“You said Chris is a good kid. No reason to banish him out here if he hasn’t done anything wrong; if he’s the model son, nobody’s embarrassment or problem child.” Damon shrugged, lacing his hands together against his thigh. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they wanted to give him a chance to grow up without the people who dog their careers dogging his heels, pushing at him about his life choices and where he belongs.”
“That’s...that’s a more benign interpretation than I’d have thought of.” Rian lifted his head, looking at Damon, the carefully blank glassiness of his eyes clearing for a moment, trouble dwelling in hazel-dark depths. “I hope you’re right, Damon.”
“Send it. Let’s find out.”
Rian lingered on him for a moment more, as if he’d say something else—before he looked down quickly, and gave the mouse touchpad a definitive tap. “Sent,” he said, then sighed, drooping. “It would make me feel better about at least part of this. Knowing Chris has parents who’ll care that something’s wrong.”
“I hope they care enough to fucking call back,” Damon growled irritably.
“And if they don’t?”
“Depends on what Chris is willing to say to us.”
Rian glanced away, peering out the window, one hand rising to tuck his hair back before he leaned forward and absently deposited the laptop on the coffee table again. “Think we should go try to talk to him again?”
“He might be a little more talkative after a night of rest and some time to think.”
And Damon might be a little less jumpy and grouchy with something to focus on other than Rian—those ever-mercurial moods, the delicacy of his movements, the way Damon was suddenly all too familiar with the lines and smooth shapes of the body hidden under his loose, flowing clothing. With a mutter under his breath, Damon levered himself off the recliner and stood, dipping to scoop up his discarded shirt from the floor.
“C’mon.”
“I...ah...” Rian cleared his throat, standing and brushing at his clothing. “I’ll meet you there.”
Damon pulled his shirt over his head, frowning as he settled the hem around his waist. “Yeah...?”
“I’m still wearing what I had on yesterday.” Rian’s smile was sheepish, strained, but his face was red from his scalp to his neck. “So are you. It...um...it might raise some questions.”
Yeah.
I got some damn questions.
Like how much of that shit you threw at me was a lie, when you won’t even look me in the goddamned eye.
But Damon ground every sharp comment between his teeth, and only nodded, stepping aside to give Rian a clear path to the door. “Fair enough.”
Rian fidgeted in place, shifting from foot to foot, then dipped to pick up Damon’s copy of A Princess in Theory from the coffee table and clutched it to his chest in both hands; he practically sidestepped Damon toward the door, then walked backward until he stopped with his back against the frame, his eyes darting toward Damon, then away; for some goddamned reason when Rian didn’t make any sense sometimes, his blush deepened.
“I’ll see you soon...?”
“We’re going to the same place,” Damon pointed out flatly.
“O-of course.” With a flustered sound, Rian reached back and fumbled for the doorknob, clumsily twisting and tugging the door open so he could take a step back across the threshold. “I...later, then.”
“Sure,” Damon said. “Yeah. Okay.”
But Rian was already gone—the door swinging closed, the latch clicking.
And Damon just...groaned, and thudded his head against the wall next to the bed hard enough to make the boards creak.
Mother fuck.
Just...
Mother fuck.
Chapter Thirteen
Rian didn’t know what to do with his hands.
He stood outside the infirmary, trying not to pace—trying not to move at all, really, when now that he’d showered and changed into jeans and an oversized cashmere cowl-necked sweater, he was much more sore than he’d initially realized, both inside and out...and every time he moved it twinged with a deep, pressing inner ache that reminded him far too much of the man he was trying very much not to think about.
The man he was waiting for right now, while Rian stood stiffly and awkwardly with his hands clasped together in front of him like an errant schoolchild waiting for the bus, feeling like a complete and utter ass and not quite sure what to do with his hands—or himself—at all.
He was...he just wanted to keep things casual. That was all. Not give away how nervous he was at the idea of seeing Damon again, even after just a few short minutes apart; not betray the erratic skip-hop beat of his heart, how he couldn’t seem to even out his breaths, how just the faintest throb of the subtle bruise-marks Damon had left on his waist made Rian’s face ignite with a blush he couldn’t exactly conceal when he was the kind of pale that couldn’t tan even if he spent all day staring right into the sun.
He wanted to be able to smile and mean it, when he saw Damon.
Smile, mean it...and not make Damon uncomfortable having to deal with Rian’s head and heart rioting all over the place and thrashing about where they didn’t belong.
So. Casual posture, right? Relaxed. At ease.
No problem at all.
He tried leaning his shoulders against the wall next to the door and crossing his ankles, but then he felt like he was playing coy and simpery with his fingers laced together in front of him. Maybe arms folded over his chest? He tried that, but now he was all hunched in on himself uncomfortably and standing so stiffly, the posture completely unnatural for him and his hands tucked under his arms like he was trying to stay warm on a cold day. Hm. Okay. Straighten up, then. Hands in the pockets of his jeans...except he was just...scrunching his shoulders up and planting his feet awkwardly wide and he must look like a complete and utter dork, and once again his hands and arms were the problem when he kept jutting his elbows out like turkey wings.
When did standing get to be so hard?
He stole a glance down the hall, but no sign of Damon yet. Good. The last thing he needed was Damon coming down the stairwell from his corner room and spilling out into the hall to find Rian frozen in the middle of these odd social acrobatics, posing himself around like a bizarre doll and making a total weirdo out of himself.
Maybe if he just...leaned one hand against the wall, let himself slouch lazily, he could pull off casual and natural instead of ready to jitter out of his own skin.
Why had he forgotten how to occupy his own body?