WICKED BOY (Preview) M/M

(CHAPTER (4): Patreon-Exclusive Story)

I'm confident enough that I'll never see Lucas and his green gaze again, and that makes things easier.

I'm twenty-four now, and that night of crying from years past doesn't cross my mind all too often.  Just occasionally, and mostly only on my bad days. Sometimes I reminisce, and it does more harm than good, makes my heart feel heavy and sours my mood.  Nostalgia doesn't fit me in the way that it does most. My first love echoes with nothing but a dull ache. I tell myself that I've done well enough in my attempt to move forward, regardless of that night that weighs heavier now and again against my will.

I'm happier now.

I've willed myself to forget about Lucas' strange huff of a laugh and our late, teenage phone calls that went on until the daylight would break across my skin in soft shades of blue.  Sometimes I add bitterness to the memory — like how tired I was after talking to him all night, or how the phone hurt my ear and — oh, the one time I slept past my alarm and missed an exam.  All that, to keep from looking back with too much fondness.  I remind myself that, to him, I was never a priority but a nuisance.  To him, at my lowest, he expressed resentment towards my most considerable insecurity.

Our days that I held in rose-colored glasses were not my reality.  This is reality.

Reality is, fuck Lucas Gotthardt.

—

I'm at one of my dad's company parties, and it's one that takes over the entire first floor of the StoneBrook theatre; all cocktail dresses and expensive suits — except for me, in my sweater vest and oxfords, much to my dad's dismay.  I won't lie;  it was entirely intentional, and I've been looking forward to his disappointment for most of my day.

"I asked you to wear something nice, Milan.  I asked you to look strong,"  he grumbles under his breath, sips a bit at a martini in hand.  The truth is, I can't afford to look any nicer than this outfit — the same outfit I wore for Aharon Blau's bar mitzvah two years prior. Dad doesn't have to know that. "What is that? Your library uniform?"

"Sorry, I can't hear you?" I cup my ear, flipping a page in my book. "Can you speak up a bit? This is quite the rowdy crowd of senior citizens."

"Milan." He's too mortified to speak any louder.  The crowd is close enough to overhear him, but he can't help himself, "I asked you to look nice — or look your age, even — not like a private school teenager that gets dunked in the toilet every other day."

"It's your genetics I'm wearing,"  I smile sweetly back at him, savoring his comment as I adjust my glasses, flip a page in the book that I've brought along.  My tone raises just slightly enough that Tamela has blatantly started eavesdropping.  "Maybe you should have sent out the stronger, more masculine sperm that night."  I wink at Tamela when she smirks, before returning my attention to my paperback.

My dad splutters on his drink but doesn't respond.  He knows that there's no point in arguing with me since I developed a micro of a spine — hasn't had it in him to threaten me since I've become a new Milan — since I've gained something to defend.

Myself.

He doesn't have to know that I ate ramen, or sometimes nothing at all, for most of my meals in that first year away from him — or about the time that I resorted to joining a hobby volleyball team to use the showers when I didn't have my own hot water.  A micro of a spine means the illusion of a micro of dignity.  Which I secretly don't have, and that's alright by me.

Fortunately, this false self-confidence of mine has created a game of tug-a-war; he makes it mandatory that I attend these little soirees, and in turn, he helps me with the cost of my studies.  It's a deal that I happily accepted at the time, because who can really deny every ounce of privilege in this economy — but my withered pride only stays intact by making sure that everyone knows that I'm not the slightest bit interested in following in my father's footsteps.