This feels like the other day when he tackled me to the floor of his home. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.
I choose the most horrible, terrifyingly sarcastic comment that will obliterate every sense of normalcy we have left.
“Jesus, Co, just kiss me already, won’t you?”
The sudden energy shift is tangible. Conin blinks, then blinks again, aghast at my comment. He’s petrified. Perhaps I revealed a part of myself he’d been suspecting for a while. I confirmed his suspicions with one stupid comment meant to be a joke, even if it was what I wanted. He backs away. I’ve scared myself shitless, so I’m relieved that my erection is gone.
“Conin, I was joking.” I laugh to play it off.
“Yeah. Right,” he says and plasters on a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That was weird. I’m sorry. I was trying to lighten the mood,” Conin clarifies. He returns to his book, and I resume my game. An indeterminable amount of time passes before he speaks again.
“Do you trust Atlas?”
Oh god. Did my quip prompt him to ask?
“Where did that come from?”
“I’m curious. That’s all,” Conin says.
“Considering he hasn’t done anything suspicious over the past two days we’ve been here, I think that’s a sign enough to trust him,” I answer, alluding to nothing.
He studies me for a moment.
“What were you two talking about the other night?”
The panic swelters to a boiling point. Kill me. Now. What does he think is happening here?
“Atlas brought the alcohol, saw that I had a movie on. He and I talked about it. He remembered that he hadn’t shown me his ability yet, so he did. Atlas can teleport, by the way,” I say with some snark. “Whatever you’re worried about, there’s no reason to be.”
Why is he so damn persistent?
“I see,” Conin says quietly. “I don’t know. I’m on edge since Tommy.”
Understandable. But what does any of that have to do with my joke about a kiss? Seconds later, we hear footsteps carrying closer to the secure door. Atlas crosses the threshold, backpack slung over his shoulders, a notebook in hand.
“I don’t know why I do this to myself. It’s not like this shit’s useful anymore,” he exclaims, exasperated.
Atlas has become overtly cordial around us. I’m not opposed to his openness or vulnerability—it’s just . . . jarring.
“What?” I say.
“Homework. It’s bullshit. If I need to continue abu's work, why the hell am I working so hard for a future I can’t have?”
Conin cringes. Damn, that hit too close to home.
“Because your parents want you to?” I suggest.
“Yeah, and it makes no sense!” he says, tossing his coursework on the floor.
“How old are you?” questions Conin, eyes peering over the top of his book.
“Seventeen. I turn eighteen in several months. I hate that I rely on my parents so much. I need their help because I can’t do this alone.” Atlas sighs. “So, I adhere to their requests. I suppose it’s the least I can do.”
“You’re a good son,” I say. “A good grandson.”
Conin murmurs in agreement. Atlas thanks us and hunches over his homework pages that are sprawled out across the coffee table.
