Legends of Mirandis Academy

Chapter 15: Red

She was in his arms. Brielle Prescott was in his arms—in his hands, more precisely. Her breath hitched at his touch, eyes shut tight and mouth open. She whimpered, trying to be silent like he'd told her but struggling. To cover the sounds she couldn't suppress, he kissed her, kissed her hard, and kissed her willingly. She moaned into his mouth, meeting his tongue and tangling theirs together like magnets.

"Yes," she whispered. He didn't know what question she was answering, but her answer felt correct. His hand lifted from her waist and cradled her cheek as her jaw dropped again. He didn't know what encouraged him to do so, but it felt right, like that was where it belonged. It felt right to hold her softly even as what they were doing wasn't an act of softness. It wasn't meant to be tender. It wasn't meant to have a meaning at all.

The way she said his name was a beautiful sound, a hungry sound. Reverence for this moment without enmity. She held him tight, forced his body close with remarkable strength and tension. He held her back with that same strength, with heated appetence. His mind swirled and his body swayed.

Something in him wanted more, needed more, but there was only so much. There was only so much Brielle Prescott to have, only so much Kelam Quincy to give, only so much that could be brought together, only so much that could be made. The night couldn't last for more than those hours they spent touching. Even if it could, a part of him scolded, it wouldn't. A Prescott was not meant to be in the arms of a Quincy. It was not proper.

But how that version of Kelam Quincy, whoever it really was, wanted it to be.

It was the Monday after Homecoming, and Kelam was left unsure how to feel. Brielle lingered in his mind: flashes of that night, that dreaded night. That horrible, sinful, thrilling night. He fought and fought to get her out of his head, and miraculously, he somehow pushed her away.

No, he didn't.

Iridia did.

An instant of feeling Brielle's hips, and the memory distorted and flipped to Iridia's waist. The vision of his hands holding Brielle's hair at the back of her neck as he fervently kissed her... it blurred until it was Iridia's hand he was holding, her calloused fingertips so gentle in his. The glistening of the interwoven metal strands in her braid caught the light, gleaming like stars as she spun, then her body pulled right up against his, sturdy and safe. Not Brielle's, but Iridia's.

He was in the art studio, working after class. Trying to work, at any rate. His fingers began to sweat holding his paintbrush. He wiped his hands on his slacks, but each smear felt like the sliding of his hand over the coarse fabric of Iridia's outfit, the only thing between his hand and her bare spine. She had worn bright red, and thus his world was flooded with the hue.

It didn't help that the moment Iridia had retreated to the restroom, Brielle had come up beside him.

They'd walked out of the chaos together again, Quincy and Prescott, this time so far apart. Hands to themselves, breaths in their own mouths, not each other's. She didn't care about him; he remained nothing more than an enemy. She was still beautiful in his eyes, and he wouldn't be able to forget the night they'd had, but... no, he could feel those emotions slipping away. The world was a little bit different now, switching from the blue of Brielle to the red of Iridia. They weren't the same woman, not even close.

No, Brielle was light and pristine like a polished china plate, delicate care given to every millimeter. Iridia was dark and messy, not in a way that was distasteful, but instead like an old easel covered in paint splotches from years of work. He didn't want to tarnish either of them. He didn't want to stain the plate, and he didn't want to clean the easel. He was hopping from one boat to another, dooming them both to capsize. He couldn't replace someone with someone else—that wasn't fair to either of them. He deserved to swim for a little while.

"Go be a white knight, Quincy," Luna had said. "Get in there and save her."

No, he didn't have feelings for Iridia. Iridia was like a painting by an artist he'd never heard of before: he wanted to study her, learn all he could, try to understand all the things she did and said and meant and was. She was unfamiliar, and that was all. Iridia Trilliaris was a name he would have never cared to know three weeks ago. From that stupid arrow in the nest of bees came a whole maelstrom of chaos, but it also brought Iridia to his locker.

Iridia, at his locker: the way she stared at him with nothing short of steadfast determination, the way her eyes sternly bore into him. Iridia, in his arms: the way the shadows beneath her eyes and in the hallows of her cheeks were accentuated in the low lighting; the way that, just as before, those dark eyes pierced into him with ease. The way those same eyes squinted from a tiny, embarrassed smile... the way his heart raced at the sight.

"Agh!" He tossed his brush on the ground in the empty art studio. When did everyone leave? At least thirty minutes ago, the clock said, as the after school gathering had concluded for the day. He stared down at the brush on the floor, the bristles weakening from drying paint. He had barely used it, sitting idle in front of his near-empty canvas. It was just a sketch, one too smeared from angry erasure to mean anything. The maroon acrylic was probably the wrong color to use for the sketch, but nothing else had appealed to him.

Kelam picked up the tool, studying it. "I'm part of the arts club, maybe I could come in sometime, hang out while you work," he'd so enthusiastically mentioned.

She was calm and nonchalant, so collected and brave. She was brave with him. She was terrified with everyone else, but with him, she felt comfortable. She was strong. Iridia wasn't scared when it was just the two of them on that stage with the humming sander, with her hand on his so confident and secure.

The crimson of his brush left a smear on the linoleum at his feet. The floor was already covered in splatters like a mural. It was an arts room; it was meant to feel like walking in a painting.

He had felt safe on that stage, too. He felt seen as something other than Kelam Quincy, the valedictorian, the president of the student council, Mr. Perfect, a man scrutinized from every angle. On that stage, he was dirty and messy and clumsy and dreadfully covered in sawdust.

No, she wasn't calm and confident with him. She was never really confident, Luna told him. She was dirty and messy and clumsy and scared—he'd gotten all those glimpses of her at her highest. She didn't fight back against varsity wrestlers everyday; she didn't march up to lockers of future lawyers and demand answers to save the world all the time; she didn't repair massive, expert-level manufactured electronics without any help on a regular basis. She made bombs and gadgets and bandsaws and walkie-talkies and all sorts of mechanical chaos because that's what she knew, just like he knew how to make speeches and fire arrows, but that didn't mean she was almighty. It didn't mean she was invincible.

"Well, we should get back to work." Her laugh echoed like church bells in a cathedral, reverberating in his chest. She was a sweet kind of nervous, not like that dreadful fear he'd seen those few nights ago at Homecoming. Her callouses scraped against his knuckles as she stiffened in his hold. She'd almost entirely embraced him, and maybe she would have held him close had all those eyes not been encapsulating her.

He was her shield, because that's what she trusted him to be. He held her tight, because that's what he wanted to be for her.

He needed to go see her.

He scrubbed the drying paint from the only brush he'd put any color on, the red pouring off the brush and into the water as if he were washing blood off his hands. He covered his palette to be used later, and marched out from the arts classroom towards the theatre because that's where Iridia said she'd always be.