Dante’s dark chuckle follows me into the house. I peek through the window to watch him head back home, a happy little pep to his step. I remove my shoes, gingerly placing them on the mat, before heading toward my room. The door to Mason’s study is wide open as I walk by, so I pause to wave good morning.
Mason happily waves back. “You look perky.”
I roll my eyes. “I had coffee.”
“Just coffee?”
I flick him off and trudge the rest of the way to my room. I should take a shower, especially after the events of last night, but a part of me wants to keep the pieces of Dante that linger on my skin. The familiar smell of him lingers on the hoodie though, enough to quell my stupidest urges, so I guess I can take a shower. Once showered and delightfully clean, I tug the hoodie back over my head while my hair is still damp.
My phone lights up with a message from where it sits on the bed. I lean over slightly, tap the screen, and use all my willpower to stop from smiling at the sight of Dante’s name. Motherfucker.
Dante
Be a good boy and draw me another picture. Give it to me tomorrow.
I ignore his text.
The rest of the day is a blur of homework and sketching. Mason works on his computer on the couch, while I sit with my sketchbook nestled in my lap. When he’s not looking, I sneak glances at him, noting the color in his cheeks, the vibrancy of his eyes.
Despite making his life as hellish as I can lately, I still worry about Mason more than I would any other sibling if I had one. I remember life before his illness when we were kids, and I remember how Mom hid him away from the world during and afterwards. One summer I got to go to coding camp, I took to it like I’d been made to do it. Poor Mason had wanted desperately to join me, but our mom had already been too far deep into “protecting Mason” mode. No, too many germs, she’d sang. Enough germs for me, but too many for Mason. I’d come home every night when I was twelve and showed an almost-ready-for-college Mason how to code. It’d been our secret that summer, one of many that we’ll probably always have.
Ever since our parents died, there’s been this dividebetween us that I somehow just can’t cross. I want to hug him, but he won’t let me, because he physically can’t allow it. And I want to tell him I’m sorry for always being such a little shit but the ability to apologize for any of my behavior is simply impossible now.
Mason yawns around bed time after spending hours typing nonstop. He looks over at me, but I purposefully hide my face so it looks like I’ve been sketching for hours, not staring at him while going all maudlin. He leaves the living room with a sigh, and my heart hurts so much that I don’t know what to do with it.
Once the sounds of Mason getting ready for bed quiet, I make my way to my own room, snuggling down into the bed still dressed in Dante’s hoodie. Lifting it to my nose, I take a deep inhale, calming at the spicy scent of his cologne and skin. And if my heart beats just a little faster when I fall asleep that night, well, that’s between me and God.
I wakeup early the next morning to spend time in the library. Sometimes getting out of the house helps me focus on a task at hand. The sun hangs low in the sky, campus quiet as I make my way toward the library. Usually I’d have coffee in my hand to keep me warm, but I don’t want to drink any since Dante will be bringing me some later.
That feeling of being watched niggles at the back of my brain again, but I assume it’s just Dante. A smile tugs at my lips, making me dip my head down to hide the blush that’s no doubt working its way up my neck. Libraries have the most amazing, comforting smell. Old books and magic, that’s what my mother used to say before taking me and Mason to thelibrary as children. Something about a library just settles my nerves, makes me feel like maybe everything is going to be alright. Even when Mason was sick as a kid, we’d find our way to the library, and nothing could hurt us there when we escaped into another world.
The library is almost empty when I push through, everyone my age still asleep. Just the way I like it. I head up to the third floor where the research texts are and navigate my way through the empty oak tables. My usual one is empty, with the deep scratches in the corner from someone practicing their whittling skills as they studied.
I drag my sketchbook out of my bag, along with my laptop and textbook. An hour of studying at the library before class will give me enough time to work ahead so that I can finish the course materials before finals season occurs. I usually like to jump ahead in my courses, because I often already know what they’re teaching.
By the beginning of high school, I was taking college-level courses. A college senior at nineteen would’ve thrilled my parents, too bad they’re not around to see it. I scowl at my train of thought and focus back on my work. When the numbers start to annoy me because they’re too predictable, I grab my sketchbook to doodle a distraction. That feeling of being watched again washes over me.
When I glance up, movement behind some books catches my eye. The familiar shine of Dante’s hair is easy to spot. I smile down at the sketchbook again, then reach into the pocket of my hoodie to grab my phone.
When do I get my coffee?
Dante
When you’re good
What do I have to do to be good?
Dante
Take your cock out
My chest heavesas I stare down at those words. Is he serious? I think about arguing with him, telling him to fuck off, but I also think about that glorious feeling of pleasing him from a few nights ago. Pleasing Dante has quickly become one of my favorite pastimes. I clear my throat awkwardly as I slip my hand under the desk, unbuttoning my pants with one hand.
Dante
Keep your other hand on the table, flat.
I doas he says with a stutter in my breath.
