Chapter 7 #8
Our hands almost brush. I pull mine back instantly, like an asshole.
I can feel what that does to him without even looking, and it pisses me off. Not at him. At me. Because I don't fucking hate it.
That's the worst part.
I don't hate him touching me. I like it.
Way too much for something that's not supposed to mean anything. I still feel this fucking thing crawling under my skin whenever he's around.
It's there. I know it. He probably knows it too.
And I can't afford it.
I can't afford to let this turn into something real. I'm not about to drag him into that just because my heart decided to grow a personality all of a sudden.
So yeah, I pull away. I hurt him a little.
Because the alternative is me not stopping, is me letting it happen, letting it grow, and then watching him bleed for it later.
If one of us is gonna get cut open, I'd rather it be me.
Not him.
And I can't even fucking tell him. I can't just turn around and be like, "Hey, by the way, I'm gonna act like a bitch every time you get too close because you and my heart apparently have beef now."
No. That's the kind of thing he would never let go of.
He'd tease me for the rest of my life. Every time I'd look at him for one second too long, he'd be like, "Careful, Gio, your heart's starting a fight again," and I'd have to throw myself into oncoming traffic.
I don't want that. I don't want him seeing through me like that.
I'd rather he just thinks I'm still the same annoying Gio.
"Relax," he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. "It's not contagious."
I turn to him slowly.
"Maybe not," I say, "but your desperation is."
His whole soul drops. It's not even subtle.
Part of me actually wants him to snap at me, to push back, to get mad.
Call me an asshole, Rava.
Tell me to fuck off.
Tell me I'm being weird.
Please.
Instead, he just takes it, and that makes me feel ten times worse, because I want the fight.
I want him angry enough to finally start fucking hating me.
But he doesn't. He exhales sharply through his nose and turns back to the counter.
We drop our suitcases a few minutes later. Lorenzo's with us physically, but mentally he's on a different fucking planet.
I'm convinced this man has nothing in his brain except cotton candy, dicks, and pussies.
That's it. Just three tabs open.
He looks at both of us, all bright and happy, then throws an arm around each of our necks and drags us in closer.
"This trip's gonna be a fucking BLAST," he says, all excited.
Rava gives him this tiny smile, not because he's actually happy, just because Lorenzo's looking at him and he feels like he has to give something back.
I don't smile. My face stays blank.
This trip is going to break me. I know it.
I just don't know how yet.
We go sit in the waiting area. Rava drops into the seat right across from me and then just zones out on me, staring. He looks like some pissed-off teddy bear with his arms crossed.
I'd bet my bike he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
His brain has clearly left the chat.
I wonder what's going on in there, what he's replaying, what he's mad at.
He looks hot when he's annoyed, though.
I'll give him that.
Makes me wonder what kind of sounds he'd make underneath me.
Not my fault.
That's just where my brain lives now.
I'm already cutting down my actual behavior by ninety fucking percent. I'm not sacrificing my thoughts too.
For the love of God.
Besides, it's not on me that he decided to grow up and turn into that.
A man with broad shoulders and a pretty mouth.
He's still staring.
I stare right back, waiting for him to catch himself.
He doesn't. No awareness. Nothing behind the eyes.
Just vibes.
I snap my fingers at him.
He jolts, eyebrows folding into that angry little frown.
"Leave me alone," he mutters, grabbing his phone.
"You were staring," I say.
Lorenzo fake-coughs dramatically. "Get a room."
I shoot him a death glare, and he sends me an exaggerated air-kiss. I ignore him and turn back to Rava.
He kicks my foot. "Look somewhere else."
"Or what?" I ask, crossing my arms. That throws him off. He wasn't ready for that one. He stares at me for a second, then stands up, picks his stuff up, and moves to another seat further away.
Honestly, good for him. Yeah, it stings more than I want to admit, but I kind of like that he finally has the guts to pull himself out of situations he doesn't like.
He never used to do that. He used to just sit there and take it.
I'm almost proud.
…
We're on the plane finally, waiting to take off for Spain, and of course Rava took the window seat.
The actual ticket had my name on the window, but sure, go off, little thief.
Now he's next to me, fidgeting nonstop. I'm trying to calm down, but having him right there is like traveling with a toddler who refuses to sit still.
"Maybe next time you could learn how to sit like an adult," I mutter.
He whips his head toward me. "I'm sitting fine. You're the one who's spread out like you own the whole damn row."
He genuinely looks annoyed.
It's so funny I have to look away for a second.
