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Chapter Text

“So,” Ames plops down on the beanbag in the common room, a half-finished bag of Swedish Fish she probably stole from Taye’s stash in her hands. “Noam Álvaro.”

Dara flips a page in his book, finishing the line of dialogue Ames interrupted him in. He glances at her smiling face, teeth mashing a red gummy, and sighs. He dog ears the page and puts the book next to him on the couch. “What about him?”

“Your evaluation, Oh Knowledgeable Dara, genius among geniuses,” She rolls her eyes. “Whaddya think about him?”

Noam Álvaro, Lehrer’s pet publicity project, plucked from the hospital after an epidemic swept the poor neighborhoods just outside D.C., plopped into Carolinia Academy as a trial for some charity program for “less-advantaged youths”. He’d been in the dorm suite already when Dara, Ames, Taye, and Bethany walked in this morning the weekend before the new school year. He was sitting on this same couch, working through a pre-calculus problem set. Nowhere else to go, he’d said, wry smile tugging his lips. He wore a ratty shirt, whatever design printed on it a fuzzy memory, along with basketball shorts and no shoes Dara could see.

What did Dara think of him?

“He’s alright,” Dara sits back, crosses his arms. “Seems smart enough. Tall. A bit awkward, though not like that stopped Bethany, or Taye. Or you.”

Ames grins, tossing another gummy into her mouth. “You hate him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Dara says.

“You do--oh my god, you totally do!” She laughs. “You were all cold eyes at him--like that!--and you barely said a thing to him. You gotta admit it was assholish, even for you.”

Dara shakes his head. “I don’t hate him.”

“But?”

But Lehrer shoved a file on his background at Dara a few weeks back at a dinner reservation he’d arranged for them. First time in God knows how long they’d spent time together, especially since the campaign began, and despite everything Dara marked the date down on his calendar with red pen. Lehrer told him, between sips of vintage wine, “He’s an orphan--just like you.”

Except Dara isn’t an orphan, and his father doesn’t make slip ups. Lehrer’s marble eyes glinted above the rim of his glass.

The door to the common room bangs open, saving Dara from continuing the conversation. Taye, Bethany, and Noam walk in, Bethany chattering to a grinning Noam. Noam’s eyes meet Dara’s, and his smile falters before lifting up again, directed at him. Dara picks his book up, crossing his legs.

“Yo,” Ames falls back against the beanbag, looking at them upside down. “Finished hazing the new kid?”

“We weren’t hazing him, Ames,” Bethany flicks her on her forehead.

“They took me ‘round the block,” Noam shoves his hands into the pockets of a pair of old cargo shorts. Summers on the East Coast are hot and humid; Noam is misted in sweat. “Showed me a few of your haunts.”

“Taye’s candy store, I presume? And Bethany’s hippie cafe?”

“For the last time, Ames, it is not a hippie cafe.”

They laugh. Taye plops down on the beanbag, making Ames almost roll off. Bethany sits on the coffee table, leaving Noam to glance between the couch Dara’s on and the floor. He takes the couch. Dara almost commends his bravery.

“It’s kinda a hippie cafe, Bethany,” Bethany makes a face at Noam when he says this. “They also brought me to a bookstore.”

“Ooh, The Owlery?” Dara doesn’t look up, but he can feel Ames’ smirk. “That’s our dear old Dara’s place.”

Dara rolls his eyes, gives Ames a deadpan smile. “Better than your tattoo parlors and gaudy boutiques, Ames.”

Ames reaches into her bag to throw a Swedish Fish at him, but finds none. Taye chews the last one next to her, and she scowls at him. He shrugs. “You stole it from me in the first place.”

Noam chuckles. It’s a low, rumbling thing, slow like his Southern drawl from a childhood spent in Atlanta (Dara planned on not reading his file out of spite, but he only lasted a week). It rolls over Dara’s skin like a summer storm. “Actually,” Noam says, elbow coming up onto the back of the couch, three inches from Dara’s curls. “My parents used to run a bookstore.”

“Really?” Bethany glances at Dara. “You like to read, then?”

“Well, of course. Was kinda unavoidable, considering I slept among bookcases.”

Noam’s eyes rest on Dara’s skin, poking at him like stepping a toe past the caution tape. Dara shuts his book--same page, he hadn’t been able to read anything--and offers him a tight smile. “You’ll have to recommend me some, sometime,” he says, standing up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go finish the one I’m on.”

He waves the paperback, stepping past Bethany on the coffee table and heading to the hallway. As he’s shutting the door to the dorms, he hears Noam’s voice from the common room saying, “What’s his problem?”

“He…” Taye answers. “Dara’s chill. Usually.”

“He’s just a private person,” Bethany says. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

--

Classes began. Dara was glad for it; he didn’t quite enjoy going to school, the monotonous daily schedule, playing the role of the charming honor student for his classmates and teachers. But it was at least better than spending summer in Lehrer’s huge penthouse alone. At one point, even Ames got sick of getting hammered at clubs they were too young for every night, and no matter how many bodies and how much alcohol he drowned himself in, Dara still woke seeing the word broken tattoed over every inch of his flesh.

At least here he had shit to distract himself with. Classes. Homework. His dorm mates. College apps, though he knew that even without being top of his class, being Calix Lehrer’s adopted son would get him in anywhere.

Noam Álvaro.

And what a distraction that was. For all of Dara’s hostility, the boy sure made his presence known loud and annoyingly clear, to both Dara’s consciousness and the rest of the school as well. Noam is a sophomore, but even so Dara can’t seem to make it through a day without hearing gossip about him. Carolinia Academy is a K-12 establishment, so most people here have known each other for all their lives, and new students--especially in the high school block--were rare, and therefore talked about. Cases like Noam, with his scruffy weekend clothes and lack of a prestigious family name doubled with his involvement with Lehrer, were unheard of.

It’s only been two weeks since the semester began, but it felt like everyday some new piece of information on the boy was stirring the student body up. Just yesterday someone had spread the news of Noam’s time in juvie, and a few days before that they were talking about how he’d dropped out of school in eighth grade. Even Taye and Bethany were shocked at the news of his apparent delinquency, though of course Bethany didn’t let it affect her interactions at all, and it only took a while for Taye to get over it as well.

And, who could live in their dorm and think Noam’s a delinquent? He spends every minute of his time with his head stuffed in a textbook. Swensson had gotten him mostly caught up over the summer, but Noam still studied with a feverish intensity.

The bell for the last class of the day rang--Dara’s AP Lit class, where they were assigned books Dara had read in middle school--and his classmates filed out. As he’s packing up, he overhears a conversation between the girls who sit next to him. “Hey hey, did you hear?” one says. “Apparently Rebecca found that Álvaro boy in an article about some protest in January. He’s a, what’d she say? A hacktivist?”

The other girl nods. “Yeah, I can see that. He’s actually in my AP Comp Sci class, he’s always coding something complicated looking during lessons.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Teacher hates his guts, though.”

Dara resists the urge to grit his teeth. Always, always it’s goddamn Noam Álvaro. From the moment Lehrer shoved that file across the dinner table at him, he’s been slowly seeping into every corner of Dara’s life. Dara escapes the classroom before the girls can turn to him and ask his opinion in their high voices and simpering smiles.

Ames catches up with Dara as they make their way to the dorms. “Hey,” she says. “Raleigh tonight?”

It’s a Friday, and they haven’t gone out since school started. Dara had been left to drink Lehrer’s scotch on his bunk, leafing through Nabokov or watching goat videos on his phone. Trying not to think about the now slept-in bed across the room, sheets mussed and kicked around in one of Noam’s nightmares, or the burning brown eyes glaring something scalding in Noam’s mugshot pressed inside the manila folder Dara’d left in the penthouse.

“Yeah,” Dara says. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Dara stumbles out of the club at three something in the morning. Ames and Taye were long gone, so he was left to call a cab himself, shivering on the curb in his open shirt, half the buttons torn out by the guy he’d fucked in the bathroom. Damn. It was designer too. Dara’s lip curls into a sneer at the memory of the popping buttons, his partner’s self-satisfied leer like such an animalistic demonstration would impress him.

Dara draws his ruined shirt around himself, wobbling a bit before steadying himself on a streetlamp. He isn’t completely smashed—which is how he ends up about half the time he goes out. The worst nights, he has to call Ames to pick him up before he passes out in front of the toilet in the bar’s bathroom. Those nights, she drags him to her mansion because God knows he isn’t going back to the dorms like that, where her Bethany might see him crumbling all over himself.

She always wakes him up before class starts with a glare and an Advil. He promises her that it won’t happen again, really, and she scoffs.

Dara groans against the streetlamp. He does mean to try, at least, each time he comes to with his temples pounding. He knows he’s a shitty friend, Ames has told him many times before. One day, she won’t pick up when he calls her from the club bathroom, and he really needs get himself together before that day comes.

--

After Raleigh, Dara lays in his bed and stares at the ceiling. And yeah—fucking typical, he goes out to scrub Noam from his mind only to walk back in to see him curled up on the couch with his laptop at four in the goddamn morning, his taunts graffitied over Dara’s fresh hickies, sizzling in his blood. And God, if Noam couldn’t make him boil.

Does the librarian make you bend over to get the good books? sounded to him like Filthy slut, Lehrer’s voice a shard of ice no amount of skin-on-skin friction Dara created on strangers’ bodies could melt. Fuck. And Dara couldn’t even call Noam an asshole, not when he’d clearly spent two weeks holding his tongue around Dara’s scorn. Not when Dara had, worked up and dizzy with sudden sharp cold, made fun of Noam’s academic setbacks though he knew it wasn’t his fault and he knew how hard he’s working.

Not when regret curled in Noam’s eyes right after those words left his mouth.

Fuck. Where the hell did he get off looking at Dara like that?

Dara is very good at reading people. Comes with a lifetime spent deciphering Lehrer’s expressions and gestures—separating facade from sincerity, realizing how little of him is sincerity. And for better or for worse, Noam’s been occupying too much of his attention lately. So he knows—he knows how Noam sees the world as his responsibility to fix, how he looks at people with compassion to spare even for rich assholes like Dara, as long as he’s convinced that they’re human.

Dara’s seen the way he burns, like Noam is made of wires all live, fried at the ends and spewing sparks twenty-four seven. He’s seen the boy in the mugshot going to jail for hacking government servers in Noam’s eyes when Taye switched on the news that night and Trump’s face appeared on screen, the word ‘refugee’ in the mouth of a white lady. Dara felt how that word burned through Noam’s skin like acid. Dara’s seen, too, how Noam rushed out in a summer storm without a jacket on to buy period pills for Bethany, how Noam stilled when walking behind the couch Dara was reading on, his eyes catching Tolstoy’s name on the page. Dara felt the first words of a geek-out cradled in Noam’s tongue, almost wanted to twist around and say them for him.

