The Gala was a waste of time. Not a single person in attendance had any interest in discussing anything of substance. Titus had been forced to endure long-winded interactions with elderly men whose lips resembled the flesh of an overly plump starfish, puffy and leaking saliva. Every other sentence sent a spray of spit toward Titus, and they would do nothing but wipe their mouths and carry on with their unending drivel; Titus couldn't get a word in edgewise.
Amidst this Titus was aware of Alaric Ralston's presence throughout the Gala--it clung to the room like the sweet, clovey scent of his cologne. Though Alaric attempted to make eye contact through the night, Titus couldn't bring himself to allow it. The phantom pressure of Alaric's hand on his shoulder remained.
Titus' orbit reconvened with his mom's as the evening forged on toward midnight. She offered him a bracing smile, and, as the string sextet on the far balcony finished another song, said, "It's been long enough, I think. You can go."
"I can?" he said though the attempted stifling of his enthusiasm fell flat.
"Yeah," her gaze was on the Gala and its revelers. "I'll see you in the morning." She gave Titus a hug, but it was swift and fleeting.
Titus went off toward the staircase at the far side of the room. He ascended a mere four steps when he was stopped by a hand on his bicep. Titus turned and was inches from Alaric's white teeth and clear, tan skin. Titus pulled away and stepped upward. "What do you want?" He didn't intend the razor-sharp tone, and Alaric's smile faltered for a moment before widening.
Producing a slip of paper and sliding it into Titus palm, Alaric said, "That's my Holo number..." he trailed off. "If you want a realinterview," he finished strongly.
"Oh," Titus said, unsure why Alaric hadn't dropped his hand. "Yeah, thanks." Titus pocketed the slip of paper on which Alaric had printed his information. "Have a good night."
Alaric retreated into the party, and Titus watched. The entire evening--at least the moments in which Alaric had been involved--had been too strange and disarming. What possible reason could the son of the country's most renowned reporter want to interview Titus for? People didn't normally seek Titus' company. Because it's what I deserve. His answer to Alaric's question bubbled to the surface. Did Titus really believe that?
The easy answer should have been no. He didn't think he believed it; so why did he say it? Titus certainly didn't need anyone to feel sorry for him, and he hated the idea that Alaric Ralston believed he could uncover some story. Despite the death, Titus knew himself to have nothing more to offer. No one shouldwant his company.
The closest chance he'd come to friendship was with Caleb Carlisle, and Titus had already ensured Caleb wouldn't ever want to be friends with him.
Which was the goal, right? No friends meant no one cared. He wantedthat. Titus stripped the layers of his tux off and hung them on their hangers. A brutal war waged in Titus' thoughts as he showered. He could give Alaric the interview--or he could screw it all and throw the card away. The latter was the obvious choice.
But as he tossed in his bed, the card sung a song to him of what could be. Titus wasn't sure when he'd pulled the covers back, nor when he'd picked up the card with trembling fingers. There's been something in the way Alaric had touched his shoulder. The way it had lingered throughout the evening. Furrowing his brow, heart fluttering, Titus used his perspiring palm to slide open his wrist Holo. He stared for ten minutes at the message he'd written, his breaths trembling through his lips. I'd love to do an interview. Come to the Estate on the twenty-third, and we can conduct it here.Titus signed it with his initials and a requested time.
With a sledgehammer heart racing in his chest, Titus leapt into his bed and pulled the covers up above his ears.
+++
The Gala was the twentieth of August, and the subsequent days following were the tensest of Titus' life. Alaric's response the next morning was a sanitized, professional: Wonderful! I will arrive at the Estate at noon on the Twenty-Third of August. Thank you! This had done nothing to quell the rising tide of panic in Titus' gut. How could he have been stupid enough to interpret Alaric's touch as anything more than friendly?
Titus sat through his private lessons with as much concentration as his nervous energy allowed. He struggled through physics, blasted through two essays, and waited. The night before the interview Titus stared at his ceiling for hours attempting to discern if he was doing something wrong in granting an interview without his mom's consent. She made it clear that Titus shouldn't be in the spotlight. Was he breaching her rules? Yes. Did he care? Kinda?
