5' 8"-5' 9"
Noah was eating cookie after cookie absentmindedly, not tasting a thing, not feeling even remotely full. It didn't come as a shock to him that yet again, at yet another celebration of life, he ended up stuck on the sidelines of the chaos, standing near the buffet table, shoving food in his mouth just to keep his nerves in check. Why the hell he wanted to show up at these parties in the first place? What was the reason? To feel out of place and uncomfortable? Or to ask himself once again the same question, "What the hell he was even doing surrounded by all these people?" Just to get smacked in the face by society for trying to fit in? To confirm, once again, that he didn't belong? And then there always was that awful kind of hunger that hit him every time he started to panic, like a black hole in his gut that demanded tribute. If you just stand frozen like a statue, everyone will think you're an insecure loser. If you eat, on the other hand, they'll just peg you as some guy who doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks and snacks his way through social anxiety. So it was better to be the guy who snacks, right?
Deep breath, Morgan. Pretty much everyone here (with a few rare exceptions) thinks you're a whore. Rock bottom's already been hit. There was nothing left to lose. So does it even matter if you're standing still or panic-eating pastries like it's your last meal? There was practically no difference. The invisible label was stuck to you along with the nastiness, ignorance, and hypocrisy the human race has to offer. What made Noah think tonight would be any different? Just because Thomson was standing next to him? Ridiculous. Not even the black mask could hide how clearly uncomfortable Ethan was. He kept fiddling with the lacrosse stick, tightening and loosening his grip over and over, and he tensed up any time someone from the crowd got too close while reaching for Halloween snacks. If anyone stepped over that invisible line into his personal space, Ethan visibly flinched, as if it took effort not to just smack the guy in the face with the lacrosse stick. Thomson didn't eat or drink anything. He was just standing still with his arms stiff, and his dark gray eyes were scanning the fast-growing crowd. He didn't care if anyone thought he looked like a loner. Ethan didn't give a crap what people thought, and that was his biggest strength. You never know what someone who doesn't give a damn about anyone might do. They're not held back by the fear of being judged.
Noah remembered reading something once on one of those dumb personality-type websites, which let you take a hundred quizzes to find out which flower you'd be in a greenhouse or which character you'd be in your favorite book. None of it was meant to be taken seriously, and yet… When he thought about it now and tried to match it up with real life, he mentally put Ethan in the "Loner" category. And himself? Unfortunately, he'd landed in the "Victim" section. He didn't like that label at all back then. He remembered feeling kind of insulted, but the more time passed, the more he realized he didn't like it because it was actually quite accurate. He was a victim because he saw himself that way. That was the decision Morgan made about himself. No matter where he went, people picked at him. There was always some issue or complaint from someone, friend or stranger; it didn't matter. Noah tried to recall one of the many incidents where he'd been publicly embarrassed (which wasn't hard at all, considering the list was endless), then mentally swapped himself out and pictured Ethan in his place. What would've happened if he'd been the one getting mocked or unfairly called out? He'd have snapped right back or shut the whole thing down before it even started. And honestly? Most people wouldn't have dared to come at Thomson like that in the first place, because there was something about him, maybe some tightly contained aggression just under the surface. It was in the way he moved: too sharp, too fast. In the way he looked at people: his eyes were sharp and hard. And yeah, the confidence helped a lot, too. No matter what was going on with him, Ethan never slouched. He always looked straight ahead, and when he talked to someone, he looked them dead in the eye. That made people nervous. Noah had noticed it more than once. And Ethan knew it. And used it in his own favor.
Also, Thomson always kept his back straight. He never crossed his arms like he was trying to block out the world. And usually, when he was as relaxed as he ever got, his hands were balled into fists. It was the kind of posture that made you feel like if you said the wrong thing, he'd make sure you regretted it.
…And I'll be stuck paying off that debt till I'm probably dead.
Noah let out a heavy sigh, crushed by his own line of thinking, and stared at his reflection in the glass punch bowl. Looking back at him, it wasn't exactly Tate Langdon, but it was damn close. His hair was slicked back with gel, which made it look shiny under the dim lights. The acne on his cheeks was covered by a ton of makeup and face paint. It was a skull drawn in black over a face he'd never really liked. The only thing missing to complete the look was dark brown eyes with that empty stare that cut right through people. But Noah didn't want to wear contacts.
