There was a plan in mind on that foggy Wednesday morning: to evaporate before that scene had to repeat itself. He wouldn't reveal that he had refused the outing because of his parents, because of his lack of freedom to go out, even if it was for a school project.

  However, before putting the plan into action, Miguel found him right at the school entrance, sneaky; it was a brief, premeditated fright of a strange sensation. His stomach drowned an undefined something, his heart palpitated with a reasonless urgency, and he physically felt his face warm up.

  And nothing had actually happened; he maintained his posture well despite the internal effects caused by that gaze that disarms even those who stare back into the abyss. A low, almost intimate greeting marked the walk of both into the school.

  "The others decided to skip today and focus on the project elsewhere. If you want, we can go to the municipal library, and do the same. What do you think?"

  He had left no room for escape or fainting; he needed to react regardless of the knot, different, in his throat. That feeling of nervousness wasn't common; it was very distinct from the tremulous sociability he had; it was a confidentiality of an unexpected invitation.

  "Or, we can go after the last MED of the day, that way we don't have to skip class," he used a tone adjacent to that French intonation, but it was just as sweet and inviting, like the song of a siren. "Ask your guardian, if you don't know what to answer."

  That last sentence reminded him of his end, the same apocalyptic fate as before, when he was cornered in the library, with no easy way out. If one of his parents allowed it, they would have accepted Miguel's invitation, not Lucian. So, in a way, they would be responsible for delivering his soul into the hands of the fallen angel.

  He nodded lightly and tremulously, hunting for his cell phone, followed by exchanging contacts. He sent a duplicated message, respectively, quick viewing. He had permission to go to the library after school, with Kael—a detail not mentioned to them. It was better this way; the devil before him needed to be a secret.

  "After school, I can, yes," he began, dialing disordered words in his own mind. "So, how was it? Yesterday, there, at the park."

  He spoke as slowly as his diction for a foreigner allowed, still nervous. All his MBD classes were together, as they were from the same class, but the MED of the day, in the Literature Club again, Lucian's presence in that MED was optional.

  And he knew Kael was aware of how intentional that was. However, it was even worse: if he knew that Lucian had deliberately chosen his own two minimum MEDs, the same ones selected by Kael, and therefore, by his own choice, he invited him to spend more quality time outside of school, there was something in all of this.

  "Ah, sorry, I forgot to send you the resolutions," he apologized with a guilty smile. "I spent the rest of my afternoon and part of the night editing this month's edition for the School Literary Journal. But, well, it was calm; we separated the essentials."

  That guilt in the laugh seemed to have more roots than it should; not even the excuse seemed like mere politeness; it was much more real than it needed to be. He felt the air of that outing lingering in Kael's mind; he was being defamed and consequently, it was affecting his guide.

  However, he didn't look for trouble, nor did he cast green to gather ripe fruit. He left him with the guilt; continuing to question Kael's protection regarding the full facts might not end well. The classes passed quickly, automatic, full of glances cast high and captured among the students.

  Something was in the shadows over him, and the Plate seemed to completely ignore that situation; he was purposefully ignoring whatever that whole soundless uproar from the classmates was. He didn't understand if out of respect, for being exemplary, or for being involved.

  Whichever it was, it couldn't be good. Even in Eastern Europe, when he was still in his hometown, rumors were less veiled. The glances didn't just pass through and read their target as if it were a public exhibition, complete with a specialist interpreter.

  They were free from the club, since the group skipped and the class would be used for research. His heart, which only pumped blood, now contained a weight; Sisyphus was there again. Kael, who had signed the attendance right after Lucian, addressed him, concluding.

  "Well, we can leave earlier now."

  Both left the environment systematically, almost as if the choreographed rehearsal of a prestigious author took shape and walked on its own. Miguel was a good guide; the traffic lights they needed to be green, always were.

  The path was memorable; the wide streets carried an aroma of an old city, typical of a railway and coffee-growing region, not that it actually was. He couldn't state what he didn't know; he sounded like a tourist for the first time, and not just a foreigner forced to be one by concept.

  They crossed an extensive park, with a pleasant woods; there were thrushes on top of a rufous hornero nest, accompanied by a sign nailed to a tree. He still didn't understand the language well, and being at a considerable distance, he couldn't even try to guess what was written.

