Wicked Boy (57) (Patreon)

(A/N: the big big chapter of COMMUNICATION — time to go to Huxley!  Special mention to: Grammarly hating Ezra’s speech.

also he switches between ya’ and you depending on the length of the sentence and the inflection, which is how my family that ISN’T in the tundra enunciate, so I have always thrown that in if you were wondering 😂

I hope this helps you to understand Ezra’s side of things.

copy and pasting takes away a LOT of my double-spaces and indentation, something I’ve recently noticed, so I apologize for that too!)

—

"...Ezra." My voice isn't as firm as I mean it to be. In fact, it passes like a sigh from underneath his fingertip. It quakes under a desire that's as eager as it is new. I can feel Ezra's heart thumping against my shoulder blade, fast, maybe as fast as mine. "That isn't fair."

It isn't.

My indecision isn't the unwillingness to kiss Ezra. I want to kiss him, or I would if he felt seen by me, the way I feel seen by him. The fact of the matter stands that he has yet to feel like a person in my presence instead of a vice to replace the comfort of alcohol. And I still want to kiss him.

So why ask?

Ezra is silent. My knees are digging into the floor, balancing my weight below him. I probably look ridiculous. I know that I feel that way, rolling around on my apartment floor, especially when dressed like an accountant.

The lust passes. My elbows shift with discomfort, and in a whisper, with a little bit of misplaced betrayal, I bite out,

"You know exactly how I feel. I told you on the porch — whether you believed in what you knew I wanted to say, or didn't." Maybe I don't know Ezra. Everything he's shown me, though, is lovable and charming, and generous. Perhaps that's why that confession of his confused me. "Now, you're usually — considerate. So I'll let this go."

How could Ezra even imply that he isn't a person to me when his warmth is everything someone could hope to be? Do I have to know exactly how he's become who he is, or why he does the things he does, to care about him?

"So, no?"  Ezra pulls back enough to allow me to sit up against him, his head hanging over my shoulder as he listens.

"The answer isn't no, but it still isn't going to happen." I continue, quieter, facing the window in front of the two of us and the dreariness of Pennbrook's night sky. "And I'd appreciate it if you don't tease me this way in the future. I don't find it very funny."

Ezra wouldn't play with me. Not from what I've seen. That's the issue. The tentative offer is strange, considering the fervor of his initial touch and the initial enthusiasm of his lips against my neck.

"Mm.  Alright."  Ezra laughs softly, a distinct laugh, an unusual cadence to his mild humor. He sounds fond — and bitter, all at once. "There's the Milan that I met outside the motel."

I huff.

"Here I am."

"You really think I'm teasin'?"

Ezra — this doesn't feel like him, a man so careful and controlled that I can hardly dissect his tempered expressions. He seems like he's taken the wrong step, knows it, but refuses to step back.

"So you're going to kiss me?" I goad, an aggressive grasp for reason, "if I say I want you to, you're going to set aside everything you said on that porch — what you said that you wanted, and kiss me?"

"What if I did?" Ezra counters my provocation, equally irked, which still — isn't fair.

He doesn't say anything more to explain himself. He doesn't move to kiss me, either.  He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I've used up all my bravery by reprimanding him for a touch that I want.

"... Then you wouldn't be able to take it back."

"Fine."

Finally, with a loud exhale, he pats the pair of loafers next to my knees.

"... So you're serious?"  He hums, and I lean back into him, distracted by the proximity of his voice. "About that prick from the bar?" He doesn't sound precisely civil, but it isn't targeted towards me. "He seemed friendly enough. Boring.  Nice."

The word nice comes through his teeth. My brows gather, perplexed, and thrown off by his source in subject-changing material. How a prick can simultaneously be nice is beyond me.

"Prick?" I echo. I squint for good measure. "...Bar?"

Ezra flicks the sole of one loafer this time, agitated,

"Well, gee. These are a lil' big for ya,' ain't they?" He sneers, and allows us to touch in the ways that we are. I sit back as he does, between the spread of his legs, like I'm a child ready for the knots to be combed from my hair.

I stare at the loafers, glancing at my feet, and turn abruptly to face Ezra — regardless of how it puts me in his lap. His bright eyes are on mine, his gaze open with mild surprise,

"The man from Jameson's bar," I assert, slowly, "that I danced with? That — I was dancing with when you came to pick me up?"

