“Luck and timing,” Damon said, after a startled moment. “There are only four cupola units, and they’re all this small; the rest is all staircases. Most people would rather share a room to have five times the space, but a few of the grouchy cranks like me prefer our privacy.”
Rian laughed, and it lit his face up as if someone had touched a match to the sparking wick of a candle inside a lantern. “Oh, I’d kill for this. Especially rooming with Walden. Though I’d probably cram myself in a tiny corner and fill the entire place up with art supplies. I admire your restraint.” On a light, dancing step that made his shawl swirl around him, Rian turned toward the bed, reaching out to run his fingertips lightly along the edge of one quilt. “...these are Mashpee designs, aren’t they?”
“Uh...?” Damon’s brain blanked. He—what—what? “I...yeah. I picked them up at the annual pow-wow up in Cape Cod a few years ago.”
And then never went back.
He’d stood so awkwardly on the edges the entire time, wishing he knew what he was missing in every graceful movement of the fireball ceremony when it was like watching a foreign show without the damned subtitles, wondering how the hell he could be one of the People of the First Light when he was so goddamned much in the dark.
Before he’d bought blankets like some kind of fucking tourist just to say he had something from his people.
And then run the fuck away.
Rian lifted his head, looking at Damon with a curiosity so frank it almost looked innocent; Rian looked so entirely different when they weren’t scowling at each other, his face open and fresh and sweet, freckled and warm with unspoken laughter. “Do you go every year?”
“I...no.” Damon averted his eyes, dragging a hand over his wet hair and mussing it. He really didn’t know what to do with Rian bright, enthusiastic, interested. “I just... I don’t.”
He couldn’t get the real answer out.
That he felt like he didn’t belong, and every time he walked the fringes of spaces claimed by the Mashpee Wampanoag nation he felt like an outsider looking in at something that should have been his, but had been taken away from him.
And he didn’t know how to get it back.
Fuck, he didn’t want to be thinking about this right now.
Or trying to figure out what to do with the weird flutter-hot feeling in his chest, watching Rian dance around his suite like it was the most delightful thing he’d ever seen.
Fucking hell.
Damon cleared his throat, turning away and reaching up to open the cabinet over the range. “You eat dinner?”
“Ah?” Rian’s sandals rasped softly on the old wooden floorboards, hinting he was turning toward Damon. “Oh, no. I, er, was thinking about ordering in after we were done talking.”
“I can make enough for two.” Damon drew down a wide, deep Teflon-coated wok and set it on the range. “You okay with stir-fry?”
“Sure.” Rian’s steps skipped closer, and then he was just a burst of color and pale skin in Damon’s peripheral vision, peering over at him curiously. “How do you make stir-fry? Maybe I can help.”
“You cut up whatever you want...and then stir...and fry it together. That’s what stir-fry means,” Damon said, and jerked his chin toward the mini-fridge. “There’s some vegetables and mushrooms in there if you want to wash them off and get started.”
“No mushrooms,” Rian said immediately, and wrinkled his nose up in distaste. “They’re gross.”
Damon fought back his smile.
No.
Not even thinking it.
Not even thinking that Rian was cute, right now.
Definitely something wrong with me.
“Okay,” he said, and leaned over to pull the freezer open, feeling in until he found the rump cut of beef he’d put away until he felt like doing something with it, before tugging it out and slamming the door shut. “No mushrooms. But there’s carrots, broccoli, bell peppers...think I got some snow peas in there.”
“Oh,” Rian answered faintly. “Do I cut the snow peas...? Or just wash them?”
Damon stopped, one hand on the hot water lever on the sink, and just looked at Rian. “You can’t cook, can you?”
“I...” Rian cleared his throat, and toyed at one of his dangling pendants, eyes darting left and right before fixing on Damon sheepishly. “I can microwave things...?”
“...how old are you?”
“Thirty-two,” Rian shot back defensively. “You?”
“Thirty-eight.” Damon arched a brow. “Cooking isn’t a life skill you pick up at thirty-seven, by the way.”
“I know.” Rian’s lower lip jutted out. He turned his face away, chin practically resting on his narrow, upthrust shoulder as he folded his arms over his chest and glared across the apartment. “I know. Okay? I know. I just...”
Whatever he said next was just an unintelligible mumble, mangled through his teeth. Damon finally remembered to turn the hot water on, and dropped the cling-wrapped package of frozen beef into the sink to run under the water and defrost.
“What was that?” he asked.
“... I had a chef,” Rian threw out defiantly, pout deepening.
“A chef.”
“Yes. And a nutritionist, and...”
Damon held one hand up. “I don’t need to hear any more. I get the idea.”
Yeah, they were definitely from different worlds.
Damon hadn’t wanted for anything growing up, had been safe and comfortable and settled with his family, but...he hadn’t been private chef comfortable.
Shaking his head, he pulled a drawer open and retrieved two out of his stack of slender plastic cutting boards, setting a bright green one down on the other side of the sink and tugging a knife from the wooden block next to the coffee pot. Setting the knife down atop the board in an unspoken invitation, he said, “That kind of rich, huh?”
After a few hesitant moments, Rian straggled closer, unfolding the defensive lock of his arms and pulling the fridge open. The pale light inside fell over his face, highlighting the thin bridge of his nose, as he bent to peer inside.
“My parents are,” he said, oddly muted.
Damon set his own cutting board down on his side of the sink, but left it for now, waiting for the beef to soften under the hot water a little more. Instead he leaned his hip against the counter, watching Rian curiously. “Seems like an important distinction to you.”
Rian moved with the tentative touch of someone uncertain in someone else’s space, reaching into the fridge and then drawing back, before starting again, carefully picking up a bundle of carrots and another of broccoli. He straightened and set them on the cutting board, then went back again with a bit more confidence, tucking his trailing hair behind his ear before going after the carton of fresh snow peas and a little rustling plastic bag full of red and yellow and green bell peppers.