As you craned your neck to peer between the cracks where sun shone through, he wondered what had taught you such a ferocious shape of caution. Whether you were always so careful of who treaded too close—or if someone had shown you that hands could hurt.

Once you were satisfied with the silhouette on the other side, you wiped your palms on your apron and went to the door.

A man stood with his shirt tucked into his trousers, posture easy, smile already set neatly in place. Though he hid his finer print well, Adam noticed all of the trappings of an apex predator. How he stood tall as he could manage. How he did not look surprised to find you alone.

“Good afternoon,” he said. Your name left his tongue as though he tasted it. 

Adam winced.

“What can I do for you today?” you asked, not unkindly; but you did not step aside.

“We have been talking in the village.” He leaned in closer. Still, you did not invite him in. “They say there is something in these woods,” he continued. “Big thing. Watching. You are always in and out—surely you have witnessed it.”

You cocked your head, mulling his statement with a false consideration. “I’ve seen deer,” you said. “Foxes, too. Rabbits bold enough to steal from my garden. Nothing that concerns me.”

The man’s smile thinned.

“It isn’t good for a woman to live like this,” he murmured, lowering his face towards yours. “All alone out here. No man to care for you when a beast prowls within these very woods.”

From where he hid, Adam felt something coil taut in his chest.

“I manage,” you replied evenly.

“I could help you do more than manage.” He shifted his weight, boots scraping against the doorframe. “I’ve offered before,” he said. “Marriage would settle matters. Give you protection. People in the village would not speak of you so should you accept my hand.”

Silence stretched.

Adam felt it—the change in you. 

Subtle. Controlled. Unwelcome.

“I am able to take care of myself, Cyril. I can guarantee you that.”

The trespasser, Cyril, grinned sardonically. “There are things you cannot take care of on your own. Things only a man can give you.”

Something behind your eyes tightened.

“I can provide these things as well, thank you.”

His expression fell as you shut the door with a staunch goodbye.

He could have followed Cyril. It would have been easy to track him. And he knew, more certainly than anything else, that Cyril’s fear would have kept him from ever coming back again.

But he gulped down the desire instead. Fell, so very gracelessly, into restraint.

The day resumed posthaste.

Later, when each note of Cyril was gone and the cottage had settled again, Adam asked you the question he had no right to mention.

“Have you… considered it?” he said, voice hushed.

His stomach flipped. Cyril could offer you a name, a roof that was not borrowed, a future that did not require secrecy. Adam could offer only vigilance—and even that felt pilfered.

You dropped the herbs you were steeping and looked at him. “Considered what?”

He swallowed the knot in his throat, feeling very much as though he could fold under this pressure like a sheet of paper.

“Accepting his hand.”

“Cyril?” You snorted, short and sharp. “I once saw a woman falsify someone calling for her to escape his advances. Personally, I would rather take the claw end of a hammer to my skull.”

The relief that followed was violent and disorienting.

Akin to drowning.

“Are you up to collecting from the forest with me?” You softened when your gaze met him, and he became ungainly in his efforts to remain standing. “We should really try to get what we can before winter comes.”

As he nodded, you smiled. A beautiful thing he wished he could hold onto with both hands. “Let us be off, then.”

————

Silence trailed the two of you like a pale horse at your heels.

It was deafening. The absence of birdsong, the way the air pressed heavy against the trees. 

Mushrooms seeped out from knotted trunks, earth-toned gore atop the bark. They grew about in clusters, fleshy mounds which sprung up in circles round each hummock, the only living specimens that summoned the courage to show themselves. 

It was unusual for these holts to be so still. For the deciduous scent to be all that remained creeping below the amber canopy of leaves.

A grouse of pheasants scattered. 

You were halfway to the mushroom circle when the sound echoed through: a sharp bark, too near for your escape.

The hound tore from the underbrush, lean and dark, eyes savage with purpose. It did not slow when it saw you. It slobbered, gnashing its teeth and flinging threads of saliva.

Adam moved.

He was between you and the animal in an instant, motion raw, unthinking. The dog lunged, teeth snapping—but his hand hooked round its collar mid-leap. He could see the transition into fear immediately, sense the dog’s innate need to break free. 

It propelled itself forward. Adam forced its snout into the grip of his fingers. There was a snarl, a yelp, the sudden, terrible sound of breath forced from a body too small to withstand his strength.

