The castle seemed cold, despite the warm fires burning hot in the hearth. The air seemed stiff and full, yet unafraid of the bitter chill that came with the rise of anxiety. His friends were on edge, shifting through their lives and growing up. This year seemed to be drawing lines in the sand, and everyone was taking their sides. Avalon felt helpless as he watched, staring at one end of the battlefield waiting patiently to see where he was needed first. He cursed his inner disability to navigate life with ease, but realized he was quite happy his path didn’t turn towards the dark. He worried of Raine, found heros in boys like Figaro, but surrounded himself mostly in those inbetween.

Avalon skated through most of his young career unnoticed. He had been an awkward child, not terribly handsome, nor demanding of the attention of the people he kept around him. His lack of proper means of communication never seemed to phase the other students, nor had they found it reason to torment him for his differences. He simply existed, a staple to his house and a constant companion; just part of the background, but he was happier that way. It gave him room to think, to breathe, and when he wanted to be alone no one ever came looking for him. He wasn’t missed at the dinner table, nor in the dorms when he slipped away to paint. Yet, he was perfectly alright with being that quiet fixture in everyone’s life, but now with the Prefect Badge up for grabs in his House he found himself struggling more and more with accepting he simply couldn’t do everything everyone else could.

And this was what found him in an empty classroom, his frustration taken out on an empty canvas, layers of anger fueled by emotions had splotches of paint scratched over the surface while music flared from his radio. His hair was a mess, splattered with paint, his tank torn around the neck and stained as well and went rather well with the old ratty sweats that were damp around the feet where he had spilled the colored water, but right now Avalon didn’t care. It felt good to take his frustration out on something, and for fear of hurting another student he opted for art. A tool his parents enforced on him, when he used to bite other children growing up out of frustration at not being able to talk. That wouldn’t go over well here, though sometimes it was tempting...

Evelyn Grimlish felt as though she'd stumbled upon a path that she'd never encountered before, hidden beyond the familiar brambles that made up the boundaries of her mind. Her mind itself seemed to have expanded, and she felt receptive to the world in a way she hadn't for some time. There were all of these stray, orphaned inklings of thoughts loose within her head, and she'd finally seemed to put them together to make sense of aspects of a world that she knew she'd never fully understand. That was what hours upon hours of reading could do to a girl. It was amazing how she could feel so thorough terrible and so refreshed all at once. Who couldn't use a little taste of enlightenment on a dark winter's Tuesday?

Evie had skipped every single class today in favor of staying holed up in her bed, in the hopes that a little personal time with her bedclothes might help to relieve some of the pressure in her chest. Without a doubt, she'd reached the phlegmy, achy climax of the chest cold that she'd felt coming on for the past two days, and she wasn't in the mood to regale her professors and classmates with the sweet sounds of her unending hacking coughs. For a girl who hated feeling trapped, she'd found much joy in intentionally sequestering herself away and spending quality time with her books. At the end of the day, however, after hours spent curled up in her sheets, her pillows felt flat and her blankets felt clammy and, though she was as wilted as a jonquil in January, she decided to take a walk though the halls. 

It didn't take her long to find Avalon in a classroom on the fourth floor. She'd just done what had come naturally and had followed the sound of music right to him, like a rat trailing the piper. Evelyn had always loved music, and she had a pretty, unpretentious singing voice when she endeavored to take up a melody, but she was never one to sing out. She'd always let others do the music making, and had grown comfortable in her role as a respectful listener and occasional dilettante. She lingered by the doorway for a moment, telling herself that she'd only stay until the song ended but, as often happened on the WWN, the conclusion of one song lead straight into the opening chords of the next, and she wasn't keen to go.

 Silently, she let herself into the room, but she wasn't silent for long. Her lungs were straining, begging her to lend them some relief, and she couldn't help but to turn and cough into her elbow until she could catch her breath again, immediately alerting her housemate to her presence. She looked up at him, her eyes still a bit watery from the impromptu coughing fit, and flashed him one of her trademarked flickers of a smile. “Hello, Avalon,” she greeted him softly, almost too quiet to be heard above the radio. Evie hoisted herself up upon a table, crossing her legs delicately at the ankle as she looked thoughtfully at his canvas. He was a quiet person to cavort with, but she liked that. Silence was easy when it was something you chose. 

