A low, humming sound vibrated in Oliver’s throat. Amusement. And Santi’s jagged words clattered off the armor of Oliver’s impenetrable egotism. “Yes.” Sardonic. “Of course.” Derisive. There had always been an edge to their relationship, a grinding coarseness as they moved against each other. As children it had been uncomplicated dislike. As adults, it was far more complex and difficult to label the layers they’d piled up between them through years in each others company.
“I’m tired.” And with that he moved passed Santi, lifting a hand and running his fingers down his friend’s neck, his touch sliding down to settle on Santi’s shoulder to quickly squeeze before detaching as he walked ahead. “If you’re going to class, cover for me.”
yes/of course. three simple words ignite the carefully woven fabric of santiago’s false vibrato. within the smoke of charred cloth inhaled lies their chemistry, the forever dance of chaos and order.
and then big hands and long fingers are flesh pressed to bruises never meant to fade, setting fire to the whole damned city. making a catalyst of his emotions. his body, instinct all primal, is the front line. internal flames peaking through the scruffiness of his cheeks and soft boy hands grabbing on to the distancing oliver. “don’t fucking tell me what to do, white devil.”
there’s no one in the hallway, the bell already rang and classes already started. and that leaves his core in a temporary peace, knowing that oliver is the only one who can see the ruins reflected in his eyes.













