Tuesday
September 4, 2018
Waking with Thommy’s foot in his face shouldn’t feel as familiar as it does, but they’ve known each other since they started Edison over four years ago and had way too many sleepovers where Thommy refused to sleep in a different room or even in a sleeping bag, wanting to share Rhys bed instead. Pushing the offending appendage away, he sits up and runs a hand through his messy hair, squinting down at his best friend who somehow managed not only to turn upside down on the bed but also to hog Rhys' legs and use them as his pillow. And drool an entire lake onto Rhys’ blanket.
He kicks out with his leg, groaning at the pins and needles that immediately hit him, but Thommy is dead to the world, his dark cheeks flushed and his disgustingly long lashes fluttering every once in a while with a dream. Maybe they should just skip school and waste the entire day on useless things. After yesterday they really deserve some time off, never mind that it’s just the second day of the year. Also, maybe—just maybe—Rhys isn’t all that eager to see their homeroom teacher spread who knows what about them at the academy. But if nothing else, absences are treated like the inquisition at Edison, probably because their shitty parents up and handed over their guardianship to the school, so if they don’t show up without proof of being gravely ill, they are in for a world of trouble.
Armand obviously knows they are not on their deathbed. Not after last night.
He nudges Thommy again, this time pushing his shin harder into the side of his head and earning a sleepy grunt. Almost black eyes blink open, framed by a darkly purpling shiner and bruised cheekbone. Someone really got lucky yesterday. Yet Thommy acts like half of his face hasn’t been through a grinder, grinning a dopey smile and not even wincing when he runs a shovel sized hand down his face.
“Time’z it?”
“Around seven,” Rhys says with a shrug. “My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but it’s already light out.”
“Why wake m’ then? Wanna sleep!” Thommy whines, hiding his face in Rhys’ legs.
“Because I can’t feel my legs and we need breakfast.”
“Not gonna school.”
“I doubt it’s an option.”
“Ugh… that teach. Did he really bail me out without lording it over my head?” Thommy frowns in disbelief.
Rhys can understand his confusion. Dmitri Armand is a confusing man full of secrets and layers. It should be hateful and suspicious. It should make him want to ignore the man, avoid him at all cost, but despite knowing better, Rhys finds himself intrigued and drawn in by the mystery.
It’s despicable.
But way too interesting.
Sighing, he pats Thommy’s foot closest to him. “Yeah, he did.”
“He’s a total weirdo.”
“I think that was established at first glance.”
“Duude, you remember his face at the porn?” Thommy snickers at the memory then heaves himself up. “He looked like he never seen one before.”
“I don’t know,” Rhys replies, thoughtful. “Did he?”
“You snoozed through the whole thing, didn’t you?” Thommy accuses, falsely, this time.
Armand’s face when he saw the frozen video wasn’t appalled or horrified for that matter. For a second he looked confused, but it melted away quickly and there was nothing left behind just polite curiosity. Distant and cool. Sure, he could have had a mini-breakdown when he was facing the board and only showing them his back, but his shoulders didn’t look tense enough to suggest such a thing. Rhys knows this because he was watching, more closely than he wants to admit. He was watching and analyzing Armand’s every twitch, sizing up the enemy. Or so he was telling himself.
He doesn’t tell Thommy this. He doesn’t tell him that ever since they met the man, he cannot get him out of his head. Doesn’t tell him that he found Armand’s fake Facebook profile or that he wants nothing more than… no, that’s not right. Armand just interests him because he’s been lying to their faces from the moment he stepped into their classroom, but Rhys can’t see through the lie. Not yet. Yes, that’s what it is about and not… other things.
He shakes his head, and Thommy takes it as confirmation because he snorts and punches Rhys in the shoulder. “You always miss the best shit, man,” he says with a dramatic sigh. “He totally looked like a skittish virgin about to be… what’s that word? You know dirtied up.”
“Soiled.”
“Yeah, that. And he was covering it up with that bitch stunt he pulled about the tests.”
“Does it really matter?” Now that his legs are free, Rhys can’t stop wriggling his toes, trying to wiggle out the pins and needless of them. Once they are mostly usable, he braves standing up, glaring at his knees when they threaten to wobble. “The guy is a teacher.”
“Guess not. It’s just strange, you know. One second, he’s this twittering idiot with big, clueless smiles, and the next he is ripping cops a new one like it’s nothing. And yeah, I know I’m not the most observant guy out there. Mark sure never fails to remind me. But dude, there is just something about the new teach—what James called him?”
“Some messed up mash of his first and last name,” Rhys says with a shrug. Nicknames are really not his thing. “Dee-something.” Which is ridiculous because, from what he heard, Armand doesn’t pronounce his name Dee-mitri. Then again it’s not like it matters to his friends. They live to give really bad names to their teachers. Compared to some of their other choices James went easy on Armand.
“Oh, yeah Dim-A!” Thommy claps his hands and grins up at Rhys. “That’s a good one.”
“Whatever. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Coffee?”
“Breakfast, Thommy. I said breakfast.”
“Yeah, coffee.”
“That’s not breakfast.”
“Don’t start this shit again, Rhys. For the love of God, it’s too early for your grandpa yapping. Just gimme my coffee before I mess up your pretty-boy face to match mine.”
“You’re welcome to try.” Yes, he is almost half a foot shorter than Thommy, but it doesn’t mean he is weaker in any way and they both know it. Thommy laughs out loud and nearly falls out of bed in his hurry to chase after Rhys who is smiling, too, as he heads for the kitchen.
“Oh my God, you’re amazing!” Thommy gushes when he sees the coffee maker with a pot full of scorching hot and tar-black liquid. “Marry me, my love. I beg you!” He nearly falls over the counter, all but nuzzling the machine. Rhys snorts and pats him on the back on his way to the fridge.
“I’m sure it’s dying to say yes.”
Thommy flips him the bird behind his back and keeps staring at the pot of coffee, while Rhys pulls out the fresh bottle of milk, a carton of eggs, and some condiments the housekeeper left for them when he came by long before either of them stirred. He’s almost sure, however, that even after a year of living on his own, Thommy still thinks that his coffee maker can turn itself on and brew coffee just in time for them to wake up.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Not even for omelets?” He lightly shakes the carton in Thommy’s direction, watching with resigned horror as a long arm practically snaps out and snatches the bottle of milk from under his left arm. Thommy opens it without looking and sloshes a generous amount into his personal mug already filled with coffee.
“With tomatoes?” he asks, throwing a suspicious glance at the ingredients in Rhys arms.
“And ham.”
“And bell peppers?”
“Yes.”
“Hm… maybe.”
Hiding his smugness, Rhys busies himself at the stove, preparing their breakfast with practiced movements. Not many people know that he loves to cook, although he only knows how to make a handful of things, mostly breakfast food and healthy meats. His specialty though is omelets because it’s the only thing Thommy is willing to eat in the morning without throwing it right back up.
It’s been their ritual for years. Thommy would wander around the condo, sipping at his barely lightened poison and ignoring everything else. It’s an interesting sight to see because, except for the first few minutes, Thommy’s brain usually kicks in pretty much immediately after he wakes up, yet he still spends a good half an hour in a faux daze, refusing to accept that they should be hurrying before they are late.
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