He wasn't working on something that was his normal, colors were just smeared around the canvas in bitter sweet frustration, blending together until even the contrast seemed mirky and dark. Deep hidden hues in old oak trees that never knew the touch of humanity, nor the humbling force of a whirlwind. His thoughts as well, seemed as forbidden and lost as sometimes he felt when they went for walks around the school grounds. It was a helpless feeling, to feel that small and little in such a big world, but perhaps this was why he truly only ever found his anger at his disability in moments where he strived to be something he wasn't. You couldn't force red into blue and not come out purple, blue into yellow and not escape the same green.

There were a few other students in the room as well, younger years who blushed watching the boy with his radio make a mess on the canvas to call it art. He normally painted stupid things like trees, big open skies and the castle. He drew his friends, in books bound by leather that somehow made them immortal or so he felt. Elijah often was victim the most, his thin little bones made him a perfect subject for his mother's strange obsession with the sidhe. He would use his high cheekbones and angled face to sketch for his mother and send them home, until she would name each and every one of them. They told stories in letters she would have been thrilled to know came from owls, if this world was something that had been allowed of her. Someday, he thought to himself, he'd tell her all about the wizarding world and even bring her a fairy of her own. For now he did his best to explain the bruises he wore like badges from his time in the pitch, and knew she wasn't ready for this much reality.

'Hello Avalon'

Her voice broke him from his thoughts as he admired the earth colored splotch of brown and dubbing this one a masterpiece of waste, but he did feel much better wallowing in his little bit of weakness. But now, he felt his face grow red, his chest hallow out and his heart hammer against it like a caged animal wishing to escape. However, his own teenage turmoil fell behind the armor he pulled on, that straightened his spine and sparked concern in blue eyes.

Avalon stood, a fortress there on the stone, his shoulders back as he watched her navigate the world as only Evelyn seemed able. She, like him, passed beneath branches with ease, staying out of reach of everyone else, and more so just happy to exist alongside the rest. Their friendship had always been there, but he wasn't sure when it changed into what it was now; or if she even knew how close he felt to her in comparison to others. Their class and house grew together until he thought them all family, but there was just something about the Grimlish siblings that made Avalon feel…home.

Evelyn didn't look herself, her red eyes and flushed features spoke of an illness even if the cough had not given away her position. She seemed pale in all the wrong places, but carried a blush that made him worry of a fever. He couldn't out right ask her, nor could he just write the words on paper when his hands were so covered in paint, but he was a resourceful child.

The artist looked between his canvas and his subject, eyeing her in study of the long lines of her face, and finally turned the canvas so that she was blinded from it. His friends by now all were used to such treatment, he documented their lives on paper with pen, paint upon walls, and even sometimes writing words on their skin. Yet, as he studied Evie now he looked as serious as a one would imagine da Vinci did upon painting Mona Lisa.

He held up one finger to beg her to stay still, working feverishly upon the canvas as inspiration swelled in him, and beneath the lantern light he smiled finishing the final touch before turning the canvas around to reveal his masterpiece.

He would title it 'under the weather', and hoped she found good humor in it. Avalon wanted nothing more than his friends to always count on him to keep them happy--laughing. And she wasn't any different, despite her pitiful swollen red eyes and plague filled lungs.

The closest she'd ever felt to Avalon Roth had been back during first year, before she'd even met him properly. All she'd known about him was that he didn't speak, and she'd been lead to believe that he was acting as she once had – keeping his voice to himself. It had been toward the end of grade one when Evie stopped talking to her teacher and her classmates, choosing instead to whisper into Elijah's ear when she saw him in the lunch room or the hallways. It was selective mutism – a choice she'd been able to make for herself at a time when she'd felt the most abandoned. People noticed her when she didn't speak, even if it was only because her lack of response was endlessly frustrating. They said that they were going to move her into special ed. That never happened, though. She and Eliah had run away instead, and that choice had lead them to many places, the final destination being Hogwarts castle, where she'd met Avalon, someone else who didn't speak.  For a fleeting moment, Evelyn had believed that she'd found someone who was like she'd once been, who had swallowed his voice rather than share it with a world of people he didn't trust. That wasn't the case, however and, strangely, Evie had found it disappointing to learn that Avalon had no voice to hide. It had taken years for her to feel anywhere near as close to him as she had in those days before she knew him. She certainly felt close now, watching him muck up a canvas like he'd never seen paint before and didn't know what to do with it. She could relate.

