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What could he, Burne, do, from a lab on a tiny island surrounded by ocean? And why would he think he had the right to?
But he liked Devon, who made him smile and bought a book because a pen-pal friend might like it and drew masterpieces just for fun and wrote about the scent of paper as if the scent itself could be a poem.
Hecouldn’tdo nothing.
He didn’t knowanything.
He hadn’t looked up Devon Lilian’s name yet: some sneaky thrill of intimacy, keeping this connection as it was, what they both chose to share. But he could do that now.
He did. And then he swung his boots to the floor, staring at his laptop screen.
Devon Lilian wasfamous.
Not celebrity famous, not an actor or rock star. But about as famous as architects got. There were alotof search results.
So many awards. So many articles: news about a library, a museum, an imaginative wonder of a priceless home. Lists of up-and-coming young geniuses. Names to watch. Changing the landscape of the design world.
The photos pulled Burne in. Bespelled, he gazed at rainbow shimmers of light through glass for that library, and the flowing water-ripples of the building that was the Waterfall House; Devon liked water and glass and air and motion, he understood dazedly. Devonwasan artist, speaking to and with the world.
Devon himself was art. The articles did specifyhim, as far as pronouns, providing that answer; several of them came with pictures. Burne actually reached out, as if he could touch, connect, feel, through the laptop screen.
Devon stood tall and slim and awkward in an elegant way, a long-legged water-bird in an expensive suit who tended to put a bit of space between himself and other people, as if not sure how to stand or where to rest elbows and hands. Devon had light brown skin and smoky grey eyes with a hint of a tilt, emphasized by long soot-black eyelashes; his hair was black too, not as long as Burne’s rumpled reddish waves but long enough to do a dramatic swoop across one eyebrow. That photo was a few years old; Burne wondered whether the hair still did that, or whether it’d changed, or whether Devon minded if someone played with the straight sleek shine of it, stroked it, tucked it back for him.
One of the profiles highlighted his multicultural background. Parents, family, that spanned, in combination, Singapore, the Philippines, England, Portugal, Wales, the United States—New York and Los Angeles, both sides of the country. Devon had grown up with a lot to explore; he talked about cosmopolitanism, about being the only child of a chef and a surgeon, wanting to discover and play with all his worlds.
His parents were divorced, evidently a long time ago, when Devon had been a child. He mentioned that; he did it laughing, and said they were better as friends, and they were all on good terms.
A couple of the interviews were from specifically LGBTQ news sites. Burne stared at the top one of those, felt his heart thump, processed what that meant.
Devon was very much out and openly gay, and happy to talk about it, though mildly embarrassed at being called an outstanding inspiration for young queer creative people. That particular journalist had noted that he blushed at this point, which Burne thought might be a somewhat unprofessional observation but was also adorable.
Devon also was single, or had been, three years ago. He gave a very polite answer, in the interview, about not really dating much, a couple of former relationships but currently living alone, having designed his own house, and liking it.
He must be thirty-four now, part of Burne’s head noted, given the age mentioned in that specific article and adding three years. Not too far off Burne’s own thirty-seven. And brimming over with brilliance, shy warmth, willing generosity in answering questions. And beautiful.
And Burne himself shouldn’t be thinking—whatever daydream wanted to be dreamed. They were only writing to each other. He’d looked into Devon because he wasworried. This wasn’t romantic, surely not; he couldn’t imagine—
He couldn’t not imagine.
But he really was worried. He tried a quick other search: Devon Lilian and health, specifically.
He didn’t get much, but a couple of the sites he’d already seen resurfaced. He opened a magazine feature from five years ago, and skim-read.
That still didn’t offer much. The interviewer made some tantalizing reference to “your health” and whether that’d made his career difficult. Devon answered, tactful as ever, that he was fine these days, he just needed to be careful, but he hardly ever thought about it while working. And then he changed the subject to that work, and upcoming commissions.
Burne leaned back in his for once unprotesting chair. Gazed at Devon’s gift-sketch, the one with Burne himself in it. He wasn’t focusing on the lines so much as considering the person behind them.
Somethingwaswrong, or had been in the past. Devon seemed okay—hell, he was busy designing rose gardens and libraries, becoming a household name—but obviously still needed to be careful. So much so that going to a bookshop, or a post office, was not a casual everyday event.
Devon Lilian, celebrated young architect, famous and also possibly unwell or injured, had done that for him. Burne Cameron, a biologist with a field grant and grass in his hair.
He picked up his own pen.
Hi Devon—yes, of course you can call me Burne, I think after you’ve drawn me into art we’re on a first-name basis!
I love the book. I love the drawings and the history—the way someone else, fifty years ago, loved these plants and this coast, enough to commemorate them forever. Thank you. One of my graduate students wants to borrow it, but it’s mine.
I do know what you mean about the scent of books—it’s cozy, I think. Though mostly these days I buy books in digital form—easier for travel! But I remember working on research for my dissertation in the library, late at night, up on the fourth floor, surrounded by rain and books and old wood and ink from photocopies. At the time I kind of wanted to scream in the stacks from pure stress, but in some ways I miss it—the quietness and the sense of home. I spent enough time there that it pretty muchwashome.
