Wicked Boy (23) (Patreon)

(A/N:  I’ve noticed the interest in Wicked Boy fading a bit — and just so you guys know, most of this story will be set in Huxley!  So the tone of the first few chapters [where Ez is first introduced, and the chapters I personally enjoy more] will come back soon and sort of be more of the norm.  Ez is meant to sort of cut Milan’s sadness a bit, as I know it can be a lot to read! This bright, cafe setting doesn’t suit this dynamic well, and it’s not meant to, but most of the setting regarding Pennbrook won’t, as Milan is miserable here and doesn’t have a strong sense of self.  The following chapter to this should hopefully knock this story out of its strange, sad rut!]

Ez's regard shifts narrowly, much like it did that day under the red light in his room, but I'm so lost in a sour recollection that I nearly neglect it. I want to ask him what that mild expression of his entails, and now, with the promise of the contract between us — I realize that expression, along with many others, may become more discernible over time.

Maybe, he'll become less of a paradox to me.

And conceivably, my curiosity will fade.

"Don't think I've ever heard that one."  Ez doesn't replace his lid but drinks from his sweetened coffee with an undecipherable mood.  He scowls slightly at the taste, placing it back against the table.  "...But you're full of fuckin' surprises."

"It's just that it's not necessary."  I shift back into my seat, closer to the comfort of the wall and my bag, like I can close myself into a notion of security.  "It's confusing the — the ethics of this transaction," I add after the silence draws it out.

Ez's head tilts, snorting mildly,

"Ethics?"

"Because you're an escort.  An employee — um.  You're being paid."  I watch the way that he scrutinizes me.  "And I — don't think it's right."

"'Kay.  We won't touch." Ez's assertion is effortless, his gaze as transparent as ever. "Ya' don't have to explain.  It's your body."

I fidget, picking the blunt end of my thumbnail.

That was — easy?

...Too easy?

"...We won't?"

It doesn't make sense.  The way Ez looks at me — the way I can't stop watching him. It undoubtedly suggests something different.

"Yeah?"  Ez bends the tip of his straw; his eyes lit. I've somehow trudged into the lure of his curiousness yet again. He leans back in his seat, a smile blooming, slicing through the apprehension like a hot knife. "Don't sound so disappointed, babe."

"I didn't mean.  I meant — good."  I nod.  Ez hums.  "Good."

"Good," Ez repeats, lopsided smirk settling.  His eyes drag lazily from the table and up over the arch of my collarbone.  Our eyes meet.

"So it's cleared up."  I tap the table, unsure of what to do with my hands.  Ez appears as humored as ever.  "No touching."

"No touchin'."  His voice drops, too falsely amicable, and my gaze snaps upwards.  Ez quiets as a patron enters with a chiming of the overhead bell, and he cups the corner of his mouth with a sinful propensity. "Unless ya' say please."

"I won't."  I blush, dipping down towards my backpack to hide that fact, to unclip it — hand him the contract. Ez, as nonchalant as ever, folds it back into his pocket, and it creases easily with the familiarity of it.

"I can dream," Ez says and swipes up his coffee and keys, a shifting glimpse to the window to make sure the snow hasn't stuck around.  "See ya' Saturday?"

"Wait."

Ez does, his interest mine again.

"That's another thing." I swallow, flustered at broaching the topic.

"What's another thing?"

I adjust my glasses as Ez stands, as he shrugs on his Huxley jacket with ease and confidence that makes me feel like I'm slowly melding into the wallpaper of the cafe. A group of younger clients steals glimpses from their seats, and I stand to avoid the awkward air of our arrangement.

"You don't need to flirt with me."  I pull on my jacket as well, faking normality, tucking my scarf into its rightful place.

"What?" Ez chuckles and perks the straw between his teeth again. I take both of our coffees, indirectly dragging Ez over to the trash bin.  When I turn to face him, his brows gather.  "I'm aware.  I don't need to do anythin'."

"Well.  No, what I mean,"  I sigh, waving my hand in the air between us.  A blonde in the corner seems particularly taken by Ez and me, so I step closer to him to quiet her nosiness.  Ez steps closer too, a tease unsaid.

I glare.

"I mean, whatever this is — whatever an escort does," I whisper, a quiet, awkward admission. "I don't need to be flattered. I just want company. Honest company.  That's all I'm paying you for, and that's all you need to give me."

"...What if I want to flatter ya'?"  Ez stoops closer, and I feel my nails dig into my palms.  I can't understand the desire to touch him or the fact that I haven't felt anything like it before.

"It just — it doesn't feel honest.  So don't do it."

"What if I honestly," Ez scoffs, his eyes narrowing, and he takes another step.  I feel the tips of my ears burn when the tips of his boots touch mine.  "honest to fuckin' God, want to flatter ya'? Flirt with ya'?"

The cafe feels hot.

"Why in the world would you want that?"

"Because I do."  He shrugs, his smile sacrilegious.  "Would I be honest company if I didn't do what I wanna do?"

"...I guess — you wouldn't."  I sigh.  I try my best to glare when Ez side-steps around me, his hands up in a mock-offering of peace, of a promise not to accidentally brush — to touch.

"Nah," Ez winks, "I wouldn't."

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