Methos senses the quickening at the same time as he sees the man, and he thinks Damn!, first because they're on a plane and second because he might have to kill him. He doesn't want to. The man's beautiful in an unselfconscious, balanced way, beautiful in rich and simple clothes, beautiful in overgrown curls that want cutting, beautiful with awkward sensuality and elegant, sweeping bones. When he's not smiling, Methos wants to look over his shoulder at his scratch pad or clasp his loosely closed hand, and when he is, Methos just wants to hug him.
He hasn't had affectionate impulses of this caliber in four months, hasn't thought of anyone as comfortable. Of course, he's been on holy ground for a while, too, and Mac saw him off with uncustomary amity, so maybe this reaction's just Pavlovian. Immortal essence=Duncan, Duncan=safe.
It's only when he's been staring at the man for a while that he fine-tunes, and realizes that it's not him, it's the boy sitting next to him. He's so strong in golden energy that he sings like a slashed harp. His fingers tremble on the in-flight magazine, his eyelashes flicker on his cheeks, and he must be so scared, feeling the presence of the oldest of his kind.
As he's the youngest, Methos suspects. There are fewer and fewer rebirths these days, sometimes as seldom as once a year, and this boy is fresh as a new-pressed penny. He wonders if he even knows what he is. His hands are uncallused, his muscles machine-made.
A large black man edges heavily between Methos and his observational subjects, and when he sits down and spreads a newspaper, Methos knows that was the idea. The guy's the size of a refrigerator and might as well have a BODYGUARD t-shirt.
He looks at the boy and his friend with new curiosity. Are they the sons of important men? Are they sports stars or actors? He's been abroad a long time--relatively speaking--and for him, all fame is faddish.
He changes seats so his back is to them and lets the first-class beverage supply do its work. He hears the boy get up, brushing past his elegant friend, and the bodyguard stands with a chuff of effort.
They don't head to the bathroom, though. They stop at Methos's row. The boy's presence glitters between them like a stilled fountain. He's every bit as touchable as his friend, his hair roughly shorn and his lips petal-open. Nutmeg freckles dot his collarbone.
He just stares at Methos for a little, until the bodyguard mutters, "Was this dude bothering you?"
"That's funny," Methos remarks. "Seeing as you're the one blocking the aisle to gape at me."
"No, he's not bothering me," says the boy. He's lying, but he returns Methos's smile.
He's forgiven. So inconceivably young that he verges on another species.
"Have a seat if you like," Methos offers, moving his carryon. "There's no room for your friend, but seat belt light's off and I'm sure he could just...loom."
"Lonnie, I'll be okay," says the boy. Lonnie's nonplussed. "Go find Chris. He's been gone for a half hour."
"Dammit," Lonnie snaps, and looks down the aisle, torn. "I'm sending Ray back here in five, okay? You just stay put."
The boy salutes and Lonnie slaps his hand and they both grin at each other, mutually disarmed. The boy's like Mac. He doesn't need his quickening to reinforce his charisma.
Methos wonders what he'll ask when they're alone.
He doesn't get a chance to find out, because just after the boy slides down in the seat opposite, his friend joins them. Normally Methos would consider that a godsend, because up close he's glorious, a Cubist sweep of planed muscle and lanky slenderness, and he wants to push up his too-big sweater and fit his tongue into the shallow dish of his navel. But his presence here, now, clothed, severely limits the available topics of conversation.
"So you're like me," says the boy. His friend studies Methos curiously, without a trace of surprise. Methos engages in a drastic revision of the situation.
"Jayce was there when it happened," the boy explains. "I drowned at his party. We told the guys he did wicked CPR."
"But I saw the, um, the lightning," says the man called Jayce. His voice is softer and higher than Methos imagined, a bard's voice, and he falls for that too, why not? "Is he right? Are you like him?"
"Yes," Methos says, keeping it simple. "And what are we like?"
"I'm Justin," says the boy. "And you're--"
"Adam."
"The first man," says Jayce. He smiles when Methos stares at him.
"Well, I'm mostly like I was," says Justin. "But there's some stuff that's different. Like healing fast, and not getting sick. I haven't found anything else yet. Right after it happened, some freak chased me into a cemetery and then disappeared, but...I dunno, I figured he was just a crazy fan."
"Fan," says Methos flatly. "Of what exactly?"
"Our music," Jayce explains. "We're Nsync."
"You're what?"
"Nsync. Nsync, the music group? Boyband? Pop stars?"
"You're a famous immortal popstar? Oh, that's too rich!" He covers his mouth and laughs into his hand. "And they said rock and roll was dead!"
"I'm what?" Justin says, and Methos pauses, taking in his wide cracked-blue eyes and the way his lower lip snags between his teeth. Could it be he never added it up? Never followed the equation through to the end until now? "I can't be. I can't die?"
to be continued.