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Light streams through the window when Oli wakes up. Actual daylight. The glare of it is so bright it must be hours after dawn and he’s cooking beneath the sheet draped over his sleep-twisted form. He sits up. Sweat clings to his skin.
At the sight of a green-chequered curtain, the memories trickle in. Oh, right. He’s at the smithy.
Last night, Eddie helped him pack up his meagre possessions – none of which were his in the first place, which sped up the process substantially – slung his arm under Oli’s ribcage and guided him down the stairs. His big, furry paw left an invisible brand on Oli’s flank, like a five-pointed star. With embossed tips to boot, because Eddie has claw-like nails, which tended to grip him tighter, digging into his flesh, whenever Oli stumbled. Which happened quite a lot on that trip. Curious, that.
The tavern, quiet for the months before, had been bustling with activity. Patrons in toga-gowns and sandals sat next to colourfully wrapped, dark-skinned strangers; merchant goblins threw dice with a company of harengon and a rowdy couple of cat-eared, antlered siblings. Humans milled about. Mugs clinked, coins clattered across the wooden tables and from time to time there was a shout for ‘the dancer’ to come out – until the moment Oli tripped on the stairs, went ass over teakettle and unintentionally landed right in the arms of a kohl-eyed waiter. From then on, they called for ‘the funny man.’
Oli’s stomach flips. He buries his face in his hands. Just as he’d done last night.
Eddie had ignored his crisis, plucked him from the no longer startled and now wolfishly grinning waiter and ushered him out onto the street.
The smithy’s doors – both the front entrance and the gate leading to the courtyard – were back on their hinges, closed but not locked. The inside, from what Oli could tell, had been cleared out. The counter and one of the stone slabs serving as a working table were gone.
Upstairs, a futon was set up in the corner. Eddie led him past it and, turning his ears away from Oli’s growing protests, bullied him right into the massive four-poster bed.
‘There’s no way,’ he’d said, ‘I’m allowing an injured man to sleep on the floor. Now stop being dramatic and get in.’
Oli had given in when Eddie admitted that he’d already arranged for someone to come over and set up a second bed the next day. Tired from embarrassment and from walking approximately two steps in total, Oli collapsed face-forward and promptly fell asleep with Eddie’s smell in his nose.
It’s been the most restful night he’s had in probably literal lifetimes.
Oli rubs his palms across his exposed forearms, looking around. The curtain separating the bedroom and the kitchen-slash-general-living-space is drawn shut, but not fastened to the wall. Through the slits on each side come the crackling of a fire and a metallic clanking sound, together with the scent of something delicious frying in sizzling hot oil. His mouth waters.
His cane is leaning against the bedpost. If that’s not an invitation… well, Oli’s going to take it as one anyway.
He swings his legs out of bed. The scabs along his shin and ankle pull, uncomfortably tight, but for the first time since he came to Sanctuary, putting his feet onto the floor doesn’t hurt. Buoyed by the relief, Oli grabs the cane, yanks open the curtain, takes one step into the room and then freezes, rooted to the spot.
Eddie’s standing at the stove – clad in nothing but an apron. Well, and trousers. The rough leather hugs the curve of his ass, framing round buns perhaps even more perfectly shaped than Oli’s own. Buns he’s definitely not staring at. Nope.
It’s not his fault they’re in the general vicinity of Eddie’s broad, muscled back, okay? Oli is allowed to look at that, because it’s super interesting to catalogue the way the other’s anthracite-coloured fur darkens along his spine and on top of his bulky shoulders.
Oli’s insides curl and twist. An image flashes through his mind: his own bony fingers, knotted in that fur. Clawing at Eddie’s arms, head thrown back in ecstasy. A frisson of excitement blooms in his belly, the heat pooling low. Throbbing.
Eddie whirls around. ‘Hiya! Good morning!’
Thank the void the apron covers his front.
‘G-g-good morning,’ Oli stammers, scrambling to pick his jaw up off the floor. He puts a palm over his mouth and pretends to yawn. ‘I, uh. Just woke up.’
‘Yet you already made it this far out of bed, tsk-tsk,’ Eddie scolds, but his lips are twitching. He waves his spatula, which Oli didn’t even notice before since he was too focused on the man’s exposed arms and bulging biceps, in the direction of the table under the window. ‘Have a seat. Breakfast will be ready in a moment.’
