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The pen scratches and skitters across the paper of Childermass' memorandum book. The fire crackles in the hearth; the clock ticks and tocks; John Segundus thumbs through A Faire Wood Withering. A ghoulish clamour is starting up outside, but I dare say that neither pay it much mind at all. Certainly they do not jump to their feet and begin to discuss the proper ways to speed a phantom to its afterlife, nor do they hide cowering in a corner, muttering prayers beneath their breath for deliverance from the evil hour (as one might expect from a rather less sensible pair of magicians).
No. This is how it goes: Segundus casts his dark, birdlike eyes to the window, rises in mild concern, and fastens the catch more securely. He makes some trivial remark about not wishing the rain to get in and damage the books, and Childermass hums something along the lines of agreement but does not so much as look up, focused on his study as he is. (His black hair, ragged as rain, falls in his face. Unbeknownst to Childermass, Segundus’ breath catches upon its tangles and knots. He resists the urge to walk over and brush it out of the way, to tuck it neatly behind an ear so that he might better see the face of his colleague.)
The fire continues to crackle, the clock to tock-tick, Childermass' pen to take down the queer, twisting lines and curves of the King's Letters in his memorandum book. Segundus sets himself down again in his armchair, meaning to resume A Faire Wood. He sighs softly when it becomes apparent that he has entirely forgotten his place, just as the eerie discordance of the outside has been forgot once more.
(For when the wind whistles through the trees just so, whipping against the window panes and battering this old, creaking house like a fairy-tale wolf, it sounds like nothing more than a howling, a wailing, a shriek. Any anxiety which may once have stemmed from this has been quieted by time. For it has become plain to all who reside here that Starecross is simply prone to cacophony, oddity and eccentricity - a maddened composer in its own right.)
Segundus closes the volume in silent resignation and lays it down upon the side-table, then places his reading spectacles - neatly-folded, lens-up - atop the cover. He leans back and closes his eyes, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. He does not fancy he can read a great deal more for to-night, anyhow. The words have been beginning to blur and warp upon the page. Whether exacerbated through weariness or distraction, he finds his mind some other where, his attention doggedly drifting to unwelcome ports.
There comes the brief rustle of a turning page. A pause in the note-taking. An exhale. “You need not stay up on my account, sir.”
“Oh!” Segundus startles at the abrupt rumble of Childermass’ voice. He glances over and realizes that Childermass is looking at him. Not in the usual way of his - a fox, that is, sizing up and scheming his next meal. No, it is the softer, warmer sort of look - a crease about the eyes, a twitch to the mouth. The kind which Segundus is seldom aware of being bestowed upon him and supposes must be scarce as hen’s teeth (tho’ I do believe it would likely surprize Segundus to know it is brought out more often in his company than that of any-one else).
It is most often an exceedingly welcome scrutiny. But having been caught off-guard by its deliverance, Segundus cannot quite controul the flushing of his face. He ducks his head, flustered slightly by the intensity of Childermass’ dark gaze.
“My-” he begins. But his voice is too high. He clears his throat and starts again. “My dear sir, there is no need to be concerned. I am perfectly happy to remain here. For,” he reasons, “I have my books, a warm fire and your company, and it is not yet so late that I should wish to retire.” But then his brow creases into a frown as a disheartening thought strikes him. “Unless you would rather I went, Mr Childermass? It is perfectly understandable if you would prefer solitude for your stud-“
Childermass forestalls the continuation of this nervous spiral with a motion for silence. His frame shakes a little with soundless laughter, but it is not meant in such a way as to make Segundus uncomfortable. He says; “Nothing would be less agreeable to me, I assure you. You look tired, is all.”
Thus set at ease, Segundus hazards a small smile. ”Well,” he hedges, “I suppose it has been a long term. One does not anticipate that quite so much energy must be put into running a school, you know.” He chuckles in a self-deprecating manner and turns his face away. "It is hard work. I rather suspect another year of such exertions will see me in the ground."
Childermass' face twists in dissent. He shakes his head. As ever, his movement is brisk, economical, and so very decisive in its confidence that Segundus cannot help but want to believe him. "Nonsense, Mr Segundus. You," he points out, "are perfectly capable. I do not know of a better man for the job."
"I am... I am very glad that you think so," remarks Segundus. “Very glad indeed.” Without meaning to he is grinning in earnest now, tho' this detail is rendered a secret to all but himself when he swiftly masks it with a cough. He nods at Childermass in what he hopes is a more dignified manner. "I did not know that you thought so well of me." Segundus does his best to sound nonchalant, but he is not particularly good at it for his ears are glowing bright red.
