Silverfish

Third Hour

Dr. Ekström sighs suddenly, sitting with a stagnant sort of laziness posed as contemplative introspection. He wanted some kind of reaction from his counterpart, Professor Stevens, who would–with a compassionate, yet primarily sympathetic submission–give it to him.

Stevens' eyes flicker up from his paper to meet Ekström's, "Doctor?"

"What time is is A.J.?" He asks, sloppily running his hands through his mangled curls, "I think it's probably about time for duck soup, wouldn't you say?"

Stevens rests his papers down gently in front of himself before tucking his shirt sleeve inwards to reveal his watch, "It's eleven thirty-five."

"Ah, so it is time then," Ekström concludes, happily, "Stop whatever it is that you're doing and come to lunch with me."

Stevens raises his eyebrows at this kind of vigorous demand, staring back at Ekström in silent disbelief.

He hesitates for a brief moment before realizing that he would not have much of a say in the matter regardless of what he actually preferred, and that he should rather just oblige to the capricious man.

"Alright, but I will need tea afterwards," Stevens complies, stacking his lecture notes in a neat corner at the edge of his dark walnut desk.

He then rises slowly, pushing himself away from his chair and turning to join Ekström–already halfway out of the door, "Yes you'll have your tea."

❧

The two men find themselves seated outside of BLANCHEFLEUR, a French café a few blocks away from the university in which they both worked. Ekström conversed aimlessly alongside his companion, whom was just polite enough to give him the attention, but still consequently fell in and out of coherence with his frequent day dreams.

Stevens' meal arrives first, an extravagant looking Lyonnaise with buttered Rye slices, but he remains motionless, deciding to wait for Ekström.

Ekström, of course, notices this, and furrows his eye brows together in frustration, "You're not waiting for me, are you?"

Stevens nods simply, offering him a small smile.

Ekström rolls his eyes dramatically, "Oh please, enough with the formalities. Go ahead and eat, it will not offend me."

Stevens cocks his head to the right slightly, maintaining that wonderfully charming smile again, "I'd rather wait for you. Also, it seems as though my manners always seem to upset you in some way or another, and I find a sort of sick pleasure in that sometimes. Your melodramatics are endearing."

Ekström flushes briefly before hiding his chagrin with a scoff, "A. J., how could you say that?!"

Stevens shrugs, avoiding his gaze by busying himself with his napkin.

Soon after the waitress arrives with Ekström's illusive duck soup, wasting no time in at all with table etiquette.

Both parties converse lightly with each other as they eat, but do not bother themselves with subsequent conversation again, too afraid one might push a boundary the other wasn't quite comfortable with. It seems as though they were always playing this game with each other, and that neither knew where to begin or end. It always just sort of stuck there, lingering in the brisk autumn air with a sort of audacity to provoke intense discussion of emotions and intentions. Stevens was afraid of upsetting Ekström, and Ekström, of course, was afraid he might accept whatever it was Stevens would be suggesting.

Despite this delicate inquisition, Stevens would continue to surround himself with this invasive company, intrigued by the very idea of an alternative outcome.
❧

After lunch the two find themselves busied with research in the library, as most of their free time was spent working towards their books or collecting material for their lectures. It would be a dreary sort of Autumn day, and either man really didn't enjoy spending their leisure in the cold and rain, so they took their time.

Stevens stood in front of the collection on German Expressionism in Architecture, a spot he frequented. He'd seem to have gone through the entire library's offerings on the subject, or at least he thought he had, but still continued to stand and stare, hopeful.

"A. J.," Ekström whispers from behind suddenly, causing Stevens to jump a little, "Guess what."

Stevens remains stagnant, his gaze forwards, "What?"

"I've found something new for you," he says, reaching around Stevens' waist to reveal a brand new edition of Smith's Weaving Theory.

It was a feminine-take in Bauhaus' design and practice, and was something Stevens had been meaning to acquire for months now, "Did you find this here?"

Stevens takes the book from Ekström and turns to face him, studying the sleeve insert's description, despite previous knowledge of the book's content.

Ekström takes a small step closer to Stevens and nods, "Why yes I actually did. I was informed that it had just arrived this morning. Isn't that convenient for you?"

Stevens beams at Ekström like a child, "It very much is. Now I can share this with my students; you know, always trying to find ways to tie-in contemporary issues with the past. I have a group of students who'd just consume this with an ardor."

Ekström returns the smile, enjoying the effect he'd had on Stevens' mood, "Right, I can see that."

Stevens' presses the book up against his chest and leans backwards slightly on his left him, meeting Ekström's gaze with a gentle gratitude, "Thank you."

Ekström feels this change in the atmosphere but desperately attempts to ignore it, shrugging in his usual jovial and dramatic way. He wanted to, for whatever reason, push this constant kindness Stevens offered away, keeping things light and careful. But this facade was tiring, and redundant. There was something else that needed examination and–for a lack of a better term–exploration. It was waters uncharted, thrashing against the side of the docks, slowly eating away at the wood. He was weak, ultimately, and Stevens knew that. With every drip of compassion he felt it tear away at him. It wasn't a bad thing, not even a little, but it felt wrong, dangerous? Perhaps he was just afraid of his emotions, afraid of stumbling into a real relationship.

"Doctor Ekström?" Stevens presses softly, "Are you alright? You seem to be lost in deep thought. I am very familiar with that concept, as I seem to live in my head predominantly through most of the day."

Ekström runs his hands through his hair again, this time attempting to control the wild blonde mess, "I suppose I am."

Stevens sighs in confirmation, "Yes, that does seem to be the downfall of people in our configuration. Oh, and the time is a quarter past two, if you were curious."

Ekström remains entirely trapped inside of his own mind, emotionally unresponsive, "That's enough I think."

Stevens cocks his head to the side in bemusement, "Enough time for what?"

In that moment, Ekström had very firmly made up his mind. He knew what he wanted, and he had a somewhat solid idea about what his company wanted as well. See, they were always playing this game of chess, but neither of them made any real substantial moves. He was so tired of this.

"Fuck," Ekström curses under his breath, taking one step forwards into Stevens, pressing his lips against his with a sort of hurried and unpredictable passion.

Stevens, completely shocked by the motion, quickly recovers, his hands finding either side of Ekström's face. He was enjoying this odd and ill-considered act, and definitely did not anticipate this would be the way he spent his rainy afternoon.

After a few more seconds of total bliss Ekström pulls away, staring back at the man in front of him with a type of adoration in which he'd never actually offered to anyone.

He stayed close, silence falling upon the both of them.

Stevens smiles again, his dark eyes lighting up at the feeling. He pulls Ekström into his chest, holding him for a little while until his watch bell rings, signaling fifteen-minutes before his next class.