Maybe he should ask Ethan to dance?
He opened his mouth to say it and then immediately shut it without a sound. Noah doubted Thomson was into that kind of thing. And where would Ethan even put that damn lacrosse stick he was glued to lately? Noah was pissed. He was pissed because of the stick. He was pissed because of the fact that his idea of dancing was ruined. He was pissed at his own cowardice. And he was still mad about the photos. Why the hell hadn't Ethan told him? What exactly was he sending that girl? Yeah, sure, Noah had refused to read the messages, because he figured it would've made him look pathetic. And yeah, it probably would have. But still… Damn it!
"Don't go anywhere, okay? I'll be right back," Ethan said suddenly. Noah didn't even get a chance to respond, and Ethan had already disappeared into the crowd. What the hell was that? Where was he going? Why? Did someone ask him to dance? Did someone beat Noah to it? Someone like that girl he'd been texting?
Grrr!
Noah mentally slapped himself across the face for his own lily liver.
What's with your behavior? How old are you? Quit being jealous! First of all, Ethan's gay. Second of all, Ethan's the most trustworthy guy you've ever met. And third, stop thinking everyone around you is somehow better than you, like any random person could just come along and steal your boyfriend right out from under your nose!
He chomped down on another pumpkin-shaped candy, showing it no mercy. Morgan looked around the Halloween party. Everyone was having fun. Drinking. Dancing. Making out in the corners, lost in sloppy, drunken kisses. And Noah just kept eating, sinking deeper and deeper into his own misery. Stupid self-pitying victim! Loneliness was eating him up while he was eating one cookie after another.
Morgan turned away from the obnoxiously cheerful students and knocked back another cup of punch, telling himself he wasn't stopping anytime soon. But as soon as the room started moving a little, he took it all back. You can't lose focus, Noah. And that meant he couldn't let himself drink too much. So he switched to lemonade.
God, where the hell had Ethan gone?
"Trick or treat! Trick or treat! Give me something good to eat!" The sudden shout right next to him made Noah jump, and he ended up spilling lemonade down the front of his shirt. Thankfully, his Tate costume consisted of a black T-shirt, black jeans, and a matching hooded coat, so he didn't have to worry about stains. He certainly couldn't compare it to that charity event, where he'd also stood awkwardly by the buffet and also managed to dump a drink all over himself. What was that, karma? Honestly, it was scary to think what kind of crap he must've pulled in a past life to be stuck in this endless loop of the same embarrassing mess on repeat.
The words Noah heard made him sober up instantly, since it was a harsh reminder that his life wasn't as carefree or easygoing as he sometimes liked to pretend.
That morning, another nasty post had popped up in the anonymous chat. A photo of Noah's grandma had tanked the admin's reputation. The backlash was weirdly sharp, like the picture had snapped something in people. Not everyone, but a decent number of users suddenly took a step back and finally saw the whole thing for what it really was: bullying. Yep, the same kind of bullying they all proudly condemned online. The same kind they called out in tweets while waving the flag for minority rights. But Noah apparently didn't count as a minority. Until recently, no one had been too eager to stand up for his rights. And then Ethan showed up in his life.
After the photo of Noah's grandmother, the admin seemed to run out of ammo. He tried going back to the usual petty jabs, but they just didn't hit the same. Anyone who hadn't left the chat in a rare moment of conscience ended up quitting out of boredom. Same old crap, different day. What they really wanted was a leaked pic of Noah getting railed. That was what would've kept their interest. Still, despite people massively unfollowing the chat, there were more than enough subscribers left. People stopped mocking him, though. No one was openly picking on him anymore. There were no snide comments behind his back, either. However, it was definitely temporary. Morgan knew for sure that it was just the calm before the storm. Still, he hoped the quiet would last a little longer.
The Halloween post wasn't exactly original. It claimed that generous Noah Morgan was offering a discount on his "services" to anyone who came up to him and recited the classic trick-or-treat rhyme. Noah could only hope people had the decency not to go through with it, even as a joke. And he was counting on Ethan to be nearby if someone actually tried it. But Thomson had vanished into the crowd. Andrea and Scott were lost in conversation. Noah was alone. Again. Sooner or later, he always ended up alone by the damn buffet table, where cookies and humiliation were always waiting for him.
