We present an extract from A Fix Of Light by Kel Menton, a new YA novel from a debut Irish author that blends queer romance and fantasy.
Hanan is supposed to be dead. The forest outside Skenashogue sent him home alive – but changed. A strange new magic makes every emotion a physical force he can't control. Bright and gentle, fox-like Pax is everything Hanan is not. And when he touches Hanan he mutes his secret power, quiets the curse.To survive their own darkness they'll need to open up to each other. But Hanan isn't sure Pax will like what he finds out ... Can their love help them find their way back to the light?
Hanan shuffled past the Wren's Nest café; he wandered on for a few paces, pretended to remember something, then turned around and shuffled back. He cast a wistful glance at the door as he slunk past it once again. The crisp air seeping from his pores bit at his exposed skin, but his hood kept his neck warm at least. He thought about nothing.
Then he thought about going into the café. His temperature plummeted further.
His body was thrumming with energy, though Hanan couldn’t tell if it was his anxiety or something else. Thinking about the something else made him feel positively freezing.
He turned back. Still the café door loomed.
The bright-blue shopfront sat snugly between a bookshop and a low house often rented to tourists seeking Skenashogue’s beaches during these warmer months. Garden furniture took up most of the space on the footpath and the nice summer weather meant the few outdoor seats were full, even late into the evening. Indoors only held a few more tables, but light poured in from the giant front window, and in any corner it didn't reach, salt lamps cast an inviting glow. No two pieces of furniture were the same: one table had been fashioned from an old Singer sewing machine; some chairs were plush, others hardwood, seats nicked from a primary school.
It was a sweet place, an inviting place. Hanan watched his shadow – should it be that large? – stretch on the footpath.
For f**k’s sake, Hanan, open the damn door.
He reached for the handle just as a pair around his age erupted through the doorway. They brushed past and shivered as they hit the wall of cold air bleeding from him. Hanan slipped inside on the current of their zeal. He could feel the few ounces of courage he possessed sliding from his desperate fingers.
His gaze dragged over every face before he allowed himself to relax. It was busy, and the people around him chattered loudly, but, despite the thrum of mismatched heartbeats, he found he could unclench his teeth and relieve his aching jaw. He fished around in his pocket for his change (it was exact, he had made sure). His fingers closed over it, soothing the blood pounding through his brain. Nothing is going to go wrong, he reassured himself. It sounded meek. It sounded false.
He focused on breathing. Four, four, four. Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale for four seconds. Again. Again. It was about the only useful thing his doctor had ever taught him. His heart slowed, but not his mind.
His order came out mumbled – once, twice, three times – before the barista had to lean over the counter to figure out what he was saying. The clear beads at the ends of her braids clicked against the counter top; George her name tag read. He'd been coming here for months – how had he never noticed that before? George’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, searching for other faces behind him. I’m alone, he wanted to say. I’m all alone. It seemed to surprise her.
She rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms as she punched his chamomile tea order into the till. Hanan managed to croak out an apology, and George smiled, told him not to worry about it, gestured at the speakers – but he didn’t trust her. After her shift, she would tell her friends all about the bumbling idiot who’d struggled to order tea. She was paid to smile, even if she wanted to throttle you. He resented the fact that he had to do it for free.
Get it together, Hanan.
He heard the door open, letting in some of the first of May’s heat as well as a bunch of teenagers. The sound of one girl laughing drowned out the babble of all other conversation, welcome as a gunshot. Hanan’s skin prickled as a shiver ran down his back. His ears popped like they were adjusting to the pressure of deep water. Without turning, he followed the sound as it moved behind him, making its way to the back of the queue.
He vaguely registered George placing his tea on the countertop. The salt lamps flickered. The mug burned his fingertips. The radio cut out, hissed static, resumed the song. He ducked to the left, keeping his head down and hovering by the takeaway-coffee lids and sugars, running from that laugh.
Hanan's gaze bored into his tea, one hand braced against the staff-room door. His head grew heavy as gravity filled it with blood. He was on the verge of fainting.
Get out. Get out of here.
He thought about taking his tea into a bathroom stall and waiting until the Laugh left. He thought about placing the mug on a table and slipping outside, back to his bike, and going all the way home again. He thought about throwing his tea at the Laugh. He considered sitting down wherever he wanted and just having his tea, and not caring about the Laugh, or looking the Laugh in the eye, and not caring about the Laugh. He thought about not caring about the Laugh.
Four, four, four. Inhale, hold, exhale. George smacked the radio. It had begun to screech static again. Was the Laugh playing over the speakers? Shit. Things were crawling out of his brain again. He had to move. He would make a run for it. Hanan spun just as the staff-room door opened, smacking him into the wall, mug shattering in his hands. Boiling water scalded his fingers and shards of ceramic dug into his palms. Something behind him yelped.
Hanan turned to look at the startled face in front of him. It was a boy, not too much older than himself, who looked like he may well have vulpine parents. His green eyes appeared a little too bright compared to his sallow skin, and auburn hair stuck out from his head, billowing and licking like fire, like waves. Hanan's eyes caught on the jagged scar that warped the boy’s upper lip.
The stranger blinked, wide-eyed, at his newly stained apron. "S**t! I mean, I’m so sorry, sir! It’s so cramped in here—"
Hanan didn’t think he had ever been called sir in his life, especially by someone his own age. He was about to explode. His skin was going to melt from his bones. There were so many eyes on him now.
The stranger who had struck him looked at him properly for the first time. His expression changed from annoyance to concern so swiftly Hanan nearly laughed. The boy’s entire face seemed to kaleidoscope as it shifted emotion, breaking apart and coming back together, reformed into worry. He grabbed Hanan’s wrists, lifting them to the light to inspect the damage. As their skin touched, the world fell silent.
Silent.
Silent.
Relief flowed from the point where the fox boy's skin brushed his own. Cool water on feverish skin. The first bite of a meal sliding into an empty stomach. Weight alleviated from tired feet.
Even the last wisps of laughter, still haunting the far reaches of his mind, disintegrated. His heart slowed; his breathing became steady. He bit back a sigh of pleasure. The nameless energy that had been humming constantly through Hanan for weeks was somehow, all at once, gone. He stared at where the boy held his wrists. Shadows receded to the corners of the room.
"Your hands! Are you all right?"
But he was still bleeding. The fox went to push up his sleeves.
No, no more.
Too much blood. Not enough blood.
He couldn’t respond. He watched his own hands grasp at the stranger’s, met those wild green eyes once more before gravity stole the strength from his legs. He watched as the café, and finally the fox, went black.
A Fix Of Light is published by Little Island
