Fuck if he knew what to do with this feeling.
Other than to run from it.
Is that what you want, Damon?
To run from the very damned thing you claimed to want?
He didn’t—he just—
“I’m late,” he muttered, stepping back, feeling for the doorknob. “Practice. Sorry. Gotta go. I...” He swallowed. “I’ll update you if anything crops up with Chris.”
Rian didn’t say anything.
So Damon just...left.
Jerked the door open, backed out into the hall, walked away.
And told himself he wasn’t running from...from...
From wanting something from those soft, pale lips that never quite seemed to smile just for him.
Chapter Seven
Anything new to report?
Rian sprawled against his desk, his chin resting on one forearm, his other arm draped out in front of him with his phone clasped loosely in his hand, the unsent text waiting below a line of unanswered ones. He hovered his thumb over the little icon of a paper airplane, scowling at the previous text history.
[Monday, 5:42PM]
Chris seemed the same in class today.
[Tuesday, 8:01PM]
I washed your plate and left it outside your door.
[Thursday, 7:14AM]
Are you going to the faculty meeting next Monday?
He didn’t even know why he’d sent that last one. Of course Damon was going to the faculty meeting; they all had to go to the faculty meetings, he just—he—
He just wanted that stubborn, rude, irritating rock to actually answer him.
They were supposed to be working together on this, weren’t they? Keeping an eye on Chris and reporting in, but if he didn’t know better...
He’d think Damon was avoiding him.
Rian deleted the unsent text with a grumble and let his wrist go lax, flopping his phone face-down on the desk.
Jerk.
What was all that mess about being sorry he was such a jackass, only to keep acting like the exact same jackass? And why the hell was it annoying Rian so much?
Well...what if something happened with Chris?
What if...what if...
There was no what if.
If Rian had sent something about a problem with Chris, Damon probably would have answered in a heartbeat.
Which meant Damon was just refusing to answer because it was him.
Well, so what?
Hate him anyway.
Dick.
He can go right there on that shelf with the ceramic ones.
And stick his head right in that freaking kiln.
With a groan, Rian thunked his head against the desk, closing his eyes and burying his nose against the crease of his sketchbook, the untouched pages, when he couldn’t bring himself to draw anything when the last time he’d tried, he caught himself sketching the low bridge of Damon’s nose, the way the corners of his mouth dimpled with that wry, mocking, arrogant smile that made his already full lips seem so much richer and softer and—
“Uh... Mr. Falwell? You okay?”
Rian opened one eye, peering past his arm and his hair; one of the last period sophomores—Jay? His brain didn’t want to stick on names right now—eyed Rian nervously past the papercraft project he was working on; a few of the other students gave him odd looks, too, and Rian lifted his head with a small smile, propping his chin in his hand.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You’re not the only ones who fall asleep in class sometimes. Storms always put me right to sleep.”
That got him a few oh-look-the-adult’s-trying-to-be-funny laughs, dutiful, but they settled back to work, talking amongst themselves. As if trying to underscore his rather sad comedic timing, the gray sky outside let out a rumble; it had been coming down like cats all day, raining in a steady sheet of silver occasionally punctuated by crackles of lightning.
Rian sighed, letting his gaze drift over the classroom, past the rows of tables and to the little work area Chris had claimed for himself. Just as he had every day, Chris bent over his wisteria sculpture, completely absorbed in those fine details to the point where Rian was starting to wonder if, for some reason, Chris was putting off firing it, committing those details to their final form.
But was Rian imagining things, or did Chris look...?
He tried not to be obvious about watching Chris directly, instead turning his head to watch the storm drip-drip-dripping outside and only studying Chris from the corner of his eye. He looked...exhausted, honestly; the shadows beneath his eyes bordered on purple, deep and bagged, and there was a certain gauntness to his cheeks, a certain haggardness that haunted his face. His hair was dirty, oily, unkempt. And once again he wasn’t really doing much with the sculpture; his hand poised with a wire texturing brush, but it wasn’t moving and hadn’t for at least the past ten minutes while Chris stared at it dully, as if he was asleep while wide awake.
Rian flipped his phone up, thumbing through the texts with Damon, then tapped the camera icon next to the message composition field, made sure the sound and the flash were turned off...and surreptitiously snapped a photo of Chris. In the harsh storm-light coming through the window he looked even worse, washed-out and pale in the image; his skin sallow and pockmarked, red splotches of what looked like stress acne leaping into bright relief.
Without a word, Rian attached the image to the text window.
And hit Send.
Just as he did, the last bell went off; Rian watched as the boys filed out. Chris walked slower than usual, his feet dragging, his head down.
How much longer was Rian supposed to let this go on just to play along with Walden’s asinine rules, while whatever was hurting Chris grew worse and worse?
Were Chris’s parents really so damned indifferent that they wouldn’t want to know something was wrong with their son?
Rian waited until the last of the boys filed out of the room, then checked his phone.
Nothing.
Damn it.
Was he the only one who actually gave a damn?
Maybe you’re just trying to control everything again. Sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, trying to fix things that don’t need to be fixed just to feel better about yourself.
He closed his eyes, hissing out his breath through his teeth.
It wasn’t that.
...was it?
He couldn’t deal with this train of thought right now.
And, with a frustrated sound, he thrust away from his desk, scooping up his sketchbook and flipping back through the pages until he found the rough sketches he’d made of that lightning-struck tree. Stalking into his workroom, he flicked the overhead light on, tossed the sketchbook onto a worktable, and yanked an unfinished painting off one of the easels scattered around the room, replacing it with a fresh one.