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Victor
When I wake up, it’s mid-morning and most of his stuff is packed, stacked by the door except for the things he needs tonight and tomorrow. He’s sitting on the balcony with his phone and an espresso. I notice that he has tidied my shit up as well, which feels more like a pointed hint than a favor.
He looks through the door at me when I start getting dressed. “Hey.”
“My ass hurts like hell.”
“Fancy that.” He sips his coffee.
“You know I’m going to throw this stuff everywhere again as soon as you’re gone.”
“Yeah, but at least I don’t have to look at it.”
I’m not angry any more, just tired and sad. And I just hate him the normal way, the dark, possessive throbbing of my heart that makes it impossible to think about anything but him. We didn’t fix anything, but I’m a master at fucking away the ache.
After I get dressed and pull on a headband to keep my hair out of my eyes, I turn in a slow circle, studying the empty room. I don’t like it this way, like he’s so excited to leave that he’s already mostly gone. I sit on the floor and start throwing shit out of his duffel bag until it's empty.
“Hey!” I hear the deck chair scrape as he scrambles up. He comes in and starts grabbing stuff away from me, re-folding it.
I toss two t-shirts and a sweatshirt on the bed. “Pick which one I get to keep.”
He hesitates, straightens up with a wad of clothes in each hand, studying me. He pouts at the clothes I laid out. “But I really like those.”
“I know. It’s gotta hurt, or it doesn’t mean anything.”
He stands next to me without touching me and considers them. Finally he points to the sweatshirt, a kind of ugly orange one with a Harley-Davidson on it. I hand it to him.
“Put it on. Make it smell like you. Have you ever even sat on a motorcycle?”
“Maybe.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re too square. Why do you even have this?”
“I went through aSons of Anarchyphase.”
That makes me laugh, loosening up my stiff face. Digging through his luggage one more time, I snag his Raiders hat for good measure and put it on backwards. He snorts. “Raiders fans would eat a pretty boy like you alive.”
“I know. You’ve demonstrated.” I wink, enjoying the way he can’t not blush.
“What do I get?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed and obsessively tidying the mess I made. I look down at my black hoodie draped over the desk—my favorite, with the thumb holes. It has my scent baked into it, even when it’s clean. “This. You can wear it jogging and get all sweaty in it.”
“Then what?”
“You can imagine me telling you how nasty you are, then licking you clean.”
He shifts his hips restlessly, then pulls his focus to the hoodie I just gave him. “You got two things,” he complains.
I shake my head at his needy expression. “How about this?” I pull down the waistband of my jeans so he can see the thong I'm wearing underneath. His eyes go huge.
“Good enough?”
“I don’t know. I can’t exactly wear that.”
“Fine, I’ll keep it.” I grin when he makes a protesting noise.
Flopping back on the bed, he switches on the TV, flicking through channels. By the time we both remember why that’s a bad idea, it’s too late.
“We received confirmation just a moment ago from the WADA that they have closed their investigation following clear evidence that Victor Lang’s 2016 test results were accurate and correctly administered.”
