80THIS IS A PROMOTIONAL MESSAGE
Thank you for reading ITCOYE. I have a new non-explicit slash piece up, entitled All the Wrong Reasons. I do hope you'd give it a go. To help you decide, I've included about half the first chapter here. Happy reading, and thank you again for your support!
ALL THE WRONG REASONS
Eryk: Three weeks
What could a person do in three weeks? I could...
...grow my nails long enough to sharpen them into claws. Except I'd probably scratch myself into ribbons in my sleep.
...dig a hole under my bed so I would have a hiding place for the things I don't mama to know that I have. If I could stay up until after mama's gone to sleep, that is, because I'd never be able to do that in the daytime.
...wear this smock to death so that I could finally have a grown-up tunic; only babies wear smocks. And I'm not a baby anymore.
Eryk held in a gigantic sigh and looked at his sensible blunt fingernails fidgeting on the scarred wood of the tabletop. Only two nails were chipped, which could be considered a minor miracle of sorts for him. Across the table, an older youth was working on a small hill of root vegetables. The task was supposed to be shared by the two of them, but nobody would ever know that looking at the relative size of the pile of skins in front of the two of them. His hands were hidden from view behind the peelings he'd produced, but they were moving swiftly, adding steadily to the evidence of his diligence. Granted, the harder worker of the two hadn't said a word about his partner's lack of participation, but looking at that accusing pile of spud skin was enough to make Eryk pick up his knife to continue on the half-undressed potato he'd abandoned earlier. That drew a faint smile of approval from the other, but unfortunately the spell of conscientiousness didn't last long; not five minutes later, the internal monologue had started up again.
Three weeks is such a long time to wait! I feel like I can't bear it any longer… I wish I were twelve now! Not that I think being twelve will be any different from being eleven… but I just really, really, want to find out if I'm one of Them.
"One of Them!"
At that sound of private thoughts being made public, the youth dropped his knife and the root he'd been peeling with a yelp before sucking on the knuckle of one finger. Immediately, Eryk was full of contrition, apologising and grabbing at the finger. The owner of the finger promptly raised the hand containing the finger into the air and thus out of reach of the shorter boy.
"Let me see, Myka!" Eryk demanded.
"It's just a nick," the injured youth replied, but he surrendered the finger for examination nevertheless, knowing that the person confronting him would not let the matter rest just like that.
Satisfied at last that the injury was indeed minor, Eryk said, "Sorry I startled you. I was just thinking about... well, you know."
Myka's response was his usual frown, which made Eryk start wondering—not for the first time—if he'd have a permanent fold in his forehead soon from all that scowling. Along with that idle thought was an urge to tell Myka to smile for once, but the frown looked too genuine, so the urge was intimidated out of existence. When Myka opened his mouth, Eryk tried not to cringe at the scolding that was surely coming.
However, his voice was without rancour when he spoke. "It isn't like what you think," he said lightly.
Eryk bit an already well-chewed lip and reflected a little sulkily that it was easy for him to say that since he already knew that he was one of Them – the Talented ones. It made the waiting all the harder when the whole village now knew Myka had a Talent, and apparently a very strong one too, based on the Sign that he'd received.
When patient silence did not make Myka elaborate any further, Eryk got up and began to kick a peeling around the small kitchen. Keep it moving, but don't let it spin out of reach… somehow that makes me feel that at least I have something in my life under my own control.
Myka continued working, looking up now and then to witness the peeling being kicked into mush.
"My birthday is coming. What's wrong with being happy and excited?" Eryk asked suddenly.
The youth didn't answer, but he set down his knife and tossed his heavy braid back over one shoulder. At the same time, he held out one arm, the one with the hand that wasn't muddy from handling the roots. For one moment, Eryk considered rejecting the gesture in a childish huff, but the moment did not last long. A quick scramble into that familiar space between Myka's arm and chest, and the petulant question was laid to rest, drowned in security and reassurance. When I put my ear over his heart and shut out every other sound but that steady rhythm, I feel that everything is just the way it should be.
The perfection of the moment was marred by a twinge of regret: soon he would not fit exactly into that space anymore, the way Myka was growing taller so much faster.