Chapter Text
The Creation's favourite things were:
Colours. There were so many of them. Particularly the shade the sun set on things. A glass pebble in the window, he learned, could create a rainbow on the wall.
The movements of things. The neighbour had a small girl. She had just gotten her first bicycle and the pavement in front of the house was her first training ground. Her legs were a bit too short, and she fell a lot. Nevertheless, she always got up again. A cat sat on their porch watching her. Its tail was slowly wagging in contentment.
And Mo. Mo.
There is no separating a person from their actions, so the Creation loved Mo himself, his body and his thoughts, as much as it loved being around him. The Creation had the greatest time watching him do the most mundane actions:
Mo talking. His voice was so sturdy and low, never ugly or faltering. Even when he was upset, there was a strength to it.
Mo going to the mail box and coming back with rain droplets in his hair, like a thousand tiny diamonds.
Mo's hand on bread. One hand holding and one cutting down.
Mo peeling apples. It seemed like a miracle, the way his hands and fingers knew how to work the knife around and around, never cutting himself. Mo could peel fruit and potatoes with the peeling coming of in intact, pretty circular strings.
“Truth be told, I just recently learned this, so you can stop looking so impressed,” he once stated, his face illuminated by the sunrise shining through the window. The Creation didn't really believe him. But then, this was the same person that tripped in Elinor's garden and now Darius had one flowerpot less.
The weather shifted on the sixth day. Fog was coming in from the sea and putting a chill, white veil around the house. Everything seemed pale.
Lately, the Creation had been like the neighbour's cat. He had been around, just coming and going as he saw fit. He had begun to understand that he was that kind of person.
Sometimes it was just there, like an itch in his soul. If he had a soul. Away, away, it urged. It was for him to find out where he needed to be. He would follow the instinct wherever it took him. Over Elinor's hedge, past the neighbour's lot where the cat at first eyed him suspiciously. The second time it only eyed him and the third time he climbed over the fence it left its place at the porch to come and rub itself against his legs. It was all black, with yellow eyes.
"That's weird. He usually doesn't like people. Just me."
It was the little girl. This time she wasn't on her bike. Instead she held a skipping rope, but it couldn't matter a lot to her. She let it hit the ground with a soft thud and walked over to them.
"My mum didn't want to keep him at first. She says black cats are bad luck."
The little girl peeked up at him with curiosity glimmering in her eyes. The attention made the Creation uneasy. It shifted its weigh from one foot to the other and stole a glance back to Elinor's house. It had never spoken to another human being than Mo, but in contrast to Mo, it couldn't understand what the child wanted.
"What is wrong with your face?" the girl asked.
The question pierced through the Creation like an arrow. Without realising, one of his hands went up to his face. He felt the scar and caressed it along its path. As he did, a pitch black despair rose within him. Damn Mo. Damn Mo who had made him like that.
The girl cocked her head, seemingly intrigued by his silence. Suddenly, she bent down and rolled up her leggings. She only stopped when a chubby knee was exposed, but that was not all. There was a gash in her skin, cutting across the entire kneecap. Dried blood glistened dark red, in some places black where it had mixed with dirt.
"It hurts a little still."
She looked at him. Pointed to his face. "Does yours hurt?"
With a small tremor in his voice, he replied: "A little."
The ground was damp and soft when he lay himself down, but he didn't mind. Nor did he mind the fog that obscured everything and put tiny watery drops upon his cheeks.
All was quiet. Quietness didn't demand anything. The absence of sounds was also a presence, comfortable for those who yearned for it, eerie for everyone else. For the Creation, it was a promise of relief.
He liked laying on the forest ground and gaze up at his brothers, seeing the grey sky through their skeleton branches.
All the leaves were gone now.
When he returned, something was in the air. It made the Creation halt a stone throw away from the house.
The front door stood wide open. Several trash bags were stationed, awaiting, by the entrance.
Through the open door, Mo could be seen sweeping the floors with a mop.
His dark hair was a mess, but in that lovely way so essential to everything that was Mo, and he was so absorbed with his work that it for a moment he appeared oddly austere. It was the same look Mo had worn when he had made the Creation, but the Creation had no way of knowing that. It disappeared as soon as he lifted his head to wipe away some loose hair strands from his forehead, and his eyes found the person standing in the drive way. A softness swept over him then and warmed his features.
