Icarus: Great–Tight

His fingers were already smarting from the uneven pressure of holding himself up.

“Why are you...where’s your stuff?” Helios whispered, taking in Icarus’s disheveled casual appearance.

“You think I’m a luxury good?” Icarus replied in the most saccharine drippy voice he could.

Academics sat on the stairs of the museum, eating their lunches and watching behind their glasses.

There were always two streams of traffic on both sides of any room, one going forward and one going backward. Any deviation from—A hand clamped down hard on Icarus’s shoulder.

Icarus kept his revelation to himself.

Icarus eyed them dubiously and considered scooting even farther back.

He leaned back in his chair, clearly nonplussed by Icarus’s attitude.

Icarus wanted to go to the roof to mope, but he needed to sleep a bit before he went to see Helios.

For the first time ever it quelled that urge to reach out, like blowing the light off a candle.

It felt too intimate to watch.

Icarus sighed, discordant and raw.

That room had looked the same for the past three years. Untouched. In disarray.

“If you’ll deign to show your face there, at least.”

“It’s not every day Queen Celestina walks up to you and begs you to do her the favor of showing your face at an event. My curiosity was piqued,” Julian said, looking to the side, but still not facing him.