Wicked Boy (74 & 75) (Patreon)

(This mega chapter took me LITERALLY two weeks and the first several paragraphs were already written and then thrown out and rewritten — then Ezra and Milan went to breakfast instead, but that was thrown out as well, but hey, at least 😭 we're making progress.

I was obsessive with the dialogue in this because I wanted it to be realistic and I think this is an important stepping stone.  Please forgive me for any rootin' tootin' idiot errors because this was a monster and I was really focused on the flow and having Milan peel back a layer.  This was actually super important to me because I'm self-reflecting a lot with this mental health journey of mine, so.

We will be getting into Ezra's (mostly healed) backstory soon which will have major content warnings (so I will summarize for people who don't want to read it) as well as Milan facing the actual cause of his trauma: a very abusive childhood, (and forgive his non-linear progress and sad days)  so please buckle up for healing — see the end for more warnings on future chaps bc I don't want to spoil anything)

—

I wake up groggy and overheated, my head throbbing as it does after a negligent encounter with one too many sugary bar drinks. There's no beat of bass to match the pulse, only the metronome tick of the clock on the far wall and birds twittering tunelessly outside.

Unlike my years-old memory, I'm alone in the living room of Ezra's house, lace curtains leaving sheer shadows on my skin. I ache in my slumped position against the armrest, so I sit up to stretch, accidentally displacing a quilt from my shoulders.

There, I cradle my neck with a scrunch of my nose, eyes wandering blearily until I find my neatly folded glasses sitting atop the table's coaster. I reach for them, blinking to adapt to the crisp outlines of sunlit furniture, particles floating and glittering, aimlessly light, as I fold Ezra's quilt and throw it over a wicker basket of blankets near the television stand.

Everything that felt familiar to me at night feels like a secret uncovered — easy to determine where dust lives and where it doesn't. Ezra's television is clean of it; his remote, his DVDS, and VHS tapes are the only thing awry. He uses his blankets often, but there's a thin cobweb next to the hope chest and on the back end of his picture frames.

Nothing seems remarkably Ezra's, but nothing isn't.   I don't know the names of his films, but the quilts look like they've seen the washer more than a few times — patches sun bleached in areas, dye more saturated in others.  There's no aesthetic to this room, no color scheme, just odds and ends of furniture and decor that don't quite match, jumbled floral prints, and differing wood stains.

I store foggy questions away that might become as hazy and greedy as dreams — and I think of that too, whether or not I dreamt when I fell asleep and what song played during the credits.

Did I make it that far?

What became of Lily?

I use the guest bathroom, so I don't wake Ezra. I brush my teeth with the same spare toothbrush I used after a drunken night on the border of Jameson, Tamela in tow, a dark grey with little purple lines.  I think of that night, hazy memories of swaying, numb, under trailing club light.  Of crawling, deep-seated shame.

Then I frown at my reflection, hair as untidy as it's ever been — pajamas rumpled, and wince at the persistent pang in my stomach.

An excursion as ordinary as a movie has my stomach in knots, treading through aging and malignant remembrances — and reaching over my shoulder, beneath my shirt, and brushing the raised edge of a faint scar.

'Would I then be endowed with the wisdom that this despair was my father's gift?'

I exhale, releasing myself and straightening. 

I'm exhausted — a deep muscle ache, like the aftermath of a fever.  The living room is too bright to sleep in, but I step back inside of it, and my chest thrusts up with a second exhale — all minty breath and heavy eyes.

Stop thinking about it.

I linger by the window where the birds swoop from tree to tree outside, chirping happily.   There, I calm myself and cross my arms as I watch them — branch to branch, camouflaged, then dark against the sky.

Finally, my attention shifts, and I stare at a painting that hangs on the wall.

Perhaps, I'm more emotional lately because I've started to scrutinize the warmth of daybreak again, the flight of restless birds twittering.  Or perhaps, it's a lot harder to deal with without the option of drinking.  I feel my lips twist in recognition of that, and I bite the inside of the corner of my mouth, chewing absently.

Is it a good thing — or a terrible thing?

To start to feel again?

I sigh, rubbing my eyes beneath my glasses. I blink to adjust to the light a second time, palm on my neck to press the kink from it.

"Christ,"  I mumble, frown deep enough to pass as a grimace.

How did I fall asleep like that?

