Wicked Boy (30) (Patreon)

(A/N: Ez and Milan like to play cat and mouse bc that’s how big their brains are)

My desire is a foggy, swallowing buzz, and I feel displaced by the confidence in his words.  Ez's eyes flit over my face, an arrogant grin rising to meet me.

I regard Ez, my full awareness his. My heart skitters around like a small, insignificant thing — a canary fleeing from its enclosure with a cat.  What a reckless decision.

The moment could end here.  I could say nothing.  We could turn on the television, and I could chalk it up to another of one of his endless teases.

"Was it somethin' I said?"

We should watch the movie.

This could be another flirtation that I side-step, that I push down, that I avoid.  But there's something about the drive, about his warmth, about his embrace —

It's confusing. He's confusing.

I inhale sharply, a stir in my chest, a pang that rises into my throat.

I want him. And tangled in that is a need — a need to ruin everything before it starts.

"I dreamt about it once,"  I admit.  I try to stay calm, to not regard this situation as an attempt to humiliate myself.  My words seem cold on my tongue.  There's no real inflection.

Because this could be it.

How much truth is there to his advances?  Likely none, but there's a curiosity in me.  If I say something like this, will Ez also feel on edge?

When we finally sit down on the couch cushions of his love seat, too close to maintain a comfortably chaste distance, will he feel overwhelmingly aware of my presence like I am of his?

Or will this situation become too muddled for him?  He'll send me away, discomforted by the thought of my desire, and I'll be forced back into routine.

Something is satisfying about the way Ez's brows perk, the way he looks up, as close as I've ever seen him to being caught off guard.

"...Pardon me, babe?"

"I said that I dreamt about sleeping with you,"  I repeat.  Matter-o-fact.  I don't have near as much trouble avoiding his eyes because there's a more substantial part of me desperate to see his distaste.  "It was vague, but it was you."

Ez's jaw jumps, the cigarette is forgotten between his fingers, its cherry burning down the paper lining.  His eyes narrow as he huffs out a stricken chuckle, his palms braced on the counter behind him. I watch his fingers curl there for the briefest of moments, his thumbs skid against the finish,

"How was I?"  He asks, his smile splitting his face.  I try not to lose my composure.  It feels like a game.  It's distracting, intimidating, and — I don't want to lose.  I need to know.

All I want is to know is how much truth there is to Ez and his sharp words.

But —

His expression is coveted by calmness too quickly to gauge his reaction to my confession.  I can't help but grimace.

"Hmm,"  Ez pulls up the forgotten cigarette.  He taps it against his sink, and the ashes fall without a sound.  My heart skips.  "The things ya' say and your lil' frowns don't match. Ya' know that?"

"Neither do yours."  I sound petulant — absolutely childish.  "Your expressions are incredibly evasive towards any question I have or anything I say, no matter how rude it is.”

Ez laughs, and it's genuine enough that my irritation nearly settles.

"And?"

"And? It's frustrating. I can't tell if you're being honest."

"... That's what has ya' poutin'?" He glances up, another low laugh following, "Evasive? Do ya' wanna know me real bad or somethin'?"

I nod before I can even form the word,

"Yes."

He snorts, dry and airy, "Well, that's a fuckin' first."

but I cut in with,

"And that's hardly believable."

Ez falters, his eyes snapping up to meet mine. I feel my teeth grit at the flash of emotion there, something that scratches beneath the surface of his nonchalance.

"... Let's cut a bargain," Ez's cutting smile returns. "What do ya' wanna know first? ... Can't be what I think about your dream, can it?"

I hesitate.  I can't think of a good question — fumbling through several before,

"How old are you?"

"28."

"Where were —"

"Ah-ah." Ez cuts in, pushing away from the counter. He discards his jacket, and I watch the muscle of his arms shift under his t-shirt. He waves a quick finger at me, striding over to the couch, slinging the leather over the back of it. He sits down, patting the cushion beside him. "I get a question too. Fair's fair."

"Alright... Fair's fair." I nod, tenderly sitting beside him. I feel too close.  My knee brushes his when his legs spread, taking up the small space between us.   We turn to face each other.  "Right.  Go on."

"Ya' really going to answer?"

"Yes." I nod again, determined. "Promise."

Ez's tongue piercing strikes his front teeth, a roll of his tongue, a soft, sinful chuckle.

"... When did ya' have that rude dream?" His eyes narrow, heat inside of them. I twist my hands together, my brows furrowed. I find myself flushed again. I start — stop.

Start again.

He's messing with you.

Just be —

Honest.

"Maybe... a few weeks ago. Something like that."

I glance towards him. He doesn't hold one expression or another, but his eyebrow lifts.

I inhale,

"...Why do you want to know?"

"So.  Ya' weren't bullshittin'."  Ez laughs.  His ringed fingers slide over the back of the couch where he's hooked his arm. I twist my fingers at the hem of my shirt.

"Did ya' like it?" Ez's knee brushes mine again, and I feel my nerves light up at the contact. "Your dream?"

Honest.

Be honest.

"... Yes."

Ez's jaw shifts again,

"Wait.  It wasn't your turn." I tack on, quickly, trying to bury my confession. My palms press into the fabric of the sofa,  "are you doing that on purpose?"

"Doing what on purpose?" He counters. My eyes widen.  "I'm answering your questions."

"But it wasn't..."

"Ask the right questions, then."  Ez shrugs.

"Do you —"

"My turn. You attracted to me, Milan?"

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