Wicked Boy (51) (Patreon)

(A/N:  This is a big chapter.  I originally did not mean to open Ez up to this amount of dialogue, as he’s always been a bit mysterious, but communication is important and vital to the health of his and Milan’s relationship.   So bare with these little insights to a more open Ez.  They are very important and show his level of affection towards Milan.)

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"What did you mean by the wrong idea?"

The alcohol is beginning to fade into slight nausea and discomfort, but nevertheless, it has left me feeling braver than usual. I pull the cuffs on my sleeves into my palms with a nervous stretch of my fingers. The fabric feels itchy.

"I guess I'm being... I know I'm being pushy." At the risk of looking desperate, I've caught Ezra on the front porch.  His screen door creaks as it closes behind me, and moths that have made it past the bug screen wrapped above brick are tapping loudly against his porch light. "Or. I know that I've been pushy all night. But I just want to understand."

Huxley's night sounds are loud in particular, with crickets, cicadas, and the occasional frog croaking in unison.

"And what don't ya' understand about needin' rest?" Ez's voice has lost its ever-present slyness, and the warmth of it swallows me up like the heat from a hearth.

He turns to me, keys in hand and backpack looped over a singular shoulder.  I'm distracted by the light of fireflies glowing, dimming, and spotting the dark tree line beside his driveway.

"I'd rather ya' do it inside."

"But. Well.  You said I was being flirty,"  I trip over the last word, rashness evident, but Ezra's unreadable expression doesn't give way, "and that you might wake up with the wrong idea. Like I — might have done something wrong. I want it to make sense."

"I know what I said." Ez's eyes shift from me, back towards the door, then over to his porch swing.  I inhale. My heart feels like it's beating a mile a minute. This anxiety is hot. "Ya' didn't do anythin' wrong."

Ez’s regard slides dutifully, from my eyes to my neck, to the fabric gathered in my hands. He sighs before he shrugs off his backpack and slings it up onto the weather-worn loveseat.

"I didn't?" I step forward as he turns and seats himself with a sway on the wooden swing. I don't hesitate before I sit beside him, overly aware of how close may be too close, but wanting this question of mine answered. "It just feels like..."

"...Use your words, pretty boy." Ez's brows lift, and he glances ahead at the dark sky, the swallowing moon, and pushes his boots against the rough carpet that blankets the concrete floor.

We rock slowly, and the swing makes a sound like it's an eternally tired and overused part of Ezra's home.

I grip the chain beside me to steady myself.

"What's... what's the wrong idea?" I search his expression with gathered brows like I can somehow unravel each thought inside his head. "And does it... What does it have to do with you leaving tonight?"

"You're drunk."

"I know that."

"Hey, don't get hostile," Ez snorts. He tentatively leans back against the wood, his chin tilted like he's exhaling smoke. Instead, he closes his eyes. "Why can't we talk when you're sober?"

"You know why."  I frown. I drop into the corner of the seat and press my socked feet down in the same gentle rhythm as the man beside me. "And I guess... I don't think I can sleep.  Not without knowing."

Ez's eyes open slowly, his gaze lidded, guarded, and trained on the roof,

"Mm. Well." He takes a breath through his nose, "I don't think we should talk about this tonight."

I bristle.

"Why?"

Ezra's eyes narrow as they slide to me, like I'm testing his patience, or — on second thought, like he's searching for something,

"I could say something the wrong way, get ya' all pissed at me, and you could never sleep again."

My hands cross in my lap. I push one mail under the other. He's not wrong. I could take whatever his explanation is, make it ugly, and take it with me at night — every night, for always.

I'm built precisely that way.

"I..." I steal a glance at him. I feel utterly nervous. "I swear that I won't.  I want you to be honest with me."

"Honest." Ez's lift lips soberly, "... Ya' do like honest.  But I can't say I'm good at this."

"I think you are."

"Well, fuck," he exhales. "'Kay.  Like I said," he shrugs his shoulders, "you're drunk. Which means you're still drinkin'."

"Tonight was the first time that — I went out." I feel absurdly and abruptly small, angry, and lonely in Ezra's corner of the world, "And, well, you could—"

"I get that ya' had a real shitty night," Ez's voice raises, just enough to put the chill of mine away, "Ya' quit your job with Pops.  I don't know what else has been goin' on.  But that's a big fuckin' deal.  Takin' that step."

It's big enough that I feel like I sit in the decision's shadow. Even here in Huxley, at night, beside Ez and his light.

My stomach twists with fear,

"I don't want to think about it yet."

"I know."  He hums, his fingers spreading over his knee. "Drinkin' aside. You were real brave, Milan."

Ez's praise is sudden. My nervousness spools and my heart feels like it's overrun.  Tired.  My chest feels heavy with an ache.

Why?

Ezra's head lulls to the side.  He's watching fireflies, I realize.  I follow his gaze, trying to chase whichever shine has caught his eye,

"But being here tonight, or too much, ain't somethin' I want to do to either of us."

"Do to us?" My nose wrinkles, "it's your house. Tamela and I,"

I'm sorry, I want to say. My sentence trails and dies.  I want to say anything to make this normal.  I feel the words racket around in a pang of guilt that's uncalled for, even though Ezra doesn't believe I've done anything wrong.

It's quiet for a moment. There's only the sound of insects and the man beside me shifting.

Then, Ezra brushes my cheek with the back of his fingers. I inhale at the feather-light contact,

"... So ya' don't think that you wantin' things like this," Ezra shakes his head as I lean into his touch, "is me takin' advantage of ya'?"