Ezra's nose wrinkles in distaste,

"These are his stuffy fuckin' librarian shoes, ain't they?"

I tilt my head in confusion, distracted, and more-so impressed,

"You remember what he wore?"

Ezra glares.

"I was fuckin' sober."

"I don't even remember his name.  These aren't his." My eyes widen slightly, glancing down at the pair of shoes that have landed me in this literal hot seat. "Tamela bought them for me. They were too big."

Ezra's bizarre attitude plummets into confusion,

"... 'Cuse me?"

"They were too big,"  I say, slower, and realize — his change in mood, open hostility, and petulance are likely the result of a nicotine withdrawal, and this... "Where would a man in Pennbrook go without his shoes?"

Is this...?

I ramble myself out of the thought.

No.  No way.

"Anyway, in Tamela's words, they are still a gift worth giving — since I'm broke now, and it would be a disservice not to sell them." I shrug, "I didn't have the box, and I didn't want to scuff them." I trail off, "though I did unintentionally by using them as a doorstop, in the end."

Ezra relaxes, rolling his eyes before he closes them with a heavy sigh,

"Whole lot of talkin'."

"Well," I fluster, "you're not doing a whole lot of thinking!

It's quiet. My heart is fluttering to life again.

He's bothered by the idea — of another man.

But he said...

"This isn't like you. I thought that you didn't..."  

I reach up, braver, skirting the edge of Ezra's t-shirt sleeve. I push the fabric upwards, and he flinches in surprise, his eyes opening, regarding me with mild curiosity.

"Was that...?" I touch his nicotine patch. Then the skin of his bicep with hesitant, feather-light interest.

Ezra leans forward, over me, both our knees against the hardwood. I look up at him.

"Sure," his lip snags upwards in annoyance, annoyance that's directed at everything but me, and my eyes drop to his barely-there Cupid's bow. He cups my cheek, my lashes flutter, caught off guard, "You could say I was feelin' jealous."

"And so you...."  My brows gather.

"Wait.  Oh my God." I blink, astonished, "You tried to seduce me."

Ezra smirks, my cheek against his palm. He's handsome and it's disastrous.

"I did." He shrugs, a genuine laugh rolling forward.  I watch him, the way his dimples grow.  "Was it workin'?"

"But. You thought I was seeing someone."  I point to the shoes, "you thought I was seeing bar-guy."

"Mhm." Ezra nods, a false look of contriteness, "My bad.  I'm a little pissy."

I feel my skin heat, and his eyes flicker over my cheeks.

"Ezra.  I'm serious.  I wouldn't cheat on someone.  Not even with you." I say, firm. He meets my earnestness with another devastating grin. "And you said, you said..."

"Alright,"  Ezra releases me and nods, "It was a lil' fucked up.  But what's that mean — not even with you?"

His shoulders slant downwards, his head tilted, and his body loosened into crookedness, just as his smile.

"... It's soundin' like you forgive me?"

I hesitate.

"This..."  I'm always taking two steps back, then wondering what could've been if I'd just, "Okay, um, listen."

"I'm all ears."

"Well.  A lot of the time, when you flirt with me.... it feels like a joke."

Ezra's eyes narrow as his brow lifts.  He doesn't appear to be very impressed with my deduction,

"Does it, now?"

I balk,

"Yes.  Certainly."  I snip, "Or I thought I had misread you, especially after you picked me up from the bar."  I trail off, uneasy,  "But — that.  Um, what just happened.  That didn't feel like a joke.  It felt like..."

I glance up, then away, feeling uncharacteristically sheepish.  I adjust my glasses, and my voice drops, like someone else might hear me.

"I mean, why would you care if I was with someone else?  And.  It felt like you..." and like always, I begin to lose my courage.  But I push forward, looking up again, "It felt like you — wanted... And why would you be jealous? If you didn't...?"

"At what point did I make ya' feel like I don't want you?"  Ezra's jaw sets for a moment, then he hums.  "It's pretty clear that I do."

I falter,

"No.  You said that you want to be friends.  That was clear." I shake my head, "on the porch.  You said — and then you just bent me over in my living room because you thought I had a boyfriend."

