The Horror and the Wild

XVII. The Crying Game

January 22, Friday

Owen found himself waiting outside Cillian's apartment door for what felt like eternity but was, in reality, probably only a few minutes. He was just lifting his hand to knock a second time when the door swung open. Cillian wasn't there, so Owen figured it had opened with magic. He stepped inside the apartment and politely closed the door behind himself.

"Cillian?"

"Bedroom," came the muffled response.

The thought of entering Cillian's room, invited or otherwise, made Owen more than a little nervous. It was the only part of Cillian's luxurious apartment he'd never seen. Apprehensively, he stepped forward and opened the door. It swung open, soundless on well-oiled hinges.

Cillian's room was as vampiric as the rest of his décor— all red and black fabric and dark-stained wood. There were so many plants that Owen might've mistaken it for a greenhouse if he hadn't known better.

Behind the headboard of the bed was a massive painting of a misty forest bracketed by crimson curtains made of a thick velvet. Similarly heavy, velvet curtains were draped around the windows, black as raven wings. There was a large, vintage dresser on one side of the bed that clearly came from the same set as the vanity against the wall and a nightstand on the other side of the bed.

Owen rounded the short divider wall to find the druid perched, cross-legged, on a luxurious sofa made of blood-red velvet in front of an impressive array of shelves that took up the entire wall. He had a book in his lap and a lit cigarette in his mouth. The window next to him was open, sucking the thin trails of smoke outside. He didn't look up at Owen's approach.

"You're late," he said softly.

"Only by a little bit," Owen replied. "Sister Catherine's funeral was today. You could've come."

"I wasnae welcome," Cillian quipped lightly, his tone belying the clear offence he'd taken to Leo's comments a few days prior. "Cannae have a witch in yer church."

"You know Leo didn't mean it," Owen muttered awkwardly, not sure why he was defending Leo to Cillian when he knew he was on the druid's side.

He wasn't sure where to sit, so he stayed standing. Cillian leafed through the book.

"He meant every word. He just didnae mean tae say it tae my face."

Owen frowned. "I don't think I understand."

"Sometimes," Cillian said, flicking some ash off his cigarette into a crystal dish on the coffee table next to his couch, "people can like you well enough as a person, but cannae get over the prejudices they have in their heads. How d'you think Leo or Catherine would feel about you bein' a homosexual? Would they like you less? Care about you less? Probably not. But they'd still have a problem with a fundamental part of who you are, and that kinda does mean they have a problem with you."