Chapter 19
XIX
Ihave to admit I feel a bit silly hugging Lazarus. Not only is he ancient, but he’s also much larger than me. And I’m not a hugger by any means. In fact, I can’t remember ever initiating one before. But something about this feels right. Comforting. Almost familiar.
With every second we stand there, Lazarus draws me deeper into his arms, until I’m half floating above the ground, breath crushed from my ribs.
Just before I’m sure I’ll faint, he loosens his grip and puts me back down.
He cups my face between his hands and stares at me in a very peculiar way.
I don’t know what to make of it, but my heart stutters awkwardly, and my ears throb.
The way he looks at me, though, it’s too much. Too intense. Years pass, and then—
“What is this?” he asks, pointing to my left pocket.
Only when I take a breath do I realise how long it’s been since my last one. I look down, dazed. “My Walkman,” I explain, pulling it out.
He looks at it quizzically. “Walk…man?”
“It’s for music,” I say, but he looks even more confused than before. “I can show you, if you want.”
He follows me wordlessly back to the sofa.
I unwind the wires from the headphones, open them up, and place them on his head.
He ducks at first, as if this is some kind of dangerous machine, but I smile at him in reassurance.
With an eyebrow lifted, he lets me put the headphones on.
I turn the volume down to the quietest setting and press play.
The familiar sounds of “A New Kind of Water” drift faintly from the headphones. Lazarus’ face changes from a scowl into an expression of astonishment. He stares into the flames as the eerie voices rise. His face opens once Hayward starts to wail.
I smile, watching his face go from one expression to the next.
He pushes his hands over the headphones, and recognising the gesture, I raise the volume up a little.
His lips move, mouthing the word “more.” I turn it up further until I hear the song playing clearly.
Lazarus closes his eyes while Williams sings his lamentations.
When the last chords ring out, he pulls the headphones down and stares at me wordlessly.
“Are these the poets of this age?” he whispers at last.
“I would like to think so,” I grin. “But many would disagree with us there.”
“What sort of sorcery is your little machine?” He pulls the Walkman from my hands, turning it every which way.
“It’s a tape. Sound recorded onto a strip with magnets or something. See.” I pull out the cassette and show it to him. “The machine plays it for you, and the headphones make it loud. I have a bunch of different tapes, and I can change them to whatever music I feel like.”
“You have more, then?” he asks.
“Yeah, in my room. I mean, not a ton, but my favourites at least.” I put the tape back in and close the deck.
“The sounds. They are like nothing I have ever heard.” He looks far away when he speaks.
“I think most of the instruments are electric, so I guess it sounds very modern.”
“Electric instruments… Who would have imagined such wonders?” he says, eyes focused on me again.
“The words are like those of the Romantics, as though penned by Blake himself. Yet the melody is haunting, reverent. Like the songs of my youth.” He moves his hand in the air as if he’s looking for something.
“But then, the sorrow…the yearning. I recall the night I once beheld Chopin perform in a private salon. Never had I witnessed such feeling woven into music. It was haunting. Like this.” He taps the Walkman gently with the tip of a finger.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been a huge fan of classical music, but seeing Chopin live…
“That must have been something else,” I finally say.
“It truly was.” He smiles at me. And when he does, his face lights up in ways that make me feel too full. Too heavy.
“You know, I kinda love that you’re comparing This Heat to the Romantics. I can see their music as a sort of nihilistic romanticism.”
“You have read Jacobi?” he asks.
“I don’t know who that is, sorry.” I shrug.
“May I have more music?”
“Of course! Let me rewind the tape for you.”
His eyes light up at my words. I turn the cassette around so I can play it from the beginning.
He pulls the headphones back on and leans into the sofa.
With one arm, he draws me on top of him.
My head is so close to his, I can hear the music perfectly.
We stay like this, silently embracing, until I hear the familiar click of side A finishing.
When I turn the tape around, he draws a blanket over both of us, tucking me in beside him.
Lazarus is surprisingly comfortable, and I can feel myself slowly drifting off to sleep.
The next thing I know, there’s a fluffy pillow below my head, which is propped up on Lazarus’ lap.
My Walkman is tucked away on a pile of books nearby.
He holds one in his hand; his other is resting on my waist. I stay there for a while, not wanting to move ever again.