He released it at once.

The hound fled, tail tucked, vanishing back into the trees.

You stood there, chest heaving. He could hear your heart hammering. Watched you staring at him as though truly seeing him for the first time.

“I would not have hurt it had it not come at you,” he said quickly. “I swear.”

“I know,” you said. Your voice shook—but you did not retreat. “I know that.”

A single tear streaked down your cheek.

He wanted to die.

“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I do not mean to startle you. I…” He took a step away, and you used the space to collect yourself. “You keep saving me, and I have done next to nothing for you. Twice now—twice, you’ve saved my life. And what do I have to offer in return?” Glancing away, you wiped at your puffy eyes with the back of your hand, sucking in a choppy breath. “I have so very little to repay you even though I owe you my life twice over.”

The cataclysmic burst of your words lit a fire under his skin.

“You…” His tone was hard and half a whisper. "You deserve kindness.”

“So do you.” Your lips trembled as you spoke. “You deserve to be met with more than what I am equipped to give.”

“No, please.” Instinct drove him closer. You did nothing to keep away from him. “You have done more than enough for me just by offering your companionship.”

He was struck cold at the verbiage he’d chosen. His tongue felt chalky his mouth.

But you simply sniffled, eyes meeting his at last. “Truly?”

He could have laughed at the absurdity. You were worried about not doing enough for him? What a strange, fantastical world he’d found himself in.

“Yes,” he said. “Truly. I… I mean it.”

You became tender. “Have you been hurt? I should have asked sooner, forgive me.”

“That does not matter.”

You tutted. “Of course it does.” Your touch swept carefully across his hands, and he all but shattered. “See? Right here, you’ve been bit. I would not forgive myself if it made you sick.”

When you removed your touch, he selfishly wished you would return your hands to his, and fill the hollow spaces within him.

“You needn’t fret about this. I do not heal like you do. I do not… become sick,” he explained this reticently, preparing for all of the questions you may have for him.

For a moment, you wore the look of someone lost in thought—but the expression was soon traded for one of worry.

“Even so, I would like to clean it. Put some herbs upon it to take away some of the pain.”

Electricity skittered up his extremities.

All of his wherewithal went to a single, fragile bow of his head. “As you wish.”

When your hands had steadied, the danger having receded enough to be named, you both took your leave. You came upon the tracks on your way.

Boot prints. 

Fresh. 

Leading towards the village.

You looked up at him with large, wet eyes, and curled your little fingers into the material of his coat.

“Do not leave me alone tonight.”

Warmth swooped in his gut. Boiled there like a kettle. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “As you wish.”

————

That night, the hearth was welcoming, its heat less remembrance and more of what he had come to know: bread, tea, gentle nights with noses pressed to books.

He could not pull his gaze from you. 

Bathed in the firelight as though kept inside of a candle’s glow, the shadows of your lashes arched in crescents atop your cheeks. Your eyes glittered. Your lips moved along with each word you read, allowing a silent rendition of the world you were seeing, curved as rose petals. 

It gave him a start when you caught him looking.

You smiled.

The world stood still.

He forced his eyes to the floorboards, ashamed of how greedily he had catalogued you, and began to stammer. “I am… s-sorry, I do not mean to be… impolite, I…”

“You know.” You shut your book. “My grandmother was not a very polite woman.”

He swallowed. Hummed in acknowledgment. “You have been nothing if not polite.”

“Then I have fooled you well, because there is one song she taught me that I remember word for word.” The petals of your lips further curled at the corners. “I’ll sing it to you should you promise not to tell anyone you heard it from me.”

He grinned in such a way that even he could tell made him look foolish, broad and spanning across his face. “I promise.”

You cleared your throat.

“On the fourteenth of May at the dawn of the day

With my gun on my shoulder to the woods I did stray

In search of some game if the weather proved fair

To see could I get a shot at the bonny black hare.”

A chuckle broke the song, and his heart fluttered at the way it filled the room.

“Oh, I met a young girl there with her face as a rose

And her skin was as fair as the lily that grows

I says ‘My fair maiden, why ramble you so?

Can you tell me where the bonny black hare do grow?’

Oh, the answer she gave me, her answer was ‘No…’”

Pink pinched at your cheeks.

