St. Peter's Basilica, 1626
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Two months.
Eight weeks.
Fifty-six days, give or take a few.
Two monthsâthe amount of time that had passed since the day Isaac discovered William's letter from the notorious Nathanial Beckett.
One stupid piece of paper.
Four fucking words.
That was all it took for him to rethink the countless number of hours he spent with Josiah, doubt the limitless emotions he felt when he was around him. To negate everything that had happened between them.
A damned letter reduced the unpredictable, reckless and unbounded nature of his relationship with Josiah to one thing.
Pain.
The first thing he did was pocket the wad of money in said letter for himself, seeing as he would need it to survive on his own.
Yes, he made a spontaneous decision to leave Eton for good.
If there was one thing he was familiar with, it was lies. His familiarity with the concept was something that grew exponentially, like an epidemic with no cure.
For example, when he was barely fourteen and his father told him he was going away for a month, he was so ridiculously naive to believe his father's fake (although believed to be real at the time) luxury goods would be more successful elsewhere, thus forcing him to leave for business purposes. His father's products were shit.
Or, when he was fifteen and his new home was made of cold pavement and crumbling brick, he believed his friend, a sixteen year old girl whom he'd grown affections for, was genuinely happy in his company. By this age he'd learned to doubt what he was told, but he'd never expected that deep within her was a darkness that consumed her. He was naive enough to fall for a smile.
Now, on the verge of eighteen, he'd grown so accustomed to being told lies he didn't want to bother with any phony explanations from Josiah. He remembered Charlie's warning. Maybe he should've trusted the jealous bastard. Liesâhe didn't want to hear anymore for the rest of his life.
But he was also scared of truths.
So he took the money for himself, and for the past two months has been living in William's home, waiting for the day he'd be evicted due to lack of bill payments. Hopefully, by the time this happened, he'd found his own source of income along with his own place. He'd managed to do it once; he could do it again.
At the same time this mess was happening, William's autopsy revealed that his death was caused by a brick to the head, because the indentation in his skull wasn't proof enough that head damage was the cause. Typical sketchy-alley-in-the-middle-of-the-night murder.
Two months.
It took two whole months for the police to find someone related by blood to Williamâa third cousin who was not very happy to hear that she was in charge of funeral costs and responsible for the fate of his corpse. At least, that's what Isaac assumed her reaction was based on the level of effort put into his closed casket ceremony. It was held in a small church, and his casket resembled a cardboard box; however, he didn't blame her. It's not like William meant the same to her as he did Isaac.
The service was open to the public, because no one really knew who William was close with. As a result, the room was filled with a variety of people, arranged in an array similar to the vegetable tray from the day of the wake.
Most people looked like they'd only heard of his death in the local news and wanted to pay their respects, or look like they were at the very least. Isaac sat in a seat in the far left end of the back row. It was a seat he'd strategically chosen for being out of sight from the attendees, whilst allowing him to observe each of them subtly. He noticed they could all be generalized into one vegetable, despite having originally described them as an array: older women, likely Christians who devoted their lives to this small church and attended all the public funerals daily.
No one stood out, no one looked like they really knew William, nor cared for him.
There was only one man in the room besides Isaac that looked like he wasn't older than thirty. In fact, he barely looked over twenty. Maybe he was a son of one of the women, because there was no way he came here on his own will.
Isaac found himself paying more attention twenty year old in the turtleneck with black hair that caressed his sharp jawline than the actual service.
He didn't know if it was more accurate to say that the priest was a bore, or if that man was a magnet that kept attracting his attention. Whatever. He needed a cigarette break. Good thing his seat was right by the exit.
Outside the church turned out to not be any better than the inside. The fall winds made it difficult to ignite a lighter, forcing him to create a protective shield of his hands to allow for the birth of a small flame. He was mid-puff when he heard the door behind him open. As if God read his mind, out came the man with raven hair.
He watched as he reached into his own pocket to pull out a box of cigarettes. Together they stood, under a dancing willow tree and listening to the music of the breeze.
"I don't usually go to these," the guy said, bringing the poison to his mouth. It was far too sensual, the way he pressed his lips together and shut his eyes as he inhaled, as if the feeling nicotine invading his body was orgasmic.
Isaac sighed, watching smoke escape his own lungs in a cloud."What, funerals? That's a good thing."
"No," he quickly answered, "I meant church."
"Oh." Isaac didn't really know what to say. He didn't even know why this man was talking to him. "Me either, but I happen to know the victim so..."
"Well in that case I'm terribly sorry for your loss."
Isaac should've let the conversation die there; he should've let it have a funeral just like the one he was attending. Except, he couldn't stop himself when he blurted, "why are you here?" It was a question that's been eating at him the moment he sat down.
He watched as the man's face contorted. "I saw him...the day he died." Suddenly, the cigarette no longer wanted his body. "At a barâThe SanguineâI watched him leave. I saw him leave with...a man."
Oh.
"Oh," he finally said aloud. He couldn't tell if his heart was breaking or shattering. Even when he had his guesses about William, it hurt him much more to hear it aloud.
The rest of the time was spent in silence. Their conversation had skipped the funeral stage entirely and dug its own grave at this point.
Isaac finished his cigarette and started heading back to the church. He only had one set of stairs to climb, but it felt like a mountain.
His old headmaster was right. He didn't know William at all. What he heard next made him hesitate in his tracks.
"âI know this might be odd...but can I ask if you're Isaac Harley by any chance?"
He felt the mood shift as he spun around on the top step. "How-"
"I saw your photo displayed along with your artwork. I thought it was beautifulâeverything."
He frowned at the unusual confession. "Um...thanks."
"My favorite piece...I think it was the one with the two boys portrayed as different types of sin. I've never seen anything like it. You chose to portray a subject commonly associated with the devil as something innocent."
Isaac gave a weak smile. "That's the point. Innocence doesn't exist."
"I'm ashamed that I don't remember which sins they were. Gluttony and Lust? Wrath and Greed?"
"Lust and Envy," he answered.
"Yes! It's brilliant. You managed to portray the different desires they had of each other, and created...almost this twisted, manipulative romance. It's a forbidden love on canvas."
Isaac scoffed. Was this man really gushing about his art at a funeral? "It wasn't that good."
"I need to know what inspired you to create such a piece."
"I-I have a wild imagination," he stutteredâflushed even. "But as I said before, it's not good."
"I can tell when an artist uses their own blood to paint," he said. "Why are you lying?"
"I'm not-"
"And you're certainly not one to tell me what I find attractive. I know I'm not a professional art critic, but as a photographer I like to think I have a decent sense of aesthetics." As he spoke he made his way over to the church entrance, with each step nearing until the two were beside each other. "I know what fits and what doesn't. I know what's beautiful and what's not." Isaac could've sworn he saw a small smirk.
"In other words," he explains, lowering his voice as if the church could hear if he spoke too loud, "I know when I see something that I like."
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turns out this plot that i've conjured upâit's a lot harder to write than i thought. especially in the previous chapter, it's confusing and i didn't really execute that plot twist well. but hey! we learn from our mistakes, right?? *sobbing* Right????
i knew i should've started off with a simple badboy x nerd story.
still, it'd mean the world to me if you left a
vote or comment!