throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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Personal doesn’t do anyone any favours.
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- Part 1 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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“Nikita,” he says.
“...is your name?” Luke says. He knows it is. All the girls say it dreamily because it’s exotic.
“We room together, you call me,” Sidorchuk says.
“Nikita,” Luke says, nose wrinkling. He’ll manage, he guesses. “Okay.”
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- Part 2 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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He wonders if it’s always going to be like this, like maybe he sucks Nikita off once and they never talk about it again, and every single trip Luke has to press up against him and remember what it was like to have him.
That would fucking suck.
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- Part 3 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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Luke can be forgiven for thinking that sounded romantic. He was a kid.
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- Part 4 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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Nikita’s amusement is always at Luke’s expense.
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- Part 5 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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The next night, Sidorchuk beats the shit out of him.
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- Part 6 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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He doesn’t think about it.
The list of things he doesn’t think about is probably longer, by now, than the things he can.
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- Part 7 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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“You thought you were in love with me,” Nikita says, and it’s not mocking, the way he says it, not derisive, just a statement of fact, a recollection, like he’d forgotten, like Luke would need to be reminded. Like it’s something in the past.
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- Part 8 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits
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Luke doesn’t think he’s ever looked better than he does, right then, bleeding from wounds Luke gave him.
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- Part 9 of throw up your fists, throw out your wits