He turns back to the stove and Oli lowers his hand, feeling decidedly punch-drunk.
Oddly enough, Eddie’s still alone. Oli didn’t see anyone when he came in last night, either. Where in the world is his partner, that strong harengon man or woman with a blinding smile and the same compassionate attitude? Eddie’s perfect match? Do they even exist?… Does Oli really want to know?
Eddie’s ear flicks in his direction, exposing the white tufts on the inside. ‘Oli?’
He starts. ‘Yes?’
Shit, he needs to get it together. Like, yesterday.
He shuffles across the room, pulls out a chair and drops into it.
The table is already set. At least the half that’s in front of Oli: there’s a plate, made of porcelain, with a glass close-by, as well as a mug. A pitcher of water with a handful of cucumber slices floating on the surface stands next to it, condensation clinging to its round-ish belly. A wooden box holds an assortment of cutlery, besides a bowl of fluffy butter.
The other half is missing all of that. Instead, several glass containers frame a thick stack of paper, which Oli, upon closer inspection, identifies as beeswax cloths. They look so smooth they must be freshly pressed. Dish towels rest on the pulled-out chair, together with a knot of bunched-up bags. Their straps dangle in a messy snarl. A few bottles of water sit on the side.
Eddie moves from the stove, a heavy iron pan in his hands. ‘Scrambled eggs?’
Oli perks up. ‘Yes!’
He eagerly holds up his plate. Eddie comes over, grinning, and tilts the absolutely heaping pan. Oli gapes.
‘How many did you make!?’
‘Two dozen or so?’ Eddie’s tongue pokes out between his teeth as he focuses on ‘pouring’ the yellow clumps without spilling. ‘Say stop.’
Oli, who’d been transfixed by the way Eddie’s thumb rubbed the pan’s handle, trying desperately not to get sucked into a spiral of thoughts about what other things those fingers could rub, jolts. There’s a mountain of food on his plate; a deep yellow in colour, speckled with green, red and orange bits, smelling scrumptiously of garlic. He yanks it away. ‘Stop!’
Eddie yelps and eases up just in time. ‘Phew. That was a near miss.’
He moves to the opposite side of the table and divides the eggs evenly onto the glass containers. His gaze flickers to Oli’s face. ‘Dig in. Tea?’
Oli grabs a fork from the box, shovels a load into his mouth and then nods vigorously, hissing through the heat. ‘Shure. Ow.’
Eddie snorts. He takes the pan away and returns with a kettle. It’s not making any noise, but when he pours the water, steam billows into the air. He hands Oli a cup-shaped metal sieve with a spoonful of dried leaves and berries at the bottom to put into the mug.
The harengon settles the kettle on a cork coaster and fetches a bowl of bread, then starts to wrap up two slices per beeswax cloth.
Oli clears his throat. ‘Are you meal prepping, or–?’
‘Lark’s family aren’t quite done with their move. The little one’s been having trouble sleeping in a new place,’ Eddie says, tying off a bundle with a piece of thick twine. ‘I haven’t been able to help as much as I wanted to, since I needed to fix the workshop. Can’t have you tripping over something again and undoing all the progress we’ve been making.’ He shoots Oli a grin. ‘So I’m rectifying that today.’
Considering Oli was inside of the smithy while it burned, another stumble and fall probably wouldn’t set him back to zero. Still, his chest fills with warmth at the thought of Eddie cleaning up for him.
The string feels too close this morning, lingering behind his sternum. Wrapped around his larynx.
Eddie’s brows furrow. ‘I might be here for lunch, but if I’m not and you get hungry, just take, or make, whatever you want from over there.’
He waves in the direction of the stacked shelves.
‘That’ll be taking rather than making,’ says Oli. ‘I don’t want to burn the other half of the place down.’
‘Ha. I’m going to talk to the builders later to draw up a schedule for the repairs.’ Eddie sighs. ‘Usually I’d have my son do it, but alas, he seems to be enjoying himself too much on his travels to come home anytime soon.’
This is it. The perfect moment to ask about Eddie’s family; his spouse, his son, the people he cares about most. Oli watches it pass by, keeping his lips tightly shut.
‘That came out more bitter than I meant it to. I’m sorry,’ says Eddie. ‘I am glad he’s having fun.’
