[ o n e ]
THERE WAS NOTHING uncharacteristic about Aleksey Petrov. If anything, he was painfully ordinary. There was nothing remarkable about the boy; and with his indistinctive stature, one would expect him to remain unrecognised, lost in the background. And yet there was something unsavoury about Aleksey. Unsettling. A Diogenic indifference in his gait. Unwavering stillness shrouded his face, and his eyes - stoic and debilitated as ever, never allowed any indication of amusement. Quiescence was his aphrodisiac.
A hollowed stillness shadowed him. They found it unnatural, his callousness. He saw it in the way their eyes never quite met his. In the way they clutched their hands together in fervid prayers. Libera nos a malo. Even now, as he waited, they kept their distance.
All but one.
Hector Lytton watched Aleksey. Sitting on the curb, eyes fixed and stolid on the wet asphalt. He was almost a phantom against the shadowed walls, with his pale and ashen skin, sunken cheeks and perpetually drooped eyes. He sat alone, pale halogenated pools of colour reflecting in his eyes. His case lay forgotten beside him, not that there was much to lose on that account. At most, an overly bleached shirt, trousers faded at the seams: the sparse remains of his personal effects.
"If it isn't our favourite proletariat," Hector's voice echoed off the barren walls. He walked over to Aleksey, who remained characteristically impassive, staring straight ahead. Hector stood adamantly beside him, under the harsh glow of a streetlight that hummed with slow static. Aleksey's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly and yet, Hector noticed.
Hector, brash and brazen as ever, dulled Aleksey's sharp-edged spite. There was something adonic about the boy, and there was a delicacy to him that opposed Aleksey's acrid nature. For all of Aleksey's frost, Hector rivalled with flame.
He leaned back against the brick wall, the aftermath of the setting sun turning the hair that framed his face a deeper bronze. His fingers grazed the still brittle core of an apple, and he tossed it over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at Aleksey. An infuriatingly coy smile played on Hector's lips. Aleksey's concealed rage only emboldened Hector. He sat down beside him, taking his silence as an invitation.
The streets surrounding Remington Academy were still deserted. Seamless, pristine walls paled against the blinding luminescence of street lamps. The silence that shrouded the boys was tangible- almost expectant.
Hector studied him out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were low, eyelids narrowly parted, and he was staring at a point in the distance. He noticed how it gave him the permanent image of lethargy, sluggishness. A stark contrast to Hector's youthful, impish exuberance and allure. Hector was bright, and Aleksey - benign. He knew better. Aleksey was static, not slow. He had the feeling he wasn't listless or apathetic, just waiting. Waiting for something distant and imminent.
"Alright then, Ivan Ivanovitch," he said in response to Aleksey's tireless silence. Despite the darkness edging its way onto the horizon, the skittish chatter of other students resonated through the streets.
Aleksey finally moved, leaning back against the wall. Hector was beside him, head resting against his hand. Light laced through his bronze hair, making it blinding. Hector too, beautiful and arrogant, gave off the impression that if you looked at him for too long, it might blind you. They sat in disquieted silence, and at the first sign of rhythmic patter of footsteps, HECTOR WAS GONE.
