Just Like This (Albin Academy)

by Cole McCade

  “You weren’t?” he answered carefully.

  “You. Um.”

  Here it came.

  He could feel it barreling toward him in the audible intake in Rian’s breath; in the strain in his voice.

  “Damon, you kissed me,” Rian said. “And I kissed you back. And then you wouldn’t talk to me for a week.”

  Damon winced as he flicked the pot on to heat. He suddenly couldn’t shake this need to keep moving—pulling down two mugs from the cabinet, rummaging in a countertop bin to see what kind of tea he even had on hand.

  Then again, he’d been like this all week.

  When the reason he hadn’t even been able to talk to Rian was because every time his thoughts ran up against the memory of that kiss, his brain came to a screeching halt and refused to process everything that came after. How Damon felt about kissing Rian. How he felt about Rian kissing him back. What it meant, what he...what he wanted, when he just...

  He couldn’t fucking want anything from Rian.

  They were so far apart on the spectrum of lived experiences they couldn’t even fucking see each other from opposing shores.

  Being physically attracted to a pretty thing didn’t mean shit. Nor did it mean shit that said pretty thing was physically attracted to him, either. It couldn’t be more than that.

  Because Damon wasn’t about to let someone like Rian Falwell break his heart.

  He tried to keep his voice even as he ripped the foil packets off a few bags of plain black tea, when right now didn’t seem the time to ask Rian if he’d prefer mint or orange spice or some other blend. He’d probably get a throw pillow lobbed at his head. Though he was bracing for one anyway as he said, “...do we really need to talk about that?”

  Rian let out an irritable little huff. “Kind of seems like a relevant topic, yes.”

  “Nah.” Fuck, it wrenched deep in his chest to say that so casually, but he forced himself to keep it light. “Don’t you ever read romance novels? Sometimes two people just get so pissed off at each other they can either punch it out, or kiss it out.” He shrugged. “I don’t like punching people. So kissing is the better option.”

  He expected yelling.

  Possibly a little bodily harm.

  He didn’t expect the stunned silence that followed, and fuck, he hoped he hadn’t just flippantly crushed something fragile. Like capturing a butterfly in his palm...then closing it into a careless fist.

  He turned back to face Rian, only to find Rian staring at him incredulously over the top of the laptop, while the sound of the coffee maker—hissing and sighing and trickling as it began to boil water into the carafe—filled the space between them.

  “You read romance novels?” Rian spluttered.

  Damon arched a brow, then jerked his chin toward the bookshelves under the window; clearly Rian hadn’t noticed the spines when he’d been twirling around Damon’s space before. “Yeah. They’re good,” he said. “Problem?”

  Rian blinked, then inclined his head, gaze drifting along the wall, and he leaned forward to set the laptop on the coffee table before twisting himself sideways in the easy chair, kneeling on the seat with one hand braced on the armrest, another stretched out to run his fingers over a few of the well-worn, well-read paperbacks.

  “Not at all,” he said absently. “Only wondering if you’d lend me some.”

  Now it was Damon’s turn to stare. And Rian glanced back at him, eyes widening slightly, a puzzled knit to his brows.

  “What?” he asked a touch defensively. “Art is art, no matter its form, and literature is art.”

  “Uh-huh.” Some of the tension left Damon’s shoulders, letting him relax a little, shifting to lean his back against the edge of the counter. “Sure. Pick out whatever you want. I’m not a library, so no due dates.”

  “Mm.” Rian seemed utterly absorbed in perusing the spines, though he stopped on the Reluctant Royals trilogy, tugging out A Princess in Theory and cradling it gently in his hands, looking down at the cover with such clear curiosity and interest that Damon didn’t expect the next pointedly mild, “So that’s all it is, then? We make each other so angry that a kiss was a safe outlet to vent that frustration.”

  Inwardly, Damon groaned. Outwardly, he only shrugged. “Seems like all it needs to be.”

