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Summary
There was something different about the man. Despite his youthful look, there was a heaviness to his shoulders that said he had hardened through prolonged suffering. His smile, his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled in the corner, it was definitely a slipping mask. The way Orpheus held himself was too rigid, too perfected, and he noticed the rise and fall of the brunet's chest was too long between his conversations and rest.
The man was peculiar. Yet, no matter what, his eyes always found the other's, and he gazed at him like he was a meal to be devoured, yet there was an odd reverence that was mixed within the hunger.
Fredrick didn't want to admit it intrigued him, even less that he wanted to tread that danger willingly, even if it meant falling into the maw of the novelist.