Harlowe, wondering if the fumes from the paint had gone to his head because Harlowe's words didn't make any sense. "Like who?"
Harlowe pulled off the leather mask, throwing it at Cole, who fumbled it. It fell to the ground, and Harlowe gestured to his half-ruined face with a short choppy motion. "You're lying, like everyone else does. Get out."
Turning, Harlowe stalked away, back towards the wall he'd been painting. Comprehension clicked into place for Cole, and anger stirred in the pit of his stomach. Acting purely on instinct, Cole followed after, grabbing Harlowe's arm and pulling him around. He braced himself to be hit, and kissed Harlowe before Harlowe had the chance to protest.
It was clumsy, awkward, and barely a real kiss because Harlowe stumbled a step away from Cole, barely keeping his balance from where Cole had spun him around. Harlowe did hit him, smacking his chest, but Cole didn't let go.
"I'm not lying," Cole said fiercely, staring at Harlowe and willing him to believe it. He let go of Harlowe, taking a step back. "I'm not. Why do you keep thinking I'm such a villain? I don't care about your face, but you probably don't believe me when I say that either."
Harlowe stared at him, and without the mask in place, it was easy to see the uncertainty plainly written across his face.
"I'll go, then," Cole said, when Harlowe didn't say anything. "I won't bother you anymore."
"You don't bother me," Harlowe said, the words barely audible in the quiet of the shop. Cole snorted in disbelief, because it certainly seemed like everything he did bothered Harlowe. Harlowe sighed, then reached out and grabbed Cole's wrist, dragging him across the shop towards the back door.
"What are you—"
"Shut up," Harlowe said, tone brooking no argument. He didn't let go of Cole's wrist, his grip firm and tight, and Cole decided not to question it, no longer sure what was going on.
Harlowe reached the door set in the back of the room, and pushed it open. It was a tiny office, as Cole had supposed. It was about a man's height in length, and twice that in breadth. There was a small desk set up in the far corner, and a few boxes of half-finished machines and parts stacked on the floor. Cole recognized some of Harlowe's tools scattered about, but Harlowe didn't give him a chance to study the room, dragging him over to the desk.
"What is it?" Cole asked, surveying the square novelty box set in the center of the desk. The outside edges were still rough, the silver design on the outside only done on the one side.
"Open it," Harlowe said, finally letting go of Cole's wrist. Cole glanced at him, but Harlowe just looked determined, which wasn't really useful for Cole.
"Is this the secret project?" Cole asked, tracing his fingers over the edges of the lid.
"Yes, now open it," Harlowe said, familiar impatience leaking into his voice.
Cole followed the order, tipping the lid up and back. Soft strains of music filled the air, tinkling, light, and sweet. It wasn't a song Cole recognized, but he was distracted by the motions of the dancing figurines. There were two of them, on opposite ends of the round surface of the box. They moved in slow, meandering arcs, one on each side of a large circle. They stayed completely opposite each other, and the box ticked softly every time they passed a quarter mark.
"It's a clock!" Cole said delightedly, finally recognizing the pattern. "Does it keep going with the lid shut, to keep the
Harlowe pulled off the leather mask, throwing it at Cole, who fumbled it. It fell to the ground, and Harlowe gestured to his half-ruined face with a short choppy motion. "You're lying, like everyone else does. Get out."
Turning, Harlowe stalked away, back towards the wall he'd been painting. Comprehension clicked into place for Cole, and anger stirred in the pit of his stomach. Acting purely on instinct, Cole followed after, grabbing Harlowe's arm and pulling him around. He braced himself to be hit, and kissed Harlowe before Harlowe had the chance to protest.
It was clumsy, awkward, and barely a real kiss because Harlowe stumbled a step away from Cole, barely keeping his balance from where Cole had spun him around. Harlowe did hit him, smacking his chest, but Cole didn't let go.
"I'm not lying," Cole said fiercely, staring at Harlowe and willing him to believe it. He let go of Harlowe, taking a step back. "I'm not. Why do you keep thinking I'm such a villain? I don't care about your face, but you probably don't believe me when I say that either."
Harlowe stared at him, and without the mask in place, it was easy to see the uncertainty plainly written across his face.
"I'll go, then," Cole said, when Harlowe didn't say anything. "I won't bother you anymore."
"You don't bother me," Harlowe said, the words barely audible in the quiet of the shop. Cole snorted in disbelief, because it certainly seemed like everything he did bothered Harlowe. Harlowe sighed, then reached out and grabbed Cole's wrist, dragging him across the shop towards the back door.
"What are you—"
"Shut up," Harlowe said, tone brooking no argument. He didn't let go of Cole's wrist, his grip firm and tight, and Cole decided not to question it, no longer sure what was going on.
Harlowe reached the door set in the back of the room, and pushed it open. It was a tiny office, as Cole had supposed. It was about a man's height in length, and twice that in breadth. There was a small desk set up in the far corner, and a few boxes of half-finished machines and parts stacked on the floor. Cole recognized some of Harlowe's tools scattered about, but Harlowe didn't give him a chance to study the room, dragging him over to the desk.
"What is it?" Cole asked, surveying the square novelty box set in the center of the desk. The outside edges were still rough, the silver design on the outside only done on the one side.
"Open it," Harlowe said, finally letting go of Cole's wrist. Cole glanced at him, but Harlowe just looked determined, which wasn't really useful for Cole.
"Is this the secret project?" Cole asked, tracing his fingers over the edges of the lid.
"Yes, now open it," Harlowe said, familiar impatience leaking into his voice.
Cole followed the order, tipping the lid up and back. Soft strains of music filled the air, tinkling, light, and sweet. It wasn't a song Cole recognized, but he was distracted by the motions of the dancing figurines. There were two of them, on opposite ends of the round surface of the box. They moved in slow, meandering arcs, one on each side of a large circle. They stayed completely opposite each other, and the box ticked softly every time they passed a quarter mark.
"It's a clock!" Cole said delightedly, finally recognizing the pattern. "Does it keep going with the lid shut, to keep the
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