WICKED BOY (36) (Patreon)

(Okay, the “plot” picks back up on the next chapter! I’m going to start updating Wicked Boy regularly with Black Velvet if there’s interest for it!  **ah yes, the one bed trope** I love cliches and I’m not ashamed)

I feel my nose wrinkle at the hint of sarcasm in his declaration, leaning against the wall near his door.  I cross my arms to keep from playing with the change in my left pocket.  I feel too nervous about stepping further in and instead watch him from the entry.

"I don't know why but,"  I laugh softly when Ez steps into a second bathroom attached to his room.  "It's not surprising to me that you like snakes."

"Yeah? Fuck off,"  Ez scoffs, a lightness to his words that has my smile lingering and unwanted, and waves a hand from the door, "...Ya' wanna see the bathroom?"

"Well,"  I frown, a noise of hesitance following, "you don't have to show me this part."

There's a beat of silence that drags on just long enough to become uncomfortable. I feel my voice stale inside of it.

"I mean.  Like, your room..."  I cross my arms further, fingers curling into the fabric over my ribs.  "Or your bathroom.  You can just show me — where I'll be.  If that's alright."

"This is your room."  Ez corrects, grip on the doorway when he swings casually back into view.  My gaze shifts to the muscle present in his forearm and tracks up towards his collar, and where it dips beneath his shirt before I can redirect it. Ez's eyebrows raise as he cocks his head towards the bathroom.  "...Your bathroom."

"Oh."  I follow him, embarrassment lingering in an uninvited way.  I run my hands up and down my arms, fidgeting, and force myself to step inside.   His bathroom is clean, with drawn shower curtains and cleaned glass.  The idea of him being so neat, with brick walls and a tidy little home that has quilts, surprises me.  "For some reason, I just thought this was your room."

"It is,"  Ez shrugs. We're too close to one another, and he's showing me spaces that are private — meant just for him. It's hard not to feel intrusive, "I can share."

I wait for the recognition of a joke to dawn — for me to realize that the offer is just a taunt or tease.

But instead, Ez huffs out a laugh and says, with the faintest smile,

"You alright, Milan?"

A beat passes, with me too stunned to reply. I glance up towards him at the use of my name, then down at the shower mat. Then, too late to be anything other than awkward, I open my mouth with nothing to say.

"Oh."  And nothing comes out besides that stupid little 'oh.'  I steal a look from where we stand in the bathroom and back towards the bed with uncertainty.

Ez reaches out and taps my chin with a quick brush of his thumb, surprising me with invisible heat that skitters through my skin. Out of pure determination, I manage not to jump.

"Gonna catch flies."  Ez smiles, all dimples and lidded eyes that look more like honey and less like foliage without anything green to play with.

I smile back, slow and unsure.  Mortifyingly, I touch where he did — where it tingles, sending butterflies into my chest. Ez notices with a flash of white teeth. Of course, he notices.

The problem is, is that I'm standing in the artificial, bright light of a bathroom and thinking of how handsome a simple notion like that makes him.

Then I think of the bed.

The bed.

"Bed's big,"  Ez walks backward, his eyes still on mine, watching me like I'm the most peculiar — fascinating thing.  He drops his weight onto the edge of the mattress, his hands splayed, like he's demonstrating its size.  "But.  Like I said, I'm barely home."

But he is sometimes, isn't he?

"I'm fine with the spare room," I push, trying to sound friendly in my desperation to squash this feeling, worried that I'm making it more, again. "Or the couch."

Ez snorts, genuinely humored, his brows furrowing with the perceived absurdity of it.  He doesn't even consider it as anything other than a joke.

"Shy?"  He asks.  I avert my eyes, pulling them back to him with every ounce of courage I have.  He chuckles, low and genuine.  "I flirt, but I'm harmless, 'kay?"

I really don't think that's true.

"And I have a spare room, but," Ez rolls one shoulder upwards as his weight shifts, and the bed looks soft and welcoming, hugging the corner of his wall,  "it's the Mount Everest of useless shit.  We'll get to it."

"I could clean it."  I offer, quickly, wondering if I'm absolutely ridiculous for just how flustered the idea of sharing a bed with Ez makes me feel, whether it happens once a year or every night.

I think of my dream, weeks prior, and —

This can't happen.

"Ya' do that," Ez says, his eyes narrowed slyly, "until then," he stretches an arm out, gesturing towards the pillows, "the fat pillow is mine."

But it is.

—

Ez's knuckles brush mine a few times that night.  It feels like touching an exposed wire, and that's how aware I am of the danger of my fluttering heartbeat.  I stick my greedy palms beneath my thighs — touch-starved and missing something meaningless.

I refuse to reach for the popcorn on the coffee table in front of us, even after he saunters back with a second bag.

"Now,"  Ez leans closer to my ear, but his eyes are on the television when he lifts a finger to point at a woman with curled hair and a floral dress.  There's no dialogue, just her on the front porch swing, in rays of the sun, her dog curled at her feet.  The birds are loud, "that's her grandmother's home.  She ain't givin' it up."

I sympathize with her.  I wouldn't want to let go of it either.  She looks at peace there, with her hand cupped above her brow, casting shadows onto her smile.

"Margot is her niece.  She owns the beauty store."

I watch, and ever so often, I find myself hyper-aware of Ez's weight shifting, of his shoulder brushing mine, of another black-feathered whisper in my ear.

My skin is a live wire.  We sit side by side on the couch, and I don't say much.  It's strange, not reaching for my phone for the time, and not checking my email, and dreading upcoming deadlines and client meetings.

"And who's that?"  I ask after tiredness sinks into Ez's bones.  I don't want him to fall asleep.  I think I'll miss his company.

The discomfort that comes from forcing myself to respond to a photo from my mother, a call from my domineering father, a screenshot of Tamela's newest pinstagram post, or Isaac's weekly invite to the bar — is gone.  I want to sit there, smiling along to the movie, mainly because Ez laughs at everything.

"That's just some boy,"  Ez shrugs, his eyes lidding further.  His thigh sits heavy against mine, and I try to let go of the tension that straightens my spine and relax into the cushions next to him.  "She's fallin' in love with."

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