  “Intriguing.” Rian lightly ran his delicate fingertips over the cover of the novel, following the coils of mauve concentric circled patterns against the bright teal of the heroine’s dress. “I’ve heard enough about these books to know...in that trope, isn’t their anger just a mask over their attraction? Don’t they usually end up falling into bed, then falling wildly, torridly in love?”

  Damon stared at that innocent expression on Rian’s face, barely hiding the laughter glittering in hazel eyes. “It’s a book, Rian. Not reality.”

  With an exaggerated intake of breath, Rian fluttered a hand to his chest. “Gasp. He calls me something other than ‘Falwell.’ It’s starting already. He’s in love with me, and now—” He paused, cocking his head at Damon, while Damon scowled. “He’s going to scowl at me furiously. And tell me to—”

  “Stop being a brat,” Damon snarled, right as Rian echoed,

  “—stop being a brat.”

  While Damon glowered, the back of his neck hot, Rian let out a delighted laugh.

  “I’ll stop,” that little brat said, and leaned forward to set the romance novel on the coffee table with utmost care, his smile lingering. “I’m sorry for teasing. I did need something to lift my mood after what a day it’s been.” With a sigh, he folded his hands over his knee, looking across the room at Damon with a sort of dry, frank warmth. “It’s fine, Damon. It is. We’re both adults. We kissed. It was a moment of impulse. We don’t need to make drama over it.”

  Damon eyed him—but despite that impish glitter in his eyes, there was nothing false about that honestly presented statement; no artifice or mockery. “I can work with that,” Damon said slowly. “And I don’t mind your teasing. I get needing a pick-me-up.” He frowned. “This is feeling pretty damned bleak.”

  Rian’s smile faded. “And I hate it,” he said. “I was always told this was where parents sent their problem children to be forgotten.” He glanced away, his pointed chin resting to his shoulder as his gaze drifted out the window; sunset light fell through the glass until it felt like it was trying to mirror the gold-spangled light in the art classroom, in how it kissed his skin. “But that’s not Chris. No one deserves to be just dumped off somewhere like a burden no matter their mistakes, but...” His mouth creased into a bitter line. “He’s so good. So kind. Any parent should be proud of him. How could they just...leave him here, and not care?”

  That question shouldn’t have hit Damon so hard.

  Except it was a question he’d asked himself so many times.

  So many fucking times.

  How could they just leave me?

  A lifetime of wondering why he didn’t look like his mom and dad, only for them to tell him the truth when he was old enough. Kids on the playground sneering he didn’t have a mom and dad, not real ones, and kicking dirt at him until he got big enough to kick back and suddenly everyone gave him a wide berth, like he was some kind of hulking violent monster who’d lash out at them for no reason at any minute instead of a wounded child defending himself. Wondering if he would’ve been treated that way if he’d grown up among people who’d looked like him, who saw him and not some big brown ignorant brute...and wondering why that had been taken away from him.

  His fists clenched—and he had to turn away from Rian, or his face might...give him away, he didn’t know. But he gave Rian his back, staring down at the tea mugs and then forcing himself to go through the motions, finishing ripping open those bags and dropping them in before lashing in probably too much damned sugar from the little pour-spout dispenser, but he didn’t care right now and he w
asn’t really thinking about that, not when his hands were tight and his gut roiled and his heart beat like an echoed memory of ringing, awful bells summoning up terrible and hurtful things.

  “To some parents,” he muttered, more to the mugs than to Rian, “the worst thing their children can do is actually need them to parent.”

  Silence—then a worried, quiet, “Damon...?”

  Fuck. He didn’t need to get Rian all worked up over Damon’s own bullshit. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I was just...wondering.” He dropped a spoon into one of the mugs, then just...sat there staring at it; at the faint curved hint of his reflection in the silver handle. “Wondering if someone just...didn’t want me. If I was too much work to keep, so they dumped me off and made me someone else’s responsibility.”

  Nothing.

  Of course nothing.