He needed to stop attending these kinds of social occasions. He needed to stop going to any events. He should leave the apartment only to go to class and then spend the rest of his time holed up in his tiny place, surrounded by ocean wave paintings. No more trying to fit in. No more trying to be liked. No more… Never again.
His grandmother's paintings of ocean waves were supposed to symbolize freedom and wide-open space. But over time, Noah started seeing something else in them: fate, cold and unmoving, painted in oil; the vast depth of personal tragedy, stretched across a canvas.
You're just a victim.
"Before you look at a painting," his grandma used to say, "hold your breath."
"Why?"
"Well, why do you hold your breath when you dive under the water?"
"So I don't drown."
"Exactly. Same thing here! So you don't drown!"
At the time, Noah thought she was messing with him, thinking he was just a little boy she could mock a little. How could you drown without being under the water? Come on. Now Morgan saw it. Drowning was easy. You could drown in emotion. In the beauty that blindsided you. What's more… You could drown in pain, in grief, in loneliness, in all the words you never said but probably should've.
Hold your breath, Noah.
He filled his lungs and froze in place. He didn't react to the Halloween rhyme, deciding to pretend he hadn't heard it. Maybe, just maybe, this one time, the whole thing would pass before it even began. Maybe luck would be on his side tonight.
Yeah. No chance.
"I'm talking to you, Morgan," the fingers snapped in front of his face, and Noah blinked, instinctively turning toward the voice. The guy looked vaguely familiar. Probably he was one of Hughes' teammates. He was tall, easily a head above Noah, and built in a way that made you want to stand up straighter. The Indiana Jones costume wasn't bad, either. Actually, it looked… kind of handsome. Noah always found it weird when someone attractive was the one mocking him. He never got why people like that even bothered. What was the point? They were beautiful, so they won automatically. Why would they waste their time screwing with someone like him? For what? What was so pleasant about mocking someone who was already not as good as you?
"You wanted something?" Noah tried to keep his voice steady. No fear. Never show fear.
"A discount."
'The waves are rolling out to sea, the boats are rocking on the sea.'
"What discount?" Noah played dumb.
"The one you promised if I said the rhyme," the guy said, flashing a dazzling smile. Way too good of a smile for someone who clearly meant trouble. As he spoke, he leaned one hand on the table and looked down at Noah from above. The smell of alcohol hit hard. He didn't look drunk, but he had definitely chugged more than a few beers.
'But the storm can't scare us—the captain is here with us!'
"I didn't promise anyone anything, and I'm not offering any kind of services," Noah muttered, swallowing hard. Damn it, he did hope the makeup would be enough to keep him anonymous.
"And... and I'm not here alone," he added darkly.
"Oh, right. Supposedly you've got a boyfriend now," the guy said, dragging out the word with a nasty little smirk.
Supposedly? What the actual fuck?
'The sea is rough — one.'
"It's a bold move, trying to force up your price like that, Morgan. Just tell the truth—what did you offer Thomson in return for faking being your boyfriend?"
Fake???
'The sea is rough — two.'
"Don't look at me like that. You and Thomson? What would the school's golden boy who belongs to the nuthouse want with you? Everyone knows he's got a whole thing about people touching him. He probably hides something boring behind all that 'untouchable' drama, for example, like impotence or some shit. So what's the deal? Do you just pretend he can still fuck someone?"
'The sea is rough — three! Sea figure, freeze in the blue sea!'
And Noah froze, gripped by blinding fury. It felt like invisible fingers grabbed him around his throat. The comeback he wanted to throw out got stuck in his chest. What this guy was saying was so unbelievably stupid, it barely made sense. Was he just making this up? Or had students already been whispering crap like this behind their backs? Is that how people saw them? Is that what their relationship looked like for the others? Like, there's no way someone like Ethan could actually like someone like Noah? It was disgusting.
"However," the guy went on, "Thomson probably could've picked someone a little more believable for this whole act. So what is it, then? Blackmail?"