Noam walks in the boy’s sleeping quarters just before five, and Dara feigns sleep. Noam’s eyes glance over his figure, faint static on Dara’s skin, and sighs. He gets in bed and shuts off his phone screen. Your pants are so tight I can see your religion.

Dara needs to stop relating Noam to Lehrer in his mind. They’ve met, but only once, and Lehrer was all facade then anyways. And if Dara frayed more than he should’ve when he saw how Noam idolized him, then he’d ignore it.

Dara doesn’t get much sleep that night. But Noam doesn’t have one of his nightmares either.

--

It’s Dara’s turn to cook dinner, which means they were all having takeout because Dara has hardly ever touched a panhandle in his life. He orders Chinese; it’s late and nowhere else is open, and they eat around the coffee table, the TV a low buzz in the background. After they’re done, Ames cracks out the beer, grinning and saying something about Saturday night and indoctrinating the new guy.

Dara sighs at her, and her grin just gets cheekier. It’s been three weeks since they met Noam, one week since Rayleigh. Dara had always thought three weeks was plenty long enough to get to know a person, but he isn’t about to refuse the drink.

They play never have I ever, because they’re teenagers. On the second round, Taye twirls a lollipop in his mouth, humming in thought before pulling it out. “Never have I ever…” he smirks at Bethany next to him. “Fallen asleep in the library and woke up there the next day.”

She scowls. “I thought we said no singling out?”

“Aw, it could’ve happened to anyone!”

Ames reaches over and snatches the glass from Bethany before she can bring it to her lips, swallowing it down. Bethany smiles at her, light pink dusting her cheeks like it does every time she does this. Then she smirks herself, her baby blue eyes darting to each of their faces. “Never have I ever had sex before!”

They all groan and down their drinks. “B, sweetie, you do this every time!” Ames slumps on the table.

Bethany just giggles. It’s Noam’s turn next, and he drums his fingers on his glass before shifting back, leaning on his hands behind him. “Never have I ever drank bourbon before.”

Everyone takes a shot. Ames is so shocked when she sees Bethany tipping hers back that she forgets to take it from her. Bethany catches her eye. “What? I asked Dara for a sip one time, that’s all.”

Ames whips around, looking at Dara with murder in her eyes. “Oh, shove it. It was one sip, completely harmless.”

“You’ve never had bourbon before?” Taye asks, eyes wide.

Dara’s gaze flicks back to Noam. “Yeah, well, never had much whiskey at all,” he shrugs. “Where I’m from, it’s mostly just beer and moonshine.”

That launches a discussion about moonshine. Dara’s mind flashes over to an image of Noam’s file, the Google Maps picture of his residence. A neighborhood of cracked stone and graffiti, makeshift playgrounds for the little kids, apartments that didn’t pass safety regulations probably. Noam’s smiling, but there’s a tenseness about his shoulders Dara’s seen him wear often, whenever his poverty becomes clear against the background of their wealth.

“Ames, it’s your turn,” Dara nudges her.

“Huh? Oh, right. Okay, gimme a sec,” Ames looks over them, brows furrowed. “Never have I ever… slept with a girl before.”

Bethany pinks, but only Taye and Noam drink. Dara’s eyes flash over to Noam the same moment Noam’s land on Dara. Noam looks away quickly, coughing softly. “Really?” Ames bursts out, pointing at him. “I totally pegged you for a gay guy!”

“Oh my god, Ames! That’s so rude!” Bethany hisses.

Taye sighs. “Don’t mind her, Noam. She’s drunk—I mean, she has been drinking the most out of all of us.”

“No, no it’s alright,” Noam waves away their concern. “I don’t mind, really. And no, I’m not gay.”

Bullshit. Dara’s seen the way his gaze lingers on Dara’s face, his neck, his waist. Ames raises both brows at him. Noam smirks, leaning forward again, both elbows on the coffee table. “Bisexual isn’t gay.”

Ames smiles, syrupy slow, her eyelids weighed down by liquor. Dara reaches over her for the beer bottle, refilling her glass and then his own. “Okay, my turn now,” he says, setting the bottle down. “Never have I ever…”

They continue for a few more rounds, until all their beer is gone and Ames is barely able to stand up straight. Bethany helps her into the girl’s dorm and Taye heads back to the boy’s room with a yawn, calling dibs on the shower first. Noam and Dara share one awkward moment before Noam clears his throat. “Um, I can take care of all this if you want,” he gestures to the takeout boxes and empty glasses. “I already showered, and you drank a lot more than me.”

Dara narrows his eyes at him. Noam glances away, looking like he wants to run. “Don’t worry, Álvaro. My tolerance is also much higher than yours.”

Noam winces, but still begins to stack up takeout boxes. Dara cuts him a sharp look, but he ignores it and continues cleaning up. Dara shakes his head, then gathers up all the glasses. He walks into the kitchen with them balanced in his arms, Noam trailing behind him. He stacks the cups on the counter and begins rinsing them out.

Noam snatches the second glass just as Dara’s reaching for it, turning on the other faucet. Dara stares at the side of his face, but he doesn’t look at him. He goes back to his own work.

After his shower, Dara walks into the dorm room to find Noam sitting up in his bed, reading another of his textbooks. Dara’s hand stills where it is scrubbing his hair dry with a towel, then he throws it into his bedside cabinet and climbs below his covers.

A voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Ames, tells him that maybe he should let go of his pointless grudge.

Chapter Text

“So, why do you hate him?”

Dara groans, rolling over on Ames’ bed. He knocks something off of while moving to join the veritable landfill that is her bedroom’s floor. They were at her family mansion (though the Ames family consisted only of her and her father) for labor day, because Lehrer had messaged Dara saying he wouldn’t be home.

And yeah, Dara didn’t want to think about why that still bothered him. Better to save himself the bruises and be glad for the distance.

“Why are we still talking about this?” Dara buries his face in one of her pillows.

She shifts so that she’s laying next to him. She nudges him with her foot. “I was just teasing you before. But, like, he’s chill you know? Everyone likes him but you.”

Dara lifts his head from the pillow to narrow suspicious eyes at her. “Oh, don’t tell me you like him. Like, fancy him.”

“The fuck? We aren’t in Britain, Dara,” Ames punches him in the shoulder. “No, I don’t like him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, six foot two and with a face like that? I’d bang. But I’m not, like—look, you just don’t hate people without a reason. And I want to know your reason.”

When Dara doesn’t respond, Ames rolls onto her side so that she faces him. Or, she faces a mess of black curls. “Is it the Lehrer thing? I mean, I get it, but they’re barely connected at all. Sure, the dude acts like Lehrer’s the freaking messiah or some shit, but that’s hardly new.”

Dara sighs into the pillow. He rolls over too, so that he’s on his back and staring up. After he peeled off the stars on his bedroom ceiling, Ames had bought a pack and slapped them on hers. When she showed them to him, she called it a pact. You’re always safe with me.

Dara drags his fingers through his hair. “It’s… not that,” he says. “At least, I don’t think so. Not anymore.”

“Then what?”

Then what, indeed.

“He just, he ticks me off. Everything he does is so maddeningly irritating.”

Dara winces when Ames lifts her brows at him. “Yeah I know. Not very in-character of me, and pretty shallow too. But I can’t help it,” he says, blinking up at those stars. “I can’t figure him out. And that’s—you know that’s not prototypical of me.”

Suddenly, Ames springs up. Dara startles. Ames is looking at him with wide eyes, an almost incredulous look on her face. “What?” he asks.

Deep down, he knows what words are telegraphed across her face, what her look means. But if he’s not even admitting it to himself, he sure isn’t doing it here.

She shakes her head, slowly. “Nothing.”

Ames falls back in place besides her. “Anyways,” she says. “Oh! Shit, I didn’t finish that project for Swensson yet!”

Dara rolls his eyes at the obvious topic change. “I’ve got mine.”

“Thanks, Dara! I’ll pay you back sometime, I swear.”

Later that night, as Dara lays in one of the guest bedrooms of the Ames mansion, he turns their conversation over in his mind. His thoughts are on their third cycle, and he’s almost managed to convince himself that Ames’ look had no meaning, no truth. That Dara could just hate Noam Álvaro without anything else attached.

Then, unbidden, the memory of that night weeks ago when Noam had helped Dara clean up after their game rises to his mind. How their elbows brushed once at the sink, and Noam turned a light pink. Dara grits his teeth, and rolls over in bed.

A knock at the door. General Ames steps in, a smooth smile on his lips. Dara sits up slowly, lets his shirt fall off his shoulder and a smile of his own surface. As the general moves above him, hands searing over Dara’s skin and his rough voice in his ear, Dara squints up at the bare ceiling.

In his mind, he apologizes to Ames.

--

Dara sits in his bed, back against the wall and legs splayed over the blankets. He stares at nothing, eyes unfocused and brain fuzzy. Down the hall, Bethany, Ames, Taye, and Noam watch the democratic debates.

He’d walked in to find them sprawled around the common room, the glow of the TV the only light in the room. When he saw Lehrer’s face on the screen, he’d felt sick. He made some excuse and beat a hasty retreat to the boy’s dorm, Taye’s teasing at his back. Ames had come in right after, concern soft in her eyes. And then Álvaro had opened the door, all flustered cheeks and worried gaze, asking after Ames, his eyes looking anywhere but where Dara’s hands rested on her hips.

And now here he is, alone. His bedside lamp is on, but he hadn’t bothered with anything else. His mind parses through snippets of memories: the feel of Lehrer’s hand on his shoulder, his wrist, a split lip and broken bone. Gordon Ames’ breath on his skin last night, Gordon Ames’ breath on his skin three years ago. Lehrer’s breath, too, his marble eyes sharp with lust.

Lehrer’s form in a chair in the corner of Dara’s room, jerking awake every time he shifted in his bed that week after Dara overdosed.

Dara looks at all these scenes without passion. He watches them flit by and then fade into the dark corners of the room. His body is light and hollow, a faint buzzing noise bouncing around inside of him.

After a while, Dara reaches into his bedside cabinet and pulls out a bottle of scotch. He twists it open, hands slightly shaking. He puts his mouth on its open neck and tips the bottle back.

--

On a Sunday evening, Dara, Ames, and Taye walk down a boulevard nearby the Washington Monument. Fall creeps in the late September air with its chilly breath, the tops of trees planted along the sidewalk dusted with orange and red.