  Because they weren’t friends; they weren’t lovers; they were barely even coworkers, passing ships in the goddamned night, and he shouldn’t be pouring all this crap all over Rian when they didn’t even like each other and—

  He’d been so caught up in his own head he hadn’t even heard the creak of the recliner, the sound of light footsteps and swaying fabric.

  Until suddenly a warm body pressed against his side, just leaning against him, a slim, soft hand curling against his bicep, a head of rippling, tumbling hair resting to his shoulder. Quiet comfort offered in touch, and in a single low, heartfelt repeat of his name.

  “... Damon.”

  “I don’t—” Damon took in a hoarse breath; it hurt his chest, and he thudded the heel of his palm against the counter as if he could push the words back inside him—but something about that warm weight against his side seemed to push them to overflow, until he couldn’t contain them anymore. “It makes me feel like a traitor to think that. What if she was a victim? A single mother and... God, I don’t even want to think about what could’ve happened to her. Or what if they just...couldn’t afford me? What if something happened, and they died?” His throat was closing, his eyes hot, and he grit his teeth, staring blankly at nothing, because if he looked down at Rian so quiet and sweet against him he was going to completely crack, and more would come spilling out of him than just harsh, pained words. “What if the state took me away from them? Do you have any idea how often state agencies just take Indigenous children, and I—” He swallowed, trying to get himself under control. “I don’t know. I’ll never know. I’ll never know if I was unwanted...or if they wanted me, but couldn’t keep me.” He pressed his lips against his teeth, biting down on their insides, then took a deep breath, forcing his clenched fists to unlock. “But I feel like I’m a bad person for wondering. For resenting feeling obligated to forgive them when I don’t know...but I do know all the things that could’ve happened out of their control. But I’m still thinking of me, and if I was just...not good enough to keep.” Deep breaths. Deep breaths, but it still hurt like swallowing glass to say, “Just like these kids.”

  The quiet, wordless sound that escaped Rian was a gentle thing of sympathy, as if he rung with the echoes struck from Damon’s hurt. His hand tightened against Damon’s arm. “It’s not wrong to wonder that,” he whispered. “Haven’t you spent your entire life feeling like you don’t fit?” His head rested against Damon’s shoulder, angled to look up at him. “Who wouldn’t wonder if there was somewhere they did fit, and wonder what life would have been like if they could stay? Who wouldn’t ask themselves why?” He smiled, sad and small and sweet as candy. “You’re allowed to ask why.”

  “But what good does it do, when I’ll never know?”

  “It helps you know what you want.” A sigh, and Rian rubbed his cheek to Damon’s shoulder; that human contact, human warmth, shouldn’t feel so good—but it eased something awful inside Damon. “Maybe you can’t control what happened in your life before. You can’t know the choices made by people you never met...and you can’t change those choices. But you can know what you want; what you want to make for yourself, so you can choose a life you belong in and make that...” Rian trailed off, his eyes unfocusing, before clearing again. “...whatever you need. You can belong wherever you need to belong, Damon.”

  Whatever I need.

  He’d never really known what that was.

  But a picture of something was starting to take shape, nebulous and yet...

  No. He just—he couldn’t. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t want that, when it would just be a fucking catastrophe and there was some inner part of his brain, some ugly voice of pain and loss and frustration, that said he couldn’t accept those gentle words that told him it was okay to feel what he felt when Rian would never know what it was like, not really, and couldn’t absolve Damon of guilt Rian didn’t even understand.

  But he has his own things. His own life. His own hurts. His own problems he struggles with. And he’s offering you empathy and you’re going to shove it away because...?

  Because Damon just...didn’t know what to do with it.

  And, swallowing back the bitterness in his throat, he pulled away as the coffee pot gave that sputtering exhalation that said the tank was empty and the auto-shutoff clicked, the carafe full of steaming hot water. His arm felt cold, where Rian had been; he ignored it, reaching out to tug the carafe out and pour water atop the tea, releasing its thick, slightly actinic scent in a cloud of rising mist, first one cup and then the other. Avoiding looking at Rian, Damon pushed one of the mugs at him.