She wasn't sure that there was any saving that canvas, and there was something comforting in that – that it was what it was, a beautiful disaster. When he turned it around, however, and gave her that signal that she knew meant she should stay still and prepare herself for scrutiny, she obeyed, wondering if such a mire of color could still be transformed into something else. She had never been modest when it came to what was on the outside, and likely would have gone as far as to take off her top if he'd asked, onlookers or no onlookers. She settled for keeping still, a stoic look on her face amongst the flushed skin and tired, irritated eyes. Before she left the dorm she'd thrown on a comfy, oversized blue jumper featuring a large dragonfly applique  - it wasn't clear who exactly such an article of clothing was really intended for, but it fit Evie's aesthetic perfectly, and looked almost natural thrown over one of her worn in dresses. She stayed as still as she was able, though she'd had to release a mighty hacking cough, which caused her to shift just the slightest bit as she ducked to catch it in the crook of her elbow. By the time she'd recovered, he was turning the canvas back around for her to inspect.

She looked it over seriously, not catching the humor in it. The girl was far too serious to be any kind of quick wit. When you weren't looking for humor, it could be difficult to find it. She didn't see a pun, but she did she an image of herself in the rain – and, chances were, that very thing was what had caused the fullness in her chest in the first place. “It's me,” she finally spoke, giving her tangled legs a kick so they swung lazily between the two table legs on either side of them. She never took her eyes off of the painting, however, as simple and sloppy as the whole thing was. She was too busy considering it.

“I wonder where I am,” Evie remarked aloud, referring, of course, to the Evie in the painting. “I'd like to imagine it's the rainforest, because it's quite dark, and the air seems thick, and there's rain, of course.” The Amazon was Evelyn's latest obsession, so it wasn't so peculiar that she was seeing it even in the angry, spontaneous daubs of paint on a canvas. She cocked her head to one side, took a deep, almost pained sounding breath, and exhaled, taking the opportunity to drag her dangling legs up onto the table top with her so that she could curl into a pathetic little ball of illness. She remained seated, but seemed to retreat into herself as quickly as a fussed touch-me-not might. 'I'm sure that it's warm in Brazil right now. It's summer in South America. I'd take the trip right now if I could.” 

Avalon felt as cold as the rain that he painted in watching the way Evie didn't find the humor, she seemed so broken sometimes that all he ever wanted to do was find a way to shelter her. She looked so much like her brother sometimes he had to correct himself in his tenses, but did so in the voice that only he knew. His thoughts were scattered, but just as ever concentrated as he listened to her talk about the Amazon. He didn't have much interest in such a place, though he supposed it would be fun to see the ruins. Yet, he found just as much pleasure and as much sanctuary in the old streets of London as perhaps she would a jungle. To him, there wasn't much difference.

"I wonder where I am,"...“I'd like to imagine it's the rainforest, because it's quite dark, and the air seems thick, and there's rain, of course.”

There is always rain, Evelyn. Even in the deserts, he would have reminded her as his attention slipped back to the painting while his hands walked over the still wet paint and ruined the image. He dabbed his brush back in the black before shaking his head, and giving her a very pointed look.

Sometimes, he got so frustrated when his apraxia got the better of him. He could make sounds, he knew he had the damn thing there in his throat, but when it came to actually forming words it was as if his brain simply misfired and refused to budge. He could sometimes just imagine it busting from him like a great switch of the radio dial, and he would explain everything. He could see his words like bright white light behind his eyes, and even sometimes when he thought about it long enough there it was--his voice--just waiting. However, for now he just concentrated on the rest of the painting, and turned a very serious dark look back at the oils.

He hadn't meant to call her out, paint her like she was just somewhere else no she was harboring more than just an illness, and finally when he put his brush down there was his message waiting for her. The lines on the canvas were incomplete, but he hoped she understood.

Avalon touched his own chest to indicate this painting was about him this time, and what he was offering to her.

Evie didn't feel particularly broken. There had been times when she had, but every time she'd discovered something loose and jingling inside of her she'd managed to repair it in one way or another, until she'd become a fragile but fully functional girl-shaped thing, resiliently held together by colorful thread and sticky tape. As far as she could tell, there was nothing wrong with being serious, even if everyone else she knew was quicker to laugh and and tease. She didn't think she was any more miserable than any other teenage girl squirreled away behind bed curtains in their respective dorms, though she was certainly more sensitive than most. It was probably why she hadn't seen the joke in the painting, and why she felt a stab of pain in her heart when he took his fingers and rubbed her image away, stealing her distant rainforest dreams with the swivel of a wrist. She stared at his paint covered fingertips as he revised the image. She hadn't wanted to be done thinking about the Amazon yet, where she imagined the air was tepid and heavy with rain – a place where her poor lungs might find some relief on a day like today. Avalon hadn't meant to imply 'somewhere else', and yet Evie looked for somewhere else in everything.