Ezra nods, though he looks a bit entertained by my outrageous tangent,

"Did ya' like it?"

"Yes."  I say quickly, still heated, then with wide eyes, I backtrack, "Jesus.  Stay on the subject!"

Ezra snorts,

"Oh, you're just callin' to all things holy today, aren't ya'?"

Maybe this is it.  This this.... I know exactly what it is.  I deflect things with a wall, with unfriendliness... But Ezra's deflective weapon of choice seems to be his sensuality.

I shake my head,

"Ezra!  Stay on subject.  Do you like me?"  I wouldn't be this brave if it weren't for my own stubbornness, "do you?  Is that why you were jealous?"

Ezra's considers me, his gaze so intense and strict that I bite my tongue,

"...Yeah, I do."  He says.  "So what?"

"Oh."  My heart beats, quick on the way that it feels like it might swallow me up.  "Uh."

"...Really?"  I whisper.  It must be filled with too much hope because Ezra's gaze softens.  Then, my thoughts circle.  "But — what do you mean, so what?"

"I mean — we have to stay friends."  He clenches his teeth, "I want to be friends, 'cause you have a habit of runnin' off.  Doesn't work for this.  It won't work for this."

"...What the hell does that mean?"

"It means,"  Ezra snaps, gesturing towards nothing, like there's too much energy in his limbs and his tone has changed — positively irate,  "You won't stick around and keep tryin' to feel better if somethin' you don't like about me pops up.  If whatever you're feelin' ends, everything will end."

"Ezra."

"I scared ya' off with that shit with Lucas, didn't I?  Probably looked just like your dad, comparin' goddamn dick sizes in a parkin' lot like we were?  Lettin' him air all his dirty laundry?"

No.

No.

"Do you even know if ya' just feel like this — 'cause ya' feel like you owe me?  I'm not tryin' to send you mixed signals. I'm tryin' to do right by you."

"No.  No — I got scared of things back home.  It had nothing to do with that.  Or you.  I thought about you nonstop, every day."  I say, firm and loud,  "You can do right by me and be with me."

Ezra inhales sharply, and I stare as he settles down, reigning himself in.

"Milan."  He rolls his fingers against one another,  "I want to see ya' feel better.  I want to see ya' like things — and smile a lot and whatever the fuck else ya' do when you're happy,"  I flinch.  I guess I don't know what I do when I'm happy.  Ezra notices, of course, he notices — and squeezes my forearm,  "I fucked up just now.  I bad at steppin' back from things I want — so I'll probably fuck up again."

"You didn't fuck up."

"Mm.  I didn't just try to steal ya' from a boyfriend that doesn't exist?"  His eyes light with humor.  I blush.

"... I'm real damn envious of the version of me you have in that pretty head."  Ezra smiles, slow,  "It isn't me, at least not all the time.  You can't figure that out and then run without gettin' better."

I exhale slowly, patting my thighs.  I consider conceding.  We sit together, for a long time, in our heads — each with our own thoughts.  I decide... That I feel the same way.

Maybe, even more, now.

"... You meant it — about getting to know you."  I squint at nothing.   Ezra leans back on one hand, "but you know people can do that and date?"

He rolls his eyes heavenwards, dragging a palm over his face, and laughs.  I like his laugh.  I like — that he tells me what he wants and why he wants it.

"This the hard-hittin' business-bred side of ya'?"

I like... That he cares about me.

I want to be with him.  Despite what he says, I know I want to know myself — happy.  I know... That I care about Ezra.

"Maybe."  I stand as he does, gathering up a box between my arms.  I think about his lips on my neck.  I feel my pulse race in the places it's pressed along my chest.  "Alright.  I told you where I stand.  I told you how I feel and what I want.  Whether you think I'll run — or what you think we should do... That's your deal now. Consider the matter dropped."

Ezra pauses mid-stretch, his eyes chasing mine,

"...I'm not going to date anyone else, so please refrain from ambushing me against any floors in the future unless you plan to follow through,"  I sound as collected as I do during meetings, nerves aside, though I feel the distinct urge to vomit.  I heave the box onto the counter and reach for my discarded phone to hail a cab.

I turn away from him.

"So."  I clear my throat.  "The ball is in your court.  Let me know if your mind changes."

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