'The storm is gone, the sea is clear! Noah is the skipper here!'
The Devil's Eye slid across the guy's face. Down his neck and arms. Over the wrinkles in his clothes and the glitter on his collar. The Devil's Eye didn't miss. It always saw what people tried to hide.
"And you, let me guess, you judge people based on your own experience?" Noah said in a dry voice. "Is this your version of a perfect relationship built on blackmail? Who taught you that? Let me guess, maybe your crazy mother, the one who manipulates you and treats you like a doormat?"
The smug smile vanished from the guy's face in an instant. First came confusion in his eyes, quickly replaced by cold, hard anger. That should've been the moment to stop. But the venom just kept pouring out of Noah like vomit.
"Interesting strategy you've got. You treat people like dogs because your mommy treats you like one? If you think bullying everyone around you is going to fix the self-esteem she destroyed, or worse, if you think it'll somehow win you her approval and respect—trust me, it won't. She'll always see you as a nobody. A worthless mistake. A useless excuse for a kid. What do you think? Does she just hate children in general, or is it just you? Oh wait, hang on—" The Devil's Eye caught even the smallest flicker in the guy's expression, and Noah's mind lit up like a fuse. "You've got a younger brother, right? Or a sister? She must love them. But you? You're the fuck-up. Well… And congratulations, you've just proved her right by acting the way you do right now," Noah got the whole speech out in one breath. Every word was so sharp and offensive, even Morgan felt sick after hearing himself say it. But everything was already said…
"You'd better leave. When the golden boy — the one everyone thinks belongs to the nuthouse— gets back, you're not going to like what happens next," Noah added, calmer now. The anger was fading away, leaving that familiar aftertaste of shame and regret behind. He shouldn't have said all that. Shouldn't have stooped to this guy's level.
Mentioning Ethan wasn't really a threat. It was more about getting this jerk to leave before Thomson came back. It wasn't difficult to guess or picture Ethan's reaction. Also, considering the fact that Thomson had been carrying that lacrosse stick around all night... If he showed up now, he would use it; there was a one-hundred-percent chance. And that was the last thing Noah wanted.
"So, one second you're showing your teeth, and the next you're hiding behind someone else's back?" the guy sneered, narrowing his eyes. "You might want to pick a lane, Morgan. What are you, predator or prey?" He stepped in closer, just about chest to chest with Noah. Morgan wanted to step back, but the edge of the table pressed right into his lower back. Shit!
"Then again, we both know what role really sticks to you," the bargain-bin Indiana Jones said, reaching out and touching Noah's chin. Noah reacted before he even thought, slapping the guy's hand away.
"Just leave me alone," Morgan exhaled, swallowing hard. Keeping it together was getting harder by the second. He tried to act like he didn't care, but the fear—buried deep—was clawing its way up.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," the guy said softly. "I'll leave after you give me that little 'Trick or Treat' discount you owe me," the guy promised, reaching out again, this time brushing his fingers against Noah's neck.
"I said back off!" Noah pushed him, but not before the guy managed to scratch his neck, not badly, but enough to smear off some of the carefully applied makeup Andrea had put on. Black paint now smudged his fingers.
"I'm straight, by the way," Noah heard the same old song, "But you've got so many glowing reviews…"
Noah's mind was racing. Should he call for help? It was useless; the music was blasting loud. Should he fight back? He didn't have a single chance. The size difference said it all. Should he run? Unlikely. But it was worth a shot.
He lunged to the side, trying to slip past the guy, but the athlete's reflexes were faster. A grip clamped down on Noah's wrist. The guy squeezed so hard it made Noah wince.
"Let go!"
"Let's go somewhere quiet?"
"Get the f—" The guy cut him off mid-yell, clamping a hand over Noah's mouth. Noah struggled, but even drunk, the guy was strong. He spun Noah around, yanked him back against his chest, and started dragging him toward one of the exits. Morgan fought back as hard as he could. He jabbed an elbow into the guy's ribs a couple of times, but it barely made a dent. He tried to claw the hand off his mouth but couldn't get a grip. His ears were ringing. His vision swam with the rising tide of panic. His eyes were filled with tears of pure despair.
