Raphael /BoyxBoy/

||Twenty-Five||

The roof made me feel safe. Even as my toes curled in my shoes, and my body titled towards the edge until my breath caught itself half-way to my throat, and my head swam with images of my body falling splat against the gravel. Part of me enjoyed the danger and possibility of everything ending that way. The short few seconds in which my body would feel inclosed in the rushing wind that blew past my outstretched arms.

I thought of that, as Scarlet sat me down on the kitchen table just minutes before I crawled out of the apartment door, and insisted that the only reason I wasn't with Raphael was because I was afraid. I laughed, because how could someone stand at the edge of a tall building, only feel multiple surges of adrenaline, and be afraid of kissing someone?

She watched me carefully, narrowing her eyes an inch. The classic facial expression that said she knew me far more than I would ever know myself. I instinctively looked away.

The sun was almost setting when I finally stood outside the antique store, peering in through the large glass windows and in between the abundance of ragged furniture pieces.

If Ben held any thoughts regarding my reappearance, I would never find out. He only raised his eyebrows and handed me the keys before asking me to lock up in a few hours. I took the keys with a feeling close to cracking open a new book, and sat behind the register as a few leftover customers loitered around.

My fingers brushed against the chipped wood that decorated the side of the desk, waiting for something to happen. It was like standing at the edge of a building, up on the roof, and expecting someone or something to push me off so badly that the expectation turned into a strong held belief. So that the skin on my spine up, to the back of my neck tingled, and I half-expected to turn around and find someone's hands on me.

Looking up a few minutes later aligned with the action of looking over my shoulder and actually finding someone there, staring at me. Eyes that were sunken in and bloodshot, with lines etched so finely underneath that I would no have noticed them if I hadn't previously spent ages staring at them while he fell asleep by my side.

I didn't have the guts to turn him away. Not when his feet faltered and his face seemed to turn a sickening shade of gray.

"I can leave," he began.

I knew what I had said before. I didn't want him around.

"Don't," and my body was pushing me out of my chair for no other reason but to stand there awkwardly. "Ben left."

"When?" he asked.

"A few minutes ago. I can carry on a message if you'd like."

"No," he said, "that's okay. I have his number."

I nodded, once, just to indicate that I heard what he said, and waited for him to make his exit.

He didn't.

So I willed my knees to bend, and sat down on the chair again just so he would get the hint.

He shuffled around on his feet and took a look at his surroundings. I looked around too, to find the customers there. They were watching our interaction from the rare occasion the furniture didn't press so tightly together.

"Why are you here?" he asked, boldly for someone who, only seconds ago, suggested their own retreat.

"Don't I have the right to ask you the same question?"

"Yes, but I asked it first."

"I work here," I said, "unless you forgot you're the reason I have this job."

"Do you hate it?"

"It pays all right."

"That I'm the reason you have this job," he continued.