I stretch, examining the oddly plain painting again.  It's framed with aging wood, the same warm stain as the hope chest, and depicts a painted meadow and a small abandoned barn.

Beside a hay bale is a tomcat sleeping peacefully in a wagon, a bird atop the white picket fence — unthreatened. It's less lonely that way, I think. If it were just a barn or just a barn and a sleeping cat, perhaps it wouldn't be.

And that's silly.

Lonely?

The art is simply another thing that doesn't suit its owner, yet I inspect each rust-colored brushstroke and the uptick of dusty blue with tired, keen eyes — wondering if, somehow, I'm wrong. If somehow, again, I'll know Ezra just by looking — the same way he came to know me.

And standing here, free, with two days to empty my head, I can't help but think the same thought as I usually do:  isn't this all the same thing that I did to Lucas?

That crashes in on me in one giant, terrifying wave.   Likely, the same one that frightened Ezra.

My phone buzzes, vibrating noisily against the hope chest it rests against. I consider ignoring it.  I don't necessarily feel fully awake, just cognitive enough to stumble through sunlight — because that's what sunlight means.

Wake up.

Get up.  Face another day.

But what will my days be like when I'm not impulsively digging canines from beneath porches?

Unknown Number (add to contact list?):

Mud man!! its Lexi. U were supposed to tell me that u made it in one piece. U don't have ears or smth ???

Unknown Number (add to contact list?):

picking magnolia up on Friday @ noon. U wanna tag along

Unknown Number (add to contact list?):

by that I mean drive me there.  Ill even help U Find ur ears so u can listen better :-)

I laugh soundlessly, something warm bubbling up, wet in my throat.  Conceivably, that's the answer.

I'll... find things to do.

I scroll further down, further and further — and find four messages delivered in late December of the last year.

They say,

Mamma:

Double cuff.  Cuff links.  Dinner jacket. Reception at 7. Stein no longer Stein. Remarried. Thompson now — very sensitive, don't forget.

Mamma:

ETA?  Bronson's niece is in need of tutoring in multi-variate calculus.  Greet him first.

Mamma:

Behavior at the McLaughlin event was indecent.  Ridicule your father that way again, and you'll reimburse us for your studies.

Mamma:

Sign the Fowler's Christmas card.  Include well wishes to Mavis.

In no message, whether I'd left drunk, on the arm of a stranger, Isaac, or Tamela — by cab, city bus, or valet, did my mother ask if I made it home in one piece.  There's a familiar tightening around my rib cage; it doesn't make space for my lungs. It doesn't make space for anything.

So I delete my mother's messages — and again, my phone buzzes.

Unknown Number (add to contact list?):

But fr let me know ur ok hon!!

I blink.

Outgoing message to (Unknown Number/Add to list?):

Sorry.  Thank you.  I made it home safe.

I hesitate. Then, quickly I type,

I'm available Friday. I owe you a meal. Breakfast first?

"... Are you like," Ezra mutters, voice rough from sleep.  He trudges in from the hallway, startling me, his bedhead leaving his dark hair unkempt. "Part rooster or some shit?"

He yawns, — yanking a floss stick from his mouth to talk, his old t-shirt backward and clinging at an angle, almost as if he blindly threw it on for decency's sake. It's unlike him — but oddly domestic. I feel goosebumps crawl across my upper arms as he takes his place next to me.

I glance back at him out of pure confusion, just as tired — brain sluggish, and arch my brow. He turns his attention to the painting, squinting. He returns my frown with a mirrored eyebrow, expression still equipped with sleepy eyes and the imprint of the seam of his pillow on his jaw.

My stomach nose-dives.

"Part rooster?"

"Yeah. Sleepin' in past dawn. You heard of it?" Ezra's dark head of hair tilts lazily, eyes roaming over the painting.  His breath smells like mine — the same drugstore brand of toothpaste.

"We were up until dawn."

"Means we should be down until dusk, don't you think?" He stretches like a lazy cat under a warm sunbeam, which feels like emphasis but looks like sore joints.  "Goddamn."

"... Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah.  I gave you the good blanket. Got cold." He tuts when I roll my eyes, and I stamp down my retort about my couch-related pains.

"... You like art or somethin'?"

"Oh.  No, I was just..."  I shrug.  "I haven't thought about it.  I suppose I can appreciate the effort put into it. It's a nice — cat."

