The Prince of Lost (boyxboy)

Three: Cole

        In the afternoon, Cole found himself sitting in front of a wooden table, just beside a tall Elizabethian window. The sky outside was blue, radiant with the sun's burning rays.
        He didn't particularly liked books, let alone reading. And yet, his feet had taken him here for a reason he didn't know. Somehow, he thought he craved for the smell of wood and old paper; the sight of aged bookshelves, ancient leather-bound books and tomes. But now, he realised he didn't. Books and reading wasn't his thing; it was Moir Dalton's.
        Cole sat quietly, absently staring at the surface of the table. Carved writings decorated the wood. There were mostly names. Names of people who'd been here and sat at this exact same chair. Names of people of the past generations.
        There was Hansburry, Hale, Cleaveward, Presin, Reavers, Dalton (probably Moir's dad or grandad), Baker, Turrows, Bethsgate, Frostmount, Lincoln--
        His eyes stopped over his surname. Lincoln, he thought. And saw the name of the person who'd written it there.
        Isabelle Grace Lincoln.
        Beside it was a curvy writing: Andrew Frostmount.
        Both names were separated by a roughly carved heart.
        But the question that lingered more in his mind was 'who was Isabelle?' Were there other Lincolns in Goldenwood? If so, why didn't he know of it? And if his speculations are correct, shouldn't there be a student whose middle name was Lincoln?
        Cole shook his head.
        He practically grew up with each kid in town, knew who their parents were. He knew every lastname in Goldenwood like it was second nature. He knew because it was the same set of surnames that occupied each attendance book for the past decades.
        But why was an unfamiliar name using his lastname?
        He sighed in exasperation. For a long while, it was the first time that he felt the gears in his head working. Maybe it was time for uncovering mysteries again, like he always did as a child. After all, he liked mysteries.
        His thoughts came to a stop when a figure came into view. A blond boy with bright blue eyes had taken comfort in the chair across from him. "Do you mind if I sit here?" His voice was like music, with the timbre of a trained baritone.
        Cole knew because he liked music. "No," he said, keeping his nerves in check. This was the boy who screamed in pain only hours ago.
        The other only nodded. In his hand was a leather-bound book. He started to read, his eyes focused on the words.
        Cole could see faint pink marks on his cheeks and neck, like islands on a map. Gone was his cotton vest and blazer, replaced by a plain white t-shirt. Cole could perfectly see the outlines of the other boy's sculpted chest and collarbones. He could even see the weak bumps where his nipples came in contact with the cloth.
        Crap, Cole cursed in his mind. Why were his eyes travelling to places they shouldn't?
        "Cole Lincoln," he managed to say, looking sideways. He knew he shouldn't get acquainted with the person his friend warned him to stay away from. But somehow, he decided he should give him at least a tiny bit of coversation before he left.
        "Percival," the blond boy said without looking up. "Percival Oldfire."
        "Nice to meet you," Cole said, trying to hide his smile. "So, are you perhaps allergic to iron?"
        Percival froze. His eyes burned bright as they landed on Cole. "I take it that the ice cream was your doing." If he was mad, he wasn't showing it.
        Embarrasment washed over Cole. For some reason, he didn't want to appear as a prankster in front of the other boy. He had dropped a whole bottle of ferrous sulfate into the machine and the outcome had made him deeply regretful. "I'm... sorry." He released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "It was not my intention to harm you. Are you still hurt?"
        "No." Percival gave him one last look before he turned back to his reading.
        The conversation was over.

***

       After school, Cole immediately drove home. His mom, Luisa, was there, busy in the kitchen to prepare for dinner. He said 'hi' before he went up to his room to change. He didn't like the sticky feeling his t-shirt was giving him.
        Afterwards, he found himself in front of the door to the basement. It was the oldest door in the house and his nerves cracked as he turned the knob. He pushed it open and pure darkness greeted him like an old friend. Except, darkness was no friend to him.
        It gave him all sorts of dangerous and terrifying thoughts of what lurked in its deepest layers. He had never stepped down those steep steps, and never thought of doing it. As a child, his grandad had told him all different kinds of creatures that hid in the shadows. There were ghouls, trolls, spriggans, jinns, and etc. Even ghosts.
        Cole knew he was too old to believe in such inexistent beings. But with only a flashlight to let him see in the dark, it made him think twice, maybe thrice.
        He decided to close the door and turn around. He couldn't do this now.
        Not alone.
        Instead, he went into the kitchen and lifted himself up on the kitchen island. His mom had her back on him, making soup.
        "Mom," he said.
        Luisa almost jumped in surprise, good thing she only squeaked and swung the spatula in the air out of instinct. "Cole Jensen Lincoln! You scared me to death!" She was screaming as she turned around.
         Cole couldn't help but snicker a laugh. "Sorry, mom," he said in between his grinning smile. "I didn't mean to startle you."
         "And yet, you have. You're early today. No football?" Luisa turned back to her cooking, tasting the hot liquid. The apron she wore was dirty with tomato and garlic stains. And Cole could see that she, too, was affected by the heat. Her blouse clung to her and sweat beaded on her skin. Even as she had clasped her hair in a tight bun, she still felt hot.
        "I decided to skip today," he said in a shy voice. "You're not going to scold me for it, are you?"
        "As long as you have a viable reason." Her tone shifted. She was a little mad, Cole knew. A change in her usual conversational tone to a stricter motherly sound was definitely not good.
        Cole looked away. Even though Luisa had her eyes completely over the pot, he couldn't help but feel bad about it. "Well, I somehow ended up in the library this afternoon," he began. His eyes raked over the green wallpaper that decorated the walls. It had faded into a grayish tint and was erased at some spots. "And I found something on the table where I sat."
        "Mm," Luisa nodded.
        Cole didn't know if it was for the soup or for him. "Who is Isabelle Grace Lincoln?"
        Luisa turned off the stove in a rush and spun to face Cole. "What did you say?"
        By the strange look her eyes were giving, Cole knew she heard him. Either way, he repeated his question, "Who is Isabelle Grace Lincoln? And why don't I know her if she's related to me? Or to dad?"
        Luisa breathed. "Did you see anything else?" She raised a thick eyebrow.
        "Yes. I saw another name. Andrew Frostmount."