When Love Is Bitter (3) NOT CANON (Patreon)

Warning:  Triggering words, maybe a triggering situation.

I don't like staying the night in Nic's bed. He curls too close, smells too sweet. In the morning, I leave my heart there on his pillow.  I feel like the morning light that stains the pillow amber is the warmth of everything I feel, but Nic sleeps until noon — sleeps until it's faded back to its unordinary white.

He sleeps until I'm gone.

"Do you understand what you're doing," Anna's dark legs are crossed over the dog bed on the floor; her giant malamute curled across her lap.  Her eyes slide to mine, and she pops her gum.  Anna knows all of my secrets, and I know all of hers, "with all of your feelings wrapped up for a boy who has told you time and time again, sex is all he's interested in?" She shakes her head, and through her exasperation, I can see her worry.

"Yeah, and Nic keeps fucking with all these girls who don't understand that," I pull the fridge door open too hard, watch the cereal boxes tremble up above it.  I sigh, reaching for the near-empty bottle of Christmas themed creamer, "I would understand that. I could fuck him and let him be — him.  Do something casual, whatever he wants."

"You can't even say a sentence without saying his name," Anna leans back against the light that streams from the window onto the floor, the bronze of her eyes bright, "what makes you think you would be happy with half of what you want?"

I untwist the cap of the creamer, shake it when it turns out to be emptier than I had thought, and my coffee is dark as ever beneath it,

"Half of what I want is better than nothing."

—

This is my nightmare, I think.

Nic's eyes widen for a brief moment; cheeks flushed in a way I haven't seen him before — his hair ruffled against the headboard of the bed and above his ears. My hands are at my sides, but they ache, they feel so heavy — and they ache.

"Don't look," He huffs out, and for the first time in my life — I think that he's embarrassed, hands pushing at the sheets that are restlessly bobbing between his legs. He's tipsy, head falling back again in a sigh, "Joseph, come on — " he hums out a sound, a crack in composure,

"Don't look."

—

Allison Looney's party started at eight, but the job site didn't close until eleven,

I'll be there around nine, Nic's text had read, do you want me to DD, or are you taking one for the team? And by team, I mean me.

I'll drive.  I'd said.

Nic wasn't downstairs, but the thing about parties is the ability to blend into the nooks, to sit down in the wrong spot, the porch with your old buddies, the ability not to be seen. I'm tired from work, dirty, could probably do with a few hours of sleep and a hot shower; but I'm his sober ride home, and he's my thirty minutes of company there. Thirty minutes of company that I won't give up, look forward to his lousy singing, his peach-scented breath, trimmed hair that still tries to curl above his ear when he's overheated.

"You lookin' for Nicolai?" Blake Ragsdale is too close, shoulder thrown over mine, just the proximity needed to hear over the blaring of the music. I realize that I'm broader than most of Nic's baseball-playing friends, probably from the construction site — but another thing that separates our lives.

I nod,

"Yeah, I'm his designated driver of the night," I laugh, and Blake snorts in understanding, "you know where his drunk ass disappeared to?"

The man whistles, tilts his head to me with a smirk and my eyebrows raise,

"Ashley Saunders is back in town, wants to make it known that she's cool with the casual Abernathy experience this time around," He's laughing, "I don't know how Nic can get it up when he's plastered, Dionysus must have blessed him upon birth or some shit."

I frown, and I don't know what it is. I don't know if it's the shit coffee from this morning, the long shift at work — the fucking cold of December or the imprint of a hand on Nic's cheek; that sad look in his eyes when someone tells him what he feels- what he doesn't feel, isn't okay.

"Is she drunk?" I take a beer that Blake offers, but I don't intend to drink it. It's in my hands, and it's cold, but my body feels hot.

"Ah gross, no." He shakes his head,  "He can talk like an ass, but he doesn't mess around with drunk girls."

"But girls mess around with drunk Nic?" I roll my eyes when Blake's widen a bit. "... Seems a bit fuckin' weird.  There a reason that you didn't think that was weird?"

He grimaces, "...Yeah, I guess that's a little weird, isn't it?" I can tell I'm ruining his happy party buzz, so I tip the metal cap of my beer in his direction, make it known that the conversation has ended by placing a few steps in front of him. I smile to ease the tension,

"Thanks for the beer, man. I'm going to rescue drunk-o from himself. Is he upstairs?"

