The Poet and the Prince {On Hold}

IV. Where I develop my distaste for Gazelles

I am Prince.

I'm not sure why this guy is considered intelligent. It took him 5 bloody weeks to realize that we're neighbours. I say as much.

"I don't spend that much time wondering about your living situation." He says with a shrug. "Botticelli?" He asks pointing at a silver framed piece that existed in various locations in my various 'living situations'.

"Yes. Mother got it from Milan." I said even though I had no idea where ever it apparated from. I'd never so much as glanced at it.

"Oh." That's all he says as I lead him to the library, though his eyes do light up at the various paintings and ornaments. He abruptly stops at the large window seat that overlooks the gently sloping English countryside. How pretty.

"Do you plan on achieving nirvana or can I expect you to remain on this level of enlightenment for the foreseeable eon?"

"It's beautiful outside. Have you never admired the colours of a sunset?"

He doesn't turn around and I don't even hear reproach in his voice. It's like he doesn't register me, that I am an annoying blot in his vision of artistic splendour.

"No. I don't spend that much time wondering about everyday situations."

"Then you're deprived." He turns to me at last and his beloved sunset makes his eyes glint with what I assume is mockery. I hate eyes that can't decide what colour they are. Brown or green - make up your mind. I turn to the conveniently adjacent brass mirror and notice my own eyes which are light but unmistakably blue.

I don't bother saying anything and instead put on my "oh my, what a well bred gentleman" smile. Maybe I couldn't win with words, but I could pain the prick with patronisation.

I led him to the library and took the seat facing the window just to deprive him of the view. I watched as he followed the paths of dying sunlight that permeated into the room and illuminated the spines of books - some of them ancient and and gilt-lettered. He finally sits down opposite me.

"Well?" He gives me a quizzical look as if he's forgotten why he's here, like the books have taken something out of him and filled him with their own intoxicating but alien contents. I'm trying to say he looks dazed.

"Well you're the one who 'desires to fully comprehend the complicated systems of belief' on this planet. I expected that you'd have some ideas." I stretched out on the fleur-de-lys armchair.
"What is our topic anyway?"

He rolls his eyes. "If you did anything in class apart looking at Alena like you want to stick your tongue down her throat you would know that we are meant to give a 'basic yet colourful' outline on any religious text we find interesting."

This does fire something in my blood because I do listen to Mr. Vares for the most part. It's the girl who looks like she wants engage in the most depraved sort of carnality with me. I deign to show this and fix another plasticine smile on my face and continue to fake deference to this guy.

"Ah, yes. How about the Bible?" I get up, conscious of his eyes burning into my back, and rummage through the shelves before finding a well-used NIV. There's a name inside the cover in scrawled, schoolboy handwriting: William James Burdoch. Who knew my father was once an earnest Churchgoer?

I put this out of my mind. Whenever I begin to think of dear old dad, my mind immediately embarks on a chain of frenzied thoughts which invariably end with the image of me throttling the bastard for the shit he has put my mother and myself through.

And then, like she can sense the discord radiating from the room that stems from my thoughts of my father and this simpering boy I just can't work out, she walks in. She looks like she always does these days: tired and pained. But she still makes the effort and I love her even more for it.

"Do you boys need anything?"

I shake my head and he smiles. Quite nicely and earnestly like he understand the full commitment you give when you smile at a person like that.

"No thank you Mrs. Burdoch. This is a lovely house."

My mother returns with a colourless smile of her own. I hope Sebastien understands that she's not being snobbish or rude.

"Thank you Sebastien. I trust that Max is being a charitable host."

"He is." He gives me a rueful smile like we're sharing an in-joke. I can't help but return it.

"I'll leave you to work then."

She is silent as she walks out. We're silent for a while and the strange thing is that it isn't awkward. This boy is baffling and infuriating but he's not awkward. I tire of the silence eventually and open my father's Bible at and random, putting it into God's hands as it were.

Song of Songs. Really ?

I look at Sebastien and he looks similarly amused. "I had ideas about Leviticus or Revelation. But okay."

Okay. Things just might be okay.