For hours after that, Jaylin’s pulse was a hummingbird in his chest, batting at the walls of his throat every time he turned to look at Quentin, who slept with one arm over his face and the other burrowed beneath his pillow. Jaylin remembered reading somewhere that this position meant power. Power and wealth. They were definitely words that defined him, but still only two indefinite puzzle pieces on an otherwise blank canvas. There was still so much more to the enigma of Quentin Bronx.
He’d given Jaylin permission to use his laptop and then fallen asleep right beside him—face peaceful in the glow of the computer screen. Jaylin found no answers about the lichund and no information about werewolves that wasn’t folklore or a pop-culture reference.
The only thing he learned at all was that Quentin furrowed his brows when he slept.
He winced occasionally in his sleep, forehead creasing like maybe he was in pain, or something else. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was scared. Quentin was dreaming of something; he’d been making these expressions—never a sound, but faces. And the faces animating him made Jaylin nearly want to wake him from his sleep. He wanted to chase away the nightmares.
Instead, he’d press a finger to Quentin’s forehead, light as feathers down the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t enough to wake him, but for the third time he’d done it, Quentin’s face had relaxed.
He could still feel it—their synchronized pulses. They played their tunes in harmony with one another—even as Quentin slept. Sometimes Jaylin would feel his heartbeat begin to race. Other times it was so slow, he wasn’t sure it was beating at all. It was when he’d finally put the laptop down and gone to his own room that he noticed the palpitations had settled and his heartbeat returned to normal.
At four AM, he’d managed to sleep, but it felt like he’d only blinked his eyes before the mid-morning sun was slamming through the cracks in his bedroom curtains.
There was a gnawing deep within Jaylin, but it wasn’t like the hunger before. It was different now—larger. Not only did his stomach ache, but his spine as well, and sitting himself up on the mattress felt like shoving a knife through the back of his ribs and twisting it like a spaghetti fork.
Once he was on his feet, Jaylin had to grip the wall to keep standing. He shoved the curtains closed, sealing the streak of light that laid on Quentin’s face, then Jaylin hobbled his way out of the room, and quietly down the hall.
The manor was empty and from the hall, Jaylin could hear the soft sleeping sounds coming from each respective room. Even the maids were still asleep, so Jaylin decided he’d make the Sigvards breakfast. It was a small offering, but it was something.
Of course, Jaylin hadn’t accounted for the fact that he’d never made a meal for anyone but his mother—who could hardly cook a decent one herself. He also didn’t take into consideration the Sigvard’s kitchen and just how many cupboards and pantries expanded across the floor and ceiling of the massive room. And never before had Jaylin seen so many pans. He didn’t for the life of him understand which pan was to be used for what, so he selected one that looked closest to the kind he had at home, and scuffled to the stove top.
The stove that he didn’t have a clue how to work.
By the time he’d given up, Jaylin was left with twelve pieces of charred bacon and a tower of tasteless, rubbery eggs. He’d cooked the pan too high, burned the metal and melted the bed of the spatula—and in the end there was nothing to show for it. Nothing but a waste of food that had never belonged to him to begin with, groceries and dishes he hadn’t paid for.
Because this is what happens when Jaylin Maxwell actually tries, he thought to himself. He spills half a carton of milk, sets the stove top on fire. He burns the bacon, botches an entire batch of eggs. Jaylin Maxwell fucks up every time, because that’s what Jaylin Maxwell’s good at. He has no trade, no talent. He just fucks up.
Jaylin had been too busy berating himself—too blind and deaf, with his face in his hands and his conscience shouting in his ears to hear the footsteps. Not until he looked up from the kitchen table, and found Alex standing in the thin smog of smoke with a fire extinguisher hanging at his hip. “Christ, Jaylin. What happened?”
Jaylin didn’t reply. He wiped a hand up his face and shook his head.
“Jaylin? Are you crying?”
Then a second set of footsteps happened in. “Why didn’t the fire detectors go off?”
His voice was deep and wearily raspy, and the honey-thick sound of Quentin’s exhaustion alone made Jaylin want to crawl under the table and die there.
“They did. I turned them off,” Jaylin muffled into his arms. “I was going to make breakfast for you guys. But…” His voice clipped with a hard swallow. It hurt to suck so bad at everything. To embarrass himself like this.
“Jay, it’s nothing to cry over,” Alex said.
Jaylin rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not crying.” But he was crying. He was literally crying over spilled milk.
