From the Author
"It's just--" Derek rubbed a thumb across his eyebrow. "I should have worn a different shirt, is all."
"What do you mean?"
"I feel like--this was your thing, right? With the photographers and meeting music people. It's like work for you."
Conor straddled his lap and sat down, arms on Derek's shoulders, but leaning far enough back so that he could see Derek's whole face. "I guess so, but what does it matter what you wear?"
"I could've tried to look, I dunno--better or something."
Conor blinked at him. "Are you kidding? You don't get how you look?"
"I got a pretty good idea. Like Kai said, you're slumming."
"Fuck Kai. He was saying that because he felt insecure next to you. Derek, your shirt is tight and shows off all your muscles."
"It's got stains."
"Sure, but not like gross food stains. It looks like you've been working in a garage, fixing motorcycles."
Derek gave him a skeptical look. "Because that would be my job."
"People out there would pay hundreds of dollars for ripped jeans or a shirt that looked lived in, but you're... real. And then there's your face--"
Derek waited for the punchline. "What about my face?"
Conor traced a cheekbone, the one that wasn't swelling up. "Sharp like knives." He ran a finger, gentle as a butterfly's wings, over Derek's top lip. "Sweet as sugar." He leaned in and kissed one swiftly-closed eyelid, and then the other. "Cold as ice."
When Conor pulled back, Derek could only stare helplessly at him.
"But I get to see them melt, don't I?"