  Somehow, to the right, they followed a route that passed right by the church. At that moment, he knew what the other side of the establishment he would start attending looked like. It was strange to know the different faces of what he had only seen through the lens of a passenger in a car, on the way to school.

  The silence between them was the most comfortable he had felt in ages; even the quietude between Lucian and Mihai was a tension of secrecy. When he surrendered to the truth, that tiredness was becoming evident in his body, he thought about asking his classmate how much farther they still were.

  But the half-hour walk ceased with a pivot on his feet and a wide smile from Miguel in front of him; with a little hop of joy, he pointed to the other side of the street. A library with an old air, but probably renovated, refined itself in rustic details, and inside it was even more beautiful.

  He was in love with that environment, while Kael talked about that library having two different names when you searched on Google. He vaguely remembered hearing "Sinhá," "Junqueira," "Altino," and something more—who knew? He looked at everything admiringly; it wasn't just the beautiful people, but the record of their history too.

  As beautiful as a museum and the stained glass, the stained glass. He mumbled, observing everything he could while being lightly pulled by a smiling Kael. When, finally, they arrived at a comfortable and social spot, with books and colorful padded stools, they sat down in peace.

  At that time, only students and lonely people would come to that space; because it was cloudy, both possibilities were reduced even further. And it was intentional too, the search for a cultural space, without many people, without noise, without meaning.

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  "Alright, Lucian," he begins, positioning some papers on the table. "We made a diagram and divided it into thematic axes. We separated our points of view and decided to gather the bibliography based on the affinity of what we observed."

  Even though it was an academic conversation in an occasion that tended towards tension, being with Kael explaining it slowly and with vocation was comforting. His voice was the personification of a verbal caress, and his posture an invitation for a figurative hug.

  "Marina wanted to do the research alone; she chose The Individual and the Interior. She's going to use some poets as a foundation, like: Florbela Espanca and Cecília Meireles; but she mumbled something about Samsa, so we can expect something big."

  He listened attentively to the names and references; if he researched them, maybe he would connect more with the local culture, or at least with that group. Even though Kael threw himself against Lucian's thorns, this couldn't continue; he needed to try to fit into the world that Kael presented to him with that smile so evident.

  "Don't worry, I warned her that it might be difficult to map. That if she wanted another, different perspective, she could contact you," he says quietly, delivering a subtle wink. "You might not say anything, but I know you have a lot of literary things in your mind; I believe in your potential for expression."

  He didn't react aggressively as at the beginning of the day, but his face was still marked by the violent warmth of someone who was seen. Despite being quiet, listening to him tell the resolutions, he continued being observed and cared for by his classmate.

  "Continuing, Carlos and I chose The Individual and Society; I'm going to focus on protest through Vidas Secas [Barren Lives], and Carlos, well, is going to bring a cynical view of dirty realism from The Catcher in the Rye; let's wish him luck!"

  This pair, which could well be the antithesis of each other, bothered him; however, they sounded quite paradoxical. And that confused look from the other day, was it something to fear? It was, in theory, his first impression of Kael's other friends, which were many if he thought about it better.

  "How did you become friends with Carlos?"

  He hadn't even thought much before voicing his question aloud, still received with a pleased expression. As if he had broken the ice on his own this time; he was ceasing to be a spectator. What nonsense.

  "Look, the kitten talks," he repeated his line from last time, in the library. "It's a comical story, actually. He was wearing a worn-out coat, full of himself with that usual cynicism; it was my first week at the club, and he was devouring several detective novels."

  His intonation wavered during the narration, causing a simple laugh from Lucian. "Don't laugh; it was scary."

  "And then, what did he do?"

  "Well, Lucian," he began, putting a hand on the back of his neck, "he saw me reading Hegel and decided to pick a fight with me in a very eccentric way, Lucian, like, very eccentric," he again imitated Carlos's caricatured expression and with air quotes. "'Hey there, idealist, being naive is kid's stuff, grow up and read Engels, or Epicurus, just to start, sucker!'"

  "Why would he say that, just like that, suddenly?" he was incredulous at that dialogue's beginning; it sounded very embarrassing. "How did you respond?"

  "Ah, my dear Lucian, I said he should stop hiding in cynicism, because running away wasn't going to stop him from getting hurt. And well, if his sentence didn't make sense, mine probably didn't either, right?"

