Wicked Boy (20) (Patreon)

(A/N:  If this series was an 90's sitcom, this episode would be called: Ez's First Crush.

Summary: Ez doesn't know what the fuck is happening.  Is he horny?  Is it a heart-attack? Is he developing stalker-like tendencies from watching too many 80’s romance films? Sub-plot: Milan is 24, still desperately in need of 'the talk', and somehow; that's the least of his issues.

Warnings for:  More of Milan's deep-rooted childhood traumas -  that are becoming less hint-territory, and more outright the more time you spend in his head. )

My eyes keep tracking over the same clause.

During Minett's time with Lykaios, Milan Minett agrees to be fully sober of any drugs and/or alcohol.

The chill from the window has grown stronger, and the temperature drops in my little apartment.

"I think — you're maybe... I mean, what you expect," My tongue feels thick and dumb in my mouth. My skin is crawling. It feels entirely too tight — and the whir of the traffic and blaring horns outside sound altogether oppressive. "I don't think I can — "

Ez's hand slides over the kitchen island between us. I watch it. I worry the inside of my cheek as he taps the pale quartz, ringed fingers heavy on the stone — like he's inwardly assessing my hesitation. The sound of it is loud enough to hinder my train of thought.

"I'm askin' for a sober client." Ez's tone caries nothing that can give him away. It's careful, measured — seeking authority but so quiet, like I'm a bird on his windowsill that may just take flight. "Baby steps."  Rich and low, the sound soothes over my itchy, skittish skin.

"Baby steps?"

The other man reaches until he can slide his index finger across my inner arm. My heart is a mess of different desires and shortcomings — of what-ifs and whatnots.

"I think you're capable of that, yeah?" Ez steps around the counter, his hand delivering another trail up to my shoulder. It's warm, foreign — soothing. He lets go, but I sway on the spot like I want to chase his touch.

Am I capable?

I feel something —

Something unsettlingly disconcerting hovering over me, a hot spout of nerves and distress — something that feels entirely too much like the realization of dependency.

My thoughts are already swallowed up by:

'When could I stop drinking to be sober by seven? Would I have time to drink after? How could I call him if I wasn't? How could I ask him to visit if I'm not wasted? How can he be in my home when I'm — like this, fully aware, myself with no excuse or exception, watching every move he makes — and waiting for the other shoe to drop?

But it's the only option.

"What kinda shady business makes a deal with someone who is drunk off their ass?"

I glance up at Ez, who has his arms crossed now, unwound as ever — but he's studying my expression. My lower lip throbs from aggressive, absent-minded chewing. His eyes chase down to their redness, like he can feel the ache.

"Can ya' do that, Angel?"

I realize I'm wrinkling the paper in my grip. I avert my gaze.

Can I stop?

I, like many times before, think of tenderly tilting my mother's head against the marble floor near the tub.  I think of how simple it became to a pre-pubescent me, to pick the bathroom lock, how mindful of her slumped body I was when I nudged the door open.

Is it another thing — that I can't let go of?

Frequently, she played Sono Andanti, and more often than that, her forehead was clammy and covered with sweat.  It would coat her neatly coifed bangs.

Passerotto, she called me.

She'd ask me to prop her up — to brush them back — to pin her hair in case she vomited.  Her hairspray would stick to my fingers until I washed them off, and the scent of it and Don Julio, the sound of Puccini, it all became an affectionate memory. Occasionally I would lay beside her, and she'd reach back to pat my shoulders. I replay the recollection from time to time, like a home movie.

"Take a sec'.  That hangover has to be a bitch." Ez's voice is low in the background, but my thoughts are a quicksand that I often drown in. "...Which coffee shop was the fuck-boy gonna take ya' to?"

I often can't tell a vicious memory from a sentimental one, especially when a touch paints its ugly edges — one that says I might, possibly, be loved by someone.

During Minett's time with Lykaios, Lykaios will be fully present to the companionship needs of Milan Minett.

"It's..."

...Which do I need more?

I stare at what's required from me, plainly laid out in Ez's contract, until the words start to blur.  I think back to his question, only then.

"Oh?  Um."  I haven't moved since unpacking the non-disclosure agreement.  My grip is as unsteady as always.  "Impresso Espresso,"  I mumble.

"Impresso Espresso." Ez echos.  My eyes flicker up to his, suddenly drawn from my headspace, to watch the genuine disturbance sift through his features. He shrugs on his Huxley jacket. "Where's that?"

"It's on, uh," I lean back onto the heels of my feet. "...It's on Beans n' Cream Avenue."

"'Kay?" Ez's brows furrow further, almost as if he's affronted by what I've said. "What the fuck kinda' name is that..."  It's under his breath — and  I blink at the abruptness of it — and then I laugh so suddenly and loudly at his remark that his gaze snaps to mine.

His expression changes minutely, and I become nervous under his regard, humor leaving me to my anxiety.   Ez touches the tip of his tongue to his too-white teeth — and grins, wicked.

"What?"  I ask, feeling more defensive at my incapability to discern his newfound seriousness, than at the fact that he's placed a clause in my contract requesting that I attend Alcoholics Anonymous, of all things. He steps closer, and I don't remind myself to step back.  "Why are you...?"

Ez reaches past me, grin ripening with our proximity, and I attempt to stare at the collar of his shirt instead of his dimples. He snatches his motorcycle helmet and his keys with one graceful swipe of his hand and a chime of keychains.

"I'll meet you at the coffee shop."  He turns, my shoulder-blades at his chest. I feel fragile and deliberate all at once, my back to him, in the middle of his sweeping frame. He presses forward, warm — and I realize that the waft of my honey-vanilla shampoo and the acrid smell of smoke is a devastating blend.

I turn my head, his jaw, rough with morning-stubble leans against my cheek, just as he extends his reach over me, tugs an ink-black pen from his pack pocket, and signs the contract that I'm clutching with a few quick flicks of spidery cursive.

Ezra Lykaios

My eyes widen at the stationery.

"Oh," I say. Oh? Oh! I stare stupidly at the signed paper, long enough that I'm startled by Ez's voice in my ear. He drops his chin in a rough trail against my skin to exhale,

"You've got a cute laugh."

And I feel it along the delicate flesh of my neck more than I hear it. His body pushes against mine with more force than it needs to, and my heart makes a beeline for my throat.

The door shuts.

And — for some reason, I find myself quietly opening my kitchen junk-drawer and reaching for a long-discarded blue pen.

Milan Minett

I sign.

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