Tossing and turning, Titus attempted to answer possible interview questions. What if Alaric asked ones of the more personal variety? Idiot, he called himself again and again. When the thought of Alaric's tan skin and freckled cheeks began to warm a pit in his gut, Titus threw back the covers.
After throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, Titus grabbed the Stradivarius violin from his closet and went downstairs. Playing would give him peace, and he could play for Natalee. He hadn't been to see her in so long guilt played on his conscience: but he doubted she'd missed him. She didn't even know him.
The lab was dark and empty at three in the morning. The lights flickered to life in short, stuttering bursts. Natalee's peaceful slumber made him smile. Titus activated the intercom and, after sitting on the table overlooking her room, lifted the instrument to his shoulder and tested a few notes. The A string was flat and Titus' eyebrows shot toward his hairline as he attempted to bring all the strings into tune.
The song Titus played shook with an awkward messiness for the first few bars until his arm remembered a graceful bow pattern. The strings screeched at first but soon Titus was able to avoid the jarring sounds altogether. Only when his out of shape fingertips ached and burned against the strings did he halt his playing. "I got the violin for you. I know it was sort of stealing but..." he shrugged. "What does it matter, really? You're not even awake." Shutting the lights off was easy now that he wasn't so jittery.
Though 7:20 was entirely too early, Titus and his mom ate breakfast together like always. She took small, distracted bites and set her toast down almost as soon as picking it up. Without so much as a word of explanation, she was off, the rest of her meal hardly touched.
"Bye," Titus called as her jacket rounded the corner behind her. No reply came.
The morning slid by in a soup of frenzied anxiety. Had he been dropped in some vat of cosmic molasses? Titus swore twenty minutes would pass, but when he glanced at his wrist Holo, only three had. Twice Titus nearly called off the whole affair, but as noon approached, he held off. Impatience stoked in Titus' gut as the time came, and he had to remind himself that Alaric wasn't a Timewalker with the luxury of popping in at any moment.
Eventually, there came a knock on the front door--not that he was waiting by it--and Titus forced himself to wait for Alaric to knock once more. One of the maids seemed particularly scandalized when Titus hissed for her to leave. She slunk off into the house to wipe down a mirror or something, and Titus plastered a winning smile on his face and pulled the heavy oak in.
Heart already palpating in cut time, the sight of Alaric in a dark blue button-down with a shower of tiny, pink elephants over the surface and khaki pants with polished brown shoes turned the fake smile on Titus' face until it was nothing more than a grimace. A camera bag hung over Alaric's shoulder and slid down his arm as he went to shake Titus' sweaty hand. "Good to see you!" he said, face glowing in the daylight.
"Come on in," Titus replied, not taking Alaric's hand.
Alaric allowed the moment to pass without acknowledgment and stepped in. "I've never been to the Estate outside of a Gala. Granted, I've never been to the Estate before a few days ago, either, so..." he shrugged and turned to look at Titus. "Where do you want to do the interview?"
The Peony Gardena voice urged him. All official interviews were conducted on the backyard terrace, and Titus knew he should lead them there. The lighting for photos was prime under the shaded pergola. But anyone could walk in--even his mom. And she would know without what sort of occasion this was. So Titus made the choice that led them to the small couch in his room, the door closed tight.
Mouth dry, Titus had his leg in a figure four on his knee, arms crossed to keep from shaking like a wind-swept leaf. Alaric sat with notebook in hand, having already scribbled notes about their awkward conversation on the way up here. Only small talk, but Alaric said everything was important. Titus was important.
"I like to write on paper, even if it's sort of expensive," Alaric said with a smile and a nod. "I feel like I'm an actual reporter when I do it."
"Mm," Titus replied. If he wasn't so damn nervous he might have said something witty. Instead Titus bit at his fingernail.
With a gentle shift of weight, Alaric brought his calf onto the couch and Titus was hyperaware of the heat emanating from Alaric. "We should just start then," Alaric said, as if he hadn't noticed Titus had rammed himself into the arm of the couch. "I asked you about your dream job," he dropped his voice to a low murmur, "and your friendships." He tapped his chin in gentle contemplation. "What's your greatest achievement?"
The tiniest of fissures settled in Titus' discomfort. With as much mock comedy as he could muster, he replied, "Does being alive count?"
