd. The chunk of hair felt heavy as he twisted to knock on Rex’s door, and keeping himself from grinning was impossible. Rex silently opened the door, but as soon as he looked up at Silas, he stopped.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Rex, but I forgot to retrieve my book,” He feigned.
Obviously, Rex saw through it instantly. He sighed, raising one eyebrow, “...Silas, why have you stuck one of the wine bottle laces to your head?”
“Oh! well I thought it would take some attention off of you! If they all saw me in this silly ribbon, they wouldn't think twice about you!” Silas spoke confidently, trying so hard to hide the fact that the idea of more than three people watching him was terrifying.
“...You hate attention though, I know that.” Rex saw right through, sighing as he ruthlessly ripped apart Silas’ attempt at consolement, “Last time Byewill invited you to a house party, you lingered in the corner sipping wine until you’d gotten too drunk. You had to spend the night in his old manner because no one wanted vomit in their vehicles."
Silas blushed, “...Well, I uhm,”
Rex took a deep breath, thinking for a moment before speaking again. “...I suppose whatever you’re doing is quite thoughtful. It's awfully…sweet?”
He blushed even harder, "I'm just trying to help; you’ve been so kind to me,”
The moment had turned fuzzy; it was warm and rid of all the tenseness and despair the previous encounter had adorned.
“Alright, but I'm not letting you walk around like that,” He shook his head and opened the door wider. He beckoned Silas closer and handed him the mirror he’d pulled back from the closet during Silas’ absence.
“Sit down; let me find a way to actually style this so you don’t look like a child who’d gotten into a box of ribbon,”
He gently unwound the ribbon from white hair letting the black silk fall back into his palm. Carefully, he removed Silas’ hair tie too, letting his hair fall over his shoulders.
Of course, Silas saw himself often without a ponytail. He probably saw it each morning, so this was no unusual sight, but for some reason, he couldn’t stop looking at his reflection in the mirror. His hair, the same color as the pretty streak in Rex’s bangs, fell around him, framing his face with long bangs. Many times before had he heard the comparison of spider silk, and he could never bring himself to disagree.
Gently, Rex gathered the loose bangs and tugged them back; he collected all of the messy white strands, and Silas watched him through the mirror as he delicately fastened the ribbon. He tied a neat bow, one so perfect it looked staged.
Rex released him from the grasp and quickly Silas was standing. He was twisting and turning in the mirror, a smile plastered to his face as he marveled at the little black bow.
“Woah, it’s so pretty!” He exclaimed.
Rex tried to stay straight faced, but the corner of his lip curved upwards, “I must say, such a dark color really does contrast with your pale complexion,”
Silas laughed, “That’s great; now we’ll match!”
[_________________________________]
The weather outside was pleasant. Not too harshly hot, with the sun beaming down angry rays; it was a soft warmness that rained down like a fine mist.
Silas used the small towel to stab at the compact soil. All around him was bare land, as the grass had been peeled away and several patches of dirt had been cleared away already. So far, in the span of around two hours, Silas had found two “artifacts”. One was an old pocket watch, the other a mason jar. Neither held any obvious value, but Silas put them to the side anyways; he’d clean and inspect them further later.
He raked at the soil, he was sure something was lying underneath, but that wasn’t his reason for digging. In reality he was trying to look busy, so the hired guards that Rex had placed there to watch over the digsite couldn’t tell how intently Silas was listening in on their conversation. They’d been talking for most of the two hours, having whispery exchanges that held no real substance; that was until now. With the mere mention of a name, Silas was focusing hard on every word.
“Rex; you seen that odd stripe in his hair?” Silas imagined that the other one offered a nod, “I can’t believe he’d even entertain such a thing,”
The other one sneered softly, so it sounded much like a hiss, “Much too queer for a man of his status. I find myself tolerating things such as that; people can defy society and break the norms all they want, but I don't see the point.”
“And for a man of his status? it’s hideous.” he huffed.
“Why destroy your career like that? What will his family or associates think? …I used to admire that man, but now I regret working for such a bedlamite.”
The other clicked his tongue, "I'm only staying cause he’s got money.”
Silas learned long ago that people were very much self centered. They always believed they were in the right, or that their conversations were private. If another man existed in the room, one should assume each and every sound they make will be remembered.
“...and that archealogist…” One of them spat. He lowered his voice, a pathetic attempt at being self conscious. “Just look at that…ribbon,”
“The barron placed it there; must be trying to convert another into his bastard lifestyle.” Silas could hear in the way he spoke how he gritted his teeth, “you know how people like that try to indoctrinate others. That man’s likely been brainwashed by now.”
“...Horendous.”
“I don’t understand any of it. Hair streaks and bows are unnatural. At the very least, couldn’t they just keep it in the bedroom? I don’t wish to see such things while im just trying to do my job.”
“Selfish. Think of the children.” The other affirmed.
A moment of silence passed between the two, and Silas could tell from the crawling sensation settling over his back that they were staring at him, full of the deepest contempt.
“Unerving,” one finally said.
The other parroted him, "unnerving."
Silas pretended that nothing had happened; he scraped and scraped at the dirt until his towel hit solid. Carelessly, he plunged his pale hand into the earth, erecting a bottle. It was wide near the base, with a strangled neck; it looked like it should have the bow tied in Silas’ hair tied around the cork.
It would have belonged there better.
[_________________________________]
Silas waited patiently at the dining table, scrutinizing his hands as he noticed stray specks of dirt on them. He had scrubbed his palms raw but brown still peaked through, and that was completely disregarding the horrible condition of his vest.
Across from him came a stir; it was Rex. He wore a different outfit than he had in the morning. His hair was slightly messy, like he had been pawing at it all day.
Rex sat down with an exhale, “Good evening, Silas.”
“Good evening, Mr. Rex.” he returned.
The barron’s hand wandered up, and subconsciously or not, he flicked the strand of white hair. “Find anything of worth today?”
“I’m afraid not. I found an old wine bottle, a pocket watch, and a mason jar.” He readjusted his glasses, “I’ve cleaned the pocket watch, but it isn’t very old nor posh.”
“A shame,” Rex replied. He stared off at the kitchen entrance, waiting for the chefs to arrive with dinner. Silas checked for himself, and he could see the cook preparing something on a plate–
“...I have a meeting tomorrow.” Rex suddenly said. “It’s casual; in a local bar. Some new money bright eyed kid wants to look through my catalogue."
“interesting,”
Rex paused for a moment. “...Would you like to join me?”
Silas startled, “Join?”
He nodded, “You wouldn’t have to sit and endure the meeting, but I suppose it’d be a nice outing.”
Silas stared ahead, at the barron who avoided eye contact. His face was pensive, with an anxious look. He looked like a nervous child asking their parents to tale them somewhere.
Usually, the prospect of social interaction terrified Silas; he was quite the introverted man, and when he thought about bar patrons specifically, it worsened. Suave women trying to get a free drink, men who prodded him too much, drunk men dragging him around and introducing him to strange women; Silas and bar environments went together like a chicken in a fox den.
