You Stress Me Out (BoyxBoy)

YSMO Chapter Twenty-Two

Wassup wassup, welcome back! For the second time this year, I have no car, and honestly, we are not coping well. Someone tried (unsuccessfully) to steal it back in January, and I got it back from the shop just in time to drive it around again for less than two months. And now the transmission may be shot! So words cannot express my suffering right now. But you know what they can express? My Luca-Mateo love. Let's get this bread (word count)!

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I'm not sure what I was expecting "everything" to be exactly, but it certainly wasn't supposed to be proper, honest to god businesses.

Luca has brought me in to nearly every type of establishment under the sun - two hotels, a boutique, two salons, a golf club, a warehousing facility, a medical supply company, a pharmaceutical lab, a tech company, and a hunting lodge. The sun is already descending towards the horizon, and he's still not done "making the rounds."

I lean warily against the SUV's inner door, my legs aching from all the up and down sitting and standing I've been doing. Each stop lasted barely thirty minutes for me, with Luca and Temper going in first to handle official matters, and then Misha bringing me in after. I've shaken hands and exchanged greetings with at least a hundred different people, and I've retained none of their names. Even though I know logically I've spent more time being driven around than actually walking or talking, I still feel dead tired.

Maybe it's the shock of Luca forever changing my life back when I was a kid finally catching up with me, but I just can't bring myself to view today as any approximation to real. In my life, Luca doesn't know how I grew up, not really, and he definitely doesn't sit in a three piece suit in the conference room of a corporate office, scanning through stacks of folders while some big shot CEO and executives wring their hands in a corner watching him. The things I thought I knew about him just don't at all align with what I've seen today.

The man I know steals cigarettes out of my lab cost pockets. He pulls me into naps in the middle of morning classes and takes me off to hidden corners to avoid overly friendly English Literature teachers. Sure, he might speed down the highway and unflinchingly murder people who try to hold me hostage, but other than that, he was supposed to be relatively normal. He doesn't change into designer suits in my bedroom and then guide me around by the arm to meet all the "hardworking associates" at his several various establishments.

I sigh heavily and try to ignore the incessant pounding in my skull. None of it fits. I just can't bring myself to accept that this is what he does, what he's been doing. I had been keeping my curiosity about him limited to his base personality for so long that this sudden influx of new information is bordering on overwhelming. Which is the real him? The executive version, the mob boss, or the handsome sadist whispering in my ear at night? How am I supposed to be able to tell?

My fingers itch with the urge to pull my phone out and look at flights. Even though I have no intention of fleeing the country, just the sight of the same day tickets is more than enough to soothe my frayed nerves. It's become something of a reassuring, grounding exercise for my mind - a weighted reminder that at any time I can choose something else. The few grand it would cost to break my contract is hardly a problem, so the only real thing tying me here now is sat just one seat over.

I reach into my pocket and tug free the pack of cigarettes squished behind my phone instead. I lower the tinted window just enough to let the smoke out and turn expectantly to the man quietly skimming through a PDF on his tablet.

Luca's already shifted towards me, an engraved silver lighter flicking on under his thumb. His smile is quick and easy and pauses my pulse for just a moment.

"You've been awfully quiet," he murmurs as the flame licks at the end of my cigarette. "How are you feeling? Want to ask me anything yet?"

It's getting harder and harder to tell when he's teasing me. He meets my gaze unflinchingly, his lips curved into a soft smile as if he knows how hard he is to read and is silently basking in it. Gently curling smoke lifts from the red tip just above his fingertips. His hand curls, fits the lighter into its palm, and then two of his fingers are lightly grazing my chin. They drift up the side of my jaw and slide the ends of my hair behind one ear.