The gale outside continues to wail and caterwaul, rattling the windows like a seething phantom, desperate to find some way into the house which stands steadfast against it. The clock on the mantel maintains its perpetual tick-tock-tick, keeping rhythm apace with Segundus' rapid heartbeat. He half-wonders that Childermass does not pass comment upon it, for his heart is surely loud enough to be heard across the room.
(But our hearts are only our own to know. How unfortunate it is that others cannot see the truth of them! For Segundus would very much like to acquaint John Childermass with the contents of his heart. Alas - he is to be contented with expressing this in other, riskier ways.
There is no safe way to love; there is no security in affection. By all rights he should abandon the wretched affair. But I dare say it is both John Segundus' chiefest strength and his chiefest failure that he cannot contain the love which spills out of him unchecked and uncontrouled. Which is to say this: that Segundus loves, and he loves as much as any man who has ever come before him, and - tho' his love may be the hand which leads him to the scaffold - he cannot help but rejoice in his capacity to do so, much as one does the first new growth of spring.)
The fire in the hearth is spitting like a wounded beast. His attention now drawn, he notices the glow dwindling. Being less settled in his position than Childermass and therefore more disposed to deal with the matter himself, Segundus rises once again. With no small amount of relief, he seizes the opportunity to hide his face by turning away and taking up the poker, stoking the fire to coax it back into a healthy blaze.
"I think a very great deal of you," his fellow-magician replies after several moments, startling an on-edge Segundus and causing him to very nearly drop the poker. "Surely you must know that."
Segundus replaces the poker with tremulous hands and steps back to view the effect of his encouragement on the fire. It pops and crackles with renewed, satisfying vigour. Hot sparks are flying in the grate like falling stars, brilliant for but one moment and forgotten upon the next. The scratch and scribble of Childermass' transcription has resumed - the sound grating against Segundus' fraying nerves.
"I did not," Segundus mumbles, still facing the hearth and the tick-tick-tocking clock rather than meet Childermass' incisive, probing eyes. He lets his eyes fall closed and heaves a shaky breath. "I did not know you thought of me enough to form such an opinion."
Still raging and bellowing, tormented and wild and anguished, the gale works itself up into a storm. Rain lashes viciously against the window-panes and Starecross raises a discordant and ghostly concerto about them.
"I think of you more than enough to hold you in esteem." Childermass pauses. His eyes are burning holes in Segundus' old, sage-green waistcoat. "Rather more than you would think proper."
Mr Segundus freezes.
Oh.
Oh.
Childermass coughs dryly and returns to his studies, laying out those eerily strange symbols and letters which are fast becoming his life's work. He turns another page and dips his pen back into the ink-pot. It clinks quietly against the glass rim as Childermass draws it out.
Staring directly ahead, aware of nothing much but the buzzing din of his thoughts (but - above all else - a constant tick, tock, tick), Segundus frets at the fraying fabric of his shirt-cuffs. The fire is too hot all of a sudden; the heat agitates him, and so does the dissonant racket outside, and the soft scritch-scratching of pen in memorandum book, and the deafening outcry in his head.
He turns. "Mr Childermass," he begins hesitantly, tho' he hardly dares speak. "Pray tell me, sir - what did you say?"
Childermass looks up from his notes and raises one eyebrow. "You know what I said."
But Childermass has not given him any-thing along the lines of confirmation. He is shying away from the topic, refusing to give a clear-cut statement upon it. Which is sensible enough, but Segundus wishes he would not do it.
In a daze, Segundus approaches Childermass, sending his shadow falling over the magician's face. He does not like to tower over Childermass, however, and so steps back half a pace or two.
"I should like to be sure," he murmurs, voice cracking.
But Childermass only smiles his self-deprecating, ironic smile up at him and tilts his head to one side. Segundus feels, as one tends to when in the presence of John Childermass, that he is being read like a book, that Childermass is scrutinizing him minutely enough to dig up his every secret and then some. He shivers.
(And what can I say? I expect he is quite right. Intuition is a particular skill of Segundus', tho' he would never venture so far as to say so of himself.)
The fire crackles yet. The clock ticks and tocks. The storm reaches its deafening crescendo.
Segundus steels himself. "If you would stop being so oblique-"
Childermass stands up so that they are face to face. And close - too close. Throat dry all of a sudden, Segundus swallows hard.
"And how," Childermass asks softly, "do you suggest I rectify that?"
Segundus swallows again, forcing a ragged exhale from his lungs. He thinks that he is keeping a remarkably level head in this situation given that the primary object of his affection is not seven inches from his face.
The library is illuminated by a flash of forked lightning - Childermass resembles nothing more than an apparition in this moment and Segundus worries briefly that he will turn to mist once he has him in his arms.
All sound seems dimmed. Somewhere far-off, thunder is rumbling.
"I suggest," whispers John Segundus, "that you kiss me."