But as he looked at the pathetic face, with the slightly flushed skin and the anxious purple eyes and the beautiful streak of white hair, he folded.
“I would love to.”
For a moment, Rex looked started, but of course, his composure came back to him quickly. He cleared his throat and folded his hands into his lap, “All expenses will be paid of course; please don’t hesitate to ask me to buy you something,”
“oh, well that uhm won’t be necessary–"
Bowls clung into the table, and the conversation ended. Silas stared down at his meal, letting steam and salty aroma waft up into his face. His glasses fogged, and he smiled at himself as he cleaned them,
Served to them was a bowl of red; it was an elegant dish of soup, placed in a bowl upon a plate, complimented by freshmade bread. Silas carefully lifted his spoon, dunking it into the liquid and stirring softly, so he could watch the chunks and vegetables inside drift in a whirlpool. Most of the ingredients were indescribable chunks, but a few, he recognised. Beef, potato, some carrot; the potatoes were wedged, and the beef was stripped, but the carrots were whole. They were windy and wrinkled, retaining every dark crevice in them like they’d been pulled straight from the ground and dropped into the vat. They were fat too; they looked like the fingers of a gluttonous rich man, reaching for the Silas like he was just a piece of bread.
He stirred some more, the simple motion comforting. He peered across the table, at Rex–
He hadn’t lifted a finger; his hands stayed in his lap and he stared dejected at the bowl. It was obvious, even from Silas’ view, that he was checking the red, watery reflection.
“Rex, could we visit the garden after this?” His voice almost broke from his nervousness. “I’ve heard tea parties at this hour are quite the experience,”
“I apologise, Silas, but I believe we ought to leave that for the morning or day.” He softly picked up his spoon, playing with the broth, trying to mask that distant look on his face, “...The cicadas are bad at night.”
Silas simply nodded.
He knew the cicadas were dayturnal.
[_________________________________]
Rarely, does Silas get to ride in a car.
Automobiles were an amenity made for the rich, so the likes of an archaeologist, who can occasionally enjoy a nice meal or a new vest he had seen windowshopping would never dream of experiencing such a ride. Though, this archaeologist is in the good favor of one the of countries best Land barons–
Silas sat in the back seat of the car, staring out the glass windows at the passerbys on the street. In front of him was the driver, and in the passenger, Rex.
“Have anywhere you’d like to visit Silas?” He asked while flipping through a paper magazine; it was a catalog of his own estates, which he had printed the night before.
“No, I think I'm enjoying the ride itself!” He chirped. His grin knocked his glasses sideways; he reached up to clean them, but the car came to a stop.
The driver jumped out, and opened the door for Silas, who had yet to equip his glasses, leaving him squinting at the sudden motion blind as a bat. He quickly shoved them on before stumbling out.
“Feel free to join or wander around the area,” Rex mentioned, standing before the door already. He patiently crossed his hands behind his back, watching Silas for an answer,
“I’m alright.” He fixed himself, straightening his clothes and clearing his vision, “I’ll linger around the tables outside; I’m not fond of bars,”
“I see. again, don’t hesitate to ask me for anything,” He said as he pulled open the door; ensuing the minute opening, a wave of noise flooded through. In an instant, Silas was overwhelmed by voices, and singing, and flirting; it quickly assured his refusal to step in.
Rex was, of course, unbothered. He stepped in, weaving through the whirlpool of bar commotion. His authoritative aura penetrated the room; it was a barrier that commanded the chaos–it was admirable, so much so that Silas stayed staring at him until he vanished inside.
That left only him and the servant left, which was quickly pared down to one when they got back into the car, and pulled away.
Silas was horribly awkward without standing alone in front of a bar, looking like a child that had wandered into the wrong part of town; he hurried over to the small outdoor tables, assuming a chair to watch the street–
Today was quite the sunny day, similar to the previous–the warmth was nice, not overbearing. The clouds hung low and sparse, and intermittently a breeze would drift through. Some of the flowers in the flower boxes attached to law firms and apartments swayed, and the lone tree surrounded by asphalt waved calmly. Birds flew, people strolled.
Being a timid natured man had its perks, even if it was incredibly socially stunting. Silas could often find himself getting lost when watching others; he calmly gazed at the pedestrians, watching them walk down the pavement, each having an incredibly complex life of their own–
Sonder.
Men walking dogs; a woman with a kid attached to her hip. Silas often found himself wondering about these strangers, wanting to know what it would be like to be them. What if he had a dog? well, he’d always been more of a cat person, but you can’t walk cats like you can dogs. And what if he had children? Well, Silas never considered himself a very fatherly figure; he wasn’t fond of kids in the least bit either. Besides, having kids would take getting together with a woman, and Silas wasn’t ever particularly intrigued by romance and marriage. He had a stint with a married woman long ago, but the feelings never seemed mutual; he never felt the crazy things she’d described. It’s not that he’s opposed to the idea of a significant other, in fact, it would be wonderful to have another human being care for him like that! but–
“Well what’s this silly lookin' fella with the specs?” A loud, heavy accented and drunk voice yelled from the door. Silas turned with a start, to meet a woman with white, ashy colored hair.
“E–excuse me?” He stuttered. The lady simply ignored him stumbling over with a cigarette in hand. She plopped down into the chair, throwing a leg upon the table, and the other lifted the cigarette for a drag.
“Silly lookin’ fella; you got those thick glasses that make ya’ look funny,”
Silas was taken aback; he wanted to glare at the woman, but he was too startled to muster up any anger.
She carried herself without any grace, and as the seconds ticked by, Silas was less sure that the alcohol was causing that. Her hair was a silvery color that matched her eyes. She was dressed in a classy robe, like she’d just come from a court room.
“I use these to see.” Silas finally retorted. He looked here up and down, trying to sneer at her haggard state, “Do I even know you?”
“Judge Meagon Marshal; Just came from a long case,” He casually replied. She took another puff of her cigarette, purposefully blowing the smoke in front of Silas. “So what’s the little guy’s name?”
“Little guy?”
“Yeah, I'm not takin’ you seriously with those glasses; ya’ look like a professor or somethin–you teach?”
Silas bit his lip, “...no, not anymore–”
“But you did at some point!” She proclaimed. She burst into harsh, rugged giggles that wracked her body and made the cigarette wave in the air, “Judges! we’re good at this judging thing!”
Silas…was a bit intrigued?
He pressed his palm to his hand and gently leaned against the table, “You seem too improper to be a judge, your honor,”
“I talk to murderers every day, don’t ya’ think I deserve a drink after that?”
“So you’re drunk right now?”
“Oh no, I’m completely sober! I'm afraid a mere shot or five won’t affect me anymore,” She boasted. Quickly though, she waved a hand, “Enough about my sad life; I wanna hear about you–you look like you’ve got something funny to tell me, and I still don’t know ya’ name.” She lowered her cigarette, pointing the burning embers at Silas like it was a microphone. Strangely enough, it did compel him to speak.
