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"So he’s a prick because of his policies." Somehow that was both a statement and a question.
Con would have made a great CIA interrogator. Sometimes, he came across as naive, but beneath it all, a brain ticked away that someday, scientists and colleges would fight over to dissect.
Finn grumbled under his breath, "Yes, Conor. He’s a prick because of his policies."
"Shay would agree with you. He hates him."
"Most kids his age who are as woke as him probably do," Finn replied absently.
"You’re not getting laid, are you?"
"What the fuck does that have to do with you?"
Conor sniffed. "You’re miserable. All the time."
"I’m not."
"You are. I just assumed it’s because you’re not getting any."
"I’m getting plenty. It’s—" He sighed. "Never mind. You wouldn’t get it."
"Why wouldn’t I? Because I’m not married?"
Finn fell silent. "You never know what goes on behind closed doors."
"Is Aoife whipping you with a roll of pastry? I’m sure there’s porn out there for that. Get a live stream going, earn some bucks at the same time."
"This isn’t a joke, Conor," Finn rumbled. "Nothing about this is funny—"
I groaned. "Can you fuck off and leave me to my infomercials?"
"Conor says sitting on you is good for you," Finn pointed out, no remorse to his tone. Even in my state, however, I picked up on the fact he was relieved to change the subject. "And you deserve to be sat on for going off grid, you asshole. Why the hell didn’t you call me or text me?"
"Didn’t realize we were—" Pain knifed through my head. "—dating," I finished with a gasp.
"Was that supposed to make me want to get off you? I don’t think so." Finn sniffed. "Fucker."
"You’re going to have a problem with Jake when he starts talking properly, not just Dada stuff," Conor said calmly. "You say ‘fuck’ a lot."
"And you don’t?"
"Yeah, but I don’t have a toddler, do I? It doesn’t matter if I swear."
Finn paused. "You sound sad about that."
"Maybe I am. My cat doesn’t care if I swear."
"It’s not a cat. It’s an ornament. An ugly one at that." To me, he groused, "Aidan, tell your brother that that cat isn’t fucking real."
"He’s right. You swear a lot," I rumbled.
"Fuck off. I have a lot of stress to deal with. A lot of fucking stress. If saying the word ‘fuck’ makes me feel better—"
"That’s just the placebo effect," Conor chimed in. "And my cat is as real as I want it to be. He'smyplacebo. You swear, I have a cat who doesn't talk back."
"That’s weird," Finn grumbled. "You’re getting weirder, Con. We need to either get you laid or get your da to arrange a marriage for you."
I groaned again. "Can we have this conversation—" Nausea churned in my stomach. "—another time? When I’m not dying?"
