Imre - room (E5)

Imre shrugs off his coat and hands it to the maid who greets him upon entering his home.

“Anything I should know?” he asks.

The maid shakes her head. “Master Duran has been in a sour mood today.”

When is he ever not? Imre thinks.

“Mother?” he asks.

The maid handed him a small towel which he used to dry his face. “The attitude you saw this morning is still the same. She even picked up her watercolours,” the maid announces with a friendly smile.

Imre nods and hands her back the damp towel. “Set a plate for her at the table tonight,” he orders.

“But Sir, do you think that’s prudent? The last time she was well and we brought her down for dinner-”

“Bring her down, please,” Imre says dryly and walks away. “I would like a coffee as well.”

Imre’s room was on the third floor, and this change has been a recent thing in the past two years. It was the furthest he could be from the respective rooms of his parents. He had wanted to be closer to his mother in case she needed anything but she had more bad nights than good; it was torturous trying to sleep with all the yelling. Imre already forewent sleep as it was most nights of the week, he needed at least 3 nights a week where he could get at least 5 hours.

He takes out a small key and unlocks his door. He pulls out the chair to his desk and sits down. The calendar nailed to the wall stares back at him with a warning. A bit over two months till. His little friend was proving to be stronger than he initially thought.

Perhaps he could allow himself to be honest if they figured it out before the rug was pulled out from under them. But would they accept? He knew he would take the chance to become a God if he could. Even if it was a risk.

He ran a hand through his wet curls. He needs to minimize that risk or else he’ll be back at square one in a worse position than he was this time. Lorcan believes. That surprised him. Imre is the one who has faith in the unexplained, the beckoning void and the blood it takes to get there.

Lorcan’s wholehearted belief must come from desperation and guilt. It can’t all be for nothing, right?

Imre thinks about their conversation in the car. How distant the world seemed in the moment. Imre enjoyed the world, he didn’t know who he would be if he wasn’t connected to it, being isolated with no one to see him felt undesirable. What’s the point of power without witnesses?

But that isolation with them felt... oddly pleasant. He knows that they are unwilling or scared to be a part of things. He knows he can only meet them in their loneliness. At first, it irritated him because he thought it belied a weakness.

Can it be a strength? He’ll have to test that theory.

If Crowny held his hand*

He moves the fingers of his palm. Caressing that skin and trying to remember what it felt like to have them touch it. When was the last time he held someone’s hand? Was it with his mother?

He can’t recall. The feeling of their hand in his is fading quickly but the warmth of pleasure he felt when they gave into him hasn’t. He’s always liked obedience. It’s a sign of pride. In the whole of his life, he had never craved another’s submission like this.

This one’s complacency is almost intoxicating like squeezing a defenceless bird. It sparks desire in the pit of his stomach.

If Crowny kissed him*

He touches his lips with the tips of his fingers. He can still taste the flavour of their mouth mixed in with the rainwater it tasted like a clean river. Quenching. He had thought about it before.

He knew that desire was the easiest route to having someone eat out of the palm of his hand. He was bored with how successful that tactic had been for him since he hit puberty.

But they had held out. At certain points, he even began to think they might not want him and he despises doubt. The kiss surprised him. They clearly hadn’t done that before. But it wasn’t giving in, they kissed him with anger, resentment and perhaps a bit of hatred. He wondered if it would be the same next time.

*

He smiles faintly. The maid comes in with a tray of coffee and sandwiches, Imre thanks her and watches her leave. He locks the door and opens the top drawer of his desk. He takes a pen from his inside and presses it underneath the drawer.

The inner bottom of it rises and he takes out the yellowed folded paper. He unfolds its crinkly edges, smoothing it against the straight surface of his desk. He rereads the faded text.

‘Messrs. Croun and Croun christened ‘Sea Byrd’ at London Port.’

He leans back in his chair and ponders. He already checked the town records, spoken to some of the older residents and discreetly looked through the boxes in the attic of Croun manor while the other two were occupied bickering.

Josiah, it seems wanted to erase his previous life. He briefly entertained the idea of going to London. But he wouldn’t be able to explain his absence amid an ongoing investigation and his father has eyes everywhere.

Yasmine Mir is his only hope. He always believed that she wasn’t insane but that the secrets of her marriage and this town overwhelmed her.

He sips his coffee and his lips purse. “Disgusting,” he murmurs but he feels the pull of sleep and his nightmares are no conciliation and no use.

However, if his dreams promise the attractive face of his friend he might not be so reticent to waste his time. He lifts the newspaper to eye level.

I applaud you for your genes, Josiah.