“‘But it's under me apron they say it do grow

And if you'll not deceive me I vow and declare

We'll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare’

Well, I laid this girl down with her face to the sky

And I took out my ramrod and my bullets likewise

I says ‘Lock your legs round me and dig in with your heels

For the closer we get, oh, the better it feels!’”

He gasped, and you covered your mouth with your palm to stifle the laugh which blossomed up. “There is more,” you tittered.

“More?”

“Yes, yes, but it is also very improper.”

Adam scooted closer. “Tell it to me anyway,” he said, and you captured your bottom lip betwixt your teeth, an action which nearly unmade him.

After a sigh, you continued. “The birds they were singing in the bushes and trees

And the song that they sang was ‘Oh, she's easy to please’

I felt her heart quiver and I knew what I'd done

Says I 'Have you had enough of my old sporting gun?’

Oh, the answer she gave me, her answer was ‘Nay

It's not often young sportsmen like you come this way

And if your powder is willing and your bullets play fair

Why don't you keep firing at the bonny black hare?’

‘Oh, my powder is wasted and my bullets all gone

My ramrod is limp and I cannot fire on

But I'll be back in the morning and if you are still here

We'll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare!’”

You found yourselves given to fits. Unencumbered, free. More so than he had ever felt while confined within four walls.

Laughter died down to embers, leaving room for a comfortable quiet to settle. This time, though, he found himself too close to separate from you easily. Near enough to count the stars in your eyes.

“Is that what you sang in the woods?” he asked softly. “This song, without the words?”

You did not answer right away. Specks of orange crackled from the hearth, scattering around you and blinking like fireflies. And as the seconds accumulated, Adam caught himself imagining what it would be like to sit across from you in daylight, nothing hidden between you but your breaths. 

The thought felt treacherous somehow.

Too human for him.

“So how should we go about it, dearest?” he asked without looking in her direction, but rather focusing on trying to minimize the damage that she did to her clothes.

Honestly, had no one taught her to sew? This work was worse than anything done by the other spawn even in their early days!

“How about… a question for a question?” she suggested, taking a seat beside him.

“Is anything off limits? Are you truly prepared for everything that you might uncover?” he teased, squinting a little as he used the sharp, pointy edge of scissors to carefully unpick her terrible stitches. “Us big city folk come with our terrible, depraved secrets.”

Ah, a blush for his efforts. Familiar territory.

“I can’t say what is off limits,” Tav said, playing with the collar and the ruffles of his shirt with her long, nervous fingers. “How about you are allowed not to answer any one question of your choosing?”

“Seems reasonable,” he shrugged, finally getting the thread that she used to cooperate and pulling on it until the fabric was no longer bunched awkwardly.

“What is your favourite colour?”

How uninspired. Honestly, were they children?

“I assumed it was blue,” she went on. “Your underwear is blue. And you seem to favour the blue dye, when you have a choice.”

“Observant, are we?” he chuckled. “Just how long has it been since I’ve piqued your interest? And yes, this is not a rhetorical question. I do expect an answer.”

“I guess… When you opened the doors on the bugbear and the ogre.”

“Oh? How scandalous of you to find that appealing! Did that get you excited?” he elbowed her gently, finding to his surprise that he was rather enjoying the light tone of the conversation.

“No,” Tav laughed, “but it was the first time you smiled. A real, proper smile. That image stayed with me for a long time. And got me wondering… what is beneath the polished look and practiced mannerisms?”

If Astarion had actually fed on her and any blood coursing through him at this moment, he was quite sure that he would have blushed.

He cleared his throat, “I believe it’s your turn to ask.”

She nodded, but didn’t ask him anything immediately, content to simply watch him for a while. The work of his dexterous fingers was such a contrast to her clumsy, inexperienced movements. Tav knew that she was way out of her depth when it came to Astarion and didn’t think that she would be able to figure him out even if she tried. Which is why she looked for an excuse to talk to him without others being around, wanting to get to know him better. But every time she tried to have a genuine conversation with him in the past, his expression would shutter, and he would give her some tired, clearly practiced lines. And perhaps it was foolish of her, but Tav felt she wanted to get to know him. To really know him.

 “What makes you happy? And I mean apart from walking in on freaky sex.”

“Tsk, I was going to say just that, actually. Took the words right out of my mouth, you cheeky pup.”