Ames and Taye are chatting about a TV show they both watch, small arguments over who is a better character than who bursting up every so often. Dara sips on a coffee, watching them with amusement in his eyes. Periodically, either Ames will whip around to him and demand his opinion on some part of the show that she struggles to explain, Taye piping up with his perspective. Dara does his best, but he doesn’t really get what they’re talking about at all.

It was a good day. The sun was out the whole time they were out—as October drew nearer, the sky had been spotty, with more gray and wind than sunlight. The three of them had gone out for lunch, spending the afternoon around the shopping district. Bethany and Noam had opted to stay in the dorms and study, to which Ames rolled her eyes and made a comment about wasting away their youth.

Of course, Noam hadn’t gone because he couldn’t afford anything they’d be looking at, and he wasn’t about to accept their charity. Bethany hadn’t gone because she’s a nice person and a good friend.

Dara grimaces, then wipes the thought away.

“Hey, what’s that ruckus?” Taye frowns in the direction of the Monument. “A protest?”

“Sounds like it,” Ames says.

As they round a street corner, their suspicions are proved correct. In the street in front of the Washington Monument, a huge throng of protestors hold signs with phrases like “AMERICA FIRST” and “ILLEGALS GO HOME” printed in bold. Against them, an equally large mob with posters defending immigrants and refugees, black and red bandanas around the lower halves of their faces.

“Jesus Christ, that looks ugly,” Taye says. “We should get further away from them.”

It is ugly. Both sides are shouting at each other, and from the looks of it they’ve been at it for a while. Even though there are police present, a fight looks to break out at any second. “Yeah, probably,” Ames says.

Then her eyes squint, piercing into the crowd, before blowing wide. “Um, actually,” she grabs Taye’s arm, smiling at him. “Dara and I had to check out a shop down this street. For, you know, to pick up an order that’s arriving today. You go on ahead, though.”

Taye narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on the obvious lie. “You sure?”

“Yeah, of course. Dara and I can take care of ourselves,” she grins, patting his elbow.

“Alright then,” Taye says. “Be careful!”

They wave at each other, then Taye sets off in the opposite direction from the protest. Dara shoots Ames a look. “What—”

She grabs the edge of his coat sleeve and begins dragging him down the street towards Washington Monument. “Hey! Ames, what the—what are you doing?”

They pause at the end of the block, waiting to cross a street before the next one. Suddenly, Ames whips around and grasps Dara by the shoulders. Dara almost flinches. Ames looks apologetic for a moment before her eyes narrow seriously again, brows clenched. “Dara,” she says. “You trust me, right?”

“Ames, what are you—”

“Good. Oh shit, we gotta cross!”

She drags him down the street again, only slowing when they came up just before the edge of the protestors, on the pro-immigrant side. Pausing to catch their breath, Dara waits a moment before asking: “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about, or are you dragging me into the mob too?”

She swats his arm, then points into the throng. “See him?”

“See who? Who are you…”

Oh. But of course.

“Didn’t you say you were working on being friendlier to him? Well, here’s your first mission,” Ames sends a shit-eating grin down at him. “Make sure our little activist doesn’t get arrested.”

“Ames…”

“I’ll leave you to it! I do actually have a package I need to pick up. See you!” Ames runs off.

“Ames!”

It’s too late. She’s already gone, weaving through the people in her way. Dara releases a breath in disbelief. And she calls him a bad friend…

Dara stares after her disappearing figure for a few more moments until she’s completely gone, not even a glimpse of a tattooed wrist left. Dara shakes his head, muted in shock. What is he supposed to do now? He turns back to the protestors.

His eyes only search for a bit before they land on the side of Noam’s face, like magnets. A twinge of irritation arises at that thought. Dara crosses his arms, letting that twinge develop into an itch across his whole body.

And yeah, he has been trying to be friendlier to Álvaro. Since Labor Day, they’ve even had a few exchanges that were, you know. Not completely antagonistic on Dara’s part. And Noam was downright delighted at the change. He tried to suppress it, put on a cool mask and that damn devil-may-care attitude, but he can’t fool Dara. He’s seen the way his eyes light up after he waves to Dara in the hallway and Dara nods back.

But this? Dara’s not that experienced with friendship considering how his only one is Ames, but he’s pretty sure picking someone up after a violent protest is much further along in the friendship meter than occasionally acknowledging their presence in the hallway.

Dara seriously considers just leaving, shoving a middle finger in Ames’ face when he returns. Then Noam shouts something, leaning out the front of the mob, his sign convulsing above his head. Even from here, Dara can see how his amber-bark eyes are alight above his red bandana, filled to bursting and spilling over with some holy, righteous fire.

And really, Dara’s getting exhausted of resisting Noam’s gravity.

He scowls to himself, crossing his arms tighter around his thumping chest. He needs a drink. Or multiple.

One of the anti-immigrant protestors steps out of the ranks and marches towards Noam. He spits at Noam’s feet, his mouth biting out harsh words. Noam says something back, and then the other man gets in Noam’s face, a finger jabbing into his chest before his other arm whips forward, smacking a punch into Noam’s face, Noam’s bandana flying off. He stumbles back, a few drops of blood blooming on his cheek. Then he whirls around and punches the smug smirk off the other guy’s face.

Noam stands over the man’s crumpled figure, victorious, and then Dara spies an officer bring a walkie-talkie to his mouth. Almost without thinking, Dara shoves into the crowd.

Three officers close in on Noam, but he manages to lose them in the ensuing chaos. Dara dodges and elbows his way through the throng, cursing Ames, himself, and most of all Noam damn Álvaro. He somehow manages to get close to him, and just as another officer is about to get his hands on Noam’s shoulder, Dara grabs him by the forearm and drags him away.

They lose the officer, Noam’s confused shouts swallowed up by the crowd as Dara pushes them through bodies and out into open air. He doesn’t stop, turning around briefly to yell “Run!” at Noam before sprinting down the road.

Noam only hesitates a moment before sprinting too.

Chapter Text

Dara takes them zigzagging through side streets and alleyways for a good ten minutes before the police finally give up. They slow to a stop in a seedier part of town, neon signs flickering to life as the first hint of night creeps upon them. Dara leans against a wall, catching his breath, while Noam has his hands on his knees, panting.

“Okay,” Noam straightens up. He wipes off some of the blood on his cheek, but all that does is smear it around more. Dara has the sudden urge to do it for him—which sends another flare of irritation through him. “So. What the hell?”

Dara pushes off the wall, pacing towards Noam until he’s right in front of him. “You’re going to have to elaborate more, Álvaro. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually a mind-reader.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit, Shirazi. You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

Noam crosses his arms, mirroring Dara’s pose. They glare silently at each other for a few moments, before Dara rolls his eyes and turns around. “Let’s do this somewhere else—somewhere warmer. Come on.”

Dara jerks his head at Noam for him to follow, then starts walking down the street. Noam hangs back for a few seconds, before, Dara guesses, deciding that if Dara had planned on bringing him somewhere shady he would’ve already done it. 

It isn’t long before they reach a small pub cramped between buildings. The streetlights have already flickered on, casting pools of orange on the sidewalk. Dara opens the door to the pub and heads inside, Noam following behind him. 

“Hey, Leo,” Dara calls as he walks up to the bar.

The pub is semi-crowded, the earliest of the exhausted college students getting a last drink in before going back to school on Monday seated around tables. “Hi, Dara,” Leo Zhang, the owner of the pub, smiles as he walks over. “I’m still not serving minors any alcohol.”

Dara rests his elbows on the bar. “Leo, you’re killing me. My birthday is next month, please?”

“Then come back then.”

Dara sighs. Leo thought the drinking age was bullshit (something they could agree on) but he had a strict rule of not serving to anyone below eighteen. Noam comes up next to Dara, glancing around the pub and casting Leo a suspicious look. Leo nods at him. “You a friend of Dara’s? You don’t look legal either.”

“Um, I’m—”

“Two club sodas. Unless you want a virgin cocktail?” Dara rests the side of his head in his hand, looking at Noam with a sweet (fake) smile. “Leo makes quite the convincing Bloody Mary.”

“No, a club soda is fine,” Noam regards them with crossed arms. 

Dara turns back forward. As Leo gets their drinks, he drums his fingers on the bar, eyes skimming over the shelves of cheap liquor. “Here you go,” Leo slides their glasses over, Dara thanking him with a smile and then turning around and walking into the rest of the room.

They settle on an empty table in the back. At first, they both take gulps of their drink, parched after their run. Noam’s eyes wander over the bar again before settling on Dara’s. Dara places his drink down. “How did you even find this place? No offense, but it doesn’t really seem like a place you’d go to.”

Dara raises an eyebrow and Noam gulps. But he just lets out a soft chuckle. “You’re right, it isn’t,” he takes another drink. “I… stumbled upon it end of my junior year and got a bit attached, I suppose.”

No need to mention that he had been absolutely smashed when he walked through the doors, bar-hopping with some man he’d met early in the night who was, upon reflection, incredibly sketchy. To a drunk Dara though, he had been at least a little charming. Long story short, Leo had thrown the man out when he tried to get a little too forward for Dara’s drunk teenage self. Dara had proceeded to sob to him about his life problems, pass out, then wake up in an apartment upstairs with Leo pushing a bucket under him when he threw up.

When Dara had squinted at him and asked if they had sex or not, Leo had said no with an almost offended look in his eyes, like how could he even think he would take advantage of a drunk minor like that. Needless to say, Dara had come back. They weren’t exactly friends, but he trusted him more than he trusted most other people.

Noam nods, not pressing the issue further. Dara is glad for it. Noam rubs at the condensation on his glass with a thumb, brows furrowed down at the fizzy water. Then suddenly, he looks up and stares at Dara with an intensity reminiscent of his figure at the head of his protests, and Dara is electrified to his chair. “So? Why’d you do it—why were you even there?”

“I was out with Taye and Ames, remember? They left first, but I had stuff to take care of in that part of the city and I just…” Dara shrugs one shoulder. “Happened upon the protest. Then, I saw you punch someone and then the officers were on your track, so.”

“So?”

“So I decided to be a good roommate and help you out. It’s not that complicated, Álvaro.”

Noam sits back, a complicated slant to his lips. He looks at Dara like he’s an especially difficult physics problem in Noam’s textbook. “It’s always complicated with you,” he mutters, then in a louder tone he says, “I had it under control, Dara. I can take care of myself.”

Dara raises a brow, eyes shifting to the rapidly coloring bruise on Noam’s cheek. Noam pinks a bit at that, one hand coming up to touch it. “Hey, I didn’t exactly ask that asshole to break rank and start a fight with me.”

“Oh, I know. Still, you should probably cover that up before heading back to the dorms, else Bethany will freak when she sees you.”

