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“If that were the case, you’d stop accusing him of shit. For fuck’s sake, Riley, do you even understand what demisexual means? He’s the last guy you have to worry about running around and fuckin’ with whoever wants to crawl into his pants.”
“A list that is long and numerous,” Riley grumbled.
“You better not still be accusing me of being on it,” Zakk growled, not in the mood for a repeat of the bullshit he’d gone through with Tripp.
Riley’s energy was edgy, stressed out and confrontational, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the room. “You might not want to be, but I get the distinct impression he wished you were.”
“Fine, you wanna go there, let’s go there!” Zakk growled, leading the way to the kitchen. If he wasn’t getting any sleep, then he was sure as fuck re-upping the level of alcohol already in his blood. “He’s not the only one who wishes there was a spark there! I’d love to have a relationship with someone I can also consider a friend, a contemporary, for fuck’s sake, the music we create together is phenomenal and hell yeah, it would be the icing on the cake if there was more, but there isn’t. Not from him, not from me, there’s nothing but the music and a mutual understanding of what it’s like to be in love with a complete and utter asshole!”
Riley’s eyes widened as Zakk snarled that last word in his face, whisky breath and all, then his eyes shimmered, the tears fell, and Zakk threw back a shot then poured another, because no, just no. Riley didn’t deserve sympathy when he was the one standing there making trouble for himself in the first place.
“Did he really say that?” Riley whispered, but even that held an annoying whine. “That he thinks I’m an asshole?”
“Not in those exact words, which is why I’m saying it, so you know exactly what I think about the way you’ve been treating him.”
Another shot, and no, he wasn’t pouring Riley any. Drunk Riley just made more of a mess of things, so Zakk poured a double and took a shot for them both.
“God, I never meant to do that. I was mad, I’d…” Closing his eyes, Riley shook his head, tears still leaking from beneath his eyelids.
Riley’s hair was already a mess, but the shaky fingers he ran through it had it standing up even worse.
“Everything spiraled out of control so fast,” Riley muttered. “I heard myself saying all the wrong things, and I couldn’t stop. It was like watching a collision about to happen, only you can’t make yourself move to throw the switch to send one of the trains onto a different track, so you just stand there and watch them slam together.”
“Yeah, way to beat that trainwreck metaphor to death,” Zakk grumbled, rummaging around in the fridge for something to make the Southern Comfort last longer. A series of thunks had him glancing back over his shoulder to see Riley bouncing his head off the gray graphite surface of the counter.
“You crack your skull open, and you better be prepared to mop up every drop of blood that splashes on my floor,” Zakk grumbled. “I just mopped in here.”
“When, 1874?”
Zakk flipped him off, the shiny green bottom of a glass bottle winking at him from a corner of the fridge. He drew the 7-Up out triumphantly, waving it over his head before it dawned on him that wasn’t the best idea.
Damnit all.
He debated whether to open it in the sink or wait, but one look at the tears dripping off Riley’s cheeks and onto his counter had him opting for the sink, sticky lemon-lime spraying all over his fingers, but at least he had something to splash into his drink as Riley babbled about candles and…
Wait a minute.
“Repeat that,” Zakk demanded, glass poised halfway to his lips.
Wiping his cheeks, Riley made an honest effort at composing himself before doing what Zakk asked. “Was tryin’ to surprise him, be all romantic and shit, like what the fuck do I know about romance? Candles, food, even went down to the ceramics shop and got a brand-new set of divided plates. Made beef and broccoli, rice noodles too, even remembered to put the sauce in a different compartment.”
Nodding, Zakk scrutinized the bottle, trying to figure out how many more drinks he could get out of it before he had to send out for another one. At least four, after the one he was pouring. Maybe some cranberry juice this time, that would stretch it out to six, or a weak seven if he poured judiciously.
“I practiced what to say. For days. While he was working on songs with you, I was working on how I wanted to ask him.”
Wait. Huh. What. Was Riley saying…Naaa.
Riley was digging around in his pocket, kind of like Dez had done the night before, with the same kind of struggle and the same style of velvety box that he slid unopened onto the table.
Zakk killed his drink before opening it, ‘cause the whole thing was too surreal. And there, nestled on purple lining, were two black bands with silver-purple flames etched into the sides.
Unfuckinbelieveable.
Fuck liquor economy, Zakk picked the Southern Comfort up and drank straight from the bottle, too buzzed to feel the burn anyway.
“I can’t give it to him now,” Riley moaned. “He’ll think I’m trying to tether him to me, he’ll never believe it’s because I love him and can’t imagine spending a single day of the rest of my life without him.”
The comedy of errors was off the charts, and all Zakk could do was swallow and plan his next words carefully, because right now this was too much of a fuckin’ mess for his booze addled mind.
