Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Damon just...he and Rian were fine apart from each other.
There was no fucking reason to miss him, was there?
Like, what the hell was even going on in his head right now?
It wasn’t even about missing the sex. Yeah, the sex had been good the one time it happened, and sometimes he caught himself remembering the way Rian had gone so soft and helpless when Damon kissed him, leaving Damon so flushed and distracted he got smacked in the face with a dodgeball in third-period gym yesterday...
But more often he caught himself thinking about how Rian had fallen asleep against him.
Proving what he’d said—How could I be afraid of you?—more than any words, when Rian had settled in Damon’s arms so trustingly, curled so warm against him and the small bed forcing them so close they’d woken up tangled in each other with Rian’s hair snaking everywhere in a mess and their legs practically hooked around each other.
Now, every time Damon woke up, he woke up feeling for that, only to find the bed empty, just himself sinking the stacked futons down into a pillowy heap.
It was absolutely ridiculous that he wanted it back that much.
But maybe...maybe.
Christ, if he was a drinking man, he’d fucking need one right now. Not that there was anywhere to go after midnight except that festering swillhole just across the Mystic—Hank’s Roadhouse. This time of night there’d be no one there except people who had nothing they wanted to go home to. Damon himself wouldn’t go there if he was dehydrated and the only thing left to drink in the world was a bottle of roadhouse whiskey.
He didn’t need a goddamned drink.
He needed Rian.
Fuck it.
With a frustrated sound, he scrolled down to the bottom of the text message history, and typed out a new message before he lost his nerve.
You make it hard to think. Hard to know which way is up, which way is down, he sent—but that wasn’t enough. That wasn’t enough, and fuck, he probably should have at least said hi first or something, but this was all he had and all that was on his mind. But I feel like the only reason I keep spinning in circles is because I keep trying to turn away from you, when everything else is trying to turn me back.
Part of him hoped Rian was too busy to answer, when he’d just...blurted that out like it was nothing. But after a few moments, the...popped up, and then:
What are you trying to say?
Well if that wasn’t a fuck of a question. Rian seemed to be good at that—asking those questions that left Damon fumbling. I don’t know.
Those ellipses started, then disappeared, then started again, then disappeared for so long he thought maybe Rian had just given up on him when he never knew the right words at the right time. But then they popped up again, followed by, What would happen, do you think, if we turned *to* each other?
Damon let that question stew, turning it over, trying to picture it but he just...he kept getting hung up on the difference between these quiet texts, these soft words they shared, and how when they were together they just stabbed at each other until everything hurt.
I don’t know that, either, he answered. I just know I don’t feel so alone with you. Even when you’re making me so goddamned angry. But I told you I’m not good at holding on to things.
In his head, he saw the wistful, shy little quirk of Rian’s smile that seemed to come through with his next message. What if someone held on to you?
Thought you were a runner.
And if I’m tired of running?
Damon snorted. Feels like all I’m saying tonight is “I don’t know.”
Well, Rian answered almost merrily. Maybe let me know when you do.
I’ll try, Damon said, when he wasn’t even sure what he would be trying and they’d just...fuck. He’d gone right in but they’d just danced indirectly around this whole goddamned thing, so he guessed he was going to have to figure something out and stop locking himself up inside his own head.
And try.
As soon as he figured out what trying meant at all.
...other than trying to sleep.
Because now the third-period boys thought using him as a dodgeball target was a game.
And if he got smacked in the face again, everyone was doing laps for the rest of the class.
...including him, when if he didn’t at least get three or four hours of sleep...
Making himself run might be the only way he could stay awake.
And the only way he could keep his mind off Rian, when he couldn’t seem to focus on anything else at all.
What the hell are you doing to me, Falwell? he thought, as he stared at his lock screen and Rian’s playful, silly smile. What the hell is this feeling every time I see your goddamned face?