“Silas Saparata. I was a professor, and a codebreaker in the war, but now I'm just an archaeologist."
“Mhm, hate the kids?” she asked.
Silas quickly shook his head, “Teaching was one of my favorite jobs. I haven't gone back for…money reasons–”
“Diggin’ shit out the dirt couldn’t possibly be more profitable.”
He stuttered, “Well–well yes, but I’ve got a good situation going right now,”
The judge perked up, eyes narrowing and grin widening around her cigarette, “oh? got ya a wealthy mistress or something?”
“Pardon–?”
“Ah, see I could tell immediately you weren’t the type of man to hang around these places; ya’ too awkward!” She laughed. She removed the cigarette from her mouth but instead of waving it around she handed it forward, “Pick ya’ jaw off the table and suck on this cigarette while I explain,”
She was so rude and brash about it…but it had been so long since he’d had a cigarette…
Silas reluctantly took it, taking a drag and relishing in the way it softened his mind, like it was smoothing out the wrinkles in a sheet.
The judge continued, “You’re waiting for your mistress outside, hm? She promised to ditch her husband to come see you? Well no wonder ya’ a ball of energy! A real man could pulverize you ten times over!”
“What are you even saying?” Silas mumbled. He took another desperate drag, wishing badly for the Judge’s random strew of words to leave and bother some other timid soul.
But as if his prayers had been answered, The bar door opened, and out walked Rex. He stood still before the door, staring at the empty space where their car had parked before; he had an envelope tucked under his arm.
Silas must have been glad to see him, because as he stared off, he’d completely forgotten about the judge–
“Oh,” She brashly whispered; it snapped Silas back into the conversation, and with a pang of terror, he realised that she had watched him stare at Rex. Her lips curved up, brighter than they had any time previously, “You don’t get a wealthy mistress–you got a wealthy mister!”
“Mister?” Silas yelped, dropping his cigarette to the ground, he quickly swooped down to grab it, but when he popped back up, he found Rex staring, aware of his presence now. He marched over calmly, trying not to stare down the woman also sitting at the table.
“Oh, there you are Silas.” He paused, a flicker of something flashing across his face. “We can head back to the Manor whenever now. I'm sure our chauffeur will return shortly.”
“Of course–”
“Ah, so who’s this fat cat?” Marshal purred. She improperly leaned back in her chair, snickering at Rex with no care in the world for who he may be. Honestly, from what Silas had learned from this brief interaction, Judge Marshal could have been approached by the president of the United States himself, and she would still have her feet kicked up.
“...Silas, who might this be?” He asked in a dark, warning tone; it sent a small shiver down Silas’ spine. Marshall on the contrary, could not care less.
“Honerable Judge Meagan Marshall.” She instinctively reached to take a drag of her cigarette, before touching her two fingers to her lips and noticing that it was still in Silas’ hold. She got more errant with that. “Mind introducin’ yourself, Polecat?”
Rex sneered bitterly, “Sorry excuse for a judge–”
“Sorry excuse for an inamorato! Silas, you really could do much better–” She smirked, turning Rex completely red. He frowned, crossing his arms and stepping towards Silas,
“Silas, may we please leave this dawdler?” He sighed, placing his hand over Silas’ arm. He glared at Marshall his distaste very apparent–
“I suppose we should leave, yes,” He stood from his chair, and in an instant, he was being dragged away. As Rex pulled him by the arm, he gave Marshall a small wave–
“Tood-a-loo Silas!” she called out.
For a moment, Rex just stomped; Silas wasn’t sure if he was going anywhere in particular,
“Mr. Rex, how’d the meeting go?” Silas forces out. He remembered the cigarette and took a drag to ease the nerves. Tobacco smoothed over his tongue, and it tasted just the right amount of bitter.
“...Well I suppose. Actually, the young gentleman invited me to a party.” Rex mumbled.
“Oh? sounds interesting?”
“A chance to fraternise.” Rex sighed as he finally paused his flustered march. Now they were on an entirely different street, near unfamiliar buildings. Silas glanced around with a pang of panic as he started to consider that they were lost–
Rex, for now, was unbothered. He smoothed a hand through his black hair, letting the sun catch through it and reflect all the colors embedded within; the white streak looked like an elegant accessory.
“Yes, the young man invited me to a party, and I guess it would be a nice chance to gather some connections.” He huffed, unsaid words lingering in his breath.
Silas inhaled from his fingers, “You’re worried about the hair?”
Rex’s eyes widened a fraction. He slid his hand through his hair again, soothing himself, “...You know how people often are. I’m not naive to the world.” He admitted. He slid back against the light pole, revealing the raw, untrained parts of himself.
Silas’ cigarette dropped from his mouth as he stared at such a thing; for all he knew, he was the first man on earth to see this. He was looking at an angel with the naked eye; he was a devout man experiencing God's enlightenment. Rex’s posture was curved–slumped like a normal man. His face was bare, a display of the nerves eating at his composure. He was showing Silas–Silas of all people–his true feelings. He looked nothing like the Land Barron that had been dumping bags of money into Silas’ bank account from states and states away.
“I don’t know why this is happening to me.” He whispered.
He was practically curling against that light post; it made Silas toss his cigarette to the ground and stamp it out.
“Mr. Rex, I…” But what could Silas even say? Apologise for causing this? Of course both of them knew what had caused this conundrum, but neither knew how to express it in a way that wouldn’t come off as inelegant and desperate.
“...I’m sorry,” He blurted out. He stiffened his posture and buried his face in his hands, “I shouldn’t be acting like this in front of a guest!” He peeked up, and before Silas knew it, those raw, naked emotions had been hidden. Rex had slid back into his role of an aristocrat, and Silas would be a fool to hope to see that again. “Let’s locate a cab; I’ve lost hope in that wandering servant–!”
“Mr. Rex, wait–” Silas interjected. Rex had been mid step, trying hard to run away, but Silas reached out and touched him. It was a graze; Silas’ fingertips against the cuffs of Rex’s shirt, but simultaneously, it felt like a jolt of pure electricity!
Silas pushed through the sensation though, “...what if I came along to the party?”
A silence.
“...Alright–”
“Wait, please let me explain! If you took me to the party, then maybe they wouldn’t stare at you!” He timidly smiled and pointed at himself, “They could gawk at me?”
Rex blinked at him, like he had just stuttered a sentence in another language. “And why would they stare at you?”
“Honerable judge Marshall said my glasses looked silly, and maybe i could add another bow to my hair–”
“She said…what?” He frowned and tilted his head, "Silas, you’re losing me–”
“The judge kept saying my glasses make me look funny! So maybe People could insult me–”
Rex sighed loudly to cut him off, “Please disregard that crash judge; your glasses are fine.”
“...oh. Really?” Silas earnestly asked. His surprised tone caused Rex to raise his eyebrow.
“Yes. Silas, your glasses look fine; they match you nicely.”
At those words, heat rushed to his face and he had an overpowering thought to surgically attach his spectacles to his face so Rex would never have to see him without–
Silas smiled wide, and he leaned in, “I think your hair matches you nicely aswell!”