In truth, he was not really sure how to answer that. Happiness has not been part of the equation for over two centuries. Survival and prevailing against all odds. That was all that he was concerned with.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he finally admitted with a frown. “Drinking your blood makes me feel… strong. Powerful. Free. I am not sure what it means  to be happy in your books, but I believe this is it for me.”

He took a furtive look at her from underneath his lashes and was taken aback a little by the genuine, warm expression on her face. By the gods! Who did that? Who actually went around looking at people like that? No one did, in his experience.

“I hope you find more things that make you happy,” Tav said earnestly, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

“Well, the pleasure of your company definitely tops that list,” he cleared his throat and moved away a little, feeling uncomfortable at the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest. Whatever it was.

“Well, of course! But I mean inconsequential nothings. Something that will make you smile. Something that will make you look forward to tomorrow.”

“And what makes you happy, Tav, hm? Seeing as you are the expert on the matter?”

To his surprise, he actually found that he wanted to know the answer.

“Well, it’s nothing unusual. Seeing people I care about being happy. Being helpful. Seeing families reunited.”

“Tsk, you are no fun!”  Astarion clicked his tongue in annoyance. “And here I was, actually answering your questions properly and what do I get in return? A cookie-cutter hero ‘I live to serve’ answer. Give me a break,” he scoffed.

“You don’t believe that people can help others just because?” Tav tossed several sticks into the campfire, the flames rising to lick the dry wood hungrily.

“No,” he said firmly, with conviction. “Not in my experience.”

He took a deep breath that he did not need, more for effect than out of necessity. “People are cruel, vile and everything is done for gain and nothing else.”

“You don’t mean that,” Tav looked down at her knees, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, but I do. My sweet, sweet friend. Kindness gets people tortured. Kindness gets people killed. Kindness is the root of all trouble and you will be better off if you realise this sooner rather than later-” he stopped himself abruptly when he realised that he almost shouted that last part.

They fell silent, the crackling of the fire loud in the stillness.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” she finally said.

“It is the truth.”

Astarion did not have to look at Tav to know that she disagreed. It didn’t matter. Their experiences were too different. They were too different. She probably was a nice girl from a small town in the middle of nowhere where neighbors were friends, and every day ended with a lovely sunset over the fields. At least that was what Astarion imagined when he thought about Tav’s home. He never actually bothered to ask. Come to think of it, none of them asked Tav about her past. Although they all seemed to be eager enough to have her help them on their personal quests, they actually knew very little about her.

“Goodness me, we seemed to have gotten carried away with that lively discussion,” he cleared his throat, realising that he was silent far too long. “Your shirt is almost fixed, so one last question.”

“Of course,” she stretched, fighting back a yawn.

“The scars on your side,” he noticed that Tav immediately moved to cover them up, pulling his shirt down with a jerk. “How did you get them?”

He had noticed them before, the night of the party. But he didn’t really care to ask then. Astarion out of all people knew that scars could tell quite a story. Cazador told him that his were a poem, but he was determined to find out exactly what it was that that bastard carved into his skin.

Astarion was a little taken aback when Tav’s demeanor changed, the expression turning bitter for the briefest moment before she caught herself. When she turned to look at him, her smile was as pleasant as any she would usually give him.

“Ah. I believe this is the question I will choose not to answer. At least not tonight. Thank you for my shirt and for talking to me. I enjoyed getting to know you a little better. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, my dear,” he handed her the mended shirt, watching her walk away from the campfire without another word.

Well, perhaps there was more to their fearless leader after all. There was definitely a secret, something that she did not want to be uncovered just yet. And that piqued his interest. Perhaps a goblet of wine or two would loosen her tongue next time they decided to meet for a chat.

Astarion scowled. Him finding talking to Tav pleasant and them bonding was not part of the plan. On the contrary, any sort of relationship was a hindrance.

The vampire rose soundlessly and looked into the woods. Perhaps a hunt to clear his head would do him good. If anything, it would take his mind off Tav. Because whatever was happening between them had to remain a transaction. And it would be prudent not to forget that even for a moment.

Part 2 - 'The best laid plans'

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She licks her lips.

Her tongue darts out as she mocks me.

Her eyes gaze right into my soul.

My sight unwillingly darts from her eyes to her shockingly pink lips.

I try to tear my sight off of those wide, endearing lavender eyes only to end up on her lips instead.