Ezra eyes me curiously, and I meet his gaze, ignoring his amusement.

"What the fuck?" He snorts. "That's a no."

Ezra pushes away, stretching his arms behind his head as he walks toward the kitchen.  The trash opens and closes, and the sound of water running echoes through the house.

"Well. What about you?  Do you like art?"

Ezra's shoulders give nothing away that his mouth doesn't, so I listen when he says,

"On the fence about it.  Don't know if I like it for the right reasons."

"Is there a right reason to like something like art?"

"I think there's supposed to be."

I consider that.

"Like I said — simple guy.  If I think it's pretty, it's pretty."  Ezra sighs, leaning a hip against the counter.  "Pretty to me; I like it.  Call me easy."

"Isn't that how you assess art?  By whether or not you like it?"

"Hell no."  He scoffs, one ankle over the other.  "I thought so, but color me wrong.  Which means I gotta be able to talk about it and shit, but I don't care to talk about it."

Clients.

"Ah.  Makes sense."

"Didn't you deal with rich fucks on the daily?  They love waxin' poetic.  Nobody talks about art in insurance?"

"I'm sure they do, but.  I think we dealt differently with clientele."  I press my socked toes against the edge of the hope chest.

"Not into entertainin'?"

"Mm.  I'm not much of a people person, so learning hobbies and interests weren't really my forte.  My mom is the one with the Rolodex."

"... That right?"

"The size of a cabinet."

Ezra peels open the cabinet — pulling out a pack of gum.

"Rough.  Easier for me."

"Doesn't sound like it."

"Most of the time.  But I have a client who thinks d'Hondecoeter is the precursor to wine.  It's like a goddamn ritual."  He adjusts a little and leans back, gum forgotten.  "Old ass paintings of birds and more birds.  But whatever wets her whistle.  Who am I to judge?"

"Fair."  I glance down at my phone as it buzzes with another notification.  "You might as well put up with her old bird art if she put ups with your geriatric idioms."

I lift my head to see Ezra's brows raise, thumb at his lip.  He mouths the word geriatric, to which I say,

"'Wets their whistle?'"

And he laughs — sharp, rough, genuine, fills his water to the brim, chugs it down, and tops it off a second time, just to point at my feet.

"You're wearin' fuckin' argyle socks."

I purse my lips — and without any comeback, Ezra's grin grows wide.

"They were a gift."

"Sounds like somethin' an old man would say."

"They're warm."

"Sounds like somethin',"  he says slowly, "an old man would say."

I frown.  I do not look down at my warm, argyle print socks.

"... Do you like talking about the movies you watch?"  I gesture towards the television, ears burning.  Ezra shrugs in a way that could be taken as a yes or a no, tongue drifting across the inside of his bottom lip.

"I dunno.  Why?"

"Well.  For work.  It's probably the same thing.  In a way, movies are art.  Right?"

Ezra scrubs a hand over his face, a smile peeking from beneath his palm.

"...What's with the early mornin' sass?  You tryin' to tell me somethin'?"

"What?"

"Am I your bird-lady?  Makin' you watch films?"

I smile, huff out a laugh, and shake my head.

"That's really not what I meant."

"Ah-huh."  He peels the plastic off a packed container that says, 'classic flavor,' and I wonder what it tastes like.  "Textin' our pal Tamela?"

"Lexi." I bounce my phone awkwardly on my palm before I disconnect it from the charger and follow his path to the kitchen. "She asked if I made it home. My phone was dead.  So."

Ezra slides me a glass of water, then returns to his, watching me over the rim, tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip — a purposeful misdirection.

"Lexi snagged your number, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How'd she manage that?"

"It's a boring story."  I try for nonchalance, but there's a waiver in my voice, one that falters under his scrutiny.  "It was a long day.  Between being mistaken as a missionary and bathing in your lawn, that is."

"C'mon then,"  he pushes back on the island, palms on the counter, and shrugs,  "... Put me to sleep."

"... Why are you so conversational?"  I pull myself onto a barstool, plopping inelegantly down into the seat.  I'm too drained to mirror him and stand, "I thought you weren't a morning person?"

"Hmm.  I'm goin' back to sleep after this bedtime story.  Consider this my second wind."

"Are you a child or an old man? Pick a side."

"Mm. Somewhere in-between, I think."