He's mad, I'm squashed, he stole my window, and somehow I'm the problem!
I turn, smirking. "Cry about it."
He glares harder. "You're seriously such an asshole."
"Jesus Christ, can you two chill for five minutes? We're on our way to Spain, not war," Lorenzo groans.
We don't answer.
We're too busy burning holes into each other's skulls with our eyes.
Rava shifts again, bumping my foot. I lean back, throwing my head against the seat. "You have two feet of personal space and you still can't stay the fuck on your side," I snap.
"You're unbelievable," Rava hisses.
"No," I say. "You're just pathetic at basic motor skills."
I flick his ear.
Then I realize what I've done.
He slaps his hand over it, mouth open and eyes wide open.
"You did not just do that 2010 shit to me." He reaches over and flicks me right in the middle of my forehead.
My head actually clicks.
Oh, he's done.
Lorenzo laughs under his breath like he's watching a reality show. "Seriously. You two are like divorced parents fighting over who gets the armrest."
Rava turns toward the window. I stare at the back of his head.
Tch. I can't.
How the hell am I supposed to survive this trip? We haven't even taken off yet and I'm already two seconds away from losing my mind. I'm gonna hit my breaking point with him.
I already feel bad for him. He has no idea what it's like to be trapped next to the person you want and refuse to want at the same time.
Poor thing thinks I'm just annoying.
If only he knew I'm actively trying not to ruin both our lives. So I turn away. Don't. Don't fucking soften.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Lorenzo sighs dramatically beside me.
"God, is that what we're doing now? We're going to fucking Spain, man. Lighten up. Drink some shitty airplane coffee. Do something besides murder each other with your eyeballs."
I snort under my breath but don't look at him.
I don't even dare turn my head.
I know myself. If I look, I won't just look.
I'll do other shit too. Shit I'm not supposed to do.
It's not that I won't like it. I'll love it. That's the problem.
Right now I'm holding back both my heart and my dick.
Me. Gio Fontana. What a fall from grace.
I went from having a whole menu to choose from, like I'm at an all-you-can-fuck buffet, to wanting exactly one person, and I can't even pick him. And it's not even like a game.
In games, if you level up enough, everything unlocks sooner or later. With him, it's the fucking opposite.
He's like some premium character with a big fat warning sign stamped on his forehead that says "PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH OR APPROACH."
…
We're in Spain.
The airport spat us out on the curb, and now we're sitting on the sidewalk waiting while our bodies get cooked alive.
We love calling ourselves rich, talking about business, deals, big money, but apparently we can't manage to have a damn car or a driver to take us to the hotel.
No, no.
We have a taxi holding us hostage and keeping us humble.
Rich in drama, broke in logistics.
Lorenzo lets out a loud, ridiculous whoop. "?Viva Espana!" he shouts, throwing his arms up and spinning once in a stupid little dance move right there on the curb.
People stare. He doesn't give a shit.
He grabs the straps of his backpack and starts half-dancing, half-walking toward the line of taxis.
Bisexual king came to conquer Spain.
Rava stifles a laugh next to me. "Don't forget the hotel info," he says, nudging me.
"I have it," I snap.
"You sure?" he says, that slight edge in his voice again.
I turn on him. "You wanna babysit the trip? Be my fucking guest."
"I'm just trying to make sure we don't end up sleeping on the beach, jackass."
"Maybe you'd like that," I sneer.
"You could cry under the stars."
His mouth drops open, shocked.
Lorenzo glances back at us. "Guys. Seriously. CHILL. We're on vacation."
Vacation my ass.
We spot a taxi and Lorenzo sprints, almost throwing himself in front of it, ready to scream "STOP FOR MEEEE."
Somehow it works. The car pulls over.
We shove the suitcases in the trunk. Lorenzo's doesn't fit, so they throw his in the front.
We cram into the back, all three of us, thigh on thigh on thigh, no personal space.
Rava has the audacity to shove my knee away with his.
I stare at him and shove his knee back. "You act like a baby. We have a long drive ahead. Go to sleep or something."
He turns his head away. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do. Bye."
Sure, princess.
I look over at Lorenzo. "What are you doing?"
"Looking up the best clubs in Spain," he says, dead serious.
"You're an idiot. Why don't you just ask me? You forget I lived here for years?"
Lorenzo snorts.
"Every single time we talked, you were in some underground dungeon with monsters, not at a club drinking tequila. I'll ask you when I wanna go to a dungeon."
I laugh. "Wow. Okay."
I turn back to Rava. He's already asleep.