Rex tried to speak, but Silas spoke louder, “I know you hate it and think it looks horrendous, but I tell you; it really doesn’t! It gives you that personality! I look at it, and I know I'm looking at Oskar Rex!” He was swaying back and forth now, hands clasped as sickly romantic things spewed, “It's like the highlights in an oil painting! Or that pretty word you add to a poem to give it the right meaning–It's the moon in the night sky!”
By the time he had finished, Rex was red in the face; and Silas was grinning madly until he saw that–untill he saw Rex staring with a glint in his eye, and a color that Silas realised he’d never given another human being before–
Silas was a blundering fool to not recognise that–oh dear god, how had he not seen this until now!
Rex slid a knuckle over his mouth while Silas was lost in his own horror, “T–that’s awfully romantic words Silas; you should think about writing some time–”
He watched, still frozen in unfathomable fear as Rex slipped off of the street lamp and started to briskly walk down the pavement, “We must find a cab soon though; I–I have very important matters to attend to at home–at the manor!”
Silas lagged behind a bit, just watching the barron’s back.
The words of Honorable Judge Marshal rung in his head–
…‘inamorato’
[_________________________________]
Toss; turn–all Silas could do was writhe atop his mattress.
He was too restless to sleep; too restless to change into more uncomfortable clothes or crawl under the sheets. He sprawled out across the soft bed that was much too big for him, staring at the ceiling. He had at least mustered the effort to remove his glasses and set them on the nightstand before wallowing in nerves.
Silas squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head over and over, trying to shake the questions from his mind. One in particular was loud–so loud that it sounded like it had actually been spoken from the walls or some devilish manner.
‘Just what where Silas and Mr. Rex?’
They hadn’t done anything more than what acquaintances should do, but that word didn't feel nearly as intimate as it should. Shared glances, small remarks, the flushes of red on Rex’s face, the heat in Silas’. Certainly, they had bloomed past mere guest and host.
Well…Silas should not have been so fretful about that! Rex is quite the man! He’s wealthy, handsome enough to court any woman, awfully caring with a nice personality! In this situation, Silas should be throwing himself at the door across the hallway–not wriggling around like a maggot in bed.
At least that's what any normal person would do.
Wanting people wasn’t something Silas did. He yearned for history and knowledge and the pleasures of daily life; not the pretty barron across the hall. He was a timid recluse; a man who had known all along that he’d have to choose a woman one day! but…well, today just wasn’t the day! Of course, any man desires dates and walks in the moonlight and a lover to help fill in the king sized bed. Silias had never thought of any one in particular in these brief thoughts–but he certainly couldn’t have ever suspected them to be meant for Rex!
His mind flipped at that name–Oskar Rex. If they did indulge in whatever it was that was blossoming between them, would Silas still call him “Mr. Rex”? He considered the name Oskar, even saying it aloud, but it felt wrong. It was like a delicious prick in the finger–first came the jolt of pain, then the endorphin filled numb.
Oskar. Just when could Silas call him Oskar?
Maybe he’d coo his name while they walked along the city pavement. Rex–Oskar would reach out, wrap his gentle hand around Silas’ and hold him there. It would be nighttime; it would be as romantic as the night of the moonflowers and the cicada, except, Silas would touch Oskar’s hair without any need for an insect.
Silas curled into a ball and pathetically bit down on his tongue.
Imagining all of this was fun, but actually doing that?
Thinking about holding Rex’s hand brought nothing but the sensation of warmth to his palm. Thinking about touching Rex’s hair only brought the memory of how his hair felt. Thinking about touching or walking or even kissing only brought the physical. Silas was imagining so much, but that's all it was–imagination.
Silas was no fool to the world; Love needs spark. Love is complex; it's a wild, drug-like emotion that bends a person’s life effortlessly. Love wasn’t something Silas ever had.
He was actively interacting with such a handsome man as Oskar Rex, yet that did nothing? Well, if Silas wasn’t sure before, he now knew that he was broken. And such a handsome man as Oskar Rex didn’t deserve a broken, poor archaeologist with silly glasses such as Silas.
[_________________________________]
By morning, Silas had mostly forgotten the quarrels of the previous night. Of course, it still lingered, but it took something akin to a backseat in his mind. It was like tinted glasses; he wasn’t actively thinking about it, but it still dulled his world.
The day had been spent wandering the manner. He’d been informed at the crack of dawn that the party of the young man Rex had met in the bar was to be held that night so he felt it improper to work in the digsite. He visited the dining room, and the gardens. Occasionally he’d run into Rex, and they would share no more than a glance or a wave, and Silas almost hoped that they could stay like that forever.
Silas had a chance to visit the large personal library Rex had. He found a nice spot to huddle into between the corner wall and the shelves. He lifted a jutting book from a shelf and peeled it open; reading the entire novelette in one sitting.
The book wasn’t terribly long–it was a work by an anonymous author. The book is read in choppy paragraphs and harsh words. It read clean; there was little pretty vocab to make the raw meanings digestible. Silas loved books like these; they were clear and understandable, nothing like the real world. They were real in a fictional way. People died because they were old; people got married because they liked each other. Silas wished his life was as simple as the book.
Midways, the library door creaked open, and pulling him from the respite of understanding was Rex. He stared for a moment (Silas looked pathetic in the corner, but what did it matter) before creeping to the nearest shelf and snatching up a book with no discretion and flustering out the room again.
Silas frowned; it was confusing. Rex and him have had so many encounters–they’d been friendly and even somewhat close before that night in the garden, but the feeling of awkward romance had come between them, and Silas couldn’t understand that. Of course, he’d never understand why or how Rex blushed and squirmed despite the distinguished man he was, but even worse was the distance. If Rex and him were blooming into something more intimate, then why was it so hard to exist in the same room?
He sighed, slamming his head down into the pages of the book; why must love be so contradictory?
[_________________________________]
Evening came faster than Silas would have liked it to. One moment, he was standing in the library, blankly reading titles on the spines of books, the next he was answering the knock on his bedroom door,
“Clothes, Mr Silas,” It was Timothy, Rex’s main servant. He held clothes in his hands; an unfamiliar outfit that most certainly wasn't one of his. “We’ve prepared you an outfit, as of Lord Rex’s request.” He explained with a polite smile.
“Oh, alright then,” He nodded as Timothy passed him the clothes.
“The outfit should be tailored to your size, but please let us know if anything is too big or small.” He bowed, stepping away and closing the door for Silas. Once closed, Silas jumped forward to lock it.
The clothes the servants had picked out were dark in color. Usually, Silas wore bright or pale shades. This outfit came with black bottoms, and a black blazer, with the only pop of color being a white button down, and a deeply red vest to put over. Silas slipped into the vest and admired it in the mirror; the color was rich and the fabric flexible and light. He hoped that Rex would let him keep the vest after the party.
Once dressed, Silas looked himself up and down. He adjusted his glasses, straightened his sleeves; he made each and every minute detail as possible as he could, but there was something he still couldn’t fix–
the ribbon in his hair.