"... There was a lot of mud, as you saw." I sigh, put upon, and think of my wad of laundry. "And a second dog. Lexi came with me to get her checked out at the vet. I dropped her off after, and we talked for a bit. She showed me her salon."

"Damn," Ezra reaches behind him for his cup and takes a swig of his water. His eyes narrow, his expression turning from mild surprise to incredulity. "Tour and all.  Must've taken a likin' to you."

"Doubt it.  She's on crutches and can't work.  She seems the type to get bored."

"Mm.  So you were her victim.  The dog okay?"

"Magnolia?" I smile a little at the memory of her, muddy and curled against June's side, "I think she'll be fine. Her microchip said she belonged to a man who passed away recently. She's blind, so she might have just been afraid of the storm. But June was really good with her."

"... Magnolia?"

"Yes.  That's her name."

"Pretty name. "

Ezra blows a bubble to pop between his teeth.  I don't watch.  Not really, anyway.

"Mhm."

"... Lexi likes strays. June might've earned a new best friend."

"Best friend?" I smile a little at that thought, distracted as my nose wrinkles with humor, "Don't say that.  Lexi might make them matching harnesses."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. Did you know that she bedazzled June's collar? I wonder how hard it was to get the mud off that thing."

"Bedazzled?"

I attempt to smother a laugh, but it comes out as a huff, a giggle — and I'm shaking my head at the sound and the thought of June.

"You know... The little rhinestones?  Ridiculous.  He was so — sparkly, even when he was filthy. And so happy about it, too."  I tap my fingers along my glass, swallowing the last of my humor, reveling in the ache of my cheeks. "It must be nice to be a dog."

Ezra doesn't respond, and finally noticing that, I flinch, glancing up to find him there in the same spot across from me.

His lips tilt.  It's not a smirk — or a grin, or something inherently lopsided. He chews slowly, brows up.

"What is it?"

"You look happy. I'm thinkin' I should bedazzle you or some shit. Might be cute."

I blink before I sputter, swatting at the air in front of me with a scowl as I try to remember how to swallow my water.

"There are thoughts you shouldn't voice, you know."

Ezra laughs again. He's — laughed a lot this morning.

"... Talkin' face to face,"  It's not flirtatious, his eyebrows scrunched, one lifting higher than the other — like he's downright perplexed. "Don't ya' think it's better?"

"What?"

"Better than waitin' on a text. Or talkin' on the phone."

I glance away, shy, stool scraping as I bring my cup back to the sink.

"Did you not like...?"  I don't have the energy to finish the question or the confidence, so I silently trail off.

"Not that. But I couldn't tell if ya' liked callin' me.  After that night I picked you up."  Ezra tilts his head,  "Tamela was always there.  You text real short, too."

Stunned, I stare.  Ezra stares back, unaffected, bulldozing me with complete sincerity — the mood abruptly shifting from lighthearted to...

Something else entirely.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"It wasn't that."

And Ezra waits.

"It turns out. The first week,"  Reluctant, I chew the inside of my lip, debating whether or not I should share, "without — being able to drink.  I mean.  There are withdrawals.  I didn't have them last time.  It was mild but. I was sort of anxious.  Irritable. It feels like the flu, almost."

"... You didn't say."

It sounds an awful lot like a reprimand.

"Well.  The AA meeting was odd. Things were so different, not going to work.  Not — having any structure.  Contrary to what you're used to, believe it or not, I don't like to whine. But I didn't — don't have anything else yet, so I didn't exactly..."

I scowl, flustered.  My shoulders slump.

"See, it sounds like whining."

"It doesn't."

"Maybe, but,"

"But what?  Whine to me. It's better than not hearin' from you."

"... Is it?"

"You like hearin' me repeat myself or somethin'?" Ezra dips in, teases, instantly lightening everything.  "Do ya' like the sound of my voice, pervert?"

"You like the sound of your voice."

"Ouch."

I laugh quietly.  A lull passes, near comfortably, but not entirely.

"... It wasn't that I didn't like talking to you.  And I had fun yesterday."  I risk meeting Ezra's eyes as I fill my glass with water again, though we're close enough to brush.  He doesn't miss the chance to press his side to mine,  "I didn't think I was having fun at Taylor's — or the vet.  But I was.  And the movie was good.  It was nice coming home and not just..."

Ezra nods, reaching around me to tug my hand from the faucet before I cut it off.  He tips his glass beneath the stream of water, his chest to my back as I take another sip.