Her slender hands tie the knots with a practiced motion.

She runs slender fingers through her mussed blonde hair.

Her silk-brocaded shoes clatter pleasantly against the polished marble.

She pats the small open space on the couch beside her, looking at me expectantly.

She flips through the pages with a practiced motion.

The setting sun casts one side of her face and her blonde hair in an enthralling golden glow.

She twists her body around in impossible flexibility with the same ease as I might have lifting a glass of water.

Her back is turned towards me, entirely bare as she leans out of the pondwater.

Her hand is warm against my face.

Her very presence warms up the chilly room.

She leans against me for a bit, and for that brief moment, I completely forget the biting cold.

I bring my hand up to cup her warm cheek, looking at me with those searching lavender eyes as she does nothing to stop my hand stroking her face.

Her hair is amazingly silky smooth as I run my hands through it.

Her hands pleasantly run through my hair with a distinct tingle shivering down my spine.

She wraps her silken-sleeved arms wholly around my neck, and as I'm pulled into the soft warmth of her embrace, I can do nothing but melt into it.

She pats my head with a jestful smile.

She gives my cheek a reassuring pat.

The warmth of her inexorable presence, leaning against my shoulder is enough to dispel the chill and all thoughts of backing away.

Jacob usually had the time to plan before Ricky came over but this time, Ricky had arrived unannounced and drenched and shivering under the onslaught of pelting rain and rough winds. He had no coat to burrow into and no umbrella for cover, just the clothes on his back and the bag in his hands.

Jacob had ushered him in with shock, given him a towel to dry off with and the most oversized of his clothes to change into while he explained that hadn’t had anywhere else to turn. That his car had broken down a half hour away from his home and Jacob was the closest solace he could think of. That he hadn’t thought to stop in the rows of cafè’s or the half-deserted laundromats on his way. Jake’s heart warmed.

They’d huddled down in his room after that, where the thermostat was turned up and blankets piled atop his bed, and Jacob had forced a cup of coffee into Ricky’s hands to warm both his hands and his innards.

But Ricky and Jacob never had too much to say to the other and they’d been sitting in silence long enough for the mug to sit empty on the bedside table and for Ricky to stop tremmering. Usually, with the time to plan out something for them to do, the two of them would play whatever crappy video game they could find or Portman would tutor him in whatever he was struggling most with at the time but without it… Jacob doesn’t think they’ve ever just spent time together just to spend time together. Ever been around each other without it feeling almost like an obligation.

He couldn’t help but wonder if they were actually friends or just akin to close acquaintances. Maybe unplanned visits would further their friendship. He hoped it would.

Jake was never great at silence, and neither was Ricky it seemed, because they both opened their mouths and began to speak at the same time with a lingering awkwardness.

“Do you min-”

“Do you wan-”

They paused, looking at each other with sheepish eyes and tight-lipped smiles. Ricky waved a hand as if to say ‘you go ahead’ and Jacob shook his head and nodded at him to say what he wanted.

“I was just going to ask if you’d mind if I dyed my hair? I was going home to do it but, y’know, my car.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh- uh- no. No, go ahead,” He shook his head and gestured at the bag by the door. “Just try not to get it on anything, my mom’ll kill me.”

“‘Course.” Ricky stood from his nest of blankets and moved to the bag, taking a box of dye from inside it with a picture of a man with a head full of green hair holding up a murky bottle stained with the same shade. The box was caved in and damp from the storm outside, the rain having soaked through the fabric, Ricky sighed lowly through his teeth at the sight of it.

“You’re going green?” Jake asked, voice coated in judgemental surprise. He felt a rush of mourn at the thought of Ricky’s natural hair disappearing under a vibrant, unnatural shade.

“What, you don’t like it?” He raised a brow, looking over his shoulder.

“It’s not ba-” He stopped at Ricky’s knowing glance, relenting into telling the truth and forgoing social politeness. “It’s awful.” He frowned. “I like your hair now. It suits you, it’s yours. I don’t know why you’d choose green of all colours, but I guess if anyone would suit it, it would be you.”

“Thank you?” Ricky's face furrowed. “I just like the look of it. I can always change if it turns out shit.” Jacob hummed in response, watching as Ricky walked over to the mirror hung on his wall and began to mix the dye together.