Noam considers that for a moment, a look of uneasiness on his face that tells Dara he hasn’t thought of that yet. He takes another sip of his drink. “Well, I’ll just have to deal I guess,” Noam says eventually. “Not like I can hide it from her, and everyone else, until it heals.”

Dara scoffs, but he agrees. Noam’s eyes are back on him, searching his face. Dara shoots him a look. What?

“So, does this mean…” Noam clears his throat, pink creeping up onto his cheeks again. “Does this mean that we’re… cool, now? Or, that you’re cool with me, I wasn’t the one that hated you for no apparent reason.”

Dara sighs. He’s been doing that a lot since meeting Álvaro. “I didn’t hate you, contrary to whatever Ames may have told you. I just didn’t particularly care for you.”

In a manner of speaking, Dara supposes that’s true enough. 

“Why? What did I ever do to you?” Noam leans forward, arms on the table.

“I don’t like naivete, I suppose,” Dara smiles, leaning forward too. 

“You really think I’m naive?”

“You basically worship Lehrer.”

“Wha— I don’t worship him,” Noam draws away, crossing his arms. “I just think he’s the by far the best option for president. Much better than Sacha, for sure.”

“Mmm.”

“I mean, the guy’s practically a fascist!” Noam gestures wildly with his hands as he talks. “And I’m sorry if I don’t support the man who discriminates against people like my parents, and practically everyone I grew up with.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you, Álvaro,” Dara says. “I’m not exactly Sacha’s target demographic for sympathizers, either.”

He gestures to himself. Noam snorts. “You are rich though,” he finishes off his drink. “Ames didn’t tell me you hate me, by the way. Or, at least not directly. She did tell me that you hate Lehrer, though.”

Ice. Dara’s blood turns to ice for just a second, then he goes back to his easy smile. He rests his cheek in his palm, watching Noam waver just slightly under his gaze, but never looking away. Noam’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Dara forces his eyes not to drop to them. “Did she?” he asks, looking down and tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. 

“Yeah, she did,” Noam says. “Look, I know you have your personal reasons for disliking him, and I don’t expect you to tell me. But I’m allowed to form my own opinion on him based on what I know.”

Dara isn’t planning on telling him, but he knows that he wouldn’t be saying that if he did.

“You have a penchant for rambling, did anyone ever tell you that?” Dara looks up again. “I’d say it’s cute, but right now it’s kind of getting on my nerves.”

Noam blinks, clearly not knowing what to say to that. Dara stands up, downs the rest of his drink, then starts walking away. A few steps in, he turns to Noam and raises a brow. “Are you coming? We have school tomorrow, you know. It’s already quite late out.”

Both Dara and Noam ignore the fact that Noam’s seen Dara come home on a school night past twelve before. Noam stands up, grabs his drink, and heads after Dara. “I’m coming.”

They drop their glasses off at the bar, Dara waving to Leo as they walk out the pub. Noam shivers once the cold night air hits them, arms coming up to rub at his thin long-sleeve. For one incredulous moment, Dara considers offering his coat like he’s seen leads do in those rom-coms the others sometimes force him to watch with them, then he represses the thought with vehement disgust. 

Still. He lifts his eyes up to the sky, sending one defeated sigh up to the stars hidden by pollution, and pulls out his phone. “Wait here,” he says. “I’ll call us a cab.”

Noam frowns, about to protest. They aren’t too far from campus and the buses are still running. Dara silences him with a look, and dials a number on his phone. After he’s done with his call, they stand in a pool of orange light on the curb, waiting for the taxi to come. Dara’s gaze skims over the purpling bruise on Noam’s cheek, and Noam’s gaze flashes down to meet his. Dara looks away. 

He wonders how the heck his life has come to this.

Chapter Text

“No, I told you in these situations you have to use this principle,” Dara rakes his hands through his curls. “God, I swear you aren’t listening to me.”

“Well, I’m sorry that not all of us can be perfect geniuses at every subject, Dara ,” Noam drops his pencil and swings his arms out in frustration. “And I am! I am listening to every fucking word! ”

“Then why,” Dara glares at him. “Aren’t you getting anything?”

“Because maybe you’re not as good a teacher as you think you are! That ever cross your mind?”

Dara groans, pressing his face into his hands. “I’m not even that good at physics. Why couldn’t you ask Taye, the literal math prodigy, for help again?”

“Because he’s even worse of a teacher than you are!” Noam throws his hands up. “All he does is solve the problem and ask me if I ‘see’!”

“Hey!” Taye pipes up from the end of the table. “I’m right here, you know?”

Bethany sets down her fork. “Can you guys please not do this here?”

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re getting along now—” both Dara and Noam scoff at that. “—but maybe don’t try to kill each other at the dinner table? Where, you know, the rest of us are trying to eat dinner? ”

Dara and Noam glare at each other, Noam finally sighing and picking up his fork, shoving a truly terrifying amount of pasta into his mouth. “I just, Swensson fucking despises me, you know?”

An Oh, we know goes around the table. Noam nods, ignoring the teasing curl of Ames’ lips. He continues, “And I can’t fail my midterms. Not after everything.”

Dara studies his profile. Noam’s brows are scrunched up and his eyes glare into his pasta. Before even finishing chewing his mouthful, he shovels another equally large bite into his mouth, then scrubs the sauce away from his lips with a forceful swipe of the back of his hand. Dara’s heart softens.

He pushes up from the table. “Well, I don’t think we’re going to get much meaningful studying done tonight,” he stretches his arms above his head, then releases them with a sigh. “Work on your other subjects. We’ll pick this back up again tomorrow.”

Noam nods, muted by the food in his cheeks. Dara desperately tries not to think of chipmunks (For the longest time, Dara had begged Lehrer for a chipmunk, but apparently Wolf  already filled the pet quota. If he ever got that farm, Dara thought, he’d have chipmunk families in the trees). “I’m heading out for a walk.”

Dara reaches out a hand, only hesitating slightly before settling it into Noam’s (soft, soft) brown hair and ruffling. Then he turns around and begins walking away. Somehow, before Dara makes it out of the kitchen Noam manages to swallow enough of the food in his mouth to call after him, “Hey, aren’t you going to finish your dinner?”

Dara pauses. “No, I’m not hungry. Must be all the vexation from teaching you,” Dara waves a hand, dismissive. “You can eat my portion.”

Noam makes a pleased sound, and Dara turns around again. He ignores the press of Ames’ eyes on the back of his neck as he walks away. Dara had, after all, skipped lunch too, and his breakfast was a single apple. 

He wasn’t lying though. He really wasn’t hungry at all.

Outside, the wind bites against the exposed parts of Dara’s face, and he presses his face deeper into his scarf. Late October didn’t come to this part of America gently, but Dara likes the chill. He passes the pond in the courtyard, flashing a nearby security guard a smile.

Noam had come to him for tutoring help two days ago, grudgingly and scowling off to the side. Dara had raised a brow, letting him sweat for a few long seconds before agreeing. Noam grinned at him, a sight Dara’s heart had protested to.  

In the past month, Dara and Noam had finally gotten more comfortable with each other. Since their conversation in Leo’s pub after the protests, Dara had basically completely given up on trying to avoid Noam. Noam had, of course, taken to this development with fervor. Dara remembers how just recently, Noam had called him his friend while they were talking to each other. Dara had teased him about it, but a warmth had spread through his body at his words.

Though Dara is hesitant to label Noam the same way. Noam, after all, still knew nothing, and Dara isn’t nearly so liberal with his relationships.

As if on cue, Dara’s phone rings, Lehrer’s face on the screen. Dara stops walking, squeezing his eyes shut for one long moment before picking it up. “What do you want?”

“Is that any way to talk to your guardian, Dara?” Lehrer’s voice comes through the phone, smooth as stone.

Dara presses his lips against the retort at his teeth. He remains silent, blinking at the darkness past the edge of the streetlamp’s range. Eventually Lehrer sighs. “Can’t I just call to check up on you?”

“You can’t. Spit it out.”

Silence. Dara represses the familiar static of fear in his nerves, reminding himself that he is on campus and Lehrer is out of reach. But Lehrer must be in a good mood, because he doesn’t comment on Dara’s attitude. He just says, “There’s a dinner for the candidates and other high-ranking government officials next Friday. I expect you to be there.”

Of course. “What, can’t find any better arm candy?”

“Dara. Do not test my patience.”

Dara grits his teeth. “Yes, sir,” he says, sickly sweet. “I’ll mark it on my calendar.” 

“Good.”

How long has it been since Dara last saw Lehrer? Since the start of the school year—he’d come back to the penthouse once since their dinner. He hadn’t visited for Dara’s eighteenth birthday last week, but he had a glass of vintage, double-oak bourbon delivered to him. Dara had scratched at his slanted, elegant handwriting laying in bed that night. 

Before Dara can hang up, Lehrer speaks again. “Oh, that’s right. I’ve been meaning to ask, how is Noam Álvaro doing? Is he keeping up alright?”

Dara hates the twist of Noam’s name in his mouth, wants to drag his fingernails over Lehrer’s vocal chords like he did with his birthday card. “He’s doing fine,” he manages to grit out. “Now if you’re finished with your questions, I have business to attend to.”

A pause. “Alright. Goodnight. And don’t forget about the dinner.”

Dara hangs up. For a second, he just stands there under the streetlamp, hands clenched at his sides. Then he turns around and heads back to the dorms.

--

Noam doesn’t fail his midterms. Despite all his flaws, Swensson is a remarkably diligent teacher and has the grades posted by the end of the week, and Noam bursts into the common room and shoves his 87 into Dara’s face with a triumphant I told you!  

Dara, of course, takes most of the credit. 

At Ames’ suggestion, they go out to celebrate that Friday night (Dara’s reminder that they still have finals at the end of the semester gets ignored). Since Bethany can’t go out clubbing with them, more at Ames’ insistence than her own really, they decide on the Karaoke place fifteen minutes by car from the campus. It wasn’t the first time they had come here, but it was the first time since the school year started. The place is pretty nice, with a high enough price that Noam swallows audibly as they get led to their room.

Which leads to Dara’s current dilemma. He isn’t a bad singer, per se; Lehrer had him take violin lessons starting from a young age and so he has developed a good ear and pitch. No, as usual, his problem lies with Noam Álvaro. And the fact that he is, apparently, a great singer.

As he watches Noam power through a rock ballad, Dara wonders distantly how badly he must have sinned in his previous life.

After he finishes off with a long, held note, the room bursts into cheers. Noam comes back to the couch with a lightly red face and a wide grin that tells Dara this isn’t the first time he’s sang live in front of other people. “Damn boy, didn’t know you had such a bangin’ set of pipes on you!” Ames high fives him as he sits, one Ames away from Dara.