Oli shakes his head. ‘That’s not bitter. It’s not wrong to want your family around.’
Eddie hums. ‘I guess I can’t disagree with that.’
He ties off the last of the bread bundles with a bow and shoves them haphazardly into a cloth bag. Then he pulls out a bunch of wooden lids and fastens them to the glass containers with more twine.
‘Now,’ he says, the cadence of his voice way too casual for the way his ears are perking up. ‘I realize I can’t stop you from wandering about. Nor do I want to. You’re free to go wherever you choose. But I’d still like to ask you to– no.’
He cuts himself off.
‘No, forget what I said. Just please–’
‘Recognize my limits?’ Oli suggests.
Eddie nods hesitantly. ‘When I heard you were down here during the fire, I– Be careful? Please? Make sure you’re able to find your way back. If it’s– If that’s what you want.’
Their eyes meet, stormy blue on brown. Oli’s mouth goes dry.
‘I– I do.’
Eddie beams at him. ‘Great!’ He claps his hands and gathers up the bags. ‘Alright, time to get to work.’
He pulls off his apron and slips into a black-and-red flannel shirt. On his way out, he stops by the stove to cast a last, critical glance at the smouldering embers. Then he heads out the door with a jaunty little wave, which Oli can’t reciprocate, because his brain short-circuited at the sight of Eddie’s naked chest.
For a moment he just sits there, half a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him and the image of Eddie’s leather-clad ass burned into the back of his skull.
*
Even though it feels like he stares at the empty doorway for a long time, Oli knows his mind. It can’t have been more than five minutes before his stomach’s grumbling forcibly returns his attention to his breakfast.
Halfway through stuffing his gills, he realizes that he has no idea where he’s going to put the dirty dishes afterwards. He doesn’t want to leave them on the table, but there’s a pot of soaking herbs blocking the mega-bucket sink. After short deliberation, he decides not to finish his meal. That way, he can always claim he was full and planning to eat the rest for lunch.
Thus assured he’s being a good guest, he tackles the stairs.
It’s arduous. His cane bangs against the metal with every step. That’s probably why Robin’s standing in the middle of the smithy, wide-eyed and trembling, when Oli makes it to the bottom half a century later. He has a sneaking suspicion she’s been there since she first heard him.
‘Um, hello?’
Robin, who was looking him in the eye when he said it, jumps almost a foot. ‘Hi. I can leave.’
Oli blinks. ‘What?’
‘I, I mean, the forge isn’t really on right now. It was completely soaked, that’s why I’m cleaning it out. Not that it didn’t need a deep-clean either way. I think that’s why the fire hopped around so quickly; there must have been so much build-up clogging everything – but if you want to be sure I can totally come back la–’ She grimaces. ‘… later?’
‘That’s, um. That’s okay,’ says Oli, rubbing the back of his head. It’s not as spiky against his palm as it used to be. ‘You don’t need to leave.’
Robin’s shoulders slump. ‘Thank you. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known how to get all of this done by– not that it matters. Um.’
The smithy behind her looks like someone picked up the whole building by the scruff of its neck and shook it until everything tumbled off the hooks on the wall and scattered across the floor. There are scorch marks in places Oli didn’t even think could get scorch marks. Several buckets of water are strewn about the room, half of them filled with black sludge, the other half clear. Next to each bucket waits a mound of tools, plus rags.
‘Is this your punishment?’
Robin twitches. ‘No. I’m just sorting and cleaning because it needs to be done. The jury’s still out on what, um, the other thing will be.’ She swallows hard. ‘I’m probably not going to be allowed to finish my hoes… But if I don’t do it, they might not get done before Mr. Cyclops needs them, and, uh.’ Her ears droop. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No, you–’
The door bursts open and a ball of fur hits the room like a cannon shot.
‘Robin!’ Lark yells and stops mid-movement. ‘Oh, and hello, Oli. Good to see you up and about. Again.’
She makes finger-guns in his direction, which is kind of strange, because she can’t know what a gun is. On the other hand, the goblins had gunpowder…
‘– get the linens and provisions, but the ship’s already docking.’
Robin’s eyes grow wide as saucers. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, I know! Mum’s losing it right now, too.’
‘Do you need help?’