I blink, confusion fluttering at the back of every tipsy reaction to his warmth.  I pull back like I've been burned.

Ezra frowns.  His hand falls into the space between us.

"It's alright."

"It isn't,"  I chew my lip, eyes narrowing at his hand, "it's — That's...."

"... Sometimes when people feel real unsure, they latch onto somethin' they feel is protected."  Ezra's voice is distant.  "Somethin' that makes them feel real safe." I watch his eyes. His bright gaze meets mine.  It has never felt so direct, or as such an enigma, and I want to hear him, "maybe the concept of someone. The idea of somethin' stable."

I think of Lucas.  My attachment to our friendship — to our routine.  I lift my feet from the floor, the trance broken, and the porch swings out of balance without the two of us,

"I'm not latching onto you," I whisper it before I mean to. I sound hurt because I feel hurt, and I sound irritated, cold — because I'm embarrassed.

He's right.  Shit.  He's — I don't stand, only to make my point known,

"I didn't come looking for you.  Okay?  You were the one who came to the bar and,"

"Hey. I know.  Listen," Ez interrupts my thrumming anxiety with calmness. I grit my teeth, "don't read into what I'm sayin' and listen."

I hesitate.   Ezra exhales,

"... My words don't mean anythin' more than what I say that they mean.  'Kay?"

I nod. My cheeks feel hot.  I lean back.

"... Sorry."

"I want you to see me as a person."

I turn then, towards the man beside me, with surprise.  Ezra isn't joking.  His jaw is set with seriousness, but nothing sinister, nothing threatening — just the appeal of honesty.

"You are a person."

"No.  And that's okay."  Ez relaxes, his posture sinking.  I join his slow rock on the swing again while it's quiet.  "I told you I ain't fuckin' good at this."

"You are."

Ez scoffs, an eyebrow raising, his playful look of disbelief centered on me.  Minutes pass, and we sit next to each other.  I don't know what I think of, because I think of too much, and his voice comes late and low, like a rumble.

"... To you, right now, I'm a concept."  He says.

I look up.

"So is Huxley. Barely-there concepts that make you a little happier to think of." Ez chews the inside of his cheek, his dimple disappearing each time he lets go, "and I like that.  I like that it all makes ya' feel good."

He turns to me, a slight smirk there, his bright eyes finally meeting mine.

Oh.

This — this does feel like... Honesty.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't say sorry — I just, mm, I ain't a therapist, Milan," he tilts his head.  I watch the column of his neck, trace the ink there back to behind his ear. "I'm a sex worker."

"And?"  My face pinches.  It's the first time — the first time that he's made it sound bad.  I don't like it.

Ezra's jaw works with the light, wound so tight that I worry for his molars,

"Well.  The concept I create makes a lotta people happy.  It's nothin' new."  He chuckles.  "And I wanna be your friend and all,"

Friend.

"But?"

"But you really need to fuckin' talk to someone."

"I don't think that,"  I shake my head.  "No.  It isn't about you being a sex worker.  Or — a concept. We can be friends and — and I will talk to someone, it's just easier to talk to..."

"Me?"

I nod.

"'Kay.  That's a start."

"Is it?"  I ball my hands into fists.  I can feel the blunt edge of my nails pressing into my palms.  "Because it sounds like I'm too much.  And it's, it's obviously bothering you."

"Botherin' me?"  Ez sneers.  "I want ya' to lean on me. I'm solid enough for you to rely on me." He says. My gaze is still his. The porch light leaves warmth and shadows on his skin.

"But... what?  Why are you leaving, then?"  I grip the swing underneath me, "what is all this — what is it about me that scared you off?"

"... Nothin'."  Ez hums.  "... But the way you're cravin' for me, for my touch and my company, and how you ain't in your right mind?  Ya' think that if I accept that, that it's okay?"

I blink at the warmth in my eyes.  I don't think I have tears to spare.

"...When you put it like that, I sound desperate," I swallow, hot and itchy in my skin, "... it's embarrassing.  It's embarrassing that you think of me that way."

"Why would it be?  Why does it have to be embarrassin'?"  He laughs.  There isn't much humor to it. "I didn't say I had a problem with it.  Did I?"

"It sounds like you have a problem."

"No.  I'm just sayin'; you might feel different tomorrow. Or the week after that."

"What if I don't?"

"Maybe you won't,"  Ezra sighs and shrugs,  "but.  If I stay here for things like this, ya' might not ever try to get the help you need. Ya' might think — I'm all ya' need.  'Kay?"

"I.... What if — with you."  I push my toes into the carpet, averting my gaze.   "I don't think you understand.  I mean, about you.  The way I think about you.  I've felt like this for,"

I flinch,

"Shh." Ez's index finger playfully plants itself against my Cupid's bow. I calm just as he winks, "don't tell me somethin' you'll regret."

"Can ya' take care of yourself first?"  His finger drags away.  I blink.

"Take care of myself?"

"Yeah. Can ya' do that? So I can get to know who you wanna be?"  He waves at his eyes with a flippant hand, "With your mascara and your friend who thinks she's a pop star?"

I swallow a flustered laugh.  Ez smiles, and leans into my space just enough for his shadows to fall on me. The night slips into his dimpled cheek.

He's stunning, like this.  I nod, quietly.

"Get to know... Who I want to be."

"Yeah.  Be my friend.  Be your own friend.  Figure out how to like yourself, and what you like,” my lips part, "like yourself as much as ya' like the concept of who I am."

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