“Seriously bro, that was sick!” Taye slings an arm over his shoulder. “Where did you learn to sing like that, dude?”

Noam shrugs. “Didn’t really learn from anywhere.” Noam’s accent gets thicker when he’s embarrassed, a fact Dara had noted weeks before. “But my mom was always singing ‘round the house. Old Jewish hymns and whatnot. Guess I kinda take after her in that regard.”

Dara’s mind flashes over what he knows of Noam’s mother. Immigrant, undocumented, dead. Suicide, by hanging. He shakes away the thought. 

Bethany and Taye go up next, singing a duet with obnoxious and messy choreography. It’s made all the more terrible by the fact that Taye is tone deaf, and as they come back Ames and Noam tease him relentlessly about it. At some point, they’d gotten drinks, so Ames did her song slightly tipsy and only a bit less tone deaf than Taye. They continue on like that for a few hours, laughing at each other's bad singing and ordering snacks from the bar.

“Oh, hey!” Bethany calls out after returning from a trip to the bathroom. “Did you guys know they have instruments here?”

“Oh yeah, I heard that this karaoke bar had a room with a guitar or something,” Ames frowns at Taye. “Did you order this room on purpose?”

He shakes his head. “It was the only one open.”

“Huh.”

Bethany grins over at Noam, picking up a well worn acoustic guitar by its neck. Dara narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like where this is going. “Didn’t you say you can play?”

Noam grimaces. “Only a bit,” he says but it’s too late; Ames and Taye have already begun egging him on. 

And of course, Noam’s pride could never take backing out. He rolls his eyes, standing up from the couch with a sigh and taking the guitar from Bethany. Everyone breaks out in cheers. Noam catches Dara’s eye; Dara smirks and raises his drink up to take a sip. 

Noam walks over to the mic, slinging the strap of the guitar over his shoulder. “Uh, I don’t know too many songs on the guitar so I’ll just do whatever I can remember.”

Ames hollers. Noam starts strumming, his fingers clumsy at first and then slowly getting used to it again. He clears his throat, then begins singing into the mic. His voice is husky and steady, his accent disappearing into notes and tones. He has his eyes focused on the fretboard, only glancing up once in a while to cast a sweeping glance over the rest of them on the couch, lips quirking at Ames and Taye’s exaggerated arm waving.

Ames nudges him. “Hey, do you know what this song is?”

“We Must Be Killers,” Dara answers, eyes still focused on Noam’s performance. “Mikky Ekko.”

“Hm. Never heard of ‘em before.”

Dara shrugs one shoulder. It wasn’t exactly Ames’ style of music, and to be honest not exactly Dara’s either. But he likes this song. He likes it even better right now, in Noam’s voice and fumbling chords. 

Noam finishes with a final strum of the guitar, and Ames calls for an encore. No one else seems to want to sing anymore, content to eat the food they ordered and drink their alcohol on the couch. Noam only fights back for a minute before shaking his head with a half-smile, fingers finding another chord. 

Noam plays another three songs, all by The Velvet Underground. Taye complains once the third one starts, but Noam just shoots him a look. “Hey, I told you I only know a few songs.”

At the end of the song, Ames slumps back onto the couch, sliding down. “Noam, honey, I appreciate your gifts but please , no more Velvet Underground. We only have time for about one more song, can you—don’t you know anything else?”

He glares at her, mumbling something about how no one appreciates vintage bands anymore. He scrunches up his face in thought for a few moments before sending a weary look their way. “... There is maybe one more song I can play.”

“Great! Thank you!”

He looks uneasy for a second, as if he’s considering backing out and calling it a night. Then, reaching an internal conclusion, he presses his lips together and grips his guitar, starting to play. As the familiar notes wash over Dara, he realizes why Noam was so uncomfortable. 

It’s a love song. One Dara knows well.

“Halsey!” Ames cheers. “I love this song!”

Ames had been obsessed with “Finally // beautiful stranger” when it came out and had forced Dara to listen to it with her. For a solid week afterwards, whenever they hung out together she had the song blasting from the speakers or her earphones. 

Noam doesn’t even need to look at his hands to play this song. He stares off into the walls of the room, a complicated look in his eyes but a gentleness to his brows and cheekbones that makes Dara ache deep inside. His eyes find Dara’s face in the pause between verse and chorus, and Dara can see them soften.

A giddiness like warmth spreads through him. 

Noam finishes with the last “finally”, his hands still on the guitar for a moment before he walks to put it away. As they gather their things and file out the room, Bethany smiles and falls into step next to Noam. “That was beautiful,” she says.

He returns a small smile. “Thanks.”

Ames slams into his other side, swinging an arm around his shoulder. “Dude, that was, like, one of my favorite songs ever! I didn’t know you like Halsey.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a fan, but I do like some of her songs, yeah.”

They walk out the karaoke bar and into the cold night. Dara draws his coat tighter around himself. It’s almost eleven at night, and though it isn’t raining or snowing, the air outside attacks their exposed skin with fervor. 

After he finishes calling them a cab, Taye turns to Noam. “By the way, I didn’t know you could play the guitar,” he jabs him in the shoulder. “Did you learn that from the old ma too?”

“No,” Noam chuckles. “I… my ex-girlfriend was a musician. She taught me a few things.” His eyes drop to the ground, a small, sad smile on his lips. “She… she really liked that song. The last one.”

Suddenly, all the giddiness drains out of Dara’s body like helium escaping from a hole in a balloon.

“Oh, really? Cool, cool,” Taye nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Um… what’s her name? Your ex-girlfriend.”

Dara shoots Taye a look. Let it never be said that Taye could read the atmosphere with any nuance or delicacy. Apart from that, Dara wasn’t sure he could stomach Noam looking like that while thinking of a past love. He curses his own jealousy, telling himself how ridiculous he’s being right now. 

“Her name was Carly,” Noam says. 

Dara doesn’t miss the way he says “was”. Neither do any of the others, it seems. Even Taye. Bethany rests a hand on his elbow, but he waves away her concern with a shake of his head, and Dara suddenly feels like a horrible person. 

The cab comes, and they pile in. Dara sits next to Noam, wonders if he should say something. But Noam seems to already be back to normal, cracking jokes with Ames and teasing Taye, Bethany giggling from the front seat. Eventually, Dara relaxes too, and joins in on the conversation.

Chapter Text

Dara manages to escape Lehrer’s candidate social at eight thirty, making some excuse about a project he had to finish for his literature class. Lehrer had a car called for him, a perfectly charming smile on his face as he played out the kind-hearted young adoptive father for his colleagues and competitors. Dara had smiled back, his lips much tighter around his teeth.

After Dara got back to the dorms, he’d dragged Ames and Noam out to Pinwheel. Taye had opted to stay back because he actually had a literature project to do. Ames had left only two hours after beginning after suddenly remembering that she had the same project, cursing Taye for forgetting to remind her before she went out (They had a different AP Lit teacher than Dara, but weren’t in the same class together). 

Dara hadn’t missed the way Ames whispered to Noam, asking him to keep an eye on Dara for her. Said he had a tendency to lose himself, and that tonight was a bad night for him.

Dara would have to remember to drop a few words at her about that tomorrow morning. If he could remember through his inevitable hangover. Regardless, Noam stopped drinking after Ames told him that, which meant that he didn’t have the buzz to distract him from his self-consciousness and so he spent most of his time feeling sorely out of place. It wasn’t like his body language screams that or anything; the girls who hit on him sure didn’t notice his awkwardness or mind that he’s in jeans and a sweater which, although it’s the nicest thing Noam owns, is Goodwill scraps to anyone in Pinwheel.

But still, to Dara his discomfort is obvious. And it annoyed him. Even as tipsy as he is, Dara still can’t ignore Álvaro. Can’t ignore his conversation with the bartender, or him dancing with some girl, or his gaze prickling over Dara’s skin as he wraps his arms around another faceless man, pressing flirtations against their bottom lip. Though admittedly, that last one didn’t bother him too much.

Still, by midnight Dara’s irritation had mounted to such a degree that he no longer craved bodies to lose himself in, just some hard liquor. He ditches the latest of his men—he’d switched them out so frequently tonight he couldn’t recall any of their faces—and pushes through the dance floor to where Noam had his hands around the waist of a white-haired girl.

Dara waits for her to stop kissing him before grabbing Noam by the arm. “I’m leaving,” he says. “Are you coming?

“Yeah,” Noam breathes. 

Dara takes some satisfaction in the fact that he doesn’t even glance at the girl before going with him. Not much, though. Not enough to overwrite the black thing that had writhed in his chest when he saw her twirl a strand of Noam’s brown hair with her acrylic nails.

They take a cab to Leo’s pub, because Dara’s still way too sober to deal with the evening he’d had. As Dara leans against the bar after ordering Leo’s best bottle of whiskey, Leo raises a brow at Noam. Noam grimaces. He opens his mouth to answer, but closes it again at Dara’s flat stare.

It’s much busier than the other night, with exhausted college students celebrating the end of another week instead of bemoaning the start of it. Somehow, the small table in the back they’d sat at before is open; Dara drags Noam over to it. 

He pours out two glasses, sliding one to Noam. Noam stares at it for a moment before picking it up and taking a sip. His face tightens at the burn of it. Dara laughs. 

Noam flicks a bit of whiskey onto his face in retaliation. It’s such an Ames thing to do, Dara stops laughing. He remembers, suddenly, that Noam has been here two months already. It seems to him that it’s been longer, going from hating each other to drinking bad liquor at a tiny pub in the seedy part of town together.

What frightens Dara the most is that he can no longer imagine a life without Noam.

He frowns into his cup. Not like that in itself was too impressive; he couldn’t imagine a life without Ames either, or even to some extent Taye and Bethany. But, God, that had been after years. Not two months .

Noam sets his glass down. “So…” he he drags the word out, lips puckering around it. “How… was the dinner?”

Dara groans, tipping his up to the ceiling. “Shut up, Álvaro.”

Noam complies. Dara watches frustration and embarrassment battle on his face. Dara gets the distinct impression that Noam has a set of safety precautions in place when dealing with Dara, like their relationship is a choreography he hasn’t quite learned the steps to yet and his instructor loses patience too quickly. 

Dara pushes a hand through his hair. “It was fine,” he says. Noam looks up, surprised. Dara grimaces, “No, it wasn’t. It was shitty.”

Noam blinks, before a smile quirks up his lips. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

Dara narrows his eyes. Was it? He doesn’t make a habit of cussing, as a result of an upbringing with Lehrer, but he loses control of his tongue when he gets emotional. “Want me to say it again so you can get it in recording?” Dara smirks at Noam. 