‘No,’ says Lark, darting past her and grabbing the money-box Oli saw on his first visit off the shelf. ‘Your dad went down and I think mine’s coming with Eddie. But can you drop by the market and get some candles? I’m going now, but I won’t be able to carry them all. Nobody’s gonna pay for bad service.’
Considering how brawny Lark looks, that must be a fuck-ton of candles.
She pours a handful of emeralds into her palm, stuffs them into her pockets and slams the money-box shut. Her eyes shift from Oli to Robin.
‘See ya later.’
She rushes out and Oli catches his first glimpse of the street behind her. Like the nighttime tavern, it’s fully transformed: colourful cloths dance in the wind, sandals and boots scrape across stone and dirt. Bodies press close, small and quick goblins between towering iron golems.
‘I should go.’
Oli jerks. Robin uses his moment of startled stillness to duck out onto the front steps.
‘Hey, wait!’
She freezes. ‘Yes?’
‘I can help,’ Oli blurts. ‘Uh. If you need any.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, that’s okay.’
She runs off. The bustle of the street swallows her so swiftly Oli doesn’t get a chance to call after her.
And then there was one.
He rubs the handle of his cane, digging his nails into the grooves of the Phantom’s skull. Everyone’s out and about now except for him. Helping people, making money. Working. It seems like they have a heck of a lot of work to do these days.
Eddie must have done all of it in addition to checking on Oli daily, he realizes with a start. Sometimes multiple times a day. And Oli’s not even paying him… nor the tavern tab, for that matter. Although he’s been told a Sanctuary law is taking care of the latter.
Still, guilt churns his stomach.
He’s no stranger to freeloading. In fact, he does it quite frequently and shamelessly, mostly with people he’s known forever. As his good friends, they obviously cherish an opportunity to share their stuff with him – and if not, they should.
He has no qualms freeloading on randos, either. Especially not if they’re rich, or getting there, and clearly have the resources to spare. Others outright deserve it, mainly for being pricks.
The issue is that his acquaintances in Sanctuary don’t fall into either category. They’re hard-working people whom he happens to like. He doesn’t want to drain them dry if he can avoid it. Thoughtfully, Oli chews on his tongue.
‘Thinking about throwing yourself into the fray?’
Oli jumps. ‘Eddie!’
The harengon seems to appear out of nowhere, emerging from the throng of passer-bys with a smirk splitting his face. Sweat darkens the fur by his temples, making it stick up every which way. The cow-licks tremble as he walks.
He motions for Oli to step aside and squeezes through the door. His scent hits Oli like a sledgehammer: musk, salt and strong, muscly man at work.
Eddie swivels his head around for a second, then hops down into the workshop. He roots through a pile of tools and lifts out the largest pair of pliers Oli has seen in his life. It’s as long as his leg, at least.
He opens and closes them a couple of times, ears twitching at each ‘snap.’ His eyes slide over the tips of the tool. Then he nods to himself.
‘Eddie,’ Oli says.
The harengon looks up.
Oli straightens, heart beating high in his throat even though he doesn’t really know why. ‘Is there, um. Some way I could help? Do you need help? Because I can… help.’
Eddie’s whiskers vibrate. He lets out a breath. ‘No need,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But–’
‘Focus on getting better.’
His ear flicks once more in Oli’s direction, as if to say ‘it’s all good.’ Then he slips out the door. He’s more than a full head taller than Robin, but the crowd swallows him, too, like waves of the roiling sea.
*
Oli makes his way up the stairs with his skin buzzing like there’s a whole nest of ants under it, trying to get out. His fingers twitch on the handle of his cane, growing slippery with sweat.
Everyone else is doing something except for him. Ugh.
His leg gives a dull throb. Already, the strain of getting up, walking down the stairs, standing around for a while and coming back up is bordering on too much. He should lie down. He’s not going to. He’d just start counting the fissures in the ceiling and he’d like to save that for a rainy day.
There must be something in the living area he can distract himself with. Clean-up. The dishes. Oh, that’s an idea.
With renewed vigour, Oli climbs the last couple of steps. He leans against the open door and stretches his arms over his head. His spine cracks. He does it again.
Alright. Time to get productive.