  "Right?"

  "Not exactly; he came at me, which meant the fight was going to turn physical. If I hadn't started laughing nervously, maybe I would have been beaten, but he joined in the laughter. I cursed him out with very low words, Lucian, so low that I won't tell you out of respect for you, but I guarantee it offended even those who weren't the target."

  "If he wanted to hit you, why did you befriend him?"

  "Ah, respect, I guess. He liked that I had the courage to say that to his face, and I, well, I like people who aren't easily fooled. He's quite perceptive when he's not attacking the newbie to see how much they can take. But don't worry, I won't let him hit you."

  "He was going to hit me?"

  "Maybe, Lucian," he replied seriously, with a look that said he was joking. "Shall I continue with the resolutions?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Pedro chose to deal with classical structures, following The Tragic, The Epic, The Mythological, you know? I see your eyes light up, Lucian; you can give your opinion and participate in whatever you want; you're in my group. Anyway, he's going to catalog using Oedipus Rex, The Lusiads, and maybe, if everyone agrees, Medea. He likes what's canon."

  He knew some of the names, just by name; he needed to read and understand the works his classmates were going to work on, because how could he participate without knowing what they were talking about? It was a rare intellectuality in that generation, together with a characteristic freedom of it.

  "Silvia and Camila chose Memory and Record; I'm not sure, but I think they're going to choose Memorial do Convento [Baltasar and Blimunda] as a foundation. With that, it's your turn, Lucian. You can choose an axis for yourself or join one we have, or if you want to participate in everything too, that's fine."

  "I need to think about it, but tragedy is interesting, it refers to pain, even if not explicit. I'll think about it and let you know."

  "Very well put, Lucian," he affirmed with a sly smile.

  "All of this, the project, reminds me of that conversation we had, remember?"

  "And is it possible to forget?"

  For the first time, he watched the provocative expression fail, for a minimal instant, but he witnessed it; he was sure of what he had seen. Even his centered and coherent breathing had failed, and that, in turn, was still faltering. Finally, he had taken the first step with the match, to ignite a spark.

  "Again, well put, Lucian," he laughed weakly, looking outside; the sunset was imminent. "I recommend calling your driver, dear, it's getting dark."

  "I know there are still two hours until the end of the school day; until then, I have time for you, Miguel."

  "Miguel, huh," he repeated, lightly mocking. "Why don't you call me Kael?"

  "I still remember the meaning of your nickname; I'm not going to deliberately call you God."

  "But I fulfill the function well, don't you think?" he questioned, intimately, leaning back against the glass that simulated a wall.

  "Are you asking me to believe in you?"

  "Well, I already said I believe in you; it would be interesting if it were reciprocal."

  "The context was different."

  "Ah, it depends. If Lucian has to do with light, and everything is only observable because light is reflected, then it means you are the All. And what, again, is another concept for God?"

  "Are we two gods now, Kael?"

  "As I said before, Lucian," he adjusted his intonation with a throat clear, following that romantic vocalization of French films. "Only if you want, Lucian. But I prefer to be a mere mortal."

  Definitely, his fate would be sealed by the hands of that boy in front of him, by his captivating blasphemy. For all the times he yielded to the fire he ignited, Miguel had his virtues, and only because of them, he was more dangerous than any other he could face.

  "If you prefer to be mortal, why do you act like a god?"

  "Are you flirting with me, Lucian?" The eyes of evident challenge showed in the game. Abrupt, like the mutual flaw in hearts, he was entering a game he couldn't win and shouldn't even try.

  "Cynic," he retorted dryly, with a corner laugh.

  "Is my freedom affecting you now, Lucian?"

  After a brief confessional sigh, he delivered to him a calmness, a tranquility of someone who shouldn't answer that obvious provocation, but he wasn't strong enough to stop there.

  "Honestly, you shake my faith."

  "I'm an earthquake to you?"

  A complete sordid and immoral person; how did he know? Did he read minds? Was it so easy to be read like this, flipped through as if pages, translated as if an ancient manuscript, of a dead language. How—there was no way—and he still knew; he was a walking soul reader.

  "Relax, Lucian, that thing is still standing."

  "What?"

  "Believe in me."