As much as Silas dreaded the thought, he dragged himself out the room, and across the hallway.
“...Mr. Rex?” he knocked. Anxiety swelled in the immediate after math–they’d been avoiding each other all day. What would Rex say when they met eye to eye? would he call Silas out for the avoidance? would he ignore it completely? What if Silas looked silly in this suit–!
“Come in!” Rex responded, muffled.
Silas swallowed the lump in his throat and turned the doorknob. He stepped through, eyes scanning the room as a finger tapped against his side.
Finally, he rested his gaze on Rex, who stood in the doorway of the closet, straightening his vest to perfection. He glanced over calmly, but once they met Silas’ body, they widened.
If Silas allowed himself to dwell on that, it wouldn’t end well; he coughed harshly into his hand and threw his head sideways, “Could I get some help re-tieing the ribbon in my hair?”
Rex–the fool he was–took much too long to reply. He just kept staring at Silas like a wolf entranced in the full moon. He had the expression of a stunned man, and the way his cheeks turned rosey was driving Silas mad.
“I’m sorry to bother; I can ask one of the servants–”
“No, no, I’ll do it!” He said much too frantically. He calmed himself and stepped around the bed and closer to Silas. He kept coming closer; he came too close–
“Sorry, I must have gotten lost in thought,” He stuttered. He tried to save face by shaking his head, but after that ended and his eyes resettled on Silas, he was back to red.
“Silas…you look very nice–” He blurted.
“Ah! Yes, you as well, Mr. Rex!” He forced his head down, noticing how their vests seemed a similar color (Rex’s had much more of a purplish tint to it). “Oh! I see that we’re matching!”
“Yes–yes I thought it’d be appropriate for such an event.” He choked out. He straightened himself like Silas was the bedroom mirror in the corner and slid a hand through his bangs. Silas was starting to decipher that motion as a nervous tick– “Come over to the closet; I think I've got a better ribbon than this piece of scrap.”
Silas obeyed; sitting on the mattress as Rex slinked into the closet, before returning with a long, more thick and lustrous ribbon. He watched with a gasp forming in his throat.
“Oh–oh my!”
“Pretty ribbon isn’t it! I can’t remember too well when exactly I'd gotten it,” He wriggled over the mattress, and before Silas could jump up, Rex was kneeling behind him, reaching for the old piece of lace that had halfway come out already. He rambled on, lost in some moment as Silas waited for him to realise just what he was carelessly running through his fingers and freeze like he almost always did–
“...Actually, I believe I'd gotten them from a bouquet. Yes, it was a bouquet sent to me in the mail, and it had this elegant ribbon as binding.” His hands worked away at the bow, seizing an end peace and bracing to pull, “Red tulips they were–”
Like previously, Silas’ hair spilled over his neck and seized Rex’s ramblings; he froze, just like Silas knew he would.
He could feel a shallow breath against his neck as the poor piece of lace fluttered to the bed.
“...M’yeah, they were tulips.” He was forced out. He gathered white hair in his hands, like he had the other day, and carefully, as if he was binding the tulips from his memories, he tied Silas’ hair.
Both of them watched the mirror as Silas tilted and twisted to see each and every angle of the bow; it was magnificently tied. It was picturesque, in the way it was shaped, or in the way the material lustrously shined, and especially the way it secured Silas’ ponytail. It looked almost natural, without blending into the hair in the slightest. It stuck out like a sore thumb, almost like the ‘bright highlights in an oil painting or the pretty word snuck into a poem’. It was almost as grand as–
“...May I ask you something Silas?”
–Rex’s beautiful streak of white hair.
He turned around slowly, the weight of the bow nonexistant, but still heavy; Silas felt like Rex still had his hands in his hair, fingers gently brushing through strands. In a way, he would have liked that.
Rex looked forlorn as he spoke, his eyes still watching Silas through the mirror. “Silas…how is it that you haven’t settled down with a woman yet?” His authoritative voice turned meek in a softly unnerving way. He never moved his eyes from the mirror; they were entranced in that bow, but in all fairness, Silas was quite entranced as well–he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the queer streak of hair–
“I’ve never actively looked; I'm much more of a drifting man.” He snickered to himself, “I’m not a fan of Bar environments, nor large parties, but even if I were to meet a woman willing to deal with my oddities, the idea of a family isn’t one I'm fond of.”
“...don’t you worry, though? What will others think, or how will you pass on your fortunes without a son?”
Silas waved his hands, “Rex! I'm an archeologist! I'm not exactly a celebrity nor a millionaire! The only things I own are a couple sets of clothes, a trowel, and a collection of wax seals–!”
Rex peered away from the mirror at last, “Wax seals?”
“The ones you send, yes. They’ve all got the flower printed on them and the scent of something very floral.”
Rex blinked at him, “...you mean the ones with the hyacinth?”
“Ah, yes, that's the one!”
“Well…why would you keep those?”
Silas paused; it hadn’t occurred to him until now, but keeping an entire box of wax seals from one particular man had some odd implications.
“I uhm, really liked the perfume embedded in them, oh, and the image, and well i just had a spare box–”
He’d been mid frantic when a choking sound stopped him; it was breathy, happy, extremely odd–it was Rex’s laugh.
Rex was giggling to himself, cheeks turning red as he covered the bottom half of his face with a knuckle; he was laughing hard, but trying to stifle it. Through his hand he managed to gasp, “Oh Silas! never change!”
and from just the sight of Oskar giggling to himself so madly, Silas knew immediately that he never would.
[_________________________________]
The young man Rex had met at the bar had a mansion bigger than the white house. It was so large, that looking up at the roof from where Silas had exited the car was making him dizzy.
“Lord Caesar should be inside. We're a little early, so it shouldn’t be too crowded yet.” Rex explained as he started up the steps. Silas quickly followed, scrambling up after him,
“Caesar? The man you met at the bar, yes?”
Rex nodded, “Kai Caesar–the Nepo baby; he wants a location with a pond on the property.”
“Ah, I see.”
Quickly, Rex added, “If he starts nagging you during the party just come find me, alright? He can be quite annoying, but I can put him in place,”
“Thank you; sometimes I feel a little out of place during these events.” he sighed.
Rex stopped on the top step, twisting around to firmly stare down, “You’re much smarter than any of those patricians, Silas, you needn’t worry about them.”
“That’s kind,” Silas smiled. He reached the top step and reached for the door, “I’ll remember that, but I believe I'll just find you. You’re much more intimidating than I,”
“Hm. Well that'll work.” Rex mumbled as he stepped inside the mansion with Silas.
Marble floors, tall pillars; The mansion was everything Silas imagined whenever he heard the word rich. All the furniture was needlessly carved into ornaments, and authentic paintings hung large on walls. He was amazed at such pieces; they were taller than Silas himself!
The hallway of marble they treaded down wasn’t empty in the slightest, as little servants and young party goers all dressed in unique colors raced after one another, their wine glasses clinging and waving. It was obvious though, even from their distance, that the main party was not in these hallways. Two large doors to the right were constantly propped open, and guests trickled through, and from a glimpse through the doors at the patterns etched on the floors, it was apparent the event was being held in the ball room.