She knew he seemed upset, but she wasn't sure why. Her expression remained cool and stoic as a shape came together where her portrait had been. She watched for his cue this time, not wanting to get too far ahead of herself again. She stayed silent for a time, but no matter how much thought she put into it, she could only come out with one sound interpretation of what he was trying to say.

“You're an umbrella?” she asked, clearing her throat softly before she went on. “You're an umbrella for the rain, for me.” Mentally, she added 'in the Amazon', not so willing to give up her own interpretation of what she'd seen on his muddy canvas. Evelyn wasn't really the umbrella carrying sort. Water didn't bother her, and she adored the thrill and beauty of lightning, especially against a dark sky. She shot him a tiny, brief grin anyway, since she understood the sentiment. Most girls were precious with their clothing and their hair, and didn't like the feeling of mud getting packed beneath her toenails, but Evie had never had those fears. Even the dress she wore now was covered with earth – stains from the pale clay she'd worked with when she'd been home. Rain was even cleaner than earth, and, if it were possible, she feared it even less. “I do like to dance in the rain when I can, but there is no shame in carrying an umbrella. If I'd had one last week, I might not be feeling poorly today.” 

In Avalon's eyes Evie wasn't broken, everything about her was perfectly in it's place, every hair, every little odd thought--he admired it all. She was different, and in the way that a young woman should be. Yet, something he felt was different, in the both of them, his favorite Grimlish twins, but he felt it wasn't his place to ask. At least outright, and Avalon was pretty clever when it came to getting information. He asked the right questions, and learned very early that his inability to ask them at once made frustrations rise to give answers faster.

'You're an umbrella?' … 'You're an umbrella for the rain, for me.' He blushed at how it came across, but in fact his point had been made. And though Evelyn pointed out she loved to dance in the rain, she made sure to protect his feelings by how she made the point about the umbrella, but it wasn't what he meant--truly.

'No' he shook his head, cleaning his hands on the rag he kept by his work station and moving to his bag. From the inside he removed a thin leather bound book, as well his pen to turn to the page that he kept for Evie.

"I'll not keep you from dancing in the rain," In fact it was one of his favorite subjects, "Just for being unwell. You are sick. I can see it in your eyes. Have you been to a healer?" With that he handed her the book to read before rolling his sleeve back to press the bottom of his wrist to her forehead. He placed hands on either side of her body on the table and bent to meet her gaze, practically begging her to dare try and lie to him.

Evie took Avalon's book in her hands and opened it wide across her lap, glancing down at the words he'd put there for her to read. Though she knew it couldn't be fun for him to do this all of the time, she was quite fond of this form of communication, and often got a kick out of, not answering him aloud, but seriously considering her answers and writing back silently. She read his first sentence – his permission for her to continue to dance in the rain – and she smiled. It may have been an illusion, but her smile seemed to linger just a little bit longer upon her lips than her secret smiles usually did. It just struck her funny that he was giving her permission to do something she planned to do anyway, forever. Nobody could tell Evelyn what to do. They could try, and they did try, but she was far too fond of her own way to ever really bend to authority. When she obeyed, it was generally out of love and respect, not fear. She would dance in the rain until her fingers turned blue, until the lightning struck her down, until she drowned in a flood and floated to the surface.

Her face remained stoic as she read the rest of the note, however, and when she looked up, his face was much closer to hers than she'd expected. She had no plans to lie to him because she didn't see a reason to. If she didn't believe in her choices, she wouldn't have made them, and she didn't see shame in making mistakes when they happened. “I don't believe I have a fever, though I might,” she admitted as Avalon drew his hand away from her forehead. “Do I?” Did it matter if she did? She was sure she had something she could take for a fever back in the dorms, but she wasn't in a rush to get back there just yet.