Here, it feels warm and safe, strangely protected from the world out there on the other side of the door.
Eventually, I rub my eyes sleepily, stretching my stiff limbs. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, sitting up.
“Do not apologise for resting, Astaire; it is a necessity of life.”
“Do you not sleep?” I ask.
“I do, though I need it not as a mortal might,” he explains. “Are you hungry? There is more food on the tray.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I just wanna wash up real quick,” I say, heading to the basin.
I splash water over my face, waking up fully.
The mural across the basin looks at me ominously.
The scene in the centre is making me feel exceedingly uncomfortable.
It’s not the way the creature holds a crouching figure tightly between its claws or the eerie green eyes staring at me from behind the paint.
What unsettles me the most is what’s around it: mythological beings, demons and skeletons jeering and cackling with glee, as if they were celebrating the horror. In a way, it’s beautifully grotesque.
But still, it unsettles me, a shiver runs down my back. I return to the sofa where Lazarus has placed the tray on a table.
“I thank you for the gift of music,” he says as I chew a piece of cheese.
“Music is my favourite thing,” I reply.
“Really? I was unaware. I have seen the little circles upon your ears, yet their purpose escaped me.”
“I can’t imagine life without it. When there’s nothing else, there’s always the music.”
“I have always loved music, yet had so little of it,” he says, slicing an apple into bite-sized pieces. “In my time, it could be heard only through the hands of others. There is no one to play for me in this castle.”
“Do you know about gramophones? I think they were invented like 100 years ago or so.”
His face drops a little, the light that was in his eyes extinguished.
“I’m afraid not,” he says, but before he can continue, I interrupt him with, “Can I have some water?”
He stands up and fills a glass from the pitcher. I drink it in one gulp and then finish eating the leftover food on the tray. I eat as quickly as possible, and his face brightens as he watches me stuff my mouth.
Once I’m done, I feel awkward and a little silly, but at least the sad look in his eyes is gone. I clasp my hands together, looking at them lacing into each other. When I lower my head, a strand of hair falls into my face, and suddenly I realise I haven’t worn my hat in several days.
Lazarus reaches toward me, brushing the curl behind my ear. There he lingers, caressing my jaw with his thumb. I close my eyes and lean into his touch.
Suddenly, I feel his breath on my face, and when I open my eyes, Lazarus is right there before me.
His lips are slightly parted. So inviting. I feel my heart skip a beat, and if I wasn’t so focused on Lazarus, on his body being so close to mine, I might have been embarrassed.
He leans in, ever so slowly. I try not to move an inch, scared I might do something wrong again and scare him away.
His hand cups my cheeks gently; my throat tightens, and all I see is the slight quirk of his lips.
And that line. That line right next to the corner of his mouth.
Not quite a dimple, but rakish, enticing.
I want to lick it so bad but I stay still.
His breath smells like oblivion. My need to kiss him is overwhelming.
I remember what happened yesterday but brush the thought off.
I don’t want to think about what almost was but then wasn’t.
I want to only think about right here and right now.
Lazarus and the feeling of his cold skin against mine. His soft—
When his lips finally reach mine, my body melts into his.
Lazarus’ kiss is as gentle as the quietest whisper, his mouth cold and as impossibly soft as it looks.
I grab onto him, pulling him closer, needing to feel him all over me.
He leans in, enveloping my body with his own.
I slip my tongue between his lips, and he opens them, welcoming.
His kiss intensifies. The coppery-sweet taste of his mouth makes me dizzy. Too sweet. Not enough.
My brain starts to hum in new ways I could never imagine. I feel tight yet loose. I grip his arms, my nails digging into his flesh. My heart is in my throat, and my breath is in my stomach. I feel. I want. I want to—
“NO!”
Lazarus shouts so loud, my ears start to ring.
He throws himself away from me, nearly falling into the fire, and clutches his hair like he’ll rip it all out, growling in pain and fury on the floor.
I rise, unsure what to do. I want to get closer, touch him, speak to him.
But he looks too distraught, too enraged.
And then I remember the last time I was in this room. When Lazarus had a similar reaction. I remember the fear in his eyes, and the roughness of his voice when he shouted: run, Astaire, run!