Come on, Noah. Don't lose it. Not now. Think. There has to be a way out.
"Can you believe how hard he's trying to fight back? He really thought I was going to fuck him!" the guy shouted as they stepped outside. A roar of laughter followed. The words Morgan heard gave him a new dose of fear and relief at the same time. One threat traded for another. Getting beaten didn't sound much better than the alternative of getting raped.
"Let me go!" he choked out pathetically. The sound of it made his skin crawl with shame. But what else could he do? Nothing. And there's nothing worse than when "nothing" is the only answer to the question.
"What a fucking moron," someone muttered behind.
"Relax, Morgan! We're just messing around, old school-style!"
Shit! Shit! Shit!
It hit Noah too late what was about to happen. He should've known better than to let his guard down—even for a year. Just because something hadn't happened in a while didn't mean it wouldn't happen again. There was always a chance that it could happen out of nowhere.
Noah didn't have time to say anything else. The ground vanished beneath him. That half-second in the air stretched out like forever—long enough for dread to burn behind his eyes. Then there was a loud splash. And icy water closed in on Morgan from every side.
Hold your breath, Noah.
The black sky and dim moon flickered through the layer of icy, murky water. His clothes, now soaked and heavy, were pulling him down. The cold should've jolted him back to his senses, but instead, it was like he'd lost touch with reality entirely. Everything felt unreal. Like his own life was just some fever dream. Why the hell did this kind of shit keep happening to him? What the hell did he ever do to deserve it? He could probably spend the rest of his life trying to figure that out. But a soft thud as he hit the bottom snapped him back. And that's when it hit him; he hadn't managed to get a full breath before going under the water. He kicked upward and swam toward the surface.
Noah broke through just in time to hear a chorus of laughter—a few guys from the basketball team and one cheerleader, all doubled over like it was the funniest thing they'd ever seen. What the actual fuck was so funny about shoving someone into a pool on the last day of October?
There were a few pools on campus. Most of them were indoors. But, of course, Noah was lucky enough to get tossed into the one outdoor pool still full of water. Normally, by October, they drained those and covered them up until spring. So, yeah—lucky him. At least the water was still there. If it had been empty, he might not have been walking away from this at all.
"How's the water, Morgan? Refreshing?" called out that bargain-bin Indiana Jones, crushing an empty beer can flat in one hand and hurling it at Noah. Noah had to jerk his head to the side to avoid getting smacked in the face. His teeth were chattering. His body was shaking uncontrollably from the cold. He had to get out of the water as soon as possible.
"Why don't you try it yourself?" Came a quiet voice. The guy who dragged Noah to the pool didn't even get a chance to respond or turn around. One solid kick, and he went flying into the water. The three others who'd been laughing just seconds ago jumped back to their feet but didn't move an inch.
Thomson was furious. And there was something wet and suspiciously red already smeared on his lacrosse stick. He stepped slowly out of the shadows and locked eyes with the group.
"Morgan, are you okay?" he asked, eyes still trained on the basketball players.
"F-f-fine," Noah managed to say, getting his way toward the edge of the pool.
"Good," Ethan nodded. "Now you, jump," he turned to the group and motioned toward the pool.
"What the hell? Why us?" one of the guys grumbled.
"Why Morgan?"
"Everybody knows he's—"
"He's what?"
"It was just a joke!"
"I like jokes too."
"I didn't even—"
A solid smack to the thigh with the lacrosse stick cut him off mid-sentence. He lost his balance and fell in the water with a scream.
"Save your excuses," Ethan said in a forcefully calm voice. "You're not the only ones who enjoy messing with people. Consider me part of your twisted little club," He said, tapping the stick against his shoulder. "The only difference is that you enjoy screwing with Morgan. I enjoy screwing with you."
The two other guys, doing the math, decided to cut their losses and jumped in voluntarily. No one wanted to risk a busted knee or a dislocated shoulder that could ruin their game performance. The cheerleader, meanwhile, tried to act like she had nothing to do with any of it, as if she'd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What she didn't realize was that her pretty face wasn't going to charm Ethan. Nothing charmed Thomson. Not even on Halloween.
"Do you need a personal invite?" Ethan asked in a flat voice as he looked at her from under his eyebrows.
