WICKED BOY (16) (Patreon)

(author's note: this chapter is called, get black-out drunk and forget a sleazy hot weirdo with no social etiquette has set up camp at your house.  to those bothered by Ez showing up at Milan's, don't worry, everything gets addressed later :')  it's character growth, bebes.)

—

Isaac: Message (3:46 am)

Can we talk?

Isaac: Message (4:03 am)

This is a bit much?  Can you at least respond to me and let me know you're alive

There's a particular sort of hell for people like me, spoiled little hypocrites that complain about then pain of love and then hurt another. I stare — scrutinizing the memory of Isaac's drunken, angry confession. 

Had I led him on?

Is this his way — does he really care?

I know what it's like to mold yourself after your father.  I know, often, I've swayed with Isaac's friendship into something less than platonic, and then aside and away from me, in fear of romance.  I'm aware of where I've tried to excuse myself — too many times.   I scroll to the last message that he's sent.

Isaac: Message (4:16 am)

I know things got heated.  It's not what I meant to happen.  You just drive me absolutely nuts sometimes

I'm on the brink of closing my eyes and considering just the extent of Isaac's worry — wondering if he sits in his bed waiting for a text like I waited for Lucas' — and then, I wonder which room in hell my father's credit card might rent me out — when my phone lights in my hand once more, vibrating softly to a melody that carries itself loudly in the empty room.

Isaac: Incoming Message

I cringe, the knots in my stomach sinking as I think, how nice it would be if we could choose who our hearts were ready for.

Incoming message:

Milan. You alive?  Can we meet?

I stare at the text, tired eyes crinkling at the brightness. I feel it in my gut.  A pang of guilt — a guilt that says to accept any apology he might have, or to give him my own.

Outgoing Message:

Yes, is that okay? How is 8? Let's get coffee?

Isaac:

?? Eight is fine, I guess.  Where?

I breathe out a sigh that doesn't feel like relief at all, chuckling. My eyes are watering from what I can piece together from my black-out drunk, the mess of a night.

I'm going to smother myself in this very soft duvet cover.  I grab the comforter, pressing it against my nose as I pray for the floor to lurch forth and swallow me whole.  I plop onto the floor, reaching over my bed to pull forth my heating blanket and curl into it on the carpet, palms digging into my closed eyes, trying to chase away the headache.

Then I fall asleep.

–

Only, I didn't mean to fall back asleep.

The knock that comes from the door startles me, even from my bedroom, so much so that my face scrapes into the carpet as I stand — assuring a blatant case of rug burn, which I probably deserve.  I definitely deserve.

What a nasty headache,

I think, silently chiding myself as I struggle to pull my numb legs into a standing position.  Nerves tingle down them as I check my phone, not even thirty minutes have gone by since my last time waking.

I grumble incoherently as I fumble my way to the door, the blanket still tangled around my legs.

"Who'sit?"  I slur, fighting the wisps of hair away from lopsided glasses.  I try to think of who would stop by in my hungover state, this early — or even at all, and found myself falling short of an answer.  I run my hand over my stomach, smoothing out wrinkles on my pajama top.  "I said, who is it?"

I glance towards my bathroom door that sits on a barely hidden, tiny hallway near the living room. 

The shower is running.

Why is the shower running?

"Isaac."  The voice is low, maybe even to the point of bemusement.  I blink slowly, processing the words as I stand there for a moment more.  "... You weren't picking up your phone."

Isaac.

My brain screeches in mortification at my stupidity, but the sound coming out of my mouth is more of a heady croak.  I run my hands over my face, eyes lifting upwards to ask whatever God there is, why he's punishing me,

"Why?"  I mumble, hand on the doorknob,  "I'm not dressed, I thought we were meeting at the café at eight."

"...You're not dressed?"  Isaac is confused, voice lower- miffed even.  "... Then put on clothes, Milan. I tried to call to see what café we were going to, and you didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Well.  You were awake when I texted you thirty minutes ago."

"Right, you're right... Well, give me two seconds," I'm yanking off my pajama bottoms, reaching for the khakis that are folded over the dining room chair next to me, "Just count to fifty, and I'll be ready."

I'm never giving anyone my address ever again.

"It was snowing outside."  Isaac states flatly, his knuckles rapping against the door again,  "I'm soaked.  Just let me in."

"Right, okay."  I fluster, pressed against the mahogany door as my palms sweat on the knob under them. "I'm opening the door."  I don't know why I say it out loud, wrinkle my nose in embarrassment.

"Lovely."  He mutters, and my heart drops with his disappointment.  "Thanks a lot."

With the door propped open and his slush-covered shoes just half a foot from my socked feet, I drag my eyes upwards. — until my neck has craned back a bit to read his face. He's less than amused, and I pat down the flyaway hairs on my head.  The cold air of the under-heated hallway rushes in with him, and he pulls the door shut.

"I haven't brushed it, uh, my hair,"  I explain quickly, words spilling together.  Obviously. He shoulders past me, frowns deep. "— And I fell asleep with it wet, so it's kind of just.  I'm just not ready, you know."   Smooth.  I flop my arms about as if it would explain it's current state, but Isaac only delivers me a small, forced smile.

"We know that you don't care what I think of your hair,"  he whispers.  I swallow because I don't — and he's right, and that in itself means more to him than it does to me. "...Did you just wake up?" He asks, words careful to exclude any hint of irritation. He inhales.

Exhales.

I nod, eyes dropping to the floor.

"I woke up before my alarm... and I must have just dozed off. I was up really late—"

"You —  sure you're not still drunk?" He shakes his head, his expression brimming with disfavor. I must be, to be standing in front of someone so rich in my underwear and Ez's pajama top.  "God."