Noam stares at him. “What,” Dara crosses his arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it really that spectacular to you? I’ll bring you to a circus next time, you wouldn’t be able to handle yourself.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Noam rolls his eyes. “And—no. Yeah? In a way it’s pretty damn spectacular. I mean you’re Dara Shirazi, always perfect and composed.”

Dara brings his glass to his lips, raising a brow at Noam. “Oh? Please, proceed with the compliments.”

“Clearly, though,” Noam sends a glance over him—his hickies, his drink, his disheveled hair. “That’s not true.”

Dara, you’re a fucking mess comes Ames’ voice in his head. His hand stills in the middle of tipping his glass back. He pours too much into his mouth, and when he swallows it burns a path down his throat. “Well,” he bites. “ That sure makes this whiskey taste sour.”

Noam had frozen the moment after the words left his mouth. He leans in now, eyes shifting over Dara’s face. “Dara, I didn’t—I don’t know why I said that. Sorry,” Noam’s hand scrubs at his scalp, his mouth pulled into a tight wince. “As I have made abundantly clear, I’m not very good at this.”

Dara considers the top of his bowed head, that soft brown hair. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not very good at what?” He asks, voice light again.

“Oh, you know,” Noam gestures at the air between them, blowing out a breath. “Conversations. Boundaries and shit like that.”

And doesn’t Dara know it. Noam could never leave well enough alone, always pushing until the ground had given away to cliffside below him, pushing still even then. What infuriates him is that Dara had started to believe that even without anything below his feet, Noam could still run onto open air.

“Well, I can’t say you’re an expert. Remind me how you got a girlfriend again?”

It’s Noam’s turn this time to tell him to shut up, but with a smile at his lips. They continue like that, trading barbs and laughter into the night, Noam working through his glass while Dara worked through the bottle. At half past one, when the bottle is emptied and their cheeks are rosy, Noam glances at his phone screen. 

“We should probably start heading back now. Or else we’re never going to get back to the dorms,” he says.

He stands from the chair, looking relieved when he doesn’t wobble. Dara, though, has no such luck, as well as much more alcohol in his system. He stumbles a bit, holding out a hand when Noam reaches out to stabilize him. “I’m fine. A~ll good.”

Noam looks about to disagree, but then his phone rings. He reaches into his pocket, brow furrowing. Dara catches the face of a light brown skinned boy before Noam cusses under his breath, sending an apologetic look Dara’s way. He lifts the phone to his ear, pressing his hand against his other one.

Noam spits out rapid-fire Spanish at whoever’s on the other side, clearly not pleased. Drunk Dara has no problem admitting how hot he found that. Then, past Noam, he spies a burly caucasian college student giving Noam a look as he speaks into his phone. Clearly inebriated, he leans across to his buddies at his table, saying something Dara can’t catch but makes them laugh and sneer at Noam.

Dara frowns. He thinks he knows where this is going.

As Noam finishes his phonecall, the man stands up, wobbling, and gets into Noam’s face. “Hey, you fuckin’—” he seems to scramble for something deragotory. “—fuckin’ illegal ,” he spits. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you. You speak English?”

Noam doesn’t deign him with a response. “Well, fucking learn it. Cause guess what? You’re in America,” he grins, yellow teeth flashing. “Or better yet, go back to yer own country. Huh?”

For one moment, Dara’s mind gains a sudden clarity as he realizes what he’s about to do. Then, his inner Ames voice tells him to fuck it. 

Dara punches the man in the face.

Dara’d been taking boxing lessons since he was young, so even tipsy he still knocks the guy into his buddies’ table behind him. For a long moment, no one does anything. Then the other fratboys rush to help their friend stumble to his feet, and Noam turns to gape at Dara. 

The guy finally makes it back up. A crowd gathers around them, screaming ‘ Fight!’ in true one a.m. at a pub fashion. But before anymore punches can be thrown, Leo appears between them. “All right, break it up,” he says. “Party’s over. And you,” he levels an icy look at the inebriated man. “Get the hell out of my bar.”

The asshole looks ready to get up into Leo’s face now, but his friends drag him away, mumbling sorries and whispers of “ex-military”. Leo turns to Dara and Noam. “You two better go too,” he says, giving them a small smile.

“Sorry,” Dara says, completely unapologetic.

Leo claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t be. Asshole deserved it. You two get home safe, you hear?”

Dara mumbles out a “Yeah, yeah” before grabbing a still reeling Noam by the wrist and leading him out the door. Out in the cold night air, Noam finally speaks. “Oh my god.”

Dara turns to him. “Yeah. Well.”

"Holy shit .” A grin spreads across Noam’s face, so wide Dara’s cheeks hurt for him. He’s looking at Dara like he’s peering through a telescope at the stars.

Dara turns away. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s head back.”

They decide to walk back. They’ve both got overcoats on, and Dara needs some fresh air. They amble along the sidewalk, pace unhurried, making small talk or just bathing in comfortable silence. Noam had always exuded an aura of heat, like he’s a furnace always boiling. But now, his temperature has died down into just a warmth, and Dara curls into it.

While walking, Noam’s shoulder knocks into Dara once. He has to resist the urge to knock back; maybe, like a game of table soccer, they would keep knocking all the way back to the dorms. Dara wonders how not all the men he’d kissed tonight could measure up to a single touch from Noam through four layers of cloth.

At this thought, he tips his head back, a small smile he barely notices resting on his lips. Dara feels Noam’s gaze catch on it, hitch. It’s a nice night, no clouds. Dara tells him this, pointing up to the sky. “You can see a few stars. You can even see Mars—look.”

Noam looks, following where his finger points. “You see it?”

“No. Where is it?”

“There, just above that church spire. It’s the reddish-looking one.”

Noam nods, but then his gaze drops back to Dara. Dara knows from the hood of his eyelids that Noam is thinking about kissing him. Dara’s hand drops, and he offers him another private smile. But Noam just turns away, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t know you like looking at the stars.”

Dara shrugs. “I think they’re fascinating. How, even as we look at them, they might already be dead. Gone,” he says. “I think… I might major in astronomy. Get a minor in Russian literature or something.”

Noam turns to him. “Not going into politics like Lehrer?”

“God no,” Dara’s nose scrunches in disgust. “How about you? I know you like your computers.”

“Yeah, I do. I would love to get a degree in computer science, of course, but…” It’s his turn to shrug now. “I also want to do something that’ll—that’ll make changes in the world, you know? Help people like me. That’s the whole reason I accepted Lehrer’s offer to go to Carolinia in the first place.”

Dara watches him for a moment, watches the way Noam’s jaw set and his eyes clear. He laughs quietly, shaking his head. Noam sends him a look. “What?”

“Nothing. Just—that was such a Noam answer.”

That was the first time Dara ever called Noam by his first name to his face. Dara watches a quiet surprise lift Noam’s brows, but he doesn’t comment on it. And, just like that, they’re back at the campus gate. 

When they walk through the doors of the dorm, it’s just past two. Somehow, both Taye and Ames are still up trying to finish their projects, and both Noam and Dara get roped into helping them. By the time Dara gets to his bed, it’s well into the wee hours of the morning. 

For once, he has no trouble falling asleep.

Chapter Text

Dara walks up to the squat brick building, a plaque on the front announcing it as the Migrant Center in faded letters. The door handle is old and worn, patches of its coating peeled away to reveal rust. Dara hesitates before grasping it, mind running through a hundred internal debates until he is eventually pressured enough by the stream of people walking towards the doors behind him to open it and step in.

The small lobby has been transformed into a makeshift cafeteria of sorts, one long table at the back of it covered in pots of food, manned by half a dozen volunteers scooping casserole onto metal trays. After receiving their meal, people either stand around and eat in the lobby, conversing with each other, or head out to do the same outside. 

Noam stands behind the table with the other volunteers, a ratty gray apron tied around his waist. He talks with a short, middle-aged woman besides him, looking up to offer smiles at the people he passes food to, or even occasionally crack jokes. Dara leans against the wall by the entrance and watches him.

Dara doesn’t know why he’s here. No—he does know, but he’s not sure why he went through with it. Dara and Noam had an argument two days before; not the sort that would push silence between them (Dara and Noam fight often, but almost never let them linger in their interactions), but the sort that sticks in Dara’s mind. 

Noam had told him, jagged teeth biting away all politeness or boundary, You are so fucking privileged, Dara, it makes me fucking sick.

Dara had felt sick after he said that, felt sick now thinking about it. They’d been talking about Lehrer, because of course they were, because what else could tear away at Dara’s life like that than Calix Lehrer. Dara had said something back, breath boiling but winded. Had almost told him about how Lehrer held his head underwater in the sink until he almost passed out, again and again, his hands gripped in his hair like they were when he was fifteen staring at the ceiling of his bedroom and Lehrer told him he wanted it.

And, for so long, he’d believed him.

But he didn’t tell Noam any of this, just choked something out that turned Noam’s anger into confusion. And now he’s here, in a part of town Taye would call dangerous, feeling as out of place as Noam must’ve that night at Pinwheel. Or maybe every night, and every day, sitting in class with people whose families could buy his whole neighborhood without blinking.

Dara never considered himself privileged —you don’t call kids whose fathers fuck them privileged. But the price of his clothes alone could probably pay rent for everyone in line. They were all dressed in scrapped together styles, like Noam does, winter coats scavenged from thrift stores and lost-and-founds. And they were skinny, too, some of them painfully so. At least when Dara starves, it’s by choice.

The woman Noam’s talking to notices him. She nudges Noam, a sly grin on her face, and Noam looks at Dara with shock written all over his face. Dara lifts a hand up at him, then walks out the building.

Outside, he considers just leaving. But there are no cabs nearby for him to hail, and calling one would take too long; Noam would catch him by then. So he just leans against the wall again, pulling out a pack of cigarettes that he frowns at before stuffing back into his pocket. Noam comes rushing out not a minute later. 

“Hey,” he says, looking like he has much much more to say. 

He jerks his thumb at the center, mouths forming over a word. Dara pushes off the wall, offering him a smile. “You have anything scheduled for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Yeah. I have a shift at the corner store in…” He checks his phone. “... seventeen minutes.”

“Great. I’ll walk you there.”

Noam gives him a strange look, like seeing Dara in the Migrant Center had already set him off-kilter and he’s not sure seeing him at his job is going to be something he can handle. Dara knows the feeling; this is a part of Noam’s life completely alien to Dara. Untouchable.

Eventually, Noam nods and they set off. “So,” he says. “What were you doing there?” 

They haven’t been walking for thirty seconds yet. Dara presses his mouth into a thin line, looking away while he considers his answer, how to phrase it. “Well,” he starts, glancing at Noam. “I was thinking about what you said the other day, about me being privileged. I wanted to see if you were right.”

