#interactions x.

lennon’s green hues crack alive to the chill of the morning woods, and they widen. never could she point to another instance where these surroundings had been her wakeup call. crisp air, bowing trees, the crunch of twigs, the twitter of birds. it’s enough to make her sick. she almost frees a little yelp, but looks to her left instead. in the gentle sway of his hammock, merritt sleeps. his lashes long and his lips, her friends. she’s reminded, at once, of moonlit giggles with a certain birthday girl and of whispered affections to the blond she slept beside. needless to say, the previous night hadn’t been laced in typical lennon clare behavior, but she checks in with her heart, as delia had instructed her to the night before. it sits lofted in her chest, peeking out to the new, eagerly. all before, lennon looks down at her bare legs. horrified, she observes the risen red mounds – mosquito bites – littered all over her skin. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” she exclaims, leaping out of their swinging bed. “merritt!” she shakes him. “merritt – wake up. i’m DYING.” 

dante ran a lime across the rim of her glass, precisely and without having to look. he drunk her in instead, his friend, whose glisten had been toned by the wear of a few years. she was another person now, but, to be fair, so was he. “here, august,” he offered, his voice soft, in tune with the rest of the bar whose buzz had been quelled by the weeknight off hours. maybe three or four other people occupied the space with them, but august had his full attention. dante flipped the towel in his hands over his shoulder, and he slipped out from behind the bar, taking the stool beside hers.

the breeze coasted off of the lake like a whisper. dante was reminded of his younger self, giggling evers children splashing in its waters. reluctantly, he shifted his focus to the future, his textbook for an online business class open in front of him. his distracted mind grasped at the paragraphs without much success. dante sat back, looking to theo, attempting to siphon some of his concentration. poetry, he figured, graced the lines of his friend’s notebook. “any of those winners?” dante posed, eyeing the pages of writing with admiration. 

dante unfurls more paper towels from their holder on the kitchen counter, bunching them to press against his nose that insists on bleeding. it pools in the tissue set above a clouded jawline that pulses with every breath he takes. he’d been hit in the nose before, several times actually, broken it twice. he thought the blood would’ve stopped by the time he got home from the bar, but it drips onto his getaway uniform t-shirt. he huffs, the adrenaline beginning to wear away as dante already forgets the details of the fight he’d succeeded in breaking up. two sets of wasted eyes undressing his female coworker... the slur of foul language... the pulse in his neck... the crash of knuckle against cheekbone. a tiny redemptive piece of him knows he could’ve broken up the fight without getting physical. but any other method wasn’t going to quiet his mind; it wasn’t going to turn down the volume. addiction spread through veins hereditarily. maybe this was his inheritance. there were certainly worse things to grow dependent on, he justified, easily, peering over his paper towel to catch dianna’s warm response to his: lost track of time today. could we do dinner another night? dante held onto his nose with one hand and pressed the other to his side, feeling the cry it let out against the pressure of his palm, and he crumpled slowly onto the couch, freeing a breath from his body, his body that had grown accustomed to the ferocity with which dante so frequently subjected it. not a moment later, he hears a polite knock, working to gather excuses for his appearance, not wanting to alarm his roommate. “owen!” he bellows. “it’s unlocked.” when there’s no response, dante wills himself to standing again, his middle bruised and inhibiting and moves to the door, whipping it open. he’s caught, heart sinking, and embarrassment spreads over his features like wildfire. “anna–” dante panics, shrinking. “wh.... what are you doing here.” 

three. dante enacts the mindless sort of game he plays when making the frequent trip from visiting merritt. they’d passed three town signs on their train ride so far. gaze drilling into the window, he keeps his hues narrowed, focused on the world outside, disregarding the tightness of his throat, the emptiness of his stomach. he feels paper thin, like one sharp gust of train on track would fly him untethered. visiting was excruciating as it always proves to be, the sight of his brother burying him in remorse he isn’t sure he can dig out from under. but this time he has august. he has his favorite friend, whose hand had pressed against his back when they entered the prison, whose eyes had been soft and free of judgement when looking at dante’s little brother, who had showed up for him. “i- i,” he clears his throat. “i can’t thank you enough for coming with me,” he hands to her for maybe the fifth time since they’d left lake wisteria that morning. “seriously.” four, he pockets, watching another town sign come and go outside of the train window.