Felix Ever After(24)

thekeanester123: I wish I could fall in love, too.





Seven


DECLAN KEANE WANTS TO FALL IN LOVE.

That’s the only thing I can think about on the walk to St. Cat’s. Ezra is still half-asleep, dragging his feet and moaning that he just wants to skip today. I’d usually be up for it, after staying up until three in the morning—but I can’t help but want to see Declan. Look at him, after the conversation we’d had.

Declan Keane wants to fall in love.

Is that a big enough secret I can ruin his life with?

No, probably not. But it’s still interesting.

“Hey, Ezra,” I say as we walk.

He grunts. “What?”

“Were you and Declan in love?”

He furrows his brow at me, and even behind his sunglasses, I can tell he’s glaring at me. “What the fuck sort of question is that?”

“I really want to know,” I say, defensive.

“Why would you want to know?”

I shrug. “After that message Declan sent . . .”

I’d told Ezra about the conversation, of course, but he’s been less than enthused. He sighs loudly. He’s never been much of a morning person.

“Love’s a strong word,” he says. “I don’t know. We liked each other fine enough, I guess. But he never said the words I love you.”

“Did you love him?”

“You’re being so effing nosy today.”

“Sorry,” I say in a tone that’s pretty obvious I’m not sorry at all.

He doesn’t answer, not right away—but then he says, “I mean, at one point, I thought, maybe . . .”

I clench my jaw. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he says. “I mean, the guy’s a jerk, but that was my first serious relationship. I don’t know. I guess I got all wrapped up in the feels.”

He flashes a smile at me for a split second, but even if he tries to hide it, I can still see the pain in the way he hunches his shoulders a little, the way the corners of his lips twitch. I nudge him with my elbow. “Well, you know—his loss and everything.”

“Right,” Ezra says.

Declan Keane wants to be in love—and he may or may not have loved Ezra. It’s a strange thing to suddenly know about him. It was easier not knowing. Easier not to see him as a person with feelings, when he’s been such a piece of shit, putting my old photos up in a gallery and deadnaming me and sending me a fucking awful, taunting message on Instagram. Even when I’d thought we were friends—before he suddenly turned his back on me and Ezra—he never really talked about himself this way.

I glance up at Declan. He’s sitting at the table beside mine, as usual, and as fate would have it, the only stool open was just a few feet away from his. Jill’s giving us her usual morning check-in speech—today’s topic: love the craft, not the artist.

“It’s important to focus on the craft without knowing the creator,” she says. “Does it matter who the creator is? Should the artist’s identity matter when it comes to reviewing and connecting with a piece they created?”

“Yes,” I whisper to Ezra, “especially if the artist is an asshole.”

Jill’s head spins to me. It’s like she has supersonic hearing or something, I swear to God. “What was that?” she says with her over-friendly smile, excited that someone in her class actually has an opinion for once.

I sigh. Jill loves these early-morning debates a little too much. “I said it does matter if the artist is an asshole.”

“Why’s that?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, isn’t all art a piece of the creator’s soul? If the creator is an evil piece of shit, doesn’t that mean we’re being influenced by evil in their work?”

She seems to consider, shine in her eyes—seriously, it’s too early for anyone to be this excited. “But isn’t the craft all about expressing the creator’s point to the best of their ability? Does morality have anything to do with the craft of the piece itself?”

Declan is leaning back on his stool, at danger of falling off, but somehow managing to balance himself and look relaxed at the same time. “Besides,” he says, “who gets to be the judge of what’s evil and what isn’t?”

“Great point!” Jill says, nodding. “Yes, great point. Should the question of morality be kept out of art?”

Declan throws a fake smile my way. I roll my eyes. “Morality, at its essence, defines what is human,” I say. “Keeping questions of morality out of art suggests keeping humanity out of art itself.”

Jill nods slowly. “Yes, that’s an interesting point as well.”

“So you would restrict artwork?” Declan asks me. “Censor it?” He nods his head at Ezra’s Judith I and the Head of Holofernes Klimt tattoo—Ezra blinks at Declan with a blank face, still half-asleep. “It isn’t exactly moral to cut someone’s head off. Should that piece never have been created?”

I shake my head. “No, but there’s a line.”

“What line is that?”

“A line that could hurt people.”

“Hurt people?”

“Yes. Propaganda against different races, illustrations depicting groups of humans as lesser than others. Art for the sake of art, without any regard to other people—”