Page 66 of Icarus

If there was surveillance in here that was older than the arrival of the disc, it would show a man the size and shape of his father, face covered, silently moving around the space.

As long as Icarus relaxed, he would be fine.

He would be fine.

Even the diner owner had assumed he was visiting a “girlfriend” and laughed it off as boyish mischief or whatever. So even if he got caught on camera in here, it wouldn’t be the worst. He could figure out a way to work with that.

But the missing disc? A huge problem.

Icarus walked the house, looking for it on every floor in every room. Even risking Mr. Black’s private wing, standing in the doorways with the lights off and his phone beam on.

It wasn’t in the house.

Icarus crouched down in the middle of a hallway to think. It had arrived after a trip and disappeared before a trip. Maybe Mr. Black had acquired it to resell. He had brought it into the house, but it was too heavy to bring all the way upstairs, so he just left it there in the back foyer. Something like that. It made sense.

Icarus pressed his forehead to the carpet and willed himself to calm down.

When he finally sat up, he could hear music. Classical piano, and a series of small thumps. Helios was probably upstairs practicing after his nap.

Instead of following the sound, Icarus did something else he’d never done here before.

He went to the living room and sat on the couch.

The expensive knobby white fabric looked easy to dirty. It was too dense and bouncy for his tastes. It was like nothing he would have in his own home. But Icarus relished this anyway. Taking a rest, any kind of rest here, had always been unthinkable.

A normal kid would feel comfortable here. Icarus was supposed to do what a normal kid would be doing, after sneaking in to hide away with his . . . someone.

Blue Smoke

Icarus woke with a start.

Helios was sitting next to him on the floor, with a book in his hand. The entire house smelled creamy and succulent, rich with herbs and a little smoky.

Helios turned a page.

Icarus stared at the back of Helios’s neck. At the sharp angles of his hair shaved thin at his nape. He had a freckle close to the collar of his shirt.

“If you’re not allowed to leave, who cuts your hair?” Icarus asked, voice rough from sleep.

“My dad. He insists on it every other week,” Helios replied, turning another page.

Icarus sat up and leaned close. Helios smelled different, freshly washed, and he had changed clothes to something more casual. Maybe he’d been working out or something. Icarus wanted to bury his face in the curve of Helios’s neck. But he didn’t. He just memorized the angle, to keep for later.

“Lunch will be ready in fifteen. It’s just a casserole,” Helios explained. “We’re getting dangerously close to the limit of my cooking abilities, though, so you might have to pick up some slack before the week is finished.”

Icarus hmmed low in his throat. “I’ll cook for you,” he said.

They sat in soft silence for long minutes.

“Later,” Helios said and turned his face to the side, enough for Icarus to see the curve of his eyelashes. “Can you tell me about the painting in my room?”

Like before, he was trying to be casual. But his fingertips pressed the sides of his book and his spine was too rigid, too still. Icarus knew when he was being seduced. He knew that Helios was being brave now.

“I will.”

Haystack

Icarus touched the edge of the frame and looked back at Helios.