CHAPTER FIVE. There Is Nowhere To Go

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            The waves always greeted Cassidy like an unconfined braille of divinity, a code only he could discern. A language blessedly spoken to him, a mere mortal. An understanding between tide and man. Gratitude radiated from his sparkling skin.

Waves arrive as he adjusts the rudder; they are fleeting but constant, rising and falling. They disperse the light and the water's ever-changing, yet recognizable, blue hue. As they dance within and crash onto the rocks encasing his family's estate, Cassidy ponders: How could you not fall in love with them? How could you not liken the crisp caress of the breeze to the salty air? They are the cornerstones of our seaside existence, everlasting and fleeting, constant and unchanging.

Cassidy's only guarantee, besides death.

Josette sits perched, as she so often does, against her balcony's banister. Her blue eyes flit about the sea, specifically to her brother's most treasured companion. (Besides herself, she hoped.)

He'd named her Philomena, his water craft. Josette had been meaning to ask him why he chose that name out of the so very many options.

Now, even at such a distance, she observed her brother's smooth motions and the way the sails moved in response to his commands. It was as if they spoke a secret language that only he and the boat understood. On the sea, he was always in sync. It felt more like he was supposed to be within rather than outside of it. It was the only place he seemed completely at ease. It was beautiful. There was no other way to express it.

She pressed her knuckles against her skin, her sunshades providing a shield against the glaring sun. And she stayed there awhile and watched.

Meanwhile, the Chevalier chateaux was soundless. Killian remains in his quarters, sitting in an armchair near the most sunny window. A song surrounds him, a humming tune by reason of the air conditioning unit and the tick of the grandfather clock adjacent to his bedstead.

His journal is tucked beneath his pillows. A glass of gin over ice is confined within his grasp. It's a bitter choice, one that burns his throat, but he welcomes the discomfort.

He clenches his free fist and finds his footing, deciding that the sun would refresh him if he was actually able to stand beneath it. He wanted to relish it. To relish something.

By the time he is sat against a double-seated swing along the fence line of the property, quite close in distance to the docks, Cassidy is aiming his boat southward, toward the family home.

Josette lingers on her balcony, wordless as she becomes conscious of Killian's presence. The man is of the fascinating variety.

Once Cassidy docks successfully, he bounds toward land. He's wearing his darkened shades once again. The swing's rusted hinges groan as Killian digs his heels into the ground, gently swaying. Cassidy's eyes seize the spot Killian absorbs. With a harsh swallow, he travels in a contrasting direction.

A smirk touches Killian's mouth, "Avoiding me, Mr. Chevalier?" he calls out, his voice a mirror of jocularity.

Cassidy's jaw tightens. Only Josette is able to discern the visible reaction. Her brows quirk, while Cassidy pivots on his heels.

A smile blossoms on the heir's lips, doesn't quite touch his eyes. "Certainly not, Mr. Alcott."

"Killian is just fine."

"It feels like a battle we often have, wouldn't you say so?" Cassidy retorts.

He is moving toward Killian now. The Englishman's arms stretch about the swing's back. He contemplates, eyes unveiled, and subsumes all that Cassidy Chevalier presents himself as.

A suave storm of inward brokenness swathed in a designer ensemble.

"I'd say," Killian replies. A soft sigh descends from his ample lips. "Were the waters well?"

"They were fine." Cassidy's tone is clipped. His head is tilted outward, back toward the waters. They had been since he'd taken occupancy in the writer's company.

Killian's eyes crease around the corners as they narrow, "Have I done something to offend you?"

A jolt of worry clouds the outer edges of Killian's ribs, sending an unexpected shockwave through his bloodstream. His heart thumps ravenously, though he maintains a stoic outward demeanor.

It wouldn't be the first time he entrusted his gut and was left feeling nothing short of a fool. It was troubled waters to navigate. The kindness, the banter that he had shared with the fellow could very well have just been a surfaced involvement.

Regardless of the outcome, Killian knew that, in his heart of hearts, what mattered most was his own safety. And Cassidy's, of course. It was a dangerous gamble.

Cassidy snaps to attention at Killian's brashness, "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"The other night I—"

"I had merely overindulged. It's been long forgiven, Killian."

Killian nods, because he's not exactly certain what else he should do. Cassidy spins the family signet ring adorning his thumb. He steps closer, but not nearly enough to arise suspicion, "You were right, y'know?"

Killian peers up at the man from beneath his lashes and remains tight-lipped, anticipating an explanation without the usage of his own words. Cassidy is a rather tall fellow, Killian notes. An inch taller than himself. His stature is commanding, but his voice is anything but. It's got a soft edge, something Killian soaks up when he's able. It's also hesitant, with that slight waver. He's always cowering. He doesn't want him to feel as though he has to do the same with him.

"About sailing being a method of escape." he clarifies.

Killian nods once more, "I see."

Cassidy swallows, fiddles with the heirloom encompassing the skin of his finger. "You have an idea, I'm sure. I don't have to spell it out for you."

"Indeed, you do not. I understand completely."

"I am relieved that you do." Cassidy exhales.

            Josette continues watching the peculiar exchange with fascination, nearly dangling off the edge of the balcony.

            Killian's eyes trace Cassidy's silhouette. His lips quirk, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his lips as his head lowers, as well as his eyes. As the ends of his lips raise, Cassidy's tongue darts out, forging a clean sweep across his own lips.

            "There's a quote," he says, just after clearing his throat. He lifts his eyes to meet Cassidy's and finds them gleaming brightly against the sunrays. His sunglasses dangle from the collar of his shirt.

            "It's fairly long, but I do not want to bore you if you do not wish to hear it."

            Cassidy remains rooted. A soft smile touches his lips, to which Killian pockets.

            "Very well," His hands fall against his thighs. He spreads his fingers, basking in the feel of the rather thin, but comfortable fabric. Of the linen variety, he was somewhat sure.

            "My world falls apart, crumbles, 'The centre cannot hold.' There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralysed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered."

            A jaw feathers, remains firm. It belongs to Cassidy. It is unmoving and tense. Tears well, blending against the grain of ice and stone. Those eyes, they belong to the heir as well as Killian's voice travels through his ringing ear canal.

            "I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions."

            Tears cascade along the skin of Cassidy's cheekbones. Killian proceeds with tingling fingertips, "I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go."

Silence succumbs to the driving force surrounding them. The wind flutters gently against their respective skins. Hoarsely, Cassidy's voice cuts through the airspace, "Those words, who do they belong to?"

Killian waits for Cassidy to wipe away his fallen tears. He's not even certain the man knows they're even there, that they exist. It's unusual for the tears of men to be observed.

"Sylvia Plath."

Cassidy's knuckles rest on his hip bones. He laughs, but he does not mean it. It's one of disbelief. His mandible's spinning like clock hands.

"But they belong to many of us, I think." Killian affirms, his voice as tender as ever.

Cassidy lets out a grunt. His eyes are a watery sight again and he sniffles while he wanders them about. They ultimately center on Killian's face. His eyes. They're so very genuine.

"Don't you agree, Cassidy?"

Josette doesn't hear Cassidy's response. His voice is muffled and low, and and as soon as it leaves his lips, he vanishes inside of their shared home.

Killian remains, his eyes fixed on the patio door. They linger there. Waiting. Yearning. Josette cannot decide which precisely, but either makes her heart swell with inexplicable joy.

But also with a foreboding sense of worry.