Inside, it was like a palace made of green marble; the floor etched a brilliant aquamarine and soft green circular pattern, with each laid piece of marble acting like a brush stroke in this magnificent art piece of a ballroom. Above stretched pillars, holding up the ceiling like the giants holding heaven upon their shoulders; Shamelessly, Silas reached his hand upwards, grabbing towards the chandelier, made of a million starlight cylinders.
“What a ballroom,” Silas whispered to himself. He glanced beside him, where Rex was also staring up in wanderlust,
“The architecture–I recognise it.” Rex whispered, to no one in particular. “These intricate patterns are the work of Daytona, I’m sure.”
“It reminds me of the midnight garden in our manner,” He waved his hand down at the floor, “The grass down here, and the pretty moonflowers above–surely if I turned a bit to face you, I’d find a quaint little cicada.”
“Silas, I’d hope you’d tell me if that were the case.” He joked, “I’d rather not scare guests and look like a fool with a bug stuck to my hair; the white streak is plenty enough.”
Silas smirked, “But what if you got more white hair? wouldn’t that be nice?”
“No–comming to terms with this was much more than I would have liked. You’ve done plenty damage, Silas,”
“What–” Silas playfully spat, “How do we even know that was my fault? You’re barring me from touching your hair because of a simple speculation?"
“Yes, absolutely.” Rex nodded with full sincerity. “I would prefer you keep your hands to yourself.”
Silas clicked his tongue, “absurd.” he joked.
That was how the party started; wonderfully cheery vibes shared between them. They wandered the ball room for a bit, found a table of wines and such beverages. Silas scooped up a cup and a stray cigarette offered by the servant standing nearby. He shoved it into his pocket, and promptly forgot about it.
Wine had something akin to magical qualities. It dulled Silas’ senses, like it was sliding a soft blanket over his head and patting him a well rest. It blurred the corner of his vision, and it mellowed his thinking. Wine, even in small quantities, turned Silas into a cloud drifting above the sky, watching all the party goers scramble around like ants. Giggly and red in the face, it’d caused him to lose sight of Rex. They’d come in together, but in the course of three (or maybe four?) glasses of wine, they’d gotten separated.
If he were sober, finding Rex would have been his top priority, but due to the glass in his hands, he started to wander. He did a couple laps around the ballroom, and then he stared out of a window, before gazing up at the ceiling like it was the night stars. Eventually, he had wandered out into some unfamiliar hallway filled with large paintings, and that's when he stumbled into a familiar face with a strong accent.
“Well, well, well! Is that my favorite silly glasses wearing archeologist?” Honorable judge Megan Marshall called out. She leaned against a wall, a bottle of wine in one hand, lit a cigarette in the other. “Silas! how’s Rex been treatin’ ya?”
“Nice, he’s very nice,” He said, assuming the spot next to her. She reached out, and without prompt, she refilled his glass with an entirely new flavor of wine, “he isn't usually that brash with others; you definitely hit a nerve with him yesterday,”
“Yeah, suave ones like him get flustered real easy,” She chuckled.
“He’s actually here; im not sure where, but we came in together,”
“Yeah,” She cawed, “Saw your little matching outfits. Really cute actually; warms my oh so cold soul.” She took a long, deep drag of her cigarette, drinking in the smoke like it was something worth tasting. She finally breathed it out before cooing on, “you two really do make a nice couple, you know?”
“Well, we aren’t really a couple–”
“Liar.”
Silas frowned, “No; I’m being serious! We’re just friends!”
“Silas dear, I’m afraid you may need a new pair of those silly glasses. I’ve only seen you two while inebriated, and even my woozy mind could see how close you two are–”
“Okay!” Silas snapped, “I…I can see that–”
“Ain’t nothing platonic between you two.” She said, shaking her head.
“But–but we aren’t dating, nor holding hands nor like…kissing?”
Marshall took a swig of wine, “Go fix that then,”
Silas grumbled, “I don’t…I’m not just gonna go and ask; I don’t even really…” He buried his head in his hands; his drunken mind really was letting too much slip, “...I mean, I do want to kiss him, but…i don’t want things to change between us–”
“Darlin’, I've said it already, and I won't repeat myself. You two trading spit won’t change a damn thing,”
Silas sighed, “Why do you have to say it like that?”
“Eh–get goin. I don’t wanna see you till you’ve kissed the barron!” She yelled, pointing an empty alcohol bottle at him. “Scram! Scram I tell ya’!”
Silas scoffed, before slowly peeling away, all the while, Marshall’s bottle swung in the air. Once again, he was wandering a mansion much too ornate and decorated to remember which rooms he’d already been in. Some were obvious; he could tell the ballroom from the dining room easily, but some of the hallways and smaller rooms were blending together in his drunken mind.
At one point, he’d wandered so long that he’d ended up in a gallery of sorts. It was filled with paintings and people (not as many people as the ballroom had, but still a considerable amount). Most held half empty wine glasses like Silas did, and he stood in the doorframe, wondering if they too were tipsy (or drunk).
Suddenly, there was a man standing next to him. He said nothing at first, only staring off into the distance with a proud look on his face. Silas stepped away a little, uncomfortable with the new presence, but the stranger quickly filled the gap again.
He spoke loudly, in an accent that was very overpronounced and stereotypically American.
“Are you drunk? You look quite drunk.”
The man had no shame; no filter. Silas’ grip tightened around his wine glass, and he nervously prodded at the frame of his glasses, “...No; an odd question to ask, is it not?”
“Being drunk at a party by yourself is dangerous.” He peered closer, leaning in and staring at his reflection in Silas’ glasses, “You seem to be a smart fellow; professor maybe?”
“before the war.”
“Ah, then a smart man such as yourself should know not to wander around such rich demographics; I’m afraid you stick out like a sore thumb.” He explained.
Silas was growing more and more unnerved by the second. He inched away, sliding his feet backwards, trying to gain any distance he could, “I’m an adult. And I didn’t come alone–”
“Ah, you have a partner? Shall I escort you to her?” He smiled, but something unsettling lingered behind it. “You look like someone who’d be interested in the architecture; I’d love to show you around–”
“I–I can find him–uh Her–by myself!” Silas yelled. He promptly turned and tried to exit the room, but to his horror, the stranger persisted.
“You know, I’m the architect who designed this place? I’d love to show you around; I saw you talking to Land Baron Rex ealier–I’ve actually designed a lot of the edifices on his properties too–” He was rambling, pleading like a maniac. Silas was weaving, walking as fast as his legs would take him but the fiend just wouldn’t relent.
Silas was considering sprinting; the ballroom was up ahead, and if he managed to duck into the crowd and then sneak over to one of the balconies, he could possibly wait for the strange man to disappear.
He set his plan in action; Sprint walking into the ballroom as the stranger called after him,
“You’ve seen that queer stripe in Rex’s hair right? How odd is that! Oh–you’ve got a bow that kind of matches his hair color too–!”
