WICKED BOY (Preview) M/M

(CHAPTER (8): Patreon-Exclusive Story)

(A/N: Hey guys! Sorry to tell you that we will revisit Milan's heartbreak for the umpteenth time. It's not meant to bore anyone! It's the center of his character, as he tends to blur his emotional shortcomings that are due to his abusive father with his romantic shortcomings. What really brings him grief is the initial neglect from his father, but his insecurities manifest most strongly in his romantic relationships and his very long and severely-one-sided friendship with Lucas. Also, to explain the end of the chapter and why Milan even ends up asking Isaac to leave him at a Rest Stop in a bad part of a worse town — Milan shows hints of having a need for adrenaline inducing activities (and a dominant male leading the way) whenever he's particularly stressed or trying to run from something (this is thanks to his rigid, methodical and neglectful upbringing.) This is where his (not so great or healthy) relationship with Lucas stemmed. This is ALSO what will make his relationship with (the very great, but extremely dominant and adrenaline-inducing) Ez so fun. Follow me on Patreon for the next chapter if you wanna see my first REAL bad boy. Also stay tuned for a drunk Milan doing very stupid things.)

—

Someone had looked at me the way that Ez did, but only once. It didn't last long.

—

Once, after Lucas, I'd dated someone seriously — and twice, he'd worn my sweater. He washed it, handled it with care, and wore it the day he dumped me.

"I've always thought it was lucky," he told me, "... and I think, today, I finally realized it isn't."

Of course, the baby blue of it had made him look softer, hugged against his smooth skin, fit him more snugly than it had fit me — because he was just more everything than I. Broader, calmer, and he was ultimately, more mature. He'd stood in my doorway and frowned, long and deep because he wasn't an idiot.

Wasn't like me.

"I thought I could just... Have you this way — to ease whatever loneliness I had, maybe chase away your anxieties — but I'm tired of not knowing where I stand. I just wanted to know what you want from me. That would've been fair." He had been blunt, closed his eyes for a moment before he continued, like it was hard to look at me, "I think it's also fair — that I've found someone else. I think it's fair that they've warmed my bed for several of the nights that you refused even to kiss me. I think it's fair to let you know that this is over."

My eyes stayed trained on the baby blue stitching that curled over his shoulder, even when I gave a weary nod to his confession. I had very few fragments of my heart to give to Clark but felt them tremble with betrayal.

But I didn't blame him.

My sweater had become his, the second time we met. My heart never did. Maybe, for someone else, it would've been love, but I let it slip.

—

Two years ago

Clark Azarola was the son of one of my dad's investors, sauntered in behind him on a Wednesday brunch while on vacation, aloof and uncharming.

He barely picked his eyes from the glass table; strong arms shrugged across it as we waited for our food. I was uncomfortable already, for our parents were in complete dedication to their silent stand-off with the laminated menus, my mom already harassing the waitress for a mimosa.

He stayed silent through it all, watched the rain against the window, eyes tracking each droplet that slid off of its edge. His mother spoke in Spanish whisperings to his father, who remained with his perpetual smirk — eyes chasing breakfast options.

There was something sad about Clark, something distant. His shoulders were broad and sunken like they were tired of carrying a weight. I wanted to tuck my hand behind his ironed collar and loosen its top button, let him breathe, make him smile.