“It’s not your fault,” Quentin’s voice traveled closer. Jaylin jumped when he felt a hand greet his shoulder. “During the chrysalis your hormones fluctuate. It’s easy to get emotional.”
“So it’s like being pregnant?” Alex asked.
Jaylin snapped his head up from the table, cheeks wet with tears. “I’m pregnant?”
“No, you’re not pregnant,” Quentin sighed and pushed his hand up through his messy bed hair, clearly hungover. “Alex, stop freaking him out.”
His hand left Jaylin’s shoulder and Quentin took the burnt pan from the stove top. He didn’t toss it in the sink like Jaylin thought he might. Instead, he gestured to his right.
“Jaylin. There’s a white stone pan in that cabinet. Grab it for me, will you? Alex, open a window in here.”
Jaylin dragged himself up from the chair, clenching his gnawing stomach and squatted to look through the cupboard. When he returned with the heavy pan in his arms, Quentin had a box of organic, unbleached flour in front of him.
He took the pan from Jaylin with a thanks, but Jaylin hadn’t expected him to reach forward. He hadn’t expected to feel Quentin’s fingers in his hair.
“It’s alright.” He said it quietly enough that Alex couldn’t hear, but loud enough to make Jaylin’s heart seize in his chest. His fingers left and like that, the warm, encouraging feeling was gone.
Jaylin watched as he dumped the uncooked contents of the scorched pan into the white stone. He adjusted the temperature and reached into the cupboard above for a few spices and vials.
“There’s another package of bacon in the fridge.”
Jaylin was on it before he even had to ask, digging through the refrigerator for a brown paper roll.
“Eggs and milk too,” he heard Quentin call, and he gathered his arms full.
Quentin worked the bacon while he taught Jaylin the particulars of making an otherworldly flapjack. He didn’t know it mattered what order you mixed the ingredients together, or that there was a difference between flapjacks and pancakes. He didn’t know that he really cared to know these things. But every time Quentin stared him in the eyes with his hair an untidy mess and a grin swallowing up his handsome face, Jaylin found flapjacks to suddenly be the most interesting topic in the world.
He’d mixed the flapjacks on his own, added in the right pinch of salt and flour until Quentin approved of the consistency. Then, with Quentin over his shoulder, Jaylin fried them in the bacon grease left behind.
“Flip them away from you. You’ll splash.”
“Like this?”
“That’s right.”
After his third flapjack had browned to perfection, Jaylinfound himself gnawing on his bottom lip again. He poured a puddle of batter into the pan and poked around at the edges.
“What’s on your mind?” Quentin asked.
Jaylin could taste the blood now, but he gave it no mind. He shook his head and dug the spatula under the flapjack to give it a flip. “I need to talk to my mom, Quentin. I have to.”
Quentin gave him a difficult look—the kind of expression he made in his sleep. He took the spatula from Jaylin and scooped the flapjack from the pan before it could burn.
What would he tell her? There was no excuse for why he’d voluntarily quit his job and lock himself up with the Sigvards. No excuse for why he’d disappeared in the forest and never come home.
Quentin took Jaylin’s hand and placed the spatula into his palm. “We’ll tell her we’re sending you to college.” His voice was low, like he wanted no one but Jaylin to hear. Like the words were meant for only him. He wrapped Jaylin’s fingers around the handle and while Jaylin tried hard to drag his eyes away, Quentin was reaching around him for the flapjack mix and pouring three small puddles onto the pan. “In exchange for your help with the garden, we’re paying for the tuition financial aid doesn’t cover.”
When Jaylin stood frozen in place, Quentin turned him by the elbow to face the stove top. “UW, right?” he asked, his fingers finding their way around Jaylin’s wrist, guiding it toward the pan. He drifted just over his shoulder now, speaking his ear—the cartilage burning, not from Quentin’s breath but from the same heat on Jaylin’s face. “That was where you wanted to go?” he asked.
Jaylin swallowed hard and nodded. “So that’s what you tell her.” Quentin’s fingers slipped away from his wrist but he stayed close, his words hot on the flushed shell of Jaylin’s ear. “And when all of this is under control, I’ll keep my promise. We will send you to school.”
He stepped away after that, a platter of bacon in hand to deliver to the dining table where Alex was dozing off with his head in his arms.
Jaylin stared down into his half-baked pancake, shivers on his skin and a hunger in his gut, and the feeling of Quentin’s fingers still burned into his wrist.
Then Jaylin remembered something that shook him more than those hot words and those warm touches.
All that time, their pulses were one in the same.
Quentin knew how fast his heart was beating.
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