Silas crashed into the nearest crowd of people like it was an ocean wave. He weaved and jostled rich strangers, their loud laughs and chatter drowning out the calls of the pursuer. He repeated this and weaved through multiple crowds, doing his best to avoid open areas. Eventually he’d made it to the back wall, where doors were thrown open for balcony access; he quickly slipped through, letting the party noise die behind him.
The night air was the same as that night in the garden; it was brisk and sobering, but also draining. The chill sapped the energy straight from his body and soon, he had huddled up in the corner, legs drawn up and head spinning. By some miracle, he’d stumbled out onto an empty balcony. It seemed that the air was much too cold for those who weren't being chased by some crazed architect.
Silas slid his hands over the sides of his head, looking up at the stars. The manner was so large, it formed something like a natural reserve of forestry. Areas with so many people are light pollutants, but this manner was like a window into the sky. Each star blinked brightly, and Silas, with his limited knowledge of the stars and blurry drunk mind, could point out which dot was Mars.
skipping around the sky, with a chilly breeze on his neck; it was calming, but quiet. And in the quiet, Silas’ brain got loud.
He could still hear that weird architect, or the honorable judge and her lewd words, or random conversations from party goers, or even Oskar Rex calling his name–
“Silas?” it asked, “Silas? Silas, has the liquor turned you deaf?”
It took an embarrassing amount of time for Silas to sway sideways, and notice Rex’s legs next to him. He sluggishly looked up, meeting a worried set of purple eyes.
He rubbed his eyes, “Oh–Oskar?”
The word had slipped out so easily, and before he knew it, Rex was as petrified as a stone carving, and Silas’ mouth was tingling. His brain was slowed; he stared up in confusion until he had finally noticed what he had drunkenly uttered–
“Mr–Mr. Rex! Ah–I didn’t mean to–”
“No, no Silas, it's quite alright.” He coughed into a hand and flushed, “If you wish, you may call me Oskar,”
“M’okay–Mr. Re–I mean Oskar–” He stumbled, “Oskar…what are you doing here?”
Oskar sneered, “What am I doing here? Silas–you look drunk beyond measure!”
“I’ve only had three or maybe four glasses!” he complained, “Judge Marshall gave me another glass and a cigarette at some point–”
“Oh, that dreadful woman,” He glowered, “Well that explains your state.”
“Please don't blame her; she’s very nice–” he whined
“Doubtful.”
“No, Oskar! I really mean it!” He leaned his head against the railings, staring off to the sky through the bars, “She gave me some useful advice on a problem I've been having,”
“Oh? Problem you say?” Oskar asked. His voice went up an octave, like he was offended that instead of him, Silas had consulted the honorable judge.
“It's–it's nothing major; just troublesome,” Silas pleaded. He really would prefer if the topic changed; his drunken mouth would betray him if this madness were to continue. “You–how did you find me?”
Oskar said nothing for a brief moment, and in that silence, Silas had become convinced that somehow he’d found out about Silas' quarrel. Maybe he’d talked to the judge already, or Silas was just that awkward, that his secrets were practically printed on his face. Maybe he knew, and he was disgusted. Maybe Silas read the situation all wrong, and Oskar actually had no semblance of a romantic inclination towards Silas, and now their friendship and partnership was ruined!
Gracefully, Oskar broke the silence, “I shall tell you, but come up from the floor please.” He held out his hands, patiently waiting for Silas’ scattered brain to register and take them, which did take an embarrassing amount of time. With little effort, he heaved him up and leant him against the railings. Pitifully, Silas crashed onto them, his head hung over and arms dangling down.
“...Silas…” Oskar worried. He was quickly met with a drunk mumble, urging him to go on–
“I spotted you from across the room; I was getting myself a glass of wine, but after looking at you, I don’t want any.”
“It’s quite well aged–” Silas protested.
“I'm sure it is.” Oskar sighed.
Another second of silence. “...Hey…Oskar?”
“hm?”
Saying his first name was hard; it was like crossing a boundary. He cleared the sweet tasting catch in his throat and watched as his arms dangled down,
“You asked me about finding a wife ealier…can I ask you the same?” he tested.
Surprisingly, Oskar stumbled,
“Oh–Oh! you mean you want to ask me about…finding a partner…?”
Silas nodded, and Oskar’s voice shook, “O–of course; yes, you may ask me that.”
“Wife? Kids? romance and love?” he queried.
“...Well, no, not–not yet.” He sputtered. “I don’t think about those things often; I’m…buisness oriented.”
Silas hummed, “You ever thought about it though? Like you see a pretty lady at a bar or somewhere? and then you–think about a whole future with her or something like that?”
“...No. I’ve never really looked at a woman that way before. And…and that’s a very specific example–”
He moped into the railings, “Heard it in a song or book once; I’ve never had that happen either.”
Oskar went quieter, “...do you want that to happen?”
Silas felt like a young child caught in a lie; constantly, he pretended and hid these oddities about himself, but with only a few glasses of wine, he’s spilling everything to the handsome land barron.
“Who doesn’t?” He spits, “Isn’t that what people want? To meet pretty ladies at bars and share cigarettes and have kids and such–I’m broken. I’m so broken; I think about silly artifacts in the ground instead of finding love. I’d never cared about these things; the only women I want are the ones buried under layers of dirt, so I can study their jewelry, not start a family and share coffee in the mornings–” He would have kept rambling, but his lungs could only hold so much breath.
Still, despite the cut off, it left something heavy in the air. It was tingling and raw like a current of electricity; it shocked Oskar so badly, he couldn’t muster words. He just stared, wide eyed and starstruck–
“Silas…I–I think–”
“What if I just stayed with you? Do I even need a wife or kids; I could live in your mansion and dig on your property and we could…we could do those things that normal people do!” Something in Silas broke as he confessed into the night air, “Oskar, what if we shared cigarettes?”
Meekly, he whispered, “Silas, I don’t smoke–”
“That’s not what I’m getting at.” He turned his head down into his arms and buried himself, and mumbled to them, “I’m really drunk right now.”
“Yeah–I can see that,” He nodded. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on his shoulder and feigned ignorance; this intelligent man was offering Silas a way to opt out, but he was too damn drunk to take it–
“Silas, I don’t think I’m getting what you mean.”
Silas slid up from his arms, turning his head to stare directly at Oskar, like he was the giant glowing moon in the sky.
Oskar’s eyes were sparkling; his cheeks were red. He looked as pretty as the abstract paintings and the wine glasses and the night stars; Oskar was everything pretty in the world, with his flushed skin and velvety purple eyes. It was so silly, but Silas really wanted to lean forward and kiss the dark mole under his eye. Silas truly was a fool. A fool for thinking he deserved any of this man.