Blake starts laughing straight from his chest again, the buzz in him apparent.

"Second door on the left."

—

The second door on the left is still open at my side, and I'm still trying to rip my eyes away after the second, don't look.

Ashley has finally realized that Nic's warbled words weren't intended for her, has pulled from the sheets so quickly that her hair statics around her with the cold. As she rears towards me, head down, I clear my throat — and try to refocus on anything that isn't a touch starved and open Nicolai Abernathy, loose against three black-cased pillows.

"Why don't you stay away from drunk dudes at parties, okay?" There's more venom in my whisper than I mean to place, and I can hear the zip of Nic's jeans in the background, watch Ashley's pale eyes avert as she skitters past me and into the hall. "... You can't hear me or somethin’?" I start again — but she's already to the staircase.

"It wasn't like that," Nic is swallowing, I can see his throat bob as his legs slide out from the sheets. He's still flushed from cheeks to ears — lI was okay with it, it's not my first drunken escapade." He laughs, but it's shyer than usual.

"... Are you ready to go?" I lean against the door frame, don't know what to do with my arms, so I cross them, "You done messing around, now?"

Nic's brows furrow and he glances up from tying his shoe, a lace still in each hand,

"You mad at me?" He asks, sincere and straight to the point with his apologetic tone, "I'm sorry, it was probably weird to see. Or if you wanted me to drive tonight, I didn't mean — "

"I'm tired of your friends laughing because they know you're upstairs fucking around with someone," I can't help it, I tell myself, can't help it, "It's shitty that girls know they can just come up to you wanting a quick, casual fuck and you're down for it in two seconds flat."

Nic's eyes widen a bit, but he just sits there, laces tightening in his grip,

"...What's wrong with that?" He's swallowing again, always does when he's starting to sober, "Is it supposed to be a secret?"

"No, that's the fucking problem, Nic.   It's not a secret. Everyone knows and everyone talks — "

"And it embarrasses you?" Nic shrugs one shoulder, blinks hard,  "Does it embarrass you that I can have casual sex?"

"Do you know what they say about you?" My tone is rising, and I pull the door shut behind us to block out the pop music that's drowning out Nic's uncharacteristic softness, "You know how little they think about you? They call you a fucking man whore, Nicolai."

He's up in a matter of seconds, shoes tied, and lips drawn tight. He clenches his fist at his side and glances away, and then back to me with conviction,

"So what, Joseph? You're one of my best friends," His words are stained with hurt feelings, with confusion, with anger, "I accept you for every fucking — whatever, for everything that you are, and it bothers you that I'm a slut?  Can't have a best friend that's the town slut?"

"I didn't say that I think you're a slut.” The words are a slap, probably as much as mine were, and there's remorse in every fiber of me in an instant.  I'm backtracking, back-tracking from my childishness — from my jealousy.

"You insinuated it. Everyone else thinks it so, everyone is constantly joking about it; it's just so fucking embarrassing for you, right?  Bothers you to be friends with a whore?" Nic is shrugging on his jacket, wiping the back of his hand across his nose, and maybe I hit a nerve - the wrong nerve, and guilt is so, so hot in my belly, "Whatever Joseph, I'll call my brother to get me."

"I don't think you're a slut!" I'm grabbing the soft plush of his jacket arm, tugging him, and Nic's eyes are too bright of green when he's sad, so unnatural with unshed tears, "I hate hearing people call you a slut, I hate it — it pisses me off, but I shouldn't have — I'm not embarrassed. It just pissed me off.”

"You are," Nic's hands are a little shaky, "...You're so good — with your morals and your fucking job, talking about love this, love that —“ his words are slurred, "fuck you, Joseph. I thought you understood me." He's pulled so close that I haven't thought to let go of his arm, hope it's not too tight — I hope that it doesn't bruise.

"I will never understand," I seethe, and it was that shitty dark coffee — that unrest at night, everything causing this now, "why you're okay with being laughed at.  By being fucked by whoever the hell wants to fuck you."

Nic's eyelashes flutter with hurt, with a flinch, like I've honest to God threatened him with something. I see it then, see anger, something I never see in him, and he's so close to me that I can smell peach flavored alcohol on his breath,

"If you're so worried about who is fucking me, why don't you do it instead?" He spits.

—