He looked at his creation with his shoulders relaxed.
"Did you have a nice walk?" he asked.
The smell of cleaning supplies was escaping into the outside air. Mo's plaided shirt was buttoned up at the elbows. No longer so severe, he rested himself against the mop.
The Creation viewed him with skepticism. Its eyes flickered over to the trash bags. Then to its creator again. Finally, it found the will to speak.
"Things are changing. You won't tell me, but they are."
A drop of doubt appeared on Mo's face. He quickly regained himself, nodded.
"They always are."
The sky darkened. The shadows swallowed the rooms inside the house, one by one. The Creation didn't mind. The smell of cleanliness still lingered, strange and stiff.
It moved closer to Mo. They sat together on the living room floor. Mo was bending forwards to light up the fireplace. Soon, the darkness around them was chased away by an inviting red glow.
Mo smiled at the Creation, but it didn't see. It was busy staring at the fire. The flames were not like anything it had ever seen. They shot up in the air, reaching, falling, merging into each other or knocking each other down. It was like they were fighting for something. Or loving. The Creation couldn't really decide. All the time they were also speaking a language of whispers and cracking. Were the flames talking to each other or to him? Were they telling him secrets no one else knew? Either way it was haunting.
Thralled as it was by the fire, the Creation stretched out a hand to touch them. It wanted to feel how they felt. Maybe it also wanted that the flames felt it in return. But not half a second later, it retracted its fingers. It had felt the flames bite like a wild animal.
The Creation looked to Mo in astonishment. Then back to the fire again.
"You never told me it was a living thing," he said. Somewhere there was a accusation.
After examining the burnt fingers and finding them okay, Mo leaned his back to the sofa behind him. His skin shone red from the heat. He had his eyes closed.
"It isn't."
There it was.
Across the Creation's face, a smile appeared. It was knowing and a good deal ironic without being unkind. It came very naturally to him, the Creation discovered.
"Of course it is," he heard himself correct the other. And he was right.
They had both fallen asleep when the house filled with sounds. Mo raised his head from The Creation's shoulder and listened. The Creation too had awakened, yet made no movements. Its eyes were searching for the source of the noise. Its limbs tensed.
There was chatter in the hallway. Then silence. Steps closing in.
"Mo?" a man's voice called out. It had a soft tone, like a warm hug. It was impossible to imagine that voice cross or demanding. As soon as the man itself stepped into the living room, The Creation saw that the voice fit him. He stood a little bent over, not very tall. Maybe he would have been taller if he straightened his back. He had round glasses he now pushed up his nose ridge. His gaze was searching for something. When it reached the two persons by the fireplace, his whole body froze.
For a long while he said nothing. His eyes rested on the stranger and The Creation, who felt that the other was the stranger.
"Mo?!" the man once again said, but this time his voice was full of wonder. The excitement was startling. The man was looking at him the way people do art. But also the same way people do at a perceived miracle. And also the way they look at loved ones. All those points are somewhat the same.
He knelt down beside The Creation. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to reach out and touch, but maybe he sensed the Creation's hesitance. The stranger politely withdrew his hands, but he was still smiling. The smile was also kind.
"I'm Darius," Darius said.
To Mo he said something different.
"You- you- did- it."
"Of course, I had to," Mo replied.
"I never meant-"
"Don't worry, Darius. It's good to have you back."
Then a gasp was heard.
For everything Darius was, it seemed this woman was not. She stood just a second in the doorway before she rushed over. The Creation didn't have a good time to look at her, just noticed that she was an older lady, grey haired and scary looking.
Its first instinct was to retreat and the lady's first instinct was to be a little offended by this behaviour. Nonetheless, she had an intrigued expression that spoke of a genuine interest. No matter how hard it searched, the Creation couldn't find any malice in her.
Still. Best to be wary, it decided.
"A little caution, Elinor," Mo urged. "He hasn't been here many days."
His arm went around the Creation's waist, pulling him closer.
And as the Creation felt Mo's arms around itself, and as it watched Darius watch back, and the lady begin to talk (she talked fast), it wasn't so sure what to think. Somehow, this all felt familiar.