Page 42 of Icarus

Icarus finished his food and his daydream. Then he left the dishes in the sink, like he was never allowed to.

Worn

His father’s office had been meticulously cleaned. It was eerie to see everything put away like this.

His angled desk was empty of work and had been rubbed down until it gleamed. All his paints, pigments, binders, and sealants, closed and arranged by name on the shelf. His stack of new canvases was gone, likely placed in the refrigeration room. All his reference books had been closed and shelved.

It was so immaculate, Icarus couldn’t help but check for a trip wire. Or some other trap that would alert his father to the fact that he’d come in this room while he was away. But there was nothing.

The floor had even been cleaned as well as possible.

A chill passed over Icarus and he backed out of the room. He looked around the house at the portraits on the wall, running from one end of the apartment to the other, then burst into the cold room and yanked open the storage doors.

Relief.

It was all still here. The priceless work, the stolen pieces waiting for sale. Packaged away and organized, but still there.

“Fuck . . . fuck.” Icarus slid down the wall of the cold room and put his head in his hands.

For a moment, he’d thought Angus had taken everything of value and left him. His father disappearing for a bit then coming back to announce where he’d been afterward wasn’t exactly uncommon, but he rarely cleaned anything. That room had looked the same for the past three years. Untouched. In disarray.

It didn’t take much to jump to the conclusion that the Feds were finally after them and Angus Gallagher had decided to flee with all the evidence and leave Icarus standing in their mess, bereft.

Icarus . . . couldn’t do this anymore. He needed to have more insurance than this. His savings wouldn’t keep him going if Angus never came home. He needed to stop being distracted with Helios and focus on getting the gold.

Inhale

There were only eight months left of school. Then Icarus would be the master of his own destiny.

He could leave this city, state, country. Hole himself up somewhere. Beg Helios to keep quiet . . . or maybe take Helios with him to start a new life. God knew that kid probably wanted one.

Helios was . . . something to him now. But he was still a stranger, a stranger who was backed against a wall and acting like it. Not someone Icarus could rely on in a federal investigation. It felt awful even imagining Helios being forced to speak on his behalf.

Icarus took a long drag on his clove cigarette, relishing the opportunity to smoke it in his own room. To fill his sheets with heavy spice.

Minors had been jailed over grand theft before, so even at seventeen he wasn’t exactly home free. But he had always worn his mask, never faced the street cameras. He was the same height and build as his father and their faces looked so similar at a distance. He could wriggle out of it, if he was lucky. If his father didn’t drag him down too.

And when he left, he could get work. Could do what Angus did. All he needed to do was show his face and prove he was almost as good as Angus, and he could be raking in $25k for a painting, $15k for a sculpture. Even if he did have to start small and work on-site, or for a restoration company, he’d have good references; he wouldn’t have to beg.

Icarus put his cigarette out in the ashtray by his head, and stretched until his joints popped and a shiver of sweetness filled his bones. He lay his hands on his stomach, closed his eyes, and imagined a home with bright big windows, fresh fruit and flowers, with Helios in it this time.

Helios complaining that he smelled like vinegar and paint. Helios brushing flecks of it out of his hair, Helios peeling it off his skin. Helios sitting at golden hour, or by candlelight, letting himself be sketched over and over. Helios dancing in a living room without furniture, ankles free of cuffs and shackles. His vision filled with red, red, red hair, burnished and brilliant and bright.

Being as loud as they wanted.

They could have friends over and fill their house with noise.

And at night, they could lie next to each other with miles of sheets between them, together and alone.

Plucked

He woke up wanting terribly. He remained untouched, fingers shaking.

It didn’t seem . . . appropriate. Respectful.

Icarus pressed his forehead against tile and breathed, letting cold water sluice down his back. Turn him holy again, Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.

He closed his eyes, shivering.