Page 4 of Phantom Faceoff
Julian purses his lips and focuses on straightening out his long, frizzed, copper hair.
“You don’t have to be rude.”
“And you don’t have to be naive.”
The heavy thrum of a bass guitar and the sarcastic cadence of Set It Off’s vocalist pounds through one half of my headphones, the other muff pushed behind my ear to hear Julian’s tell-tale sniffle as he huddles onto his mattress and starts meticulously braiding his hair.
I’m all of thirty seconds into “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” before I abandon my bed for his and take over where his fingers tremble.
“I’ll never stop protecting you. From yourself if I have to.”
He leans back into my touch, a soft, content sigh passing his lips when I open my legs to allow him into my lap.
“It’s not like I’m dating him, Mal. We’re just having fun. Fooling around.”
I might tug his hair a little too hard, but all it draws out is a chuckle.
“Don’t you see how that’s worse?”
He hums while I work, tying off the end of the braid with one of the many elastics on my wrist.
“You going to The Den after class?” he asks, turning to the side and batting his eyes like a schoolgirl.
“Why? So you can bring Hale back to our dorm without me to scare him off?”
“I want to get laid, Mal. Railed into my mattress.” Julian rises to his knees and puts his hands on my shoulders, leveling me with an intent stare. “No one wants to fuck me because they think I belong to you.”
I raise my brow, and he rolls his eyes. “You take care of me, but you don’ttake care of me.”
Not that we haven’t tried it a handful of times over the years, but the spark has never been there.
“And you think the daredevil jock of all people will?”
“He’s a sweetheart,” Julian says, falling back to stretch his arms above his head. “Terrible kisser. But incredible with his hands.”
Not an image I need, and one that etches a deep scowl on my face.
“Malachi.” Julian’s voice is soft, eyes even softer, and though I know it doesn’t appear like it on the outside, the brunt of my anger melts away.
Replaced by a flood of worry.
“You are my best friend,” he says like he’s placating a child. “My caretaker.”
The words are spoken with a careful hesitation. Treading a water we’ve barely dipped our toes into.
But when you catch your best friend—a man you’ve known since you were eleven—chatting up strange men online and calling them “Daddy” you’ll practically leap out of your goddamn comfort zone to give them a safe place to explore.
“I’m Little with you because I trust you, but I’m a big boy with Zander.”
“So I’m only supposed to care when you want me to?”
Julian puffs out his cheeks, and I see the change he so often describes to me: He wraps his arms around his middle, curls onto his side, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.
My own frustration ebbs, and I push a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes.
“Can we set some ground rules? So I can help you without being so … controlling?”
That was one part of the Daddy/Little dynamic that Julian explicitly expressed disinterest in. He wants support and structure, but not someone to take over his life.
