"Look," Dylan said against his better judgment. "It was just a kiss. It doesn’t have to be this serious. But are you really gonna chase me all the way up here, then try and tell me you weren't into it? I was there, güey. Your tongue was inmymouth, and it was hot."
"This is stupid," Ashton finally muttered, and Dylan could not have agreed more. "I'm not here to play games with you."
"Then stop." Dylan huffed, completely exhausted by the stunned expression on Ashton's face, and just —God above— by his entire deal. “Why are you so afraid?”
All this time Ashton was wasting, as if he needed to make up his damn mind about it all? It made Dylan want to grab him by that stupid popped collar and scream in the guy’s face.
"I don't get you, Ashton. You have everything, and it's all fucking handed to you! Why do you act as if you can’t have this too? Man, aren't youtired?"
And okay, Dylan had absolutely not meant to wade into the deep end with this guy, much less go diving headfirst. It was… God in Heaven, but it was all way too close to those stupid stuck up idiots in the Telenovelas his abuela used to watch; swanning around in their fancy clothes and houses as if they had such problems, instead of just going for the thing they wanted.
Not that I’m much better; wasting Ashton’s time, messing with him like this…
"C'mon," Dylan said, throwing the paper towels in the trash and grabbing Ashton's hand. "Wanna show you something upstairs."
"Upstairs? But we're on the top floor," Ashton pointed out, clearly confused.
But — and this was the important bit — he didn't let go of Dylan's hand as he led them out of the men's and down the hall; those fingers fitting around Dylan’s, firm and trusting.
"Well, there's the top," Dylan conceded. "And then there's thetopisn't there?"
A right, then a short hall, then another quicker right. This time they stopped in front of a brown door with an industrial bar handle, above which was pasted a big yellow sign saying "Staff Only: No Unauthorized Personnel". A quick glance forthe strip of blue tape on the left of the handle — check — and Dylan was pushing through the door and heading up the narrow flight of stairs.
"We're not gonna get kicked out of school for this, right?" Ashton asked over the echo of their footsteps in the cavernous concrete stairwell. "Because my parents would be pretty pissed if that's a fire door or something."
"Relax, fresa," Dylan told him, shoving open the second heavy metal door at the top of the stairs. And just in time for a blast of wind to try and catch the peak of his mohawk, wonderful. "First off, I'm Staff — "Kind of." — and segundo: one of the professors in this building jerry rigs that door to keep the alarm from going off. There's no cameras, and it's pretty much the only place on campus without something overlooking it, so they all come up here to smoke where the students can't see and report them for it."
"Oh," Ashton said quietly as he followed Dylan out onto the building's roof, gravel crunching loudly under their sneakers. "You, uh — you bring Pablo up here?"
"Pavlo," Dylan corrected him, stressing the ‘v’ as he led Ashton near enough to the edge to see over, but not so close that they'd be spotted. "He's Ukrainian, not Hispanic." He paused. "At least… I think he said Ukrainian? His English is not so good, and our accents kind of clash.”
Ashton frowned. “How do you guys understand each other then, if you can’t talk?”
“Who says wetalk?” Dylan leered, flashing Ashton an unrepentant grin. “He’s just a hookup, fresa. Not my boyfriend. I don't know what his deal is, and honestly? Given everything going on over there, there’s a good chance it’s more than I can handle and still stay on top of my own shit.”
“And me?”
“Aw, you’re easy.” Dylan winked. “You're just fucked in the head."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm serious man,' Dylan told him, gesturing out at the campus and city beyond. "Look where we are. Look at everything around you right now. Did you even notice?"
From the way Ashton's eyebrows jumped; how fast he twisted to follow the line of Dylan's hand? Yeah. He hadn't —
But he was now.
Below them, the quad was lit up like a pinball machine; the paths and fountain and statues all limned with a golden glow. And in the very center was, hands down, the biggest damn Christmas tree Dylan had ever seen in his entire life; a big, gaudy monstrosity of twinkling lights and giant reflective ornaments, with red ribbon tucked abso-fucking-lutely everywhere else.
Even the buildings surrounding the space were getting in on the action; pale concrete and columns striving to imitate the past while shaping the future. Beyond it all lay the midnight blanket of the city, with its towering skyscrapers of glossy black reflecting the light of the stars above. Woven through were rivers and rivers of cars, all taking people to dinner, to shows, or back to their homes. Free and unafraid to go wherever they wanted, to live their lives how they pleased.
Dylan caught himself rubbing the missing place on his left hand. Scowling, he relaxed his fist.
“The tree’s pretty with those lights, huh? Everything perfect, everything in its place. They said it was a new one this year. A donation from some company with more money than sense.”
“Navarro Media,” Ashton whispered, his eyes locked on the sight. “They own the San Morado Chronicle and Channel UBC31. The one with the, um, the 'Grime in the Ice Makers' guy? And, uh…yeah.”
“Pretty common last name, Navarro,” Dylan mused, watching Ashton closely.
