And We Call It 'Love' (An Anthology)

ONE | In Which Eros Discovers Love

I wasn't a very interesting person. I mean, aside from having powers-that's pretty interesting-but I couldn't talk about them. I couldn't talk about any of the things I wanted to. Not at fourteen and certainly not now.
It was weird to see everyone else get along, talking about mundane things like they were the most fascinating things in the universe. I just didn't get it.You know, I didn't get a lot of things. Still don't.
It was the beginning of the school year. Yay, I told myself, though there wasn't much enthusiasm to go with it. I was wearing my favourite jacket at the time, on top of my uniform. It was grey and bland with a hood. It was warmish, but it wasn't the most comfortable piece of clothing I owned. I liked the brand, the signature black tick across the chest. It made me think I was important, which is a very dangerous thing for a fourteen-year-old boy to think.
Fourteen-going-on-fifteen, actually. In November, I was going to be fifteen. That was only a month into the future but it felt like miles away. Everything felt miles away.
I prepared myself for the first English class of the year. This time, I told myself, I'd step up my game. I'd get As on every exam and study until ten each night and skip meals to find the time to fit all of that effort in...
Well, that didn't sound very fun, I thought. So instead I settled on Cs, probably mediocre at best, but at least they were consistent. And comfortable.
I sat in the back right corner, because I sat there in every other class, with my shoulder up against the wall. That way I only had to be paranoid about two directions (the empty seat beside me and the filled ones in front) as opposed to four that I would otherwise find myself panicking over if I sat elsewhere.
It was Autumn.
I liked Autumn. I prefer Winter now; the snow is nice. But there was something special about Autumn. I was kind of crazy about it, to be honest. It had something to do with the colours of the leaves: explosions of red and orange and yellow that brightened gloomy streets. (My favourite colour used to be red, before I began to associate it with flames and wildfires and all the terrible things that come with them-With me, of course, the root of it all.)
The teacher marked off our names while I pitied myself in the new environment. Great start.
I was so lost in my own teenage angst that I became oblivious to the changes around me. A boy filled the empty seat to my left. He was shorter than me-everyone was shorter than me-with jet-black hair and a gentle face. I'd seen him around on occasion, sometimes through the halls and in Instagram posts, but we'd never really met before then.
He smiled and it made me feel a little woozy, like I'd been drugged.
I stared at him. I hadn't had anyone sit next to me before. It was such a foreign concept to me that I forgot to breathe.
He extended his hand. I looked at it: long fingers, soft skin, and small. His nails were perfectly rounded. There was a mole just under his left thumb. I looked back at him, who waited patiently for my reply.
Eventually, I managed to say, 'You smell like cigarettes.'
He blinked, taken aback, but the smile returned to his face as quickly as it had left. He laughed. It was light and genuine and I swore he was glowing.
'Yeah,' he said, like talking was the most natural thing in the world. 'I'm Killian.'
I shook his pretty hand, mine large and calloused in contrast. The skin of my knuckles was hard. The pads of his fingers were a light pink, as if they had never been used.
'Eros,' I said.
'You come here often, Eros?'
When he pulls his hand away, his touch froze me to the bone. I squinted at him. It was such an odd thing to say and I couldn't understand him for the life of me.
But I wanted to.
I was certain that I wanted to.
'Yeah,' I played along. 'But I wouldn't if I had a say in it.'
'Yeah,' he echoed, still grinning. 'Me too.'
I thought that would be the end of it, that he would come to his senses and realise I don't make very good company, but he didn't leave and he didn't look bored, either. A couple of girls in front of me discussed a boy they liked. It got me thinking.
I didn't know what it was like to love someone. Not romantically and not platonically. I wondered if I was capable of experiencing romantic attraction at all, but, the truth is, I considered myself to be too inadequate it deserve it in return.
Killian watched the front of the classroom attentively. He was perhaps the only one in our class who liked what we did. His arms raised eagerly to answer questions about old literature the rest of us hadn't heard of and it hit me that it was his passion. Deciphering ancient stories and tales came as easy to him as breathing. He was in love with it.
I wondered what it was like to find something like that-How magical it must feel. I wondered how much simpler life would be to have, at the very least, one thing to be certain of.
Or, perhaps, someone.
He leaned into my side, hair tickling my chin while the rest of him remained out of reach. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke off the teacher's lecture.
'You know, he wrote essays in prison, too.'
For some reason, despite my disinterest in the subject, I wanted to learn more. 'Why was he in prison?'
He said, without a beat, 'Because he fancied boys. Men, I should say.'
'Oh,' I said quietly.
He straightened his posture and folded his hands in his lap. My heart lurched forward. I could finally pinpoint what it was that I was feeling.
I wanted to touch him again.
'It isn't weird.' He wore a guarded expression that didn't quite suit his face.
'I don't think it's weird,' I said. The darkness of his eyes went out, replaced by that twinkle again.
'Good,' he nudged my arm. 'Because I would've sat over there if you did.' He pointed to a vacant seat in the centre of the classroom as he said "there."
And, as if nothing had happened, we resumed our earlier conversation and he told me all about the writer named Oscar Wilde while I asked all the questions. Killian watched me, thoughtfully, as he said, 'I want to be like him.'
'Why? Because he had meningitis?'
He let out a snort and buried his nose in his shoulder, away from me. But I could still see some of his face. He was biting down onto his bottom lip, holding back laughter.
He was beautiful.
I wondered how a single person could keep all that beauty inside of him.
'Eros, no!' I liked the way he said my name, like it meant something. 'I admire his writing!'
'Oh.'
'Don't be so facetious!' He patted me on the arm, his shoulders shaking and eyes crinkling. At the time, I didn't even know what the word meant; I would have to look it up later. What I did know, though, was that it sounded pretty coming from him.
I liked the sound of his voice, even if I wasn't really sure what in particular I liked it about it. I suppose it felt like home.