they wish they were us | conan gray

14. we

If a man talks shit, then I owe him nothing. 

Though his phone blasting with texts in the morning, annoys him to death, it also allows him to observe Noah for a bit. His earplugs are in but he turns off his phone. 

Sighing, he let's his eyes travel over Noah. He's sleeping soundly on Conan's bed, hair in disarray, like someone spilled black ink against Conan's white pillows. The contrast of his skin and hair is beautiful and Conan only stare and stare at him. He could go on for centuries. He really could. His brain cannot comprehend, cannot describe, there is so much beauty to taken in, all at once. He feels overwhelmed in the best way. His skin is like rose petals dried and pressed on pages. The curve of Noah's neck and the delicate arch of his shoulders is like a swan's. It's like the god's themselves debated and crafted him out of pure elegance and beauty. His lashes and eyebrows are same shade as his hair, feathery, perfectly shaped and groomed. Noah was born like this, born perfect and pristine. Conan treats him like he's delicate not because he's weak but because he is beautiful and deserves that sort of treatment. 

Even the things he does, his cute little hand movements, the way he expresses extreme happiness by squealing and how he dresses. One word encompasses it all, perfect. It is wondrous how someone can be so many things, all at once. 

Noah stirs a little, moving on the mattress and turning to directly face Conan, eyes closed. He wasn't joking about being a restless sleeper. Conan feels like an ant on the floor, given the distance in levels they have. The clock next to his bed lights up to show that it is too early to be awake. Well, fuck that, is his first thought. His sleep has evaporated and there are more crucial things to do. Like watching Noah sleep. 

Objectively, it is a little creepy. Subjectively, they've kissed and he's not sexualizing him but just admiring. He tells himself that merely roaming around a flower and calling it pretty, instead of cutting it and keeping it for himself, isn't a bad thing. 

"Conan, you're staring," Noah says, eyes still closed and he immediately looks away, covering his face with the sheets, a feeble attempt at trying to not get caught. His actions only turn himself in and he watches through the pale white as Noah's silhoutte takes out his ear plugs. 

"You're pretty, sorry," the curly haired boy murmurs back, gently letting himself rise. Usually his bones and muscles feel pretty stiff and it takes mental power for himself to get out of bed. Today however he feels really light as if he had walked on clouds last night. It's surprises him in an understandable way. "Is the bed comfortable for spine injury?"

"Mhm, it's perfect," Noah answers, not elaborating on anything. Conan hums to himself on knowing he is comfortable. "I feel kinda bad for taking your bed."

"I gave it to you."

"Sometimes people do things they don't mean." Noah's eyes are open now and the look that flashes across his face for a second makes Conan realize how little he truly knows him. He decides though, that the incidents of your past aren't all of you and maybe one day if things go how they've been going, Noah might trust him enough. Perhaps it's not all about trust. He understands Noah more by seeing him and talking to him rather than hearing about what happened to him. Something tells Conan he doesn't really want to know about the package from his dad. We don't look at the gears of a clock as to tell the time better, he thinks.

"I like being direct with you," Conan says. It's the truth. He's not afraid of saying the wrong thing with him. "I want to take you out."

"In a date way or a murder way?" Noah asks and Conan looks up at him with slight smile. He's staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on Conan's ceiling.  He makes a mental note to get him some. "Have you ever been on a date?"