He’d wanted so badly to be the subject of all that fire. For Noam to take the fervor he had for philosophy and politics and focus it on Dara instead.
Even if it terrified him.
Dara pushed one corner of his mouth up, then glanced back to Noam, who hadn’t moved since Leo got here. Dara wanted to slip onto his knees at the edge of Noam’s bed and press Noam’s hand between his, kiss his motionless fingers.
“Besides,” Dara said, “he didn’t see me the way other people did.”
And that had been worth more to Dara than anything else life had given him.
When Leo left, Dara got up out of the chair and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed by Noam instead. Noam squirmed in his sleep, his face twisting up in a mask of discomfort. Dara pulled one of those pills out from the bottle under the bed and parted Noam’s lips with his fingers, tossed it toward the back of his tongue. Held Noam’s jaw shut until he swallowed.
Then he pushed the covers down and settled on his side, curled in close against Noam—close enough to lend Noam his heat. Dara tipped their brows together and let their noses brush, Dara’s hand a knot against Noam’s chest.
“Be okay,” he pleaded, demanded.
He wished more than anything that he could force Noam to obey.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
NOAM
The pain veined through him like thousands of threads drawn taut. And for a moment Noam was suspended in space, trapped somewhere white and gauzy—and he couldn’t muster the energy to remember where he was, if he ever got out of that apartment or if this was the limbo between life and death, if he still lay on Lehrer’s living room floor with his blood seeping into the carpet.
Then he blinked open heavy eyelids, and a dim room swam into view.
He was under a thin sheet, the bed beneath him unfamiliar and dull early-morning light streaming in from the window. There was a chair drawn up near Noam’s knees, and Dara was curled up in it, his head tucked in against his elbow and his lips parted in uneasy sleep.
Noam stared at him for a moment, mind slow to piece together what was happening.
Then he remembered.
“Dara,” he said. It came out thin and wispy, barely audible. He swallowed against a gritty throat and tried again. “Dara.”
Dara opened his eyes.
And then Dara pushed himself upright, dragging that chair closer to the edge of the bed and leaning forward to grasp Noam’s wrist with one hand. “Noam,” he breathed out, wide eyed and close enough Noam could count the cinnamon-dust freckles on his nose. “How are you feeling?”
Noam considered the question. “Like shit.”
“That sounds right,” Dara said, a tremulous smile crossing his lips. “You were—we were all worried about you. You were out for a while.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me and Ames. Leo. Holloway too.”
Something twinged in the back of his mind, a realization that made it all the way to the tip of Noam’s tongue before he forgot what he’d been about to say. “Ugh,” he groaned, dragging up a hand to press its heel to his brow.
“You’re on a lot of narcotics,” Dara said. “It’ll take a while for that to wear off. Or—is it ... do you need more?”
Noam shook his head. “I’m good. But ... thanks.”
Dara caught Noam’s hand as he lowered it from his head, lacing their fingers together atop the bed. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he said. “But if you—if you want to, I ... you know I’ll understand.”
Noam did know that. Even if he wished it weren’t true.
It was starting to hurt, staying propped up on his elbow like this. His gaze drifted down to that wrist, which had been bandaged up in some kind of splint. He vaguely remembered Lehrer breaking that wrist.
Not breaking.Crushing.