As he approaches the table he had breakfast on a mere half an hour ago, he realizes it’s empty. There’s a stack of neatly washed plates on the counter next to the sink. His remaining bites of scrambled egg have been transferred to a smaller bowl.
Oli stares at it. What the heck? Who did this? When?!
He slumps onto the chair Eddie sat in earlier, scowling at the tablecloth. There’s just the messed-up candle holder left, with the wax spilling down its stem, and the assortment of instruments Oli put there when he tried to leave.
He picks up the whistle and brings it to his face, squinting into one of the holes. He can’t see much, considering the lack of light inside, but a curious sniff tells him all he needs to know: someone cleaned his instruments.
Eddie, Oli thinks, immediately followed by: Great, one more thing I can’t help with.
He runs the edge of his thumbnail – getting long, that one – up the side of the whistle, along the seam of the wrapped tin. It catches on the rim of the mouthpiece. He twirls the flute in his fingers, then rubs it against the soft skin between his knuckles. The metal warms until he barely feels a difference.
If I were to make some money right now, how would I do that?
He never learned a trade, so that’s off the table. He doesn’t know medicine, either. He could work as a scribe, maybe, depending on the population of Sanctuary’s literacy rate. It’s an option worth considering.
Whatever he decides on, he’ll need to get started immediately. Not just because he’ll be well soon and then freeloading won’t be okay any more. He doesn’t want to outstay his welcome, nor be a burden to Eddie. Plus, there’s that debt to the ginger goblin. The details are a bit hazy in his head, likely due to malnutrition, but he’s pretty sure that happened.
What to do, what to do?
He puts the flute to his lips and blows, letting the trill hang in the air. Then he does it again and hums along.
Think, Oli. What do other peop–
He drops the whistle. Then he slaps himself in the face, just on principle. Obviously there’s one thing he can do that people would be willing to pay money for.
*
‘Approacheth, denizens of Sanctuary, and listen to my song!’
Oli rises onto his tiptoes on the front stairs of the smithy and waves his shiny instrument around. Sunlight glints off of its freshly polished metal body.
No reaction. The mass of colours and shapes – ears, antlers, noses, antennae – passes by without slowing; buried under a shroud of conversation, shouting and snuffling.
Oli purses his lips, forehead creasing. His gaze trails up the street.
There’s a marketplace up there, at least that’s what Eddie said. Oli can see it if he squints: the throng of bodies thickening, red and yellow sails providing shade above wooden stalls and long tables, cracking with the touch of the zephyr. People would probably be more willing to stop and listen in a place of commerce than in the middle of a major thoroughfare.
It’s not really that far away, either, considering how much further he’d been planning to go just two days ago.
He slides the flute into his pocket and picks up his cane.
*
‘Again,’ a voice cries from the cluster of onlookers standing sleeve to sleeve and elbow to elbow, pushing ever closer, and something warm and giddy blooms in Oli’s belly.
‘Do I hear calls for an encore? Do you guys want more?’
He exhales into the tin whistle’s mouthpiece and around him, several people whoop loudly. A coin spins though the air, ricocheting off of Oli’s good ankle to join the scattered few already on the ground.
His lips twitch. Doing great, little man. You still got it.
‘If you’re this enthusiastic about it, there’s not much I can do but oblige, eh?’
More cheering. Somewhere in front of him, a small child lets out a shrieking laugh.
He affects a thinking pose. ‘Let’s see what else I have for you great people. You really have been an amazing audience so far, so I think you deserve a special treat.’ He bounces from one foot to the other. ‘I heard there have been sailors coming in on big boats. Is that true? Do we have any sailors here? Sea-farers? Ocean lovers?’
Several hands go up right away. Someone shouts a name, likely their own.
Oli grins. ‘How about a shanty, then? A nice little shanty to delight the saltiest of hearts? Do you know this one?’
He plays the first few chords of one of the tunes he found in Eddie’s book. A few faces in the crowd light up. They start to sing along, which is exactly what Oli hoped would happen, because while Eddie’s book has all the notes, it doesn’t contain a single word.
Which, in hindsight, was probably intentional. Wow, that’s not safe for work.
Right in front of him, a black-haired girl not a day older than three is screeching the lyrics at the top of her lungs while the adult accompanying her laughs hard enough to cry. Oli presses his lips into the mouthpiece of his flute until it hurts, to avoid doing the same. Can’t have any snickering affect his tonguing; he’s a professional.