"I didn't touch him. I didn't do anything."
"Well, too bad," he said. "That's called collective responsibility. You'll be taking a swim with your friends. Maybe next time you'll choose a better company."
"I'm not jumping. My mascara will be ruined," she snapped, backing away from the pool far enough that he couldn't shove her in with a single push. Ethan just shrugged and headed toward her. She tried to run away, but his lacrosse stick blocked her path.
"Ethan, don't!" Noah choked out, finally reaching the edge of the pool, trying to pull himself out. It was harder than he expected, since his clothes were soaking wet. "They're not worth it."
"True," Ethan said, grabbing the girl by the jacket. She slapped Thomson's face in response.
"Don't you dare touch me!"
Thomson's moves seemed unbelievably fast. Since he got even more pissed than before, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her down to his level because she was taller than him in heels.
"Then don't you dare touch my boyfriend," he growled, then dragged the screaming cheerleader to the edge of the swimming pool and threw her in. She only shut up once she hit the water.
One of the guys had made it to the ladder, but just as he grabbed the rail, Ethan appeared right in front of him. Thomson tapped the stick lightly against the metal steps, warning not to get any bright ideas about climbing out too soon.
"Enjoy the swim," Ethan said in a low, warning voice. By then, Noah had finally managed to get out of the pool, more or less, and was shivering. It was chilly. Though, the word 'chilly' didn't even cover it.
"What the hell is going on here?!" Another familiar face showed up on the scene, taking one look around and freezing in place. Rufus Hughes, dressed as Fred from Scooby-Doo, stopped halfway through.
"They're swimming," Ethan said flatly.
"Why the—" Rufus stopped short when he spotted Noah, soaking wet. His brain put the pieces together immediately.
"What the hell were you thinking?! I told you not to touch him!" he roared at his teammates.
"It was just supposed to be, like… a joke."
"Oh yeah? And how is it?! Is this shit funny?! We've got a game next week! And if even one of you gets sick, I swear I'll—"
Ethan and Noah didn't stick around to hear the rest of Hughes's tirade. Without a word, Thomson grabbed Noah's hand and led him down a dark side path toward the parking lot.
"Sorry," Ethan said quietly. "I shouldn't have left you."
"Don't be ridiculous," Noah muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. "You're not my bodyguard. I should be able to handle myself," he sighed. "Besides, this isn't exactly new territory for me. That's not the first pool I've been tossed into. My first year, at the Christmas party, Hughes himself gave me the exact same treatment," Noah let out a nervous laugh. That time the pool was at least indoors. Though he still froze his ass off walking home and ended up spending all of Christmas sick in bed.
"Oh." Ethan stopped. "Then we should go back."
"Why?"
"So I can throw Hughes in, too," Thomson said, turning around to go back, but Noah grabbed his arm.
"Don't. Didn't you hear what he said?"
"What did he say?"
"I told you not to touch him," Noah quoted Rufus' words.
"So what? That suddenly makes him a saint? Karma's still coming for him."
"Let karma do its thing on its own. We're going home."
"But I am their karma," Ethan continued insisting.
"You're my boyfriend. And I'm freezing my ass off," Noah answered. "Want to call a taxi so I don't ruin your seats?"
"Don't be stupid," Ethan snorted. "We're taking my car."
5' 3"
Ethan turned on the heat and the seat warmers. Morgan looked depressed. He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and tried to look even mildly pleased that, these days, most gadgets, including his, were at least water-resistant. It just needed to dry out. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for his lighter and cigarettes. They'd gone down in flames. The once carefully applied makeup didn't look much better; half of it was washed away, and half was smeared into a mess. Now Morgan looked less like Tate Langdon and more like some hobo who hadn't seen a shower in years.
"Take your clothes off," Ethan said bluntly. Noah took off his coat and hoodie obediently and tossed them into the back seat. Thomson raised an eyebrow in a questioning manner.
"What?" Noah blinked at him, confused.
"All of it," Thomson had no idea that, apparently, he had to specify this.
"But I won't sit in your car naked!" Noah frowned.
'Why not?' Ethan bit his tongue. Morgan was already tense enough.
