Page 81 of College Town

“No, not that like that. I mean, he’s not trying to manipulate you, is he? What am I saying, of course he is, he’s holding you hostage.”

“I’m not really a hostage,” he says, feeling some need to defend Tommy.

“Honey, you are, but the point is: he’s not messing with your feelings, is he? Trying to rekindle the romance?”

What do you need?

Sweetheart.

Lawson swallows hard. “No.”

“Honey.”

“What? There’s no romance to rekindle. There never was. His whole life story –ifhe’s been telling the truth, which I seriously doubt – is a Russian nesting doll of lies. I was just another one of them. This is strictly business, no feelings involved whatsoever.”

She sighs.

“How’s my mom handling things?” he switches the subject, and she goes along with it.

A little while later, a staff member brings him dinner on a silver-covered tray. It’s steak and potatoes, which are delicious, but he chokes down only half of it, showers, and crawls under the covers in just his boxers.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he startles awake in the dark and knows immediately that someone’s in his room. He’s lying on his side, facing the window, through which a faint glow of the exterior security lights seeps like smoke. He’s kicked the covers down around his waist in his sleep, and his bare arms and chest prickle with goosebumps. He knows he gasped when he woke, because his lungs burn, and his ribs are still expanded. He exhales slowly, slowly, slowly, and strains to hear above the rush of his breath.

There’s the scuff of a foot on the rug, and then the mattress dips behind him.

Lawson tenses all over.

His skin senses the touch before a hand lands on his naked bicep.

Lawson holds still.

Then rolls over in one smooth rush and grabs onto a wrist.

“Shit,” a familiar voice swears.

There’s just enough ambient light from the window for him to make out Tommy; his plain white t-shirt glows in the dark, and his eyes are big as saucers and dark as black tea.

“Fuck.” Lawson’s hand burns, and he flings Tommy’s wrist away so he can wipe the grit out of his eyes. “Shit. What are you doing? What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”

When Tommy doesn’t answer, he lowers his hand, and blinks his vision the rest of the way clear. Tommy is…staring at him. Staring intensely. He’s got one leg drawn up on the mattress, the other on the floor, and he’s gripping tight to the blankets with his near hand.

“Tommy?”

Tommy takes an audible, shallow, unsteady breath. His voice sounds choked when he says, “It’s two-thirty.”

Something’s happening here. Lawson thinks…hopes…fears he knows what. But he doesn’t want to assume. Doesn’t want…

“Okay,” he murmurs.

…to get hurt.

When Tommy doesn’t say anything else, only breathes loudly some more, like a frightened – not frightened, his brain supplies, helpfully, buthungry– animal, Lawson pushes up on his elbow and says, “Why are you in here creeping on me?”

Lawson knows why he’s here. Oh, does he ever know, but he wants Tommy to vocalize it. Wants him to say the words out loud so he has the satisfaction of telling him no.

Tommy breathes some more, and his voice comes outrough, almost clotted. “Law. I miss you.”

The words lance straight through his chest, pierce him front to back and leave him bleeding. Tommy looks and sounds nothing like he did this afternoon; he’s gone from firm and demanding dictator to supplicating jilted lover and the contrast leaves Lawson aching. Even his teeth hurt. His hands itch and his fingers flicker and he wants to touch so badly. He’s gone from asleep and cold to wide-awake and burning hot in the span of a few moments.

---