“As for healers, I don't take much stock in those. There are very few potions a healer could give me that I'd willingly take,” Evie informed him simply. She didn't intend to sound pretentious, but there weren't many people who viewed her finicky preferences as anything but pretentious. The way others viewed her hadn't changed her core principles before, however, and even the opinion of a friend wouldn't change them now. “I take care of myself, Avalon. I have herbs in my room, and I've been making a bitter tea that smells lovely, plus it helps with the congestion.” The deep sniffle and hacking cough that followed likely didn't do much to convince him of that, but she was sure she felt a difference in her own murky, overstuffed lungs with every cup. “I've written home, and I expect my mum will send medicine when she gets a chance. It's only a cold.”

Only a cold? His eyebrows arched at the same time as he questioned her, as it wasn't really like her to harbor just a cold. Maker, she was beautiful. Even with her eyes red and her face a little puffy from the cold, Evelyn had this ability to pull it off well--even if she didn't try.

She did feel warm, but he wasn't sure if it was just the way her skin felt. He always imagined it to be warm, she was the sort to radiate an internal warmth despite how cold her words sounded at times. However, when she told him she was able to take care of herself and that was soon followed by a cough he shook his head and touched her arm to have her stand.

With his wand he quickly put away his things, gaining clearance of the room rather quickly with charms he had perfected silently, and when finished turned back to her to take his hand. His father's blue eyes were fierce in the way they seemed like the ocean one moment only to freeze in the next, and he dared her to tell him no with one glance. She was unwell, and they were going to get help.

She knew, when he touched her arm, that he wanted her to stand, but Evelyn didn't particularly care to stand. She remained seated as she watched him tidy up the space, gazing at him with her ordinary far away stare. At times she liked to be contrary just for the sake of being contrary, which she found helped to get the point across that she didn't care for being told what to do. She didn't like being bossed around and she didn't like being doubted. She could take care of herself, and she did. She cared enough about herself to keep animal parts out of her body, because doing what she felt was ethically right made her feel better than any cruel potion could. Sometimes she felt so old – too old to be trapped in this prison of a school, and too old to take advice from people who thought they knew what was best for Evie better than Evie did herself. Was she dead? No. She had a cough. If she died then he could move her wherever he pleased and knock whatever he liked down her throat, but as long as she had agency she'd wanted to decide.

His icy gaze didn't scare her. She didn't believe he'd hurt her, so any threat that he may have been hiding in his glance seemed empty. She stayed put, daring him right back with her own stubborn, vacant stare. Plus, she didn't just take people's hands. She either offered her hand or nothing. She gave or withheld affection in the same way, much like a cat. On another day she may have taken his hand gladly, but at the moment she felt more like scratching his face off. “I won't go anywhere,” she informed him, with that same frustrating, measured tone of voice. She set his notebook aside and curled back up into herself, like a flower blooming in reverse. She folded her arms atop her knees and rested her head atop her arms. She looked like she could have fallen asleep there if she tried, with her heavy lidded, red-rimmed eyes. “I've been in bed all day. I already feel far better than I did this morning, and I intend to sleep all night tonight.” That was, unless Elijah kept her up because he couldn't sleep. Frankly, she thought he was in worse shape than she was, even though he wasn't leaking bodily fluids of questionable viscosity. “I'd much rather sit. That, or take a walk.”

Avalon turned on her, with her bitter words burning old text across his chest, and he felt them like a slap. She didn't want to go. She didn't want him to take care of her. She didn't want him to see after her health, and in the way he understood she didn't want him to care. Well, sorry Princess, but she should have thought about that a long time ago. His rare temper flared, and he brought to life all of his fears at once.

"If there is nothing wrong with you, then at least tell me what is going on with Elijah?" Words burst above his head like fireworks, and he crossed the lines from keeping his handicap at bay. A long time ago he vowed to not let his magic affect his defect and to simply accept it. He enjoyed writing his words, because it made them immortal, but now his own exhaustion crept in. Deep lines of worry and his sleepless nights as he sat in his bed listening to his friend suffer, too afraid to do anything, in fear of making whatever was going on worse.

With his lips held together in a flat cold line he opened the book to scribble again,

"I'm worried to death about you two. The both of you have poor timing to catch colds." He broke the end of his pencil and in a final breaking point of his very very rare anger threw it as well the book against the wall, and turned to slam his art box closed.

Avalon realized how pathetic he was being, his hormones getting the better of him, and the deep exhaustion enough to have him just fall to a chair and sigh. He turned apologetic eyes to her, and ran his hands through his ink black hair. He couldn't stand it when she did this. Pulled him close only to close back up again. She came into the room like she wanted to be here, and then stole that feeling as quickly as she gave it with wanting out again.

