Chapter 18
?
I do beggeth your pardon?
Morana
“Ah!” I yell when a dark figure appears beyond my bedroom doorway, entering my locked home. The light in my foyer turns on before I can so much as make a plan on which of my novelty antique piggy banks I am willing to smash over the head of an intruder.
In the yellow light, Kyran toes off his shoes, glancing my way up through the house. Business as usual, he lifts his hand, presenting metal. “I got a key from Crisis.”
I blink, brow furrowing as I lower my phone, which is still showing an old FrostPlays video from one of my favorite series of his.
It’s horror.
Because no genre makes you feel less alone than horror, right?
I press my lock button before the adult version of FrostPlays can make any sassy comments about my being all snuggled up in bed and watching his teenage self stare dully at jumpscares before saying, Anyway, moving on.
I hate knowing how badly he was hurting through these years in his past, but I love seeing how terribly him he’s always been. It’s consistent. It’s comfort.
Shuffling through my house, Kyran stops at my bedroom door and braces his hands on the frame, hanging into my room while a SunMart bag dangles near his head. “Hope breaking and entering is okay, considering I didn’t break anything?”
He hopes it’s okay that he’s just appeared, unannounced, at eleven at night, with a key to my home that I didn’t give him?
I recall that this development means he no longer needs to ring my doorbell seven thousand times at eleven at night and say, “Yeah, totally.”
“Cool.” He releases the doorframe. “Do you want hot chocolate?”
At eleven at night? “Sure?”
“I brought marshmallows, too.” He digs in the bag, presenting pastel mini marshmallows. “Want?”
“Yes, please.”
He digs further, pulling out a bag of giant rainbow ones. “I’m going to put one of these in the microwave. Want, too?”
Uh. Yes, of course. I nod.
He nods, then turns, then heads to my kitchen.
I find myself unsure whether I’m supposed to get up or turn my video back on. Maybe I have my earbuds somewhere nearby? My gaze trails around my bedroom, from one cluttered nightstand to one imperceivable desk… Mm. Yeah. My earbuds are…somewhere. For sure.
At this point, does it really matter if he knows I spend my evenings watching the him from ten years ago play horror games?
I decide, no, no it does not, and start my video back up.
Several minutes pass before Kyran hands me a mug and a blown-up marshmallow, glances at my phone, and smooths my blankets across my thighs before settling in with his own mug and snack. With his head pillowed on my thigh, he rests his food on his chest and stares at the ceiling.
“Better not make my bed a sticky mess,” I warn, bringing my own mug to my lips.
Kyran’s eyes cut toward me. “I can’t believe you just said that in front of fourteen-year-old me.”
“This is from ten years ago. You’re fifteen.
” I test a sip and discover lava. Okay. The hot chocolate needs a second.
“Also, I don’t know how telling you not to spill your drink is inappro…
” I playback the literal phrasing I used and lift my attention off fifteen-year-old Kyran to behold twenty-five-year-old Kyran.
Holding my glare, he angles the giant marshmallow toward his mouth and nibbles—picture of innocence.
I mutter, “I think you were given too much internet in your formative years.”
“Likewise. Truly does a number on an otherwise well-adjusted member of society.”
I hum. “Why has an otherwise well-adjusted member of society sought to bless me with his presence tonight? It’s later than the time you’ve been showing up. And you were streaming earlier.”
“You said you wanted me in bed with hot chocolate.”
My heart flits. “Did I?”
“Yes.”
I totally did. It was an insipid comment. A real wouldn’t it be nice to not be an adult for a little while?
It never ceases to amaze me how unexpectedly detail-oriented Kyran is. I thought I was the only one who held onto little things people say until everyone around me is annoyed that I keep bringing up something that was said three years ago and not really meant.
“Could you put little me down for a second and give big me some attention?” Kyran asks.
I lower my phone. “Oh, sorry.” I lock it. “Are you…” Heat unrelated to the boiling mug against my belly settles in my chest. “…staying the night?”
“If you’re willing to spin the barrel, I’ll pull the trigger.”
What a dangerous suggestion…given that I think I’d welcome a bullet to the skull right about now.
“Kyran?”
“Yes, liver?”
A laugh breaks through the heaviness weighing in my heart. “I’m trying to be serious.”
“Apologies, mistress. You can punish me later. What is it?”
I take a breath. “What’s the most inconvenient way possible to marry me?”