“And was I?”

Dara’s lips twist into a wry smile. “I—yes. Yes, you’re right.” His admittance surprises both Noam and himself. But he doesn’t want to fight, and he doesn’t know how to explain this without revealing too much. “In all the ways you are concerned about, I am privileged. Are you happy now?”

Dara smiles at him. Noam chews his lip in thought, and this time Dara lets his eyes brush against them. “Then in what ways are you not?”

Dara sighs, thinking that of course he could never just take what Dara offered him. As if he’s unaware of how little Dara offers anyone else, how even Ames can only drag real smiles out of him once in a blue moon. Dara shakes his head, pushing his fingers through his curls, and doesn’t say anymore.

They make it to the corner store with five minutes to spare before Noam’s shift. Dara waves him off at the door, peering in at the cramped shelves and handwritten price tags only for a moment before heading down the street. He makes it about half a block before Noam catches up with him again.

“Don’t you have a shift?” Dara asks.

“My boss said he’s closing up early today,” Noam says, catching his breath. “Family issues came up.”

Dara’s not sure if he manages to completely hide his pleasure.

They walk together through quiet streets. Noam is strangely nervous; Dara knows it’s because they’re strolling through the place Noam lived in before he came to Carolinia Academy, the place closest to Noam’s heart and his fire. 

Dara surveys the place: decrepit buildings, graffiti everywhere, and no space to breathe between establishments. It’s sure a far cry from the penthouses and politician’s mansions Dara grew up with, and once again Noam’s words from before ring in his head.

Noam’s anxiety spikes when they reach an intersection, one like any other they’ve crossed. Noam stops walking, his eyes staring down the street to his left. He turns back to Dara, his (beautiful, beautiful) brown eyes searing a hole into Dara’s. He searches for a moment, lips and jaw tense, then he jerks his head towards the road and says, “Come on.”

Only when Dara is standing before a narrow apartment building, resembling more a tenement than anything, he recognizes from that file does he realize the full weight of Noam’s gaze. “Oh,” he says, voice small.

“Yeah,” Noam says, equally quiet. “This is my old apartment.”

Dara nods, unable to speak. He stares at the crumbling stone, imagining a younger Noam moving into it, his excited shouting in his southern accent, a younger Noam donning his protest gear and marching out the front door, homemade sign in hand. 

When the silence stretches on, Dara is the first to break it. “Do you want to go in?”

A shake of the head. “Most of the rooms already belong to different people.”

Silence again. Dara stares up at the building again, waiting for Noam to speak or tell him to get away, that he doesn’t belong anywhere near Noam’s memories. When he finally does say something, it’s not what Dara expects.

“Carly, my ex-girlfriend, and I used to go up onto the roof all the time,” he says, eyes on the roof but looking through it, at another time. “She taught me how to play the guitar there. We’d drink moonshine, she’d criticize my fingering, and then ask me to sing for her.”

Dara swallows with a great difficulty. Noam’s eyes drop from the roof, scaling down the building until they rest on the ground in front of him. “Carly didn’t die in the epidemic,” he says, then finally turns to Dara.

Dara is surprised to see that intensity once more, Noam’s eyes turned to amber. “She died of a different disease in Mexico, after she was deported.”

Dara’s mouth goes dry, a sensation like getting socked in the ribs ripping through him. Once again, like when they went out for karaoke, Dara feels like a horrible person—no, he knows he is one. Knows Noam would hate him if he could see everything in Dara’s head. 

“Noam,” he whispers.

He puts his hand on Noam’s shoulder and rubs at it, not sure what to do or say or if he should do or say anything. He is so afraid, in that moment, of Noam and this street of bittersweet memories. Of himself, his own aching which had awoken not before bottles of booze, pills, or Lehrer’s ice eyes, but for the boy standing in front of him.

--

Dara stands in the shower that evening, the water a handful of degrees away from burning him. He watches his skin turn slightly red, like he’s blushing all over, under the force of the spigot. The showers in the dorms are very clean, kept up meticulously by the janitorial staff. Dara remembers nights slumped in the stalls, head in his hair and biting screams into his skin, trying to remember how to breathe. Nights drunk and waking up in the shower, water already cold, convinced he was back at Lehrer’s apartment.

Tonight, he just stares at his skin, wondering how long it’s been since his bruises faded. Tonight, he is spotless like the shower stall; he doesn’t think he is too thin or too fat, nor does he choke on his alcoholic breath. He doesn’t look at himself and see wreckage. He doesn’t feel the need to wreck.

He has days like this sometimes. Days when his shower thoughts don’t bring him to his own shortcomings, and instead he thinks of constellations and the millions of tiny impossibilities forming his life. One of which is sitting in the common room down the hall, talking with three other of Dara’s impossibilities.

Dara’s mind wanders over to their conversation earlier today—no, his mind has been circling around it since it happened, picking apart every word and every look. He had known, the way you just know deep down, that is a memory he’ll carry with him crystallized until he dies. He knew, too, that he is in love with Noam Álvaro.

It was a simple realization. While they were walking back, Dara had taken a glance at Noam’s face and Noam had smiled back at him, his tree bark eyes crinkling, and somewhere in his heart the words I love you had formed and risen to his mind. 

It was nothing shocking; no epiphany or Eureka. Dara had known for a while, but had chosen not to think of it until the words had printed themselves in his bones. In hindsight, Dara would almost say this had been inevitable. Not from the moment they met, or the moment Dara opened his file, but from sometime in those initial weeks of antagonism (and wasn’t that characteristic of him? Violent, even or especially in love).

With months of maturity between then and now, Dara can safely say that it wasn’t his idolization of Lehrer or some other inexplicable reason that Dara hated him, but because Noam is a planet with a gravity none of Dara’s stars ever really had a chance of resisting.

Dara finishes his shower, drying himself and putting on pajamas. He walks into the dorm room with a towel slung over his shoulder, pausing when he finds Ames lounging in his bed. “Hey,” he says, stuffing his towel into his cabinet.

Ames nods at him, shutting off her phone. “Hey.”

Dara settles in next to her, Ames scooting to accommodate. Then he just waits; Ames doesn’t come into the guy’s room often, usually only when she wants to talk to Dara about something private and nowhere else is free. Dara reaches over to turn his bedside lamp on.

“So,” she starts. “Bethany just came out to us. She’s a lesbian.”

“Oh?” Dara responds. “It was about time.”

She turns to him. “You knew? Never mind, of course you knew.”

She rolls her eyes at him. Dara shrugs, smiling. Dara knew Bethany was gay since before she knew she’s gay; he also knows she’s had a monster crush on Ames since she was thirteen. But if she’s not saying it first, then Dara feels no need to tell Ames for her.

Silence once more. Ames doesn’t offer anything else on the subject, just nodding once after and staring blankly at her hands. She doesn’t leave, though, which tells Dara she still has more to say. 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Noam lately,” she eventually says, turning to look at him again.

Dara resists the urge to sigh. He knows from the tone of her voice what conversation they’re going to have, one that has been brewing since Labor Day and their conversation on her bed. “Yes, I suppose so. Why, are you jealous?” He grins at her.

“You like him.”

This time, there is no need to specify what sort of like they’re talking about. It’s Dara’s turn to be silent now.

“You really like him,” Ames continues. “And for a while now, too.”

Dara lets his eyes drift over her face, the furrow of her brows, the brightness of her eyes. Slowly, he nods. “Yeah.”

Ames spends a moment studying him, before flopping back against the headboard and putting her hands behind her head. “That’s great,” she grins at him, nudging him with her foot. “Seriously. I know you never thought you’d—this is really good, Dara. I’m happy for you.”

Dara knows what she was about to say. He’d told her before, fifteen years old after the second or third time Lehrer came onto him, sixth or seventh for General Ames, that he wasn’t ever going to love anyone in his life. That he wasn’t capable of it.

Ames chews her lip, clearly thinking about the same memory. “You know that he likes you too, right? Like, a lot .”

Dara nods. “Yeah.”

“So what are you waiting for?” she asks, then when he doesn’t say anything she presses on. “He’s not—whatever you’re afraid of, he’s not going to be like the others. You know him. Way too overzealous, never does anything by halves. If he likes you, I can’t see him letting you go without a fight.”

Dara nods again. “Yeah,” he says, biting his lip.

“And if he ever hurt you, you know I’d beat his ass. He doesn’t stand a chance against me—you know that, he knows that, Calix fucking Lehrer knows that.”

“Yeah.”

Ames sits up from her slumped posture, leaning into Dara’s space until he has to look back up at her. “Then what’s holding you back?”

Dara spends another moment just looking into her eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it. He knows that usually in situations like this when he’s being questioned, he can think of a thousand different ways to avoid the conversation and defer it back to something he’s comfortable with. But now, staring at his best friend (and no longer his only friend), blanket clenched in his hands, his mind blanks. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I’m just scared.”

For once, he doesn’t lie.

Chapter Text

November passes by with nothing out of the ordinary happening after that day. Dara, Ames, and Taye still go out to Raleigh on the weekends, Noam opting not to join them more often than not. Thanksgiving break gives them a week off school, but both Bethany and Dara decide to stay back with Noam in the dorms. Bethany because she is, once again, a nice person and a good friend, and because she doesn’t have the best relationship with her mother. Dara, for obvious reasons.

December finds them with harsh breaths and first snow. As final exams approach and college application deadlines stir up the seniors into caffeine-induced frenzies, the students of Carolinia Academy find their fourth periods replaced with a speech from a guest speaker one day. 

Dara sits next to Ames in the back of the auditorium watching her father on stage, preaching about honor and diligence and bright futures. Ames isn’t trying very hard not to fall asleep, nodding off only to jerk back up when Dara nudges her. Dara and Ames have the same fourth period, and while he’s glad to miss a class of Ms. Howard’s sharp glances, he can’t say he’s thrilled to be here either.

At least General Ames hasn’t looked at him once yet. Though Dara is not so foolish as to think he won’t try anything later on; his job tended to get to him around this time of year, and Dara is the perfect stress relief. He bites back the bitterness at that thought, swallowing it down into a throbbing low in his throat.

And sure enough, General Ames texted him at the end of their lunch break a short message that read ‘meet me after school. outside the hat shop past the west gate.’ Dara’s hand clenches briefly around his phone. He almost texts back ‘maybe you should take your only daughter out to lunch instead of calling up your boytoy’, but he doesn’t. Ames wouldn’t go even if her father did ask her, anyways.