The people closest to him clap to the beat. All of them are looking at him – his face, his hands, his fingers on the holes. Surrounded by them, their thundering hearts and stomping feet and laughing mouths, something uncoils inside of Oli. Something that feels like it’s been knotted up tight for a long time. Long enough to petrify, maybe. He’s been at this for hours, but he feels like he could go another few without tiring at all.
The Gordian knot, not smashed but unravelled.
It’s exhilarating. It’s freeing, it’s–
‘Oli?!’
His rhythm stutters, kicking the melody off-key. The crowd rumbles and parts. A dark shape pushes through, like a predator dodging jungle vines. It’s Eddie, tense and out of breath, with the whites of his eyes starkly visible.
His gaze lands on Oli. He launches himself across the space between them.
Oli flinches. ‘What happened?’
Eddie grabs him by the shoulders, looks him up and down, then slides a hand around his back and the other up to his neck to pull him into a tight hug.
‘Uh, Eddie?’
‘Shh.’
Oli squirms. ‘Eddie!’
The harengon draws away. ‘I take back what I said this morning,’ he says softly.
His face is so close. Oli’s pulse flutters in his throat. He’s never seen Eddie’s eyes in full sunlight before, with his insides feeling like nothing but air, and there’s a hint of sky blue there, just a single splotch in a maelstrom of flood water. Oli cups Eddie’s cheek, curving his palm over his silky fur, and leans in until their foreheads almost touch.
‘Next time you go, could you please leave a note? Otherwise you might give me a heart attack one of these days.’
The warmth in Oli’s chest twists sideways. He nods. ‘Yeah, I can– um. Totally do that. I’ll do that. Sorry for–’
‘He got him!’
Lark and Robin appear behind Oli’s back, equally wide-eyed. He flinches away from Eddie.
‘Is he alright?’
‘Did he get mauled? Did you have to break up a fight?’
‘Lark,’ Robin hisses.
‘He didn’t get mauled,’ Eddie says, straightening. ‘It only looked like it from afar.’
Oli puffs up, nostrils flaring. ‘I don’t get into fights. I’m way too clever!’
Lark snorts. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘What were you doing?’ Robin asks.
‘Ah.’ Oli holds up his flute. ‘Making music. For the people.’
He gestures towards the crowd, then pauses.
There’s no one left except for that one small, singing child. She’s chewing on the foot of a stuffed frog, watching them with a shrewd expression.
Eddie clears his throat. ‘It seems like we’ve scared away your audience,’ he says, sounding sheepish. He rubs the back of his head.
‘Wait,’ says Lark. ‘Is that where all the money comes from? You make music?’
Eddie and Robin shoot her an incredulous glance.
‘I was, yeah. But I guess that’s over now. At least for today.’ Oli peruses his bounty. ‘Maybe I should bring a hat next time.’
Something inscrutable flickers across Eddie’s face, but it’s gone too quickly for Oli to identify. ‘Not a bard, you said?’
Oli bristles. ‘I’m not!’
‘So you don’t need any of this?’ Lark kicks one of the coins so it flips up into the air and catches it between two of her fingers. ‘Can I have it?’
‘Lark!’
‘Fine.’
She drops the coin.
Oli moves to put the flute into his pocket, but Lark’s paw darts out to grab his wrist and squeeze it. ‘No way! I wanna hear it!’
‘You’re crushing my bones!’
‘Oh, sorry.’ She lets go. ‘I thought you were, like, totally boring, after those first few days. Not to mention creepy. But this is cool. Play!’
‘Lark,’ Eddie warns.
‘It’s alright,’ Oli says, turning his head up at the sky. He feels buoyed by her excitement. As if slowly but surely, all of his missing pieces are falling into place. ‘We still got daylight left. Maybe if I play some more, dinner could be on me?’
There’s a fast food stall right across the street selling something that looks like tempura from a distance. Smells like it, too. Oli’s been practically drooling for hours. He’s been planning all day to pop over there once he’s done and bum a few pieces in exchange for all the customers he drew onto their metaphorical front lawn.
Lark claps her hands. Robin’s ears perk up and Eddie… Eddie’s watching with a little curve at the edge of his lips as Oli positions his flute again.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of Oli for the entire performance.