“Most…inconvenient? Possibly…” His gaze trails my ceiling. “…while skydiving. Or bungee jumping, actually. Skydiving is more steady. If we got out of sync with the officiator while bungee jumping, it’d be pretty inconvenient to complete our vows.”
Huffing, I lift my marshmallow and take a bite. “I mean, is there a way to marry me where it would be really difficult or impossible or life-ruining for you to divorce me?”
“We could sign a contract that would destroy me financially in the event I file. But even if you take all my assets, I don’t think there’s anything that would ultimately bother me.
I’d keep creating even if you get all the money from every video I make, and I have four older brothers who would take care of me in my stupidity.
Nothing’s really a failsafe for you, because I have nothing to lose except you. ”
I pout.
“Can I do anything to convince you that losing you is the only thing I care about?”
Exhaling into the steam, I murmur, “I don’t know.”
“Are you considering marrying me?”
More and more each day. But all for stupid reasons.
Even knowing the statistics on how many marriages fall apart, I’m after the permanence it doesn’t even actually offer.
And, worse, I’m after it at all because I want long nights with no limits, no feeling like an idiot in the morning, no waking up from the haze one day and realizing I’ve been used and discarded.
Just.
Days upon days of hot chocolate and kisses.
I sigh. “Not to be crass, but I want insurance before doing the stupid things with you that I want to do.”
“Ah,” he says. “You just want my body.”
“Just?” I grimace and bite my tongue, because just wanting this man physically would be easy.
I’ve already wasted my firsts. If it were just a down-and-dirty situation, I would get down, and I would get dirty, and we’d have a great time, and I’d be at peace with the feel good.
I’d wake up in the morning, double-check that precautions and protection were involved, then move on.
What I want is so much more than physical. It’s so much closer to that forever he mentioned. If I didn’t care about him, our bodies would be bodies, and it would mean nothing, and it wouldn’t be able to hurt me.
But.
Unfortunately.
With him, I’m pretty sure it would mean everything.
Breaking the silence of my shivering emotions, Kyran murmurs a gentle, “You don’t want my liver.”
I stop myself approximately three milliseconds before attempting to kick him—on account of the hot chocolate he’s holding.
Regaining stability, I mutter, “I do, actually, want your liver, e-boy. Were I only after your epidermis, my liver wouldn’t be getting so very involved, you know?
Do you understand what I’m saying to you? ”
“I understand that we’ve somehow transposed the heart and the liver.” He blows on his hot chocolate and takes a sip. “And I am loving it.”
Could I not have developed feelings for someone less…eclectic?
Someone less…like me?
Releasing the tension in my muscles, I test my own hot chocolate again, pouting into it as I find it manageable to sip.
Smooth, thick chocolatey goodness fills my mouth.
It’s incredible. I bet he got some fancy, extra creamy brand.
Or. Maybe he used milk? It would not surprise me if he brought milk.
He’s ruined me for my lame powder packets and water.
Safe silent moments transpire between us, peace infiltrating the cracks, and I find myself lulled into the security of being with him. Until, of course, he finishes his marshmallow and drink, stands, and begins going through my things.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he meanders through my tokidokis, plucking each plastic horse up and examining it before returning it to its exact place on my shelves amongst its friends.
“What do you mean?” He opens an antique music box I’ve filled with jewelry that I never wear but thought was pretty. Sometimes, I take the golden chains out and stare at the charms dangling from them while sitting cross-legged on my bed.
He sets his hand on the first knob of my dresser.
“That’s my underwear drawer.”
He looks at me, holds eye contact, and moves his hand to the second drawer. When I do not suggest it possesses lingerie, he opens it. And rifles through my pj’s.
Oh-kay. Whatever.
I lift my phone and turn my video back on.
“I want attention,” he says.
I do not turn the video off. “You want attention while you invade my privacy?”
He’s at my closet now, sifting through my dresses. “Yes.” He pulls a frilly monstrosity Maelin made for me in what I like to call her most recent delusion era, holds it up, and asks, “Does this fit?”
I stare at the black waterfall skirt leading up to a high-necked bodice with billowing lace sleeves. I say, “No.”
He searches for a tag, clicks his tongue, and mutters, “Maelin,” then begins attempting to assess the size visually. “I think it fits.”
I know it fits.
Sometimes, I put it on and sit in the fluff while I stare at my unused jewelry. I stare hard at my video right now. “No, you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken. Put it on for me.”