"You're not my bird-lady,"   I add.

He chuckles.

"Good."

I press my side back in the same way, seeking contact.  I try not to think of shoulders meeting, scars, my mother or father.  I won't think of the push and pull of unreturned tenderness or the solace of Lucas.

Comparison is an unlovely thing, and this isn't the same.  I've discovered something.

"... Is that why you were upset with me.  At the bar?"

"Upset?"

"Yes.  Is that why you were here last night — why you were up waiting?"

Ezra's chest is warm against my shoulder; his heartbeat is something tangible — I can feel the beat of it, the careful cool of his words when he says,

"... I don't follow."

It's quiet after.

So I push.

"Yes, you do.  You worry.  About — whether or not I want to talk to you... Whether I'll come back?" I watch as dribbles of water chase each other down the drain. I turn around.  We're close. Ezra glances down at me, eyes burning up daylight, straying from mine to my lips. "... You don't need to. I don't want you to."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't want to tell you — but I was worried too. That you might think I'm too much.  That I shouldn't depend on you as often as I do. But.  You remembered my coffee order.  Yesterday.  When you ordered without me."

Ezra scoffs, nose scrunched with mock repulsion,

"What can I say? It traumatized me."  He jokes, but it isn't a calculated misdirection, for once, "Bitter as hell."

"... Tamela remembers my coffee order, too."

"Mm? That right?"

"Yeah. She always brought one by when she had business at our office. Every time — almost. The only time she didn't was because she was upset that I deleted MeBook, and she thought I blocked her." I inhale, "But she said she liked me. Then. And now. That she'd like me in the future, too, that's absolutely insane, isn't it?"

My leg bounces. I don't know how to still it.

"I know I'm not making much sense."

Ezra only leans against the counter, contemplating that, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

"... It's fine. Keep talkin'." His voice is firm. Gentle. It's becoming something that puts me infinitely at ease in a time that does anything but. "I'll figure it out."

"...Okay."  My cup might break within my grip,  "... It's not just the coffee.  You ask a lot of questions.  About me. About my day.  If you see me looking at a painting, you ask if I like art.  You ask who's texting me.  Things like that."

Ezra stares.  I don't know what to do, vulnerable on the cusp of sleep deprivation and the loitering warmth of laughter.  So I smile hesitantly at him.

"I do that. I thought I was the only one who — I get so...."  I frown then, frustrated.  "It doesn't matter.  I'm not great with words, but I've been trying... With Tamela, mostly.  She likes words. Do you?"

"Like words?" Ezra touches my wrist. "I take what I can get. If it's hard, I don't need 'em."

"No. I can — I should tell you.  If I don't, I'll do what I always do, and I'll keep...."

I shrug, helpless.

"You're a good friend,"  I say, taking a timid sip from my glass, then set it aside to cross my arms over my waist.  "I don't have much experience being a good friend or letting people be my friend.  I'm usually pretty selfish.  But I'm going to do better. Because I like talking to you. So you don't have to worry."

"Hey, no. I shouldn't of,"

"Please don't. Just — listen. Tell me those things. I never thought much of Tamela's feelings or why she did what she did. I treated her like a pest." I swallow, voice quivering — and I feel mortifyingly open, "I'm glad you called me out at the bar.  I didn't think of her."

"It was a bad night."

"Right.  But I'm not stupid. I didn't have to drag her into it.  Part of me is — inconsiderate. I knew that she was lonely. She desperately wanted to spend time with me, and — I wanted to drink.  I took advantage."

"Hey."  Ezra stands straighter. I can see him in my peripheries, "I'm not lookin' down on you."

"... I know.  But I thought about that this morning.  I've always been like that — thinking of what hurts and how to make it hurt less, even if... I did it to Lucas.  Used him like some kind of bandaid."

"Lucas is a fuckhead."

"But he was young and — I did it to Tamela and Isaac, too.  I almost did it to you."  I rub the back of my neck, then attempt to tame the cowlick on my head, "I didn't consider... I don't know. I don't want to face anything."

"You'll get there — alright?"

"Maybe, but — it made you... you didn't feel like a person.  You make me so happy and — I didn't know I made you feel that way."

My vision blurs with forming tears. I can't help it. Ezra's jaw tightens, a muscle moving near his ear, eyes sharp,

"I'm rambling. I sound stupid."