The colour in the pot was shades darker than the man in the advertisement photo and looked more like something Jacob could get behind. He saw Ricky frown through the mirror, a downturn and pursue of his lips, before he looked up and caught eyes with Jake and smiled. His breath caught in his throat and he forced a smile back.

The first slather of dye painted the sides of his head where the hair was shorter and shallower and gave the effect that his hair was wet — which Jacob supposed it was, really. The colouring wasn’t instantaneous through the roots but the dye was green already and Jacob felt an almost physical sensation of grief at the first signs of his favourite head of hair changing.

The more Ricky applied the more he began to look as though he’d slicked it back with a thick discoloured gel but there was a large section on the back of his head that Ricky missed every time he tried to get it and Jacob felt an amusement bubble in his stomach and fester in his chest. He wasn’t sure if Ricky could tell at first, with not being able to the back of his head, but his jaw began to tick and his eyes began to narrow until eventually he reached his fingers around width and felt along the dry area with a huff.

“Need help?” He called.

Ricky sunk his teeth into his lower lip, looking away from his frustrated reflection and straight at him. His lips parted and he in-took a breath like he was going to say something before hesitating. “Please.” He swallowed and gave a curt nod.

Jake moved from his burrow of pillows and blankets, shivering at the loss of warmth, and walked the short distance to him while grinning. The pot of hair-dye was half empty and the closer he got the stronger the chemical scent stung his nose, he quite liked it. Ricky didn’t have an application brush, just the gloves on his hands that came with the dye and Jacob felt no point in having him remove them for his own hands when he would surely stain them through the process anyway.

The patch of unslathered hair was small and wouldn’t require too much of the paste so Jacob chose to just stick a couple fingers into the substance and apply it that way. Ricky made a noise of indignation, looking at Jacob incredulously. “That’ll dye your fingers green, you idiot.” He tsked.

Jacob shrugged. “So?”

“I thought you didn’t like the colour?” He reminded.

“It’s alright.” He said passively. It’s your colour now. “I was right, you pull it off.”

Ricky’s chest rose with a breath and stuttered in its fall. His eyes flashed with something that stirred Jacob’s stomach but it was gone as quick as it came, hidden underneath the closed offedness that he always masked under.

“Did you get all the other sections?” Jacob asked. Ricky nodded with the flesh of his cheek sucked between his molars. “Then you’re all done.”

Pickering turned to face him, looking down at him as he removed the clear gloves in a way that turned them inside out and shoved them into the empty box. The green was smeared along his hairline and travelled down his forehead and temples and the tops of his ears in a way that Jacob found endearing. Ricky’s larger hand rose encased the width of his wrist in a cradle and the other moved to trail along his palm and up his slender fingers in a soft caress. The movement followed the outline of dye splotched wetly against his skin, stroking there with tender affection. Jacob’s face reddened in a splatter warmth.

His eyes moved from their hands and connected with Ricky’s watching ones with a spark of passion. Ricky’s eyes flickered down to his lips and back up again and Jacob thought, hoped, that he would lean down and kiss him and then never stop kissing him ever again. But instead, he stepped back and dropped his grip from Jacob’s wrist with a thick swallow.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He breathed.

There was a moment of the same silence from before, the one where they didn’t know what to do with themselves and looked sheepish and out of place. Jacob shuffled on his feet, looking anywhere but at Ricky with vehemence. Ricky was the one to break the silence.

“Can I- uh- use the shower? To wash it out?” He cleared his throat.

Jacob’s gaze snapped to him. “Yes, there’s shampoo in there — it’s the green bottle. I just need to wash my hands first.”

He walked out to the bathroom, twisting the knob of the warm water on with a sqeach. The skin of his hands was rubbed red and smelt strongly of the vanilla hand soap he’d used by the time he’d done washing them — no matter how hard he’d scrubbed the tips of his fingers still stayed green. Ricky’s green. And Ricky had scoffed at him in a manner that sounded awfully like “I told you so” without the words when he walked in and saw.

Jacob didn’t mind. People would see Ricky’s hair and then they would see his fingers and they’d know — they’d know it was Ricky’s hair dye staining him and they’d assume, assume something more was going on between them and Jake quite liked that thought. The thought that he was stained by a piece of Ricky in a way that others could see and not just in a way that marred his soul.

~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~ 𐀔 ~