Evelyn Grimlish would be the death of him, and her little brother too.

It was clear that both Evelyn and Avalon had very different definitions of what it meant to care. Avalon's definition seemed to suggest that caring was active - that caring was a process that, even when ongoing, required participation to be genuine. Based on what she knew about boys (or at least what she knew about Elijah, since he was her window into the world of the opposite sex), his seemed like a very masculine way to define it. Evie, on the other hand, saw caring as passive and constant, more about empathy and respect than about actually doing something. That was why, in this moment, while he tried to disregard her wishes and bully her with his gaze, she didn't feel cared for. She felt ignored and, as always, the feeling made her want to retreat. As she watched Avalon's little fit commence, it was from her curled up, silent position. Maybe she'd been too open with him. That's what she got for trying to have a conversation while her mind was full of both fog and a jumbled up mess of thoughts acquired during a whole day's worth of reading.

All at once, images seemed to burst forth from her housemate's mind, crackling through the air in front of her like admonishments. She took them in slowly, her wide brown eyes passive but focused, as though she was just an audience member and not a participant in this odd and confusing conversation. She was further confused by what she was seeing, and his externalized thoughts had vanished from the air before she could decide what they actually meant. What did this have to do with Eli? Were they still talking about her not wanting to see a healer, or about something else entirely? The Elijah in Avalon's thoughts didn't look quite the same as the Elijah she knew as well as any living being on her round, green earth, and the discrepancies placed him squarely in the uncanny valley. It had jarred her a bit, seeing an image so close, but which wasn't quite right. She swallowed back a cough as she felt the pressure build in her chest once more, inhaling deeply as though trying to massage the urge away.

She thought he would explain, especially once he began scribbling away at his book, but instead the book went flying, leaving the Grimlish girl even more baffled. Because of their conflicting definitions of what it meant to care, she was still convinced that she had more reason to be upset than he did (and yet she wasn't upset – not much, anyway), and was still trying to puzzle together the image of her brother that had flashed before her. How did all of this fit in with the throwing, the violence? It seemed uncharacteristic, to say the least. As she watched him melt into his chair, she could feel herself melting, too – his antics had made even Evie tense, and she allowed her shoulders to relax, finally releasing that bear of a cough, which was scratching at her lungs with its mighty claws. Once she finished coughing she buried her face into her folded arms for a time, allowing the silence to linger between the two Ravenclaws. She didn't feel particularly moved to speak to him, but the curiosity about just what he was trying to say was nagging her just as badly as her cough had been, and she wasn't sure she could hold that in, either.

“I'm sorry,” she spoke at last, her voice sounding hoarse and a little too quiet. “I'm sorry, Avalon. I don't know what you're trying to tell me this time. I'm tired, and I think I must have let the conversation get away from me,” the pale faced girl admitted, lifting up one hand to rub at her eye. Returning her hand to her lap, she shut her eyes for a second, trying to collect herself. Maybe, she thought, she'd been out too long. Perhaps she should have stayed in bed. 

“I'm sorry,” she spoke at last, her voice sounding hoarse and a little too quiet. “I'm sorry, Avalon. I don't know what you're trying to tell me this time. I'm tired, and I think I must have let the conversation get away from me,”

Avalon shook his head slowly, running his hands down his face before he stood to continue to tell her no. He didn't know either, and moved to be by her. Hell, he wasn't certain even where they were going, and laughed lightly as he perched on the table beside her. He touched her shoulder with a nudge of his to collect her attention, and if she looked up at him he was offering her one of his smiles.  They were the sort that welcomed her to try it, wanted of her to return it, and in the same moment spoke everything his voice could not,

Don't worry about it. Carefree as ever.

Gently he slipped a few of her strands of hair from her face only so he could see her eyes better, and finally motioned for the door. Standing again he slipped on his sweater so that his bare arms wouldn't be assaulted by the cold. He pointed at her, then pointed to himself to use his fingers to walk over his wrist. Let's go for a walk? And this time he extended his elbow, an offer of she could lead while holding on if she needed.

Avalon touched his chest again, only to bring a single fingertip to his ear, I'll listen, That same hand motioned to her before moving his hand to indicate she could tell him all about it if she wanted.

The rain started to fall much heavier in that moment, and he wondered if it would call her out like it nearly always did. He often perched in the common room window of the tower just to see if he could catch a glimpse of her dancing in the rain. Maybe, he'd walk to the library with her and see if there were a few games they could play. His mother had a game she played with him in old books that had at least one of every word, and he could use them to make his sentences.