"No.  You don't.  You're tired, and you're — tellin' me a lot.  Just keep goin'.  Or — take a break.  If you want."

"Okay."  I nod, fingers crumpling the fabric of my night shirt on both sides of my waist.   "Wait.  No.  I don't want a break."

"Alright.  That's okay."

"It's — just important that you know.  That you are a person to me.  Last night, Lexi — until she told me what an ass I was being, I didn't even..."  I shake my head,  "The night where you picked me up, I was drunk, and I was sad. I just wanted to be near you because — you're honest. You're safe, and you're kind. It wasn't me — I really wasn't begging you to sleep with me."

"I never thought that."

"Regardless. I was so off the deep end, and — I was embarrassed. Then I came home last night, and I kissed you.  I kissed you the day before that. Even though we agreed to be friends. You asked for me — to see you as a person — and I'm not trying to romanticize your every action; trust me, it's just that..."

"I kissed you the first night." Ezra says, suddenly vehement, "And I kissed you back last night. I would've kept kissin' you — do you know how much I,"

I take a step around him and back, can't bring myself to look at him still — and wave in front of me, a little lost and red up to my neck,

"It's fine. It's okay.  That's — I'm trying to say something."

"... Go on."

"You — you notice things about me." I do look at my socks, then. "You should know that I notice things about you too.  I do see you as a person.  I look at your popcorn, your toothpaste, your quilts — I mean, I don't wax poetic, per se. But I was trying to figure out that cat painting. Why you would have it. Why you liked that movie last night — why you like Iron Magnolias? Maybe I should've said that.  I know there are things you don't tell me, and I know you might have flaws. I'll know you — more and more.  Every day.  I just don't think anything could possibly outweigh how good you are."

"I'm not as great at...  I'm going to do better with Tamela.  And you.  I want you both to feel as lucky to know me as I do to know you.  I want to be — that dependable.  Even if it takes words. But, more than that, I want to like myself.  As much as I like you. And I do like you. How couldn't I?"

The floor creaks as Ezra moves, and I risk another glance at him — though my heart is beating wildly, a bubble of panic pushing it to my throat. It's the hardest thing I've had to do.

What?

What is that expression?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ezra stops toe to toe with me.  He lifts my pinky with his index finger, gentle,

"... Good.  'Cause I don't see anyone else."

My lashes flutter, blindsided.

"What?"

"… You're it for me."  Ezra has never looked as serious.  "I liked you months ago.  Now.  And, call me a fuckin' psychic — but I will next year.  Heavy-handed, huh?  Is that what datin' is to you?"

I hesitate, stunned into silence, throat tight,

"If you're fine with that, the sex work, half the town thinkin' I'm the second comin' of Satan and my damned family,"

He sighs, hardly audible, a breath on my lips and a quirk to his — and finally, my brain catches up, and I interrupt with,

"I am."

Ezra's expression softens.  I can't look away from it — like that.

I want to hold it in my palms.

Quieter, he says,

"... And if you find out you can't do this — us, you know that you can tell me to fuck off and still have a place to live, alright?  A car to drive?  ...Do ya' know that?  That you owe me nothin' at all.  That I want you happy?"

"Yes.  I know that."

Ezra kisses my forehead.  I don't think my heart has ever felt the way it does right now, but I clutch the fabric around it with my free hand.

"... Well, then.  I hope ya' don't dump me for this, but I guess it's time to admit somethin'."  He presses his lips to my cheek.  I listen, intent.  My brows gather.  But in my ear, he mock-whispers — amusement cloying at the edges, his grin an audible thing,  "I'm not really an accountant."

—

(Okay so if you read the top little note of future warnings and scrolled down to see other future chapter's content warning — it is: you guessed it, they're living together, they're dating, Ezra is Ezra:  more sexual scenarios.  And sometimes they'll be downright sleazy and I'm SORRY BUT IT'S EZRA.

— ok also, I purposefully have Ezra say "you" instead of "ya'" when he's feeling a little serious, okay or it's too yeehaw instead of carefree for my liking.  The boys talked a lot more than usual and we're getting a little more playful but I imagine it's bc of Milan's self revelations and Ezra's downright giddy kicking his ankles together and teeheeing that Milan is in his house

but anyway please treat me kindly I'm steering the ship into recognition and healing territory)