  “I probably should have asked how much sugar you take,” he muttered.

  Rian didn’t say anything; in his peripheral vision Damon caught pale hands wrapping around the pastel blue of the ceramic mug, then the faint sound of Rian blowing on the tea, before murmuring, “It’s fine. It’s just right.” Listless, wondering, a tentative question in that rich, smooth voice—but it firmed as Rian outright asked, “Are you upset with me? I’m sorry if I crossed your boundaries.”

  “No. It’s not that.” Damon sighed, lifting his head to look at Rian. “I just...” Fuck, what did he say, when those liquid hazel eyes looked at him as if Rian would accept whatever Damon said, no matter what? “I don’t know how to process things like that. I don’t know what to say.” He tightened his lips. “So I just don’t say anything.”

  “And avoid. And change the subject.” Rian smiled—but it was a hollow thing, distant, as if...as if he was bracing himself to be hurt, and well aware of what he was doing when he said, “I think I’m not the only one who isn’t wholly honest, when he smiles.”

  Damon clenched his jaw. “Then don’t smile at me like that.”

  “Like what...?”

  “Like you don’t mean it.” It got under his skin so damned much, and he hated admitting why. “Like...like you don’t even see me.”

  Rian’s smile faded, but his eyes flickered, darkened, understanding flitting across his face—followed by another, shyer smile as he glanced away, tucking his hair behind his ear. He was blushing, Damon realized...and suddenly wondered just what he was asking of Rian, to expose himself with just a simple smile that he actually meant.

  Especially when that smile lit his face up in such warm ways, firelight behind glass, making every part of him luminous and enticing, drawing Damon closer.

  “Is this better?” Rian asked, and Damon could barely find his voice to answer.

  “...yeah.”

  Rian ducked his head, setting his mug aside on the counter. “I see you right now,” he murmured, and peeked at Damon sidelong through his lashes. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? All of this with Chris...it’s bringing up those old pains. Those old questions you never had answered.”

  “I don’t want to wallow in it.”

  “Wondering isn’t wallowing.” Rian took a step closer and rested his hand over Damon’s heart, pale fingers splayed against his chest. “It’s okay to be hurt, Damon.”

  Underneath Rian’s touch, Damon’s h
eart thundered, rolled, stormed, rioted. He shuddered subtly; it hurt, the force of it, the way it beat and bruised itself with this constant pummeling, this violence of feeling. Something inside him wanted Rian, wanted that shy smile, that slim frame leaning toward him, everything about him—and it was determined to get to Rian even if it had to claw through Damon from the inside to do it.

  His mouth and throat were dry, as he lifted one hand to cover Rian’s, held it against his chest, wondered if Rian could feel its fierce and hungry beat. “What if that’s not the only thing hurting me?”

  Rian swayed closer; his face tilted up toward Damon’s, his eyes searching. “What else, then...?”

  Don’t do it.

  He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this again.

  But he was a magnet telling himself not to be attracted to his opposite pole, trying to deny that intense force that just drew him closer and closer again, trying to hold himself apart when it was physics with its demanding pull, unstoppable and undeniable.

  And he didn’t know if he was answering that question or saying his name just to taste it, as Damon whispered, “Rian.”

  Then bent to close that last distance between them, and pressed their mouths together in a lush and lingering kiss.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rian hadn’t known how much he needed to be kissed by Damon again until it was happening.

  He’d meant to let it go. He’d wanted to let it go, when Damon had been so clearly trying to brush that first kiss off as nothing; if Damon had his reasons, he had his reasons, and Rian hadn’t wanted to hurt him by pushing and infringing on him if Damon just...didn’t want to cross that line, whether it was because of Rian himself or because of something personal to Damon. It had just been a kiss. A kiss that had torn Rian up for a week, a kiss that had stitched through him like needles of light and warmth and loveliness, a kiss that had made him think maybe, just maybe there was something to that silly little thing about loathing masking desire after all.