Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“…and what happens when I hit three strikes?”
Brendan pursed his lips, then nipped the asparagus off his fork. “Don’t know. Haven’t decided yet.”
“I think you just made that rule up just now. Both of them.”
“You’re probably right.” Brendan angled a sly look at him. “But now you’re annoyed with me and not moping anymore.”
“…Jesus you are—I blame your parents. Your parents made you like this. I’m sure they were very respectable people, but whatever they did to you made you an absolute fucking terror,” Cillian muttered, stabbing his fork at his plate.
“Good parents, raising a kid with a healthy ego and sense of self-confidence…yeah, I see it.” Brendan dropped his voice into a mock-Frankenstein accent. “They created a monster…monster!”
Blinking, Cillian just stared at him.
Then laughed helplessly, covering his mouth with one hand. “Who are you? What happened to the grouch?”
“Being that moody takes work. I’m tired.”
There it was again. I’m tired. And it struck the laughter right from Cillian, until he stopped, just pushing the asparagus tips around his plate in a little lingering pool of oil. His heart constricted, his nerves winding around it in a stranglehold.
“…tired…” he asked tentatively, eyes locked on his plate, “…or just…tired of me?”
Silence.
Before a clatter came of ceramic on glass, and Cillian flinched, glancing up, watching Brendan set his plate firmly down on the coffee table. He twisted to face Cillian, looking at him steadily, one arm stretching along the back of the sofa.
“Okay. So…you’re feeling insecure. Is that it?”
“…if you’re going to ask me questions like that, can you turn off the bulldozer aspect of your personality for five minutes?”
“If I knew how to do that, far fewer people would hate me.” Brendan propped his temple against his knuckles. “Am I doing that now? Making you hate me?”
“No! I…damn it.” Appetite gone, Cillian leaned over and set his plate down, then twined his fingers together. “I…was wondering if you were starting to hate me. For the last few weeks you’ve just…you’re not here. For a few days you were here, this person I could feel and see and touch, and then you just…shut off. You’re inside your head somewhere, and I know we’re not real, it’s just going through the motions, but…” He tangled his fingertips together, staring at his knuckles. “…I don’t want to be this burden that makes you unhappy, either. If doing this for me is upsetting you, we don’t have to. I’ll figure out what to do about Newcomb on my own.”
“Mm.” Brendan’s response was noncommittal, soft, thoughtful. “Cillian…you care very much what I think of you, don’t you?”
“…yeah.” His shoulders hunched; his gut sank. “Maybe a little too much.”
“That’s the thing. When we care what someone thinks of us, we feel like every little thing they do is directed at us…when usually it has nothing to do with us. But it feels personal, and we start to worry, and we convince ourselves that they hate us when they’re likely worried about something completely different.”
Cillian risked peeking at Brendan. “Is that what I’m doing…?”
“Maybe a little. Because I’m not upset with you. I’m not sick of you at all.” Coarse fingers flicked his shoulder lightly, teasingly. “I’m sleepy.”
“…what?”
“Cillian.” An amused, almost fond look turned toward him, Brendan’s head tilting back lazily. “All-nighters stopped being a thing for me almost ten years ago. I only need about six hours of sleep a night, but some nights we’ve been staying up until almost dawn. I’ve got stamina. I’m not superhuman.”
…oh.
Cillian’s eyes widened.
Oh, he was such a nit.
“Ah, fuck,” he rushed out, digging his fingers into his jeans over his calves. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think—”
“It’s fine,” Brendan promised. “Just maybe if you’re going to stay late some nights, bed might be a better option than rehearsing until moonset.”
“Sorry, I…I know I’m intruding on your life. This whole issue.” Cillian offered a smile, sheepishness crawling through him in little rolling waves. “I even caught a few of them at it the other night. Hiding in the bushes to catch my walk of shame when I stumbled out of here in the morning wearing your shirt.”
Brendan rounded his eyes in mocking mimicry of shock, dropping his voice to a hush. “The public has probably concocted the most scandalous stories about us.”
“Are they really stories if we’re planning to make them a reality?”
There it was—just like that, something went glassy in Brendan’s eyes, and he looked away, fixing on the TV even though the frame hadn’t moved since he’d paused it. Cillian’s heart sank.
“Brendan…?”
“Hm?” Brendan responded mildly.
Oh…that wasn’t…that wasn’t good. Cillian’s breaths hitched in his throat. “Hey…if you’re having second thoughts on the sex thing…”
“I’m not.” Soft, low…but…he sounded sincere, and Cillian blew out a frustrated breath.
“Then what’s wrong?” he asked. “You’re not just tired. You’ve been brooding for days, and the second I mentioned sex you just…blanked on me. You don’t have to lie if you’ve changed your mind. I’d rather you were honest with me. Honesty hurts less.”