Palette

Credence saw him on the other side of the street, and his heart did a double somersault in his chest. Any street of New York was busy with people running, walking and rushing around, and this one wasn’t the exception. Amidst the seeming chaos of the movement — people, bicycles, cars, newspapers and leaflets fluttering in the gusts of chilly wind — the man was like a rock in the river, steady and unyielding to the stream. His coat ever so elegant, posh even, and the end of a long scarf framing his shoulders, the man was looking for someone, trying to find this special someone in the human-river that street has turned into. The man was Percival Graves, and he was everything. Credence caught his glance, fixed on it, and strangely, magically even, all the sounds of the street faded. All the people didn’t matter anymore, as if he had finally seen them for what they truly were — decorations for the play, the background for it. He started moving, forgetting about the leaflets he was trying to hand around, his eyes fixed on the man, and the thing that made his heart go again was that Percival Graves saw him as well. It was an odd and wonderful feeling — to be seen, to be recognized by someone, anyone. Credence knew what he was. A detail of the picture that always evaded the looks. People could look right at him, or at least their eyes were looking in his direction, but they would look right past him as if he was nothing. He felt like nothing all the time, and he was used to it, though the rebellion was building up in his chest. I am alive, he wanted to shout, I am here as well as you are, and I matter. And now mister Graves — Percival Graves! — was looking at him from the other side of the street. The buildings were so tall that the alley between them busked in darkness. There were shadows, delicate and unnerving, and the electric lamp gave that sicklish and dim kind of the light that wasn’t strong enough to cast the shadows away. It wasn’t strong enough for anything, it was barely surviving on its own. “You’re upset,” the man said, and Credence had to lean on the wall as if all his strength suddenly disappeared. It was that soft and husky voice that robbed him of all the strength Credence Barebone owned. It was the voice of the darkness that decided to take the shape of a man, and it was wonderful. Credence wasn’t afraid of the dark, it was the ruthless light of the day that he feared. In the dark it’s easy to hide, easy to disappear, and he welcomed darkness like an old friend. “Do you think I’m a freak?” “No,” the answer came instantly. Nothing mattered but the way mister Graves replied. There was not a hint of doubt or deliberation in his voice. There was passion, the passion that in the darkness of this alley felt like danger and relief at the same time. It felt like a dagger wrapped in rich velvet. It felt… exciting. It didn’t really matter what Graves had to tell him. The only thing Credence really wanted was for this husky voice to never cease speaking… to keep on scratching his ear, to keep on clinging to his skin quickly breaking in with goosebumps. Credence also wanted the warm and heavy palm of the older man to stay on his shoulder. “… I saw you beside me in New York.” His heart didn’t skip a bit but there was a strange sensation in his stomach as if Credence was falling from a terrible, deadly height, and this was the fall he had been longing for not even knowing that until it was too late. “So find the child… find the child, and we will all be free.” That was the moment Credence realised he didn’t want him, this magical man, to be free if this freedom meant freedom from their secretive meetings in the dark alleys. The truth he had been so terrified to hear did not sound so terrible once pronounced. “You saw me,” Credence said in the voice of a broken man, the sorrow and despair leaking into the darkness around them. “With you. Didn’t you?” “I did.” Credence moved towards him, and there was magical mister Graves, the fragrance of his cologne filling the air, the darkness, the world… Credence clutched the man’s shoulders tightly, his fingers clawing the rich fabric of the coat, and pressed his lips against the slightly opened mouth of the man. Graves made a small, surprised sound, and his “oh… Credence…” was swallowed by the hungry despair of the searching lips. This was the moment Credence saw with divine clarity that the truth of the magical world was never the enemy. His feelings were.