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“My dad told me we’re going to move back to New York once this is over.”
“Oh.”
He chuckles again, with no humor, and squeezes my fingers. “You’re in deep, aren’t you? Wake up.”
“What if I did love you? Would that change anything?”
He lets go of me, and I feel the door shift as he rests his weight against it. His voice gets closer. “Love is such a fucked-up thing, Ethan. The person you love tears you apart, crushes you, owns you until you turn into whatever they want you to be. I think I’d rather never see you again than have you love me.”
I close my aching eyes. “Ok, so I don’t love you. Why can’t we just keep going the way we are?"
“What do we even have? It’s not natural. The real world doesn't let things like us survive.”
“Damn it.” I punch the floor so hard my bones ache. “If it needs a fucking name, I’ll find one for us. I’ll come up with a whole new feeling if that’s what it takes.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You would.”
Turning around, I tug on the door again. “Let me in, please.”
After a long moment, I hear him move out of the way. I accordion the door open, climb inside, and shut it again. Faint sun filtering through the slits in the door gives just enough light to make out Victor’s shape, back pressed against the wall, the floor padded with blankets and pillows.
It’s so claustrophobic and, just like the bathroom at his house, it smells of despair. It hits me suddenly how fuckinglonghe’s been doing this. All the days I spent with the sun on my skin, all the nights I dreamed in the breeze from an open window, he was here.
I hold out my hand in the dark, and he takes it. When he shifts, I can see faint reflections of light in his pale eyes.
“Welcome to hell,” he says—I think it’s meant to be a joke, but it doesn’t sound like one. Then he crawls over and leans against my side and I stroke his hair, teasing the curls back from his forehead, loving the way they catch in my fingers.
“You’re a good person,” I say. “I want you to know that.”
I can feel him shaking his head. “I promise you I’m not. Let it go.”
He exhales softly as I take his face in both my hands. “You don’t understand. Look at you. Look what you’ve fucking done to me. How can you not be perfect? It’s not possible.”
For a long moment, he doesn't move or breathe. I hear him swallow, throat moving against my palm. “Is that why you’ve yelled at me twice in the last twenty-four hours for ruining your life?” His mouth curves into a smile and he noses against my fingers, kisses them so softly I can hardly feel it.
I lean forward and find his lips in the dark. “I guess you’re as perfect as a little fucking brat has any right to be. Lucky for you, I have a weakness for brats.”