"Probably not," Alaric said. "Though it is a blessing to have theTitus James in the world." He wrote down something, and flicked his eyes up to look at Titus. "What's your concept of perfect happiness?"
"Are these really questions that would be in an interview?" Titus scratched at his ear, and the muscles on his ribs shuddered. He popped his fingers before running a hand through his hair.
"This is more of a 'get to know you' type of interview." Alaric shifted in his seat, under the guise of lifting the pressure off his leg, but Titus watched as, in slow motion, the boy's knee landed even closer to Titus. He couldn't scoot any further away. Did he want to?
"Perfect happiness is somewhere on a beach with--" he caught himself--"Someone."
Alaric wrote it down, nodding. "What's your most treasured possession?"
Titus rubbed his middle finger, fiddled with his ring. He wouldn't be able to say anything about it. But he didn't have anything else he could claim to be his most treasured possession. Nothing was as special. His ability to Hop was everything. Titus rubbed at the band and frowned. "Recently get married or something?"
"No," Titus said, dropping his hand into his lap. Alaric's gaze followed Titus' hand as it fell to his lap; it stayed there for a moment before Alaric seemed to realize how inappropriate his staring--and where--was. He returned his eyes to Titus' face, with only the slightest tinge of red on his ears.
"I don't have a most treasured possession."
Alaric frowned and took notes. "Greatest love in life?"
Titus frowned. What sort of question was that? "People hurt each other. Things hurt us. We hurt ourselves. I don't believe in love." Titus' ears burned as he realized that wasn't the question Alaric had asked.
Alaric shifted again, and lightning struck as their knees came into contact and their eyes locked. Titus stood and walked across the room to the mirror. Alaric stayed on the couch, and Titus watched as a tiny bloom of hurt shadowed his face. Somehow Titus didn't get the feeling this was an interview anymore. "I think we should finish this interview somewhere else," Titus attempted to say, but his heart was pounding so hard his voice shook. His brain was all shorting wires and sparking cables cut by whatever had passed between them.
"Did I do something wrong?" Alaric asked. He was standing now—when did I stand, why is he so tall and so—having left the couch to come closer to Titus.
"No," Titus said. "No, no, it's not you that did something wrong. I just shouldn't have—"
Alaric touched Titus' hand with such feather lightness he almost didn't feel it. "You deserve to be known." Those words were starlight and flint and blazing fire.
He wasn't sure how it happened. One moment they were three feet apart, and the next their lips had come together in feverish embrace. Hands were moving and probing, curling through hair with might and gentleness. Alaric's lips were hot against Titus', and he tasted of mint and honey and his sweet cologne embraced them and pulled them together. Alaric's presence weakened Titus' resolve. And then Alaric's hands were on Titus' bare stomach, cool and sturdy fingertips brushing with comforting certainty. Heat and ice trembled together in his gut.
Pressed against the wall, that desire ate at Titus and he ached to consume Alaric as clothes fell away and hands slid and clasped and brushed tender skin. Alaric's hands settled on the raised skin on Titus' back, and the consuming embrace turned to gentle probing. It was a moment before Titus understood and it all came crashing to a halt. Their lips were still brushing but the world hung for a moment before it spun and lost control. "Titus..." Alaric's minty whisper sent a chill down Titus' spine. It wasn't passionate and desire-ridden. "What..."
Titus hiccupped and pressed Alaric away. "You have to go."
"No, wait, wait..." he attempted to come in close again. Concern and misunderstanding laced his tone, not lust and heat. "Are you okay?"
They stood there as heaviness passed between them. The wall of secrets and lies was prepared and growing. Titus turned and gathered his clothes, attempting to gain is dignity, but Alaric's hand came to rest on the scar. Titus flinched, even as he wished for it to stay.
He yanked himself away and reacted the only way he could. "Get out! LEAVE." Anger lashed out, but for what reason?
Fear and desperation transformed Titus into a fragment. He took Alaric's notebook from the couch and hurled it to the door. "Please. Just don't write about this."
Alaric still hadn't dressed and the pathetic sight of his bare skin pushed the tears out. Titus shivered as the report broke eye contact and dressed with genteel calm.
As he passed Titus, the heat and flames of before had become nothing but a barren tundra of ice. Even as Alaric whispered, "I didn't mean—" but the words never came, and Titus slammed the door before he could hear more.