Rian was a pain in his goddamned ass.
They’d talk things over about Chris, share any new information, figure out what to do next, and maybe just...just...
Decide to walk the fuck away from this.
Before they got in another petty little snarling snipe fight, when the constant picking and snipping between them was starting to ride up Damon’s ass in the worst way.
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, then stepped into a pair of boxer-briefs and jeans, hefting the black denim up over his hips before shrugging on a loose, comfortable black button-down that wouldn’t show the water stains from his still-dripping hair, the fabric so worn it had the texture of thin felt.
He’d just finished rolling the sleeves to his elbows when a quiet knock came at his door, light and almost tentative—and he thought again of a flitting butterfly, those thin fragile wrists and long fingers, so narrow they were almost bony, the pinkened knobs of knuckles that were so awkward they bordered on charmi—
Stop that shit right now.
And stop thinking about that moment this afternoon when he’d leaned in to get a better look at Rian’s flushed, swollen nose and realized...
He could almost taste him.
He kept thinking of honey when he looked at Rian’s eyes, and in the back of his mind he’d thought he would taste like honey, too. But instead Damon had caught something on his breath like sugar candy and white wine, emanating off Rian to pour into Damon and leave him practically drunk on every breath of the heated air between them.
And when Rian had leaned closer, as if...as if...
Nope. No.
Hell fucking nah.
With a growl at himself, Damon stalked to the door and yanked it open before he could talk himself out of it.
Rian flinched back, hand upraised delicately, clearly caught in the middle of starting to knock again only to be startled out of it. He held perfectly still, a deer caught and shocked frozen, blinking up at Damon. He’d changed, too; he’d been wearing a plain, unembroidered caftan with flowing trousers after class earlier, the stains on it clearly indicating it had been consigned for messier work that happened in art class, and had tied his hair back out of his face.
Now, though, the ripples of black had been loosed in a river over his shoulders, chest, and back, seeming to give the thin stalk of his body weight and volume to hold him to earth. The caftan had been replaced by a slouchy knit sleeveless crop-top that laced up the front with black strings, baring the smooth, subtle swell of Rian’s pale stomach above the waist of jeans that were more rips than anything else, relaxed and just a little too long and dragging over his feet to brush the floor and almost hide those leather sandals he wore all the time, his toenails painted a fresh, gleaming black. Yet as always, he seemed to be trying to hide his overall shape, and he’d topped the outfit off with a long-sleeved shawl-style fringed wrap in cloudy shades of mottled blue, the gauzy fabric almost fully covering his arms with its bell sleeves and draping open over his chest like a coat, its ragged ends hanging down almost to his knees.
The slender gold bangles and chains around Rian’s wrist chimed as he lowered his arm, hand falling to curl against one of the many pendants on long leather cords draped around his neck, gathering little silver medallions and a cord-wrapped pink crystal and a tiny bronze cog into his palm as if they were comfort objects.
“Um,” Rian said faintly. “Hi?”
God fucking damn it.
Damon was staring again.
As if he’d ever admit out loud that Rian was fucking right.
He kept catching Rian staring at him—because Damon was always fucking staring at Rian.
His face went hot, and he flicked his gaze aside, stepping back. “You coming in or not?”
He could almost see the irritable snap of Rian’s brows in the piqued tone of his voice, even without looking. “...since you asked so graciously.”
Heaven fucking help him.
But he moved out of the way to make room for Rian to come in; not that there was much space for him to make room at all, and he’d never been more aware of the size of his room than when he was trying to cram a second person in it. There were walk-in closets in some of the more luxurious student quarters that were larger than Damon’s suite—which was why it had been so easy to claim it for himself, when most people didn’t want a room so tiny he could hardly turn around in the cubicle shower without bumping his elbows on the spigots, and his “kitchen” was just a mini-fridge with a microwave on top of it, a sink, two short feet of counter space with a standalone oven, and two cooktop burners.
He normally didn’t care. It was his space, and he needed privacy more than he needed luxury or amenities.
But he was suddenly painfully aware of how sparse it was, as Rian stood past the threshold and turned his head slowly, hazel eyes scanning the room.
Between the kitchen and the open single-room living space, the room was barely fifteen by fifteen; Damon had fit a twin bed in the corner, piled high with a box spring, a base mattress, and not one but two roll-out shikibuton-style futons meant for floor sleeping, but which made better mattress toppers than any Serta he’d ever damned well tried. The futons were stacked with homey handmade quilts, stitched in radial patterns of intersecting circular and square geometries to make designs that centered black on white four-pointed stars. A sofa would have made the place feel cluttered, so he’d opted for a deep, comfortable recliner instead, settled in the opposite corner from the bed and facing the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall.
He had no decorations on the walls. Not even pennants from past team wins, or his own trophies from his high school football days. He’d left those with his parents when he’d moved out, mementos of the boy he wasn’t anymore so they’d have something to keep when he wasn’t there. The only other things in the room were the small coffee table, the laptop atop it, his nightstand, and a row of bookshelves stretching beneath the window, along the wall opposite the bed. With the minimal furniture choices and most of his belongings in the closet, paired with the fact that he was lucky to get a corner unit in one of the narrow towers, giving him windows on two out of four walls...
Somehow, the space always just felt clean and cozy, instead of cramped.
But he still couldn’t help wondering how Rian—with all his airs and little decorative fripperies and that sense of refined elegance that said he came from a life accustomed to more—saw his space.
If he saw someone who preferred simplicity...
Or if he just saw a man with a barren, empty life, devoid of nearly all trappings save the little subtleties he doubted Rian even noticed.
But rather than the thin judgmental smile Damon expected...
Rian let out a delighted gasp, stepping deeper into the room, standing on the oval rug with its concentric circles of rainbow colors, turning in slow arcs. “You have your own room? How did you even manage...?”