Without tears, Silas cried. “I’m an idiot, Oskar; such a moronic idiot,”
“Silas, you’re one of the smartest–”
“I’m the reason that streak is in your hair! I’ve ruined your image; you’ve been stressed about it all week!” He shoved his hands over his face, “God–Oskar, why haven’t you kicked me out or something? That–that would fix this! That’s the solution!" he realized. Promptly he turned, grabbing Oskar by the shoulders, “Do that! leave me here! have Timothy drop off my belongings!”
“What are you–Silas please calm yourself.” Oskar warned. He put a gentle bite in his voice; something that made Silas simmer down a little.
“...I’m drunk.” He admitted.
“Look, you’re not in the best of state right now, and i have no idea how much of what you’ve told me is true or just ludicrous words strung together, but just listen to me for a moment okay?”
Silas pitifully nodded, and he lowered his hands. Immediately, they were seized by Oskar, who was holding them firmly,
“This…this streak of hair wasn’t caused by you. It’s probably always been there, and…i’ve always ignored it.” He sighed. “People don’t like to be different. People don’t like colored hair, or non classy aristocrats, or two men loving each other; I was…scared.
I always thought that this thing would stay at the back of my mind. I’d get a wife one day, and forget about the whole thing as I stand at the altar and say my vows. I’d blend in; I like blending in. But…well, then came you.”
“That night at the garden; it is my fault–”
Oskar squeezed his hands to quiet him, “No, the truth is, this all started not long after I'd met you. I’d always send you letters and money; I was so overjoyed when you came to the estate a few days ago. Of course I had no idea any of this would happen, but…spending time with you–” His mouth had curved up into a smile; a raw, pure smile that couldn’t be captured in any medium. Even memory wouldn’t serve it justice.
Silas somehow got even drunker, just from soaking in these words. His knees wobbled, and he felt like pouring out every word that had ever crossed his mind,
“Oskar; I don’t know what love is. I’m a broken man; a man that lacks the crazy blend of chemicals in my brain, so I’ll never feel the things you describe. But at the same time; I love you.”
His whole body shivered; what words they where to say!
He repeated it, “I love you; I love you in my own way! I love you in the way of admiration–I want to marvel you like a terracotta piece in a museum. I love the way I feel around you–I want to stay like this forever. I want you to always hold my hands so I'll always be warm and woozy inside. I want you to make me drunk without alcohol, Oskar. I can only do that with you–no other human in this world fills me with emotions I can't understand!” His breath stuttered, “You make me feel like I can be a normal person.”
“Silas–I–” Words caught in his throat, and it made an audible noise. He turned his head away, chewing on his lower lip, “Do…do you even know what you’re saying?”
“Oskar–Oskar, yes! I’m saying that I love you! I’ll say it as many times–”
“You’re really drunk right now–” He laughed, “I’m a little worried–”
“I’m fine–actually–im better than fine!” He pawed at his glasses, fumbling with shaky hands. He couldn’t straighten them no matter how much he tried; it must have been a pitiful sight, because Oskar reached up and straightened them himself.
“You’re still very inebriated. A part of me wonders if you’ll even remember this conversation come morning,” he breathed.
“I most certainly will, but you’ll remind me anyways, won’t you?” He professed, “Yes, I shan’t forgive you if it's not the first words out your mouth when I see you,”
He conceded, “I suppose I have no choice, hm?”
Silas vehemently shook his head back and fourth, and Oskar feigned protest. He took a step backwards and placed the hand not holding Silas on his hip, as he hung his head like he was disappointed,
“Fine. I promise I’ll tell you if you forget, but we have to head home now.” He sighed, “I’d rather not have you stumble around in front of a bunch of aristocrats for another hour or so,”
Silas immediately agreed, “Yes, I feel quite nauseous."
In a couple minutes, they were standing on the giant stairs of the mansion, watching their car pull into the driveway. Oskar guided Silas over, one hand on his hip and the other holding his hand. It was unconventional, but they ended up tossing Silas into the back seat. Oskar himself could have ridden in the passenger, next to Timothy, who was driving, but instead, he chose to sit in the back.
He slid into the middle seat, giving Silas the window behind the driver. At first, he’d stared loosely at the window, smiling like an idiot whenever they passed another car, or a stray animal, but eventually the car’s steady rhythm lulled him to sleep. His body rolled sideways, into Oskar's, and suddenly, Silas’ head was upon his shoulder. He didn’t mind though; not in the slightest.
It was nice. Silas smelled like red wine and a slight cigarette; it was rich and so strong that it lingered in his snow white hair. Oskar could feel that hair against his shoulder; he could hear the slight rustle of fabric and hair as Silas stirred. His glasses’ frame was pressed hard into Oskar’s shoulder, but it didn’t matter so much. He was too busy gently raising his hand and running it through white, wine and cigarette scented hair. It’d been something he'd wanted to do for so long; something he’s vividly dreamed of so many times, and just now could he do it. The hair felt like spider silk, and in that moment, Oskar felt as if nothing could ever make him happier–the only thing that could rival it was the way Silas leaned into it. He strained against the touch, pressing his cheek harder against Oskar’s shoulder; he leaned closer, bringing their bodies close. His fist balled up over Oskar’s leg.
All of that, and despite all the anxiety and built up emotions, and taboo of it all–it felt good. They weren't prosecuted or judged; they were cuddled up together–something two men were supposedly never allowed to do–and they were fine. They were allowed to just…be.
The only people they affected were themselves. Oskar with the heat rising up his neck; Silas and the way he smiled even while asleep.
And maybe Timothy. He was watching through the car’s rear-view mirror, trying hard not to smile.
[_________________________________]
That night, Silas slept in the barron’s room. Oskar had insisted he sleep on his own, but before he could herd a drunken Silas to his own quarters, he barged in, and flopped backwards. He landed on the mattress with a thud so hard, it was immediately apparent that he wouldn’t get up until the sun came over the horizon again.
With his eyes closed, he stretched his arms in the air. They felt heavy and rigid, but Silas marveled at the way his fingers stretched and spread.
“Oskar? Can you re-tie my bow in the morn?” He asked in a fit of giggles.
“Of course.” He sighed. He, too, lowered himself down onto the bed. His back was tense, and he stared out at the window, thinking about something; Silas didn’t care too much about that. He folded his arms over his stomach and whined.
“I’m exhausted.”
Oskar scoffed. He slowly lowered himself back, imitating Silas. They both laid flat, staring up at the ceiling.
“Imagine how I feel. Having to carry you home–”
Not so subtly, he shifted closer, so that their shoulders touched, “I don’t think I’m that heavy. Perhaps you’re just…weak.”
He took a moment of silence, during which he turned to stare at Silas. Silas’ peripherals were so blurry from the wine, but he could hear the shuffle, and feel the breath on his ear.
“Yeah.” He said at last, “I’m quite weak.”
Time passed–just Oskar and Silas lying side by side on that bed. The night stretched on in silence, and eventually, the alcohol did its thing, and Silas had passed out again. He slept soundly; Oskar watched unashamed as his chest rose and fell like a melodic rhythm. He reached forward and gently plucked the glasses from Silas’ face, setting them on the nightstand. Then he returned, and closed his own eyes.
.
.
.