The surroundings were very different, but the heat of the sun on bare skin was familiar, and Leonard lay on his stomach, intent on the books spread out across the tiles surrounding Hephaestus' pool. Occasionally, a toe would disturb the surface of the water, drops trickling down inked skin as Leonard idly kicked his leg back and forth.
The books were borrowed, of course. What little he had seemed to fall under the categories of borrowed or stolen, but as they belonged to Hephaestus, Leonard was careful not to dog-ear the pages or let the pen drop from his mouth to dot them with ink. Instead, he scribbled notes onto the ruled notepad scavenged from the desk in their, in Eros' room, the margins messy with unanswered questions or partial answers.
A continuation of research started when Leonard spent most of his days and nights locked in Chase's closet, the boy had taken one lesson learned from The Three to heart. All of his notes were written by hand, written in a code he'd developed when he was twelve, and existed only within the pages of the notebook that he'd burn once the knowledge captured within had been etched into his memory.
When the sun began to sink and Leonard's eyes were starting to cross, he shut the books and padded inside to return them carefully to their shelves, spines straight and aligned with all the other pristine books that lined the interior decorator perfect shelves. The notebook he stashed back in the room, tucking it inside a jumble of wires and cords before sliding down the banister to return to the pool.
Legs dangling in the water, the inked boy tilted his head back to catch the last of the sunlight on his face, kicking every so often to hear the whoosh of water, pretending they were still on the island, listening to the ocean kiss the shore. What he most definitely was not doing was wondering what was happening over at Casa del Amor. Nope. Not even a little.