“The housefly. A completely ordinary creature,” Connors mused aloud. “Completely ordinary except for the compound eyes—a stretch of thousands of photoreceptors that make it near impossible for an ordinary man to capture.”
Peter did not stir at the sound of reverence in Connors’ voice. His pupils were still blown wide, gaze fixed firmly on the fly impossibly caught between his own thumb and index finger.
Connors placed his hand over Peter’s and felt the thrum of possibility run through him.
“Let it go, Peter.”
Peter nodded thoughtlessly and released the fly, tracking its disordered movement while Connors ran his hand along the boy’s knuckles, mapping the pronounced bones underneath ripped skin. Had Peter been involved in a schoolyard fight or was this more evidence that something truly wonderful was coming?
Trailing his fingers further along Peter’s slender wrist and tense forearm, Connors was moved by the manic pulse of blood underneath.
All that flesh so alive and present.
Connors pressed down hard, and Peter’s mouth parted in surprise. One more squeeze and the boy reluctantly met Connors’ eyes, all rich darkness and uncertainty.
He really was just a young thing.
Connors tightened his grip on Peter’s wrist until he could feel the scrape of bones, and pulled him close. He leaned into the trembling boy, a whisper of skin against skin, and breathlessly commanded, “Let it all go.”