She smiled for him, but her smile was typical in every way – just a sudden upward quirk of her lips, a flash of her teeth, and then nothing. It was finished before it had begun. She was going through the motions, if she was being honest, smiling only because she was glad that Avalon didn't seem cross with her for acting so blind. Evelyn was a serious sort of girl, and sometimes she was driven crazy by how aloof some of her classmates seemed and longed for someone whose outlook was like hers. At the same time, she depended on others to behave in a certain way, freely sharing their smiles and pointing out the light when she became too enamored by the dark. What she wanted and what she needed were constantly conflicting – which was probably why she was walking around barefoot in a drafty castle when she probably would have been better off tucked away in her bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin.

She nodded when he suggested a walk. It had been her own idea, after all, so she thought it was a good one. She took his elbow only long enough to eject herself from her seat on the table and launch herself back onto the ground, letting go once she was steady on her feet. “Don't forget your book,” she reminded him gently, tiptoeing over to retrieve the tome from the ground herself, where it lay face down and crumpled against the floor like a wounded soldier. She picked it up in her arms and cradled it there, treating it the way she'd treated every book she'd ever been entrusted with from the time she'd borrowed her first book from the library – with nothing but gentle care. She scooped up her knapsack from where she'd plopped it on the ground before she sat down and draped it over her shoulders. She was ready now – ready to go anywhere in the world, or down the hall.

Evelyn did not wait for him. She forged ahead with graceful agility, breezing straight through the room and back out into the corridor, where she crept until she stood by an open window, staring out. She stood waiting for him to join her, and in the meantime she gazed at her reflection, watching herself watching the world. It sounded lovely out there. The sound of a rainy night, while relaxing in its own right, was also the sound of curling up on a big armchair with a book, the sound of laying under an incredibly thick pile of blankets and just listening, and the sound of the music she heard in her head while daring to leap into mud puddles. She waited until she felt Avalon's presence before speaking. “I like the world,” she told him wistfully, shifting her focus so that she was looking at his reflection, too. “Everything will be clean once it stops raining, but messier, too.” She wasn't being especially serious now. She was only speaking what was on her mind as it came to her. She couldn't help but feel that Avalon was looking for a confession, however, like he was desperate to carry some of what she carted around with her. The trouble was, all of her thoughts were so tangled up with other thoughts that she really didn't know what to say. When there was no beginning and no end, where did you start?

 “You were thinking about Elijah,” she remarked, and left it at that. It wasn't a question, and it wasn't even necessarily an invitation – it was an observation. He could take it and do whatever he wished.

Avalon let out a little breath when she gathered his book, blushing at how he'd acted, but was over it. His hair puffed from his brow as he curled his mouth to one side before taking the book back. She was right of course, she was always right, Evelyn had this way of spouting nonsense yet totally being in the right of things. Yet, she never seemed to care to be seen with him, not phased by his little fit nor the way he seemed so beside himself when new emotions like --worry, and frustration colored him like the paint he wore so proudly. Nothing about Avalon's life had been structured. His father an iron worker and his mother an artist, he never learned to color in the lines, far too interested in what was outside them, and he supposed this was what he liked so much about Evie and her brother; they weren't the type to allow their colors be held in either.

I like the world.
Everything will be clean once it stops raining, but messier, too.

He wouldn't have had anything to add to that, not yet at least, in his silent voice that only he ever heard. A real run of the mill sort of boy, with a voice in his head that no body else could hear, what mother wouldn't be proud?

Avalon held onto his book and his pen, and was careful not to touch her. The paint on his bare arms was dry, but he still worried it would be wet. He could feel a little bit of water still on his tank, and wouldn't have her ruin anything on his behalf.

You were thinking about Elijah,

He nodded, quietly of course, but lifted his stained hand to touch the bone in the middle of his chest to indicate it hurt. His heart. It hurt very badly to see the suffering, and not know what was going on or if there was anything wrong; or if he could help in any way. He knew she didn't want to be fussed over, that like a cat any sort of sudden movement that she didn't approve of would send Evie on her way, but he was still a friend.

He's got you, I know... He sighed again  as he thought to himself, and reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ears before putting his hands in his pockets while the book got tucked away under his arm. With another shrug of his shoulders he would align himself with her to follow wherever she went.