Angel's Mark

Forty

Today was possibly the most important Wednesday of my life, and every surface of my skin buzzed with it.

Most Wednesdays were long and listless, not truly separate from any other day. Today, however, was filled with so much potential and so much danger and yet so much hope that the smell of it all seemed to hang in the air.

Running on about two hours of sleep—at the most, since it was probably less than even that—I shuffled down to the kitchen, planning to bring something up for Alan to eat. I shouldered open the door, unsurprised to find Lucie and Cian had beat me in there. They stood at the edge of the island, Cian's laptop between them, Cian clicking on things and Lucie fussing over them.

"That one's way too big," she was whispering when I came in. "If it's just the two of us, there's no reason we'd ever need so much space."

"But, muffin, it has a patio—oh, Vinny!" Cian exclaimed, looking up at me. He slammed the laptop shut so harshly that I worried he'd cracked the screen, clearing his throat. "You're...up early."
I raised an eyebrow. "It's nine o'clock. That's not early." For a practiced insomniac such as myself, it was late, actually. Cian was aware of this.

Beside him, Lucie hid her face behind her hand. Cian scrubbed a hand through his hair, casting wary glances at her and then at me and then at the shut laptop on the counter in front of him. "Right, right. Well, did you need something?"

I hesitated. It would be so easy to grab a bowl and some cereal and disappear again, like I'd heard nothing—yet the unease in Cian's face was satisfying. I had no choice but to milk it a little.

As I went past them, towards the pantry, I asked, "What were you two bickering about, huh?"

"Oh, nothing," Lucie assured. "He's just helping me with a school project."

I eyed the two of them to make sure they knew I was on to them. I said, "Sure."

I got a bowl and spoon, some cereal, and a quart of milk. Then I left without another word, a smile on my face they couldn't see.

When I reached it, the laundry room door was still shut. I knocked with one knuckle first, somehow managing to balance Alan's breakfast on one arm. There was no reply, and I fought against the swell of anxiety within me, the thought that some part of his experiment could have backfired and I would not have known until now.

I shuddered, pressing my shoulder to the door. It fell inwards.

"Al?" I said, and then dropped immediately off into silence. He was slumped over the desk we'd moved in here, chest rising and falling, eyes shut and mouth half-open, glasses tilted slightly off his nose. Poor thing. He'd been working so hard he must have just passed out.

Today, it would all end. Today, it all paid off.

As quietly as possible, I set his breakfast down beside him, the porcelain bowl clinking just a bit too loudly against the table for comfort. To my surprise, however, he didn't stir. His face was utterly still, black hair curling underneath him like an oil spill. I was struck again by the same thought I'd had as I'd slept beside him at his house that night. He was so peaceful here. A different person. His brain calm in sleep where it was constantly brimming with thoughts when he was awake.

I almost didn't disturb him—but he had to eat something. We had to go over the plans.

I slid my arm around his shoulders, pressed the lightest of kisses to his temple. "Alan," I whispered.

He made a low, tiresome noise in his throat, but didn't move much. I kissed him on the cheek. "Alan," I said again, and this time he stirred. "Alan. Come on. Wake up."