"Black moths were dancing, because it was cold, because it was dark. Because they were hungry, for the butterfly."
Fem OC X Penny Adiyodi, Queliot
(To read the original, unedited version of this story, The Deceiver, see my profile)
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Tucked into a secluded corner, closer to the darkened windows and golden street lights than the bustling counter, Quentin Coldwater assessed his company over the lip of a steaming mug. His fingers savored the warmth after braving the frigid air sans gloves. Lilly was much more prepared for the cold and slipped her gloves off dainty fingers as Quentin watched in envy.
With a bit of bitterness, he thought she looked much more worthy of an Ivy League school than he ever would. Lilly Cole was the picture of poise and studiousness. Whereas he looked more akin to a tenured professor who may have something stronger than coffee in his cup. She was pretty. A sort of pretty that Quentin would never picture himself sitting across the table from without a clipboard and a psych evaluation between them.
Quentin had long since deemed his friendship with Julia a fluke, born of childhood naivety and carried on the back of obligation. Had they met as the people they were now, opposites, strangers in every way that counted, he couldn't imagine them being anything more than cordial colleagues.
The only thing they ever had in common was Fillory. Now, Julia was determined to erase that part of her life from the records. He wondered if she realized that by casting aside Fillory, she'd be doing the same to him.
This was why, as Quentin took stock of Lilly's attributes-- nails manicured to perfection, hair a tousled halo of loose spirals even after the blustery walk from Mr. Partridge's. A sweet, sloped nose and charming amber eyes -- he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out his connection to her. They were as different as two could be, yet the manuscript was addressed to them both. Two strangers' names scrawled on the same sticky note and attached to a mysterious envelope.
Lilly, with a handful of napkins and a discerning eye, wiped at the table until it was clean within an inch of its life. Quentin placed his mug on the seat beside him, leaning forward as she set the near-bursting manila envelope in the center of the table. Her fingers lingered in the air, itching to throw caution to the wind and flip through its pages.
However, Lilly was not an impulsive character. She studied and analyzed, planned, and meticulously executed. A whim was just that, a thought, a desire. Rarely did she act against her better judgment. It was a point of both pride and consternation. It would be so much easier to be careless, she decided.
