Page 33 of Loverboy

“It’s been so long.” He looked up at me. “Do you still have that vial of my blood?”

“No.”

The lie came out so fast, so instinctively, that I didn’t have time to question why I was lying in the first place. There was something about admitting that I did have it that felt too revealing, like it might expose everything I’d worked so hard to stuff down so I could be a good brother.

“Probably lost it or something,” I added, trying to justify my answer. “Couldn’t exactly wear it around. People ask too many questions. Besides, we’ve got scars. That’s enough, right?”

There was another beat of silence. For once, it made me anxious.

“Do you have yours?” I asked.

“No,” he murmured. “Sofia thought it was creepy.”

Disappointment crushed my ribs.

“Yeah, well, Sofia’s a cunt,” I said stiffly.

Milo laughed, and the sound was an awful lot like winning.

He shifted between my legs, turning around and folding his arms over my stomach, his chin resting on top. It was misleading how sweet and innocent he looked sitting like that.

“They were kinda cool,” he said quietly.

My insides flared with heat.

“Yeah,” I agreed smoothly. “You would think that, you little freak.”

He hit my chest in retaliation for the playful jab, and I choked on a laugh of my own.

“It was your idea in the first place,” he countered.

The way indignation coloured his cheeks made the familiar urge to touch rise to the surface, and I strangled it. He wasn’t wrong about it having been my idea. I was young, and I’d watched some coming-of-age movie about witches where they performed a blood ritual, and I knew I wanted to be close like that. It’d been a stupid suggestion, but Milo lit up like a Christmas tree when he heard it, and that was all I needed to see it through.

“It’s because you’re a bad influence.”

He was. The amount of shit Milo had dragged me into over the years was staggering, but I was exactly where I wanted to be, even if I’d never admit it out loud.

“I’m a great influence,” he said with a flourish, tipping his nose up. “You were boring before me.”

“My life was peaceful, you mean,” I teased.

He buried half of his face into his arms at that, and there was a sudden insecurity in the way he shrank in on himself. I said something that made him self-conscious, and all I could think about was how adorable he looked. I wondered, briefly, if taking pleasure in his vulnerability with me made me a bad person.

“But I don’t want peaceful,” I whispered conspiratorially.

“Good,” he mumbled.

He was hiding his mouth in his arms, but I saw the way his cheeks bunched with the force of a smile, making the heat in my chest feel closer to an inferno. The knowledge that I could control his moods with so few words was intoxicating.

It was a reminder of how much he needed me, almost as much as I needed him.

15

Jasper

SINCE AGREEING TO move in with Milo, I’d been stopping by Mom’s place every day and bringing a handful of things back to the apartment. I wanted to make sure it was a slow transition, one that wouldn’t give her a heart attack and a major case of empty-nest syndrome. Each time, I made sure she was eating well and did what I could around the house. It was the only way to keep myself from feeling like a complete asshole of a son by leaving so suddenly.

I told myself the pressure to take care of everyone else wouldn’t break me, and that it would only harden my resolve. As much as I might complain about everyone needing me, I also thrived on the purpose it gave me. My battle with my own demons was easier when I focused on others.