“It’s just a coffee, angel. I didn’t steal you a Picasso.”
Bowie shook his head, his expression earnest. “No, it’s a large black iced coffee, my usual order. I don’t think anybody has ever just brought me a coffee before.”
Javier chuckled despite the way that admission crushed something inside him. “The bar sounds pretty low.”
Bowie shook his head, his hand flailing. “I feel like I’m living in a movie. I’m just not sure what kind.”
Javier’s mouth twisted into a dirty smile. “What’s the rating?”
That clearly wasn’t the question to ask. Bowie’s face contorted into frustration. “G.”
“Oof. G? I think we can do better than that, angel.”
Javier probably shouldn’t tease him, but he was so cute with his dark brows furrowed together and the way his nose wrinkled. He fought the urge to move closer, but it was like Bowie had his own gravitational pull, dragging him in.
Bowie shook his head. “Nope. I’m a lost cause. Not only can I not let other people touch me... Now, I can’t even touch myself.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he snapped his gaze to Javier like he couldn’t believe he’d just said them out loud. He pulled up his hoodie, burying his face, before taking a long pull from his straw.
Javier smiled, his cock stirring at the images bubbling up in his brain. “Were you trying?”
“What do you think?” Bowie snapped, tone pissy.
Javier shrugged, sliding his hands in his pockets to remind himself Bowie didn’t want to be touched. “I think I jerked off last night thinking about you in nothing but those fuzzy pink not-house slippers. Just wondering if you were trying to do the same?”
Bowie shivered, gazing up through his lashes at Javier in a way that shouldn’t have been sexy but definitely was. It also told him that Bowie had definitely been trying to get off and Javier was most likely starring in his fantasies. It warmed him in a way nothing had in a very long time.
But all Bowie said was, “Should you be saying that to a sexual assault victim?”
“Is that what you are?” Javier asked. “I thought you were a dancer. A badass who storms police stations to throw balled up pieces of paper at cops and tells them they’re punk ass bitches.”
Bowie shook his head, trying and failing to hide that thousand watt smile. “Do you say everything that pops into your head?”
He looked Bowie up and down with interest, arching a brow. “No, angel. Definitely not.”
Bowie’s smile faded, and he once more sucked down another gulp of his ice coffee. “Is it normal to want to have sex even if my brain doesn’t want me to want it? Like, shouldn’t what he did put me off sex entirely? Am I weird for wanting that part of my life back before the bruises have even healed?” Javier pondered the question, but before he could respond, Bowie scoffed. “Why am I even talking to you about any of this? I don’t know you.”
Javier shrugged. “It’s easier to talk to strangers about stuff like this, I think. People who know and love you hurt too much for you to really know how to make it better. They just end up feeling guilty.” He’d seen it a lot with parents who felt like they’d failed to protect their children from monsters. “In the pen, we had this guy. We call him Preacher. He was quiet, kept to himself. Whenever shit got to be too much, inmates would go and tell Preacher all kinds of shit, stuff he probably didn’t want to know. But he’d just listen. Ask questions. Be there.”
“So, you’re my Preacher in this scenario?”
“When you put it that way, it just sounds kinky, angel,” he teased.
Bowie rolled his eyes but he got a smirk, and that was good enough for Javier.
Finally, he said, “I think you know somebody like me isn’t going to judge somebody like you, not like your friends or family might. I think there’s no one way to handle what happened to you. I think wanting to feel like your body is yours and what happens to it is your choice is valid. I think wanting to use it to make yourself feel good is a normal thing. Nobody gets to create a timeline for what you should and shouldn’t want but you. You don’t have to explain yourself or your reactions to anybody.”
Javier didn’t know if any of what he was saying was the right thing to say or if there was any right thing to say to somebody who’d had their life turned upside down the way Bowie had. Javier knew flirting with Bowie—teasing him, making him smile—felt like his own version of therapy. Making Bowie smile made Javier feel less like a monster, even if it wasn’t true. He just didn’t want to be another thing that made Bowie hurt.
They walked in silence, the sky going from black to indigo to gray. The sidewalks grew more crowded as people went about their morning routines. The more crowded the streets became, the more he lost Bowie. His shoulders hunched and there was a tension in his movements that hadn’t been there moments ago. As they passed by the corner bodega, a man in a tan suit hurried out, bumping Bowie without stopping.
Bowie flinched, shuddering. “That. I just don’t want to spend my life with my heart stopping every time that happens.”
Javier shook his head. "You won’t. I promise.”
It was a promise Javier had no right to make. He didn’t know Bowie wouldn’t flinch from every touch for the rest of his life. He hoped it was true, hoped one day he could touch Bowie. If Javier was a good guy, he would have walked away, let Bowie heal, let him figure out who he was on the other side of this assault. But Javier wasn’t a good guy and he had no interest in letting Bowie go when everything inside him was telling him to hold him tighter.
Javier frowned when they arrived at the school; it appeared deserted. The lights outside and in the lobby were on, but there didn’t appear to be a single soul inside the building. “Was there a bomb scare or something? Where is everybody?”