Wait.  Ez — wasn't there something...?

Isaac looks disillusioned.  I can't blame him.  

"I knew—" he stops himself, "You overdid the drinking. I can smell it.  Don't you get sick of it?"

"... Uhm.  Just hungover now," I frown,  "I showered.  I'm sorry — sorry for not responding.   I swear I wasn't blowing your texts off."

I stop and wait.

"...Sure thing."  His brown gaze travels back to me, irises flickering with the light patterns that flood the blinds.  For a second, my heart sinks at the thought of his unhappiness — and I blink hard enough to make my head spin.  "Wouldn't be the first time."

"You know — that I don't mean to do that, right?"  I ask him, earnest, wish he wouldn't look at me the way that he is. "I wouldn't purposefully.  You just read into it -"

"...You need to get ready or what?"  He interrupts, and his clipped fingernails slide across the dresser as he walks around it — inspecting the odd sorts of pendants I'd sat on top of it, along with the change I had stacked in a neat pile from my pockets last night. He pauses, frowns a bit at a glass trinket, scoots one across the wood with a dull scrape, then attention shifts behind me.

"Or... Were you busy?"  Isaac's tone surprises me, full of a bitterness that doesn't even suit him.  He glances towards the bathroom door, the one I'm too hungover to reassess. 

Right.  The shower.

The shower is running.

Which should've been a red flag in and of itself, but now the shower has stopped.  And that should make things better — only the bathroom door is opening, a cloud of steam wafting into the living room from the short hallway.

"Who is that?"

Ez is toweling his hair dry lazily with one hand, his other on the door-handle.  He looks up, expression shifting from some sort of curiosity to recognition, to a blank slate.

He grins at me.  I flush.

And suddenly — my vodka-soaked memory is sponging up fragments of motorcycle helmets, envelopes, and late-night cabinet raiding.

Fuck!

That's Ezra.  That's a contracted sex-worker — right in front of my dad's favored and esteemed colleague's son.  My heart is beating like I'm about to have a premature heart attack, but Ez just winks at me — unaware that I am five seconds from passing out.

"Well. If I knew ya' were just going to take them off,"  Ezra glances towards the roll of black fabric near the door, entirely unperturbed by the situation at hand — and as decidedly sleazy as ever. He fastens his belt.  "I'd have asked for my pajama pants back." 

I look back at Isaac, whose eyes are wide — wider than mine.  I glance towards Ez — whose eyebrows raise.  Then my gaze shifts away, my mouth is just — functioning, but no sound is coming out.

"He's..."  I start.  Because what is he? And why is he using my shower?  Why is he here? "He's — um... God damnit."  I sigh.  Maybe I should quit drinking.

"Who the hell is that?"  Isaac interjects, his tone wholly coated in a mixture of disdain and shock.  "He — Milan...?"  He has one limp finger slightly directed in Ez's direction, Ez, who for some god-forsaken reason is shirtless,  who is wet and startlingly attractive and smiling and so at home. "Did — did he sleep over?"

Isaac is staring.  I am mildly aware that I'm also staring, cheeks hot and disbelief large enough to fill every awkward gap between us.   My heart settles as I realize — Isaac has no reason to have any idea that he's a Goule. 

"I'm Ez."  Ezra smiles, but it's mean.  "...I didn't do much sleepin', though."

He glances towards the flat-screen, disinterested in the two of us and our owl-eyed expressions.

"Ez?"  If Isaac could snarl, he would.  The misunderstanding is clear.  His nose wrinkles in distaste, and Ez laughs at the hostility present, his attention recaptured by his name.  His eyes rake from Isaac's head to his toes, contentious energy matching his, like one look alone could skin Isaac alive. 

"It's two letters."  Ez is as casual as ever, strides to the couch and plops down against the cushions like it's his own.  "Is that too many for ya'?"

"No, it's just —"  Isaac turns towards me, like Ezra isn't worthy of his time.  Ezra doesn't seem to be too affected by that — simply flicks on the television, snorting loudly as two girls get into a fist fight on the screen. 

"Ahaha.  Classic Alyssa." 

I almost smile.

"Milan, did you really let this — did you...?"  Isaac is beyond bewildered.  I can't say that I entirely blame him.  My humor at Ezra's choice in entertainment dissipates.

"I didn't."  I shake my head -- know what conclusion that Isaac's drawn.  "I know what you're thinking.  But, uh.  That didn't happen.  I thought you and I were going to go somewhere to talk.  Let's just -"

"Oh, sure, okay."

"Honestly."  I take a breath.  "Regardless, it wouldn't be your business.  Are we going or what?"

"Oh! It's not my business that you spent last night getting fucked by some teenager’s wet dream.  Okay.  Got it."

"What the hell is your deal?"

"My deal?  It's this,"  he waves towards Ez, who is enjoying his television show, entirely unbothered by our squabble.   "After I told you how I felt?"  Isaac is speaking as quietly as he can, looks hurt — looks prideful and wounded.

"It's not my business how you feel."  I bite back, ugly and sudden.  "So stop trying to punish me for it."

Isaac retracts.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"  He hisses.  He presses closer, his bitterness blooming tenfold.  "It's not enough to be a drunk —huh?"  He leans closer.  "Not enough?  Had to try your hand at being a slu—"

I can hear myself suck in a breath when Ez sits up slowly, his startled chuckle short and dry,

"Hey," Ez isn't smiling anymore, his humor lost — and Isaac startles back into an awareness that we have an audience, "...Where the fuck are your manners?"

--

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