Page 54 of A Ballad of Phantoms and Hope
It will be difficult to sleep tonight.
I stare sleepily into the dark waves ahead and think of falling to the farthest depths of the sea, where it is quiet and dark, and the universe can digest me until only my memory remains.
“Here.”
My gaze is pulled from the ocean, sparkling in the midday light, and brought to Lanston. He holds out a folded piece of paper and looks nervous.
“What is it?” I ask, taking the paper from him and looking back up at his eyes when he’s quiet for a beat too long.
His cheeks are rosy. “Just open it,” he says with more attitude than I’ve ever heard come from his lips. I raise a brow but do as he says.
Lanston shoves his hands into his pockets and leans against the side of the yacht. His eyes are on the distant line where the ocean meets the sky, and I can tell he’s anxious. It’s the first we’ve spoken since last night. He tried a few times before we slept; I could tell by his uneasiness and pulled brows, but words evaded him just as they did me. So we didn’t say anything. And it was sort of nice just to have his presence with me.
The yacht's master suite is luxurious, and we fell into the plush sheets like two sick pups, sleeping heavily until midday.
I unfold the paper.
The page is almost completely black, with only the shape of a skull at its center. The paint strokes are long and dreary, bringing so much emotion into my chest. The eye sockets are sagged, almost in a sorrowful expression. Red, cream, and gray are mixed and smeared in a perfect blend of color.
I could stare at the image forever. Lanston doesn’t look at me once while I study his work. It’s raw and dark, but there’s so much more to it than just an image. There is a more profound voice wishing to be heard.What is it you want to tell me?The question sits cumbersomely on my tongue.
But I’ve yet to give him a letter; it doesn’t feel fair to ask until he has something of me to devour as well. So, with restraint, I tuck the drawing into my pants pocket and thread my fingers through his.
Lanston looks down at me, expression unreadable. I know there is sorrow in his heart. It’s in mine, too.
“Can you tell me about them?”
Lanston blinks slowly and a small smile grows. “Who?”
“Your friends. Liam and Wynn. Can you tell me about them?” I lower my chin as he sits beside me. He smiles reminiscently, a bit sad, and nods. The sun’s rays reach us as they peek through the clouds, warming my skin and drawing weariness to my eyes. I lower my head into Lanston’s lap and he sets his arm around my shoulder, twirling my hair around his finger.
He tells me of the fun and bonding they had in the short months they spent together. Liam was there longer, but the three of them had only several weeks to fall into the same gravity as the others. But when you find kindred souls, you fall quickly and not sanely. That’s how it goes.
I long to have relationships as he did. It’s something I’ve always been bad at. Whether it’s because I say the wrong thing or because I’m awkward, I’m unsure. But I enjoy hearing him speak about them, of their adventures and things they’d done.
Perhaps one day, I will shine as much as his fractured soul does.
A week out at sea is lonely. It detaches you from the world.
But we enjoy the silence of it; we welcome the storms that make it noisy and riotous. Lanston’s presence is a constant comfort. The kisses we share and the laughter that’s returned as the days pass have warmed my heart once more. The nights aremy favorite—when my bare skin is pressed against his chest and he holds me adoringly.
He never lets his eyes linger too long when he knows I’m up to something. When he walked into the cabin bedroom of the yacht and saw me writing things down on a crumpled piece of paper, he only stared at me for a moment before turning back around and leaving me to my devices. He smiled knowingly, eager for the letter I promised him.
Sometimes, I wish he’d pry.
He must be curious, just as I am about what he draws.
I crumple the letter I’ve written him and hide it beneath the side table in the bedroom. He gave me a piece of him so easily, so carelessly, but I’m not sure if I’m ready for him to see how ugly I am on the inside.
Will he look at me differently? That’s what I fear most.
I turn and look at him, sprawled out on the sun deck, shirtless and taking in the UV rays. His head is tilted back, exposing the soft parts of his throat. My eyes linger on his collarbones, the smooth line that shapes his chest, and the V that dips below his shorts. He must feel my eyes on him because he turns his head in my direction. Face impassive but curious.
I think of ouractivitieson the train and swallow hard. My cheeks flush and I swiftly look away. There aren’t many emotions I cannot handle, but the ones of heat and desire that swell between us, the growing urgency of them, are ones I’m scared to face. Lanston is different from any other man I’ve known. He takes his time, thoroughly enjoying his teasing.
We circle one another. Dangerously. Each waiting for the other to pounce and go for the throat. Once I taste his blood, and he does mine, I’m unsure what will happen next. Our feverish kisses and intimacies on the floor of the train nearly drove us to ruin.
I shake my head and try to think of other things.