"Not naked," Thomson said, switching tactics. He nodded toward the hoodie on his lap, a dry, oversized white and orange hoodie.
"But I won't sit in your car naked, wearing just a hoodie!" Noah sounded horrified.
"Why not? Haven't I seen everything already?" This time he couldn't resist asking this question. Noah hesitated, then turned toward the window. "Take your clothes off," Ethan said again, more firmly. "You can keep your underwear. The hoodie's waiting," and with that, he got out of the car. "I'll be right back."
He headed toward the small 24-hour convenience store across the lot. Partly to give Noah some privacy. Partly to grab something that might calm him down. Ethan let out a quiet breath of relief when he got back and saw that Noah had, in fact, changed. He was sitting there in just his underwear and the hoodie, which now looked even more oversized on him than Thomson had pictured.
'You look great, Morgan. But the boxers are kind of ruining the look,' Ethan bit his tongue again.
Without a word, Thomson handed Noah a paper cup of cheap but hot coffee (it was the only kind the store had), along with a fresh pack of cigarettes and a new lighter.
"Figured you might need this," he said simply. Noah nodded with a look of gratitude in his eyes, cracked the window open, and lit up a cigarette. He was trying to play it cool, but it wasn't working. His hands trembled slightly, not just from the cold. Ethan debated whether he should say something. He wasn't good at comforting people or cheering them up. And besides, his eyes kept drifting down to those pale, skinny legs. His hand would look good resting on Noah's left thigh. Sure, it was a basic image, but Thomson figured he was allowed to dream about something simple every now and then. It was even sad that this one didn't feel like the right time to act on it.
They spent almost half the drive from that cursed party in silence. Noah preferred to drown in his own not-so-cheerful thoughts, only snapping out of it when they stopped at a red light and were hit with the glow of a neon beer ad outside.
"Shit. I didn't have time to take a single picture," Morgan muttered, eyeing himself in the side mirror with clear disgust. "Why didn't you tell me I looked like hell?"
"Because you don't," Ethan said simply. "You look great. And I did take a few pictures," he added, handing Noah his phone.
"When did you even have time?" Morgan asked, genuinely surprised as he started scrolling. A few shots were from Ethan's place, while Andrea had still been working her magic on his face. A couple more were from outside, while Noah was smoking before getting in the car. And, of course, there were some pictures from their walk toward the party. Noah went through them all, pausing at one where you couldn't see his face. Actually, there weren't any faces in the shot, just Ethan's hand wrapped around his wrist.
"You know, you could've just said you wanted a picture with me," Noah said. There was a hint of a smile in his voice.
"Then there's no fun," Ethan shrugged. "I don't like posed pictures. They always feel… fake."
Noah went back to the photo where he was smoking. Ethan figured that this one would be his favorite; he'd had the same reaction to it himself. What's more, Thomson had already used the picture.
"Can you send these to me?"
"You can send them yourself. My phone's in your hands."
"Then I'll have to open your TalkPanik…"
"Yup. While you're at it, feel free to scroll through all my messages," Ethan joked. There was nothing in that crappy chat he needed to hide, but Morgan always reacted in a way that made teasing him worth it.
"I'm not snooping through your phone!" Noah gasped, locking the screen like it was on fire.
"You already are."
"But you were the one to give me your phone to look at the pictures!"
"That's not what I meant…" Ethan smiled, reaching out for the phone without taking his eyes off the road. He tapped the screen, and the lock screen lit up, showing the same photo again. The one of Noah smoking, staring off into the distance. Morgan let out a sound similar to squealing, then shoved the phone back into Ethan's hand wordlessly and turned toward the window.
"What do you think we are, Netflix characters or something?"
"What, Netflix characters are the only ones allowed to use photos of their boyfriend as a lock screen?"
"It just… doesn't really seem like your thing," Noah mumbled.
"Anything I want gets to be my thing," Ethan shot back.
And that was the end of the conversation. Noah went quiet again, and, judging by the color of his ears, he'd reached a whole new level of embarrassment. But at least he was distracted. Which was the whole point for Ethan.
Comment on the chapter:
This chapter is dedicated to All_Deine_Wunden <3
A hot chapter for a hot person :3