Dara’s fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure which response he’s supposed to type out. It irks him how the General hadn’t even asked, he’d just sent an order and expected Dara to follow like a good soldier. But that’s how it’s always been between them; they weren’t lovers or anything close to that, just a dirty little secret. An indulgence.

Noam laughs at something Taye said across their table in the canteen, and Dara’s irritation suddenly flares. What’s he hesitating for? Usually, he wouldn’t even question it before sending back his okay. It’s just sex, after all. And Dara has a lot of that.

Or, he used to at least. Lately, it’s been getting harder and harder to become attracted and stay attracted to someone long enough to stumble into a club bathroom, let alone go back to their place. He keeps comparing them to Noam and finding them lacking, keeps wondering if Noam’s still awake back at the dorms while another man’s mouth sucks into his skin. Keeps wondering what his face would look like if he saw hickies on Dara’s neck. 

At some point, making him jealous stopped being fun. And, what the heck is up with that? He’s Dara Shirazi , who half the straight boys in the school have fantasized about fucking, who could get into any club anywhere with just a flash of a smile and a wink. Plus, he’s not even dating Noam. So what did it matter?

Dara remembers, suddenly, something Ames said to him a few days ago. You look at him like other people look at you. Dara had thought that was wrong; other people are never in love with him, just interested in his face and his body. And he’s fine with that. He’s still fine with that.

Dara types out a response to General Ames, then sets his phone down.

--

After school, Dara makes some excuse to Ames before slipping out the dorm, flashing the guard at the west gate a tight smile. Like promised, General Ames sits in the driver’s seat of a black BMW parked in front of the hat store. Dara raps against the passenger side window, and he looks up from his phone, smiling at Dara before unlocking the door. 

Dara slips in, barely managing to close the door and sit down before the general’s lips are on his, rough hand grasping his jaw. Dara lets him for just long enough to confirm that there’s no nausea rising up from his touch. Then he pushes him away. “What, can’t even wait until we get to your house?” He smiles coyly.

General Ames huffs a laugh, but he leans back and starts the car. “Can you blame me? It’s been a while, Dara.”

He drives them back to his mansion, which only takes about fifteen minutes. Dara looks up at the top of the familiar doorway as he walks in, then General Ames’ hand is on his shoulder and Dara’s back is against the door. His lips are rough. Dara had always found that pleasant, like a marker of his maturity and experience. Now, they just annoy him. 

Dara pushes him away, only to lean in and whisper “Bedroom” against his ear, and soon they are up the stairs and in General Ames’ room, all tidy and organized, the only decorations military paraphernalia. After sex, once, Dara had taken one of the framed photographs of a younger General Ames with his army buddies and asked him for the story behind it. They’d gone around the entire room, to every picture, talking about every moment captured there.

It was in those moments that Dara thought he was so much closer to a father than Lehrer is. And then he feels terrible, because fathers don’t fuck their sons, and General Ames has an actual daughter he doesn’t treat as well as he does Dara.

The backs of Dara’s knees hit the bed just a bit too harshly. Then he’s on the bed, staring past General Ames’ shoulder to the ceiling above. Unbidden, his mind flashes to the stars on Ames’ bedroom ceiling. You’ll always be safe with me . Then he thinks of the stars on his own ceiling, how when he put them up he’d had to stack a chair on his mattress, wobbling on his small toes. When he’d taken them off, he hadn’t needed the chair, but he was still wobbling until he could barely peel them off for how hard his fingers were shaking. 

Like clockwork, Lehrer’s voice is in his mind calling him a fucking whore . Dara closes his eyes, sucks in a breath as General Ames trails his lips down his chest, shirt unbuttoned. Then again, the words fucking whore echo in his mind. But this time, it’s Noam’s voice.

Dara’s eyes snap open. Suddenly he is cold down to his bones, frost coating his skin though he’s pressed between a body and a bed. His mind buzzes like a thousand dragonflies are beating their wings inside his skull, and his mind replays every image of Noam’s face he’d stored away. The protest. Karaoke. Noam’s apartment building. Thanksgiving break, when Noam had tried to cook pasta and though it ended up slightly burnt, for once Dara could swallow more than just a few bites.

And— fuck . What the hell is he trying to prove?

Dara presses his hands against General Ames’ chest. “Stop,” he says. When Ames doesn’t, he says again but louder, “Stop!” and pushes against his chest.

The general finally relents, sitting back as Dara sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Dara?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

You. This. Me, me, me . “I just—headache. Must be all the stress from applications. Do you—you have aspirin in the downstairs bathroom right? I’ll just go take some.”

He’s out the door before General Ames can make another sound, stuffing his feet into his shoes and dashing down the stairs. He takes a side exit, only remembering to button up his shirt after he’s already fled halfway down the block. He hails the first cab he sees, breathing heavily as he tells the taxi driver the address for the dorms. 

He only relaxes when he’s back inside Carolinia’s gates and he’s sure General Ames hasn’t followed him. He doesn’t even glance at the texts bursting up his phone before silencing it. Taking a deep breath, he checks his shirt again, fixes up his hair in his phone’s camera until he’s sure he looks unruffled, no evidence of what he’d cut off on his body.

Dara walks into the dorm building, heartbeat already returned to normal as he’s heading down the hallway to his suite. He slows when he spots Noam in front of it, pacing back and forth. 

At first there’s relief, then a clenching in his gut that tells him something bad is about to happen. “Noam?” he says, Noam’s head snapping up to him. “What are you doing out here?”

“Dara,” Noam breathes out, a complicated mess of expressions flooding over his face. He seems to steel himself, swallowing and drawing his posture up. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Dara swallows. His mind immediately flashes to General Ames, but he couldn’t have seen them. Right? He’s unsure now, staring at Noam’s twisted brows and feeling his stomach drop out below him. “Okay,” he says, though every part of him screams to run away. “Let’s go to the courtyard.”

The walk out is silent. It’s late afternoon and the sun has begun to dip below the tops of the tallest trees, a viscous yellow-orange dappling the cobblestone paths. Dara and Noam settle on a park bench in front of the pond, the tree standing besides it completely bare of leaves. Dara realizes that he’d left his coat back at General Ames’ mansion, and he only has his shirt against the cold. 

Wordlessly, Noam takes his off and hands it to him. Dara’s heart leaps into his throat. On any other occasion, he wouldn’t accept it, would scowl at him with a barb on his tongue. Now, his snappishness just seems out of place; Dara takes the coat and wraps himself in it. It’s old, and too big, but it’s the warmest thing Dara’s ever worn.

“So? What did you want to talk about?” 

Noam’s eyes are on him, but Dara pointedly doesn’t look at him. He keeps his gaze on the trunk of the bare tree, expression neutral. “I…” He sighs, fists in his lap. “I don’t know how to put this in an appropriate way, so I’m just gonna come out and say it. I was walking in the streets outside the west gate after school to… to pick up a book from the Owlery. I saw you and General Ames in the car together.”

Dara wishes his gut wasn’t always so damn accurate. The silence that follows is thick, Dara’s eyes frozen in grooves of tree bark, Noam’s on his profile.  

“Dara, are you listening? I saw you two kiss. I know…” He trails off. “Dara,” he says again, voice soft. “What’s going on between you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Dara’s surprised at how even his voice sounds. How flat .

“We don’t have to talk about it much,” Noam hurries to say. “But…. please . Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” he snaps. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Noam’s sharp intake of breath. Dara grits his teeth, forcing himself not to turn to him. “We’re not lovers, if that’s what you’re asking.” It’s not. They both know it’s not. “We’re just fuck buddies. That’s all.”

“Dara…” he says, in that damn soft tone again. “How long has this been going on?”

Dara doesn’t answer.

“A while? Months? Years? ”

Dara sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, shaking his head dully. “You can never leave anything alone, can you?” 

Noam doesn’t respond to that, doesn’t say anything at all for a while, seeming like he’s trying to grasp at words in the air with his tongue as a fishing line. “Have you… told anyone?” he finally gets together. “At the very least, you have to tell Lehrer.”

And, of course, that’s the final straw. Dara turns to him, eyes bright with fury. “Tell him what exactly? That I fucked his friend? Lehrer wouldn’t care . He’d say, ‘I should have known you’d throw yourself at him eventually’ and laugh.” Dara has his entire body shifted to him at this point. “It’s always about Lehrer with you. Always running your mouth when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Noam swallows, eyes wide and hurt and Dara feels in equal parts vindictive and horrible. “Then why don’t you tell me?” Noam says, tone rising. “Why don’t you ever tell anyone anything? He raped you, Dara.”

Dara recoils from that word like it’s lava. Heat rises to his cheeks. “No. He didn’t.”

“If this has been going on for so long, then it can’t have been consensual.”

Sometimes Dara forgets how observant Noam is. Of course he’d know it had been years just from Dara’s reaction. “Well, it was, okay? I liked it. I loved it,” he says, viciousness bubbling onto the surface of his skin. “And I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit with your stiff moral code, your sense of justice, but that’s just how it is.”

Dara had designed the words to hurt, and hurt they did. Noam’s face, always so open to Dara, fills over with pain and shock. Dara’s lip curls. He thinks it’s deserved—just a fraction of the pain Noam had caused Dara in the past months. Then he’s disgusted by himself.

Dara stands up abruptly, turning away to leave in the opposite direction of the dorms. “Dara—” Noam fingers close around his wrist and Dara jerks, slapping his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he hisses. “For once in your goddamn life, mind your own fucking business, Álvaro.”

He turns back around and walks briskly down the path and Noam doesn’t follow him. Dara seethes. Seethes, because what right did he think he had, butting into Dara’s life and acting like he has a say in Dara’s actions? What right, when he knows nothing, when General Ames is the least of his worries but he acts like this is the reason Dara’s so fucked up. 

The word ‘rape’ had sounded so lethal in Noam’s voice. Dara almost wants to laugh. If he thinks what General Ames did was rape, then he’d never be able to stomach it if Dara told him what his hero did.

Dara walks for a long time, the sun setting and the streetlamps flickering on by the time he’s cooled down enough from his anger to start feeling like shit. Noam doesn’t know. And though Dara feels Noam’s ignorance like a knife against his organs sometimes, he feels Noam’s hurt, the stricken look in his eyes, like a disease burning up his body. 

And what did that say about Dara, that for a few moments he’d been victorious in Noam’s suffering, had wanted to see him bruise so that he’d look like Dara, so that maybe he’d start to understand. 

He needs a drink—he needs to run out of campus, fuck the fact that it’s a school night, and head to Leo’s pub where he can drown himself in cheap liquor and Leo’s patience. But then thinking of Leo’s pub makes him think of Noam in Leo’s pub with him, that table where they’d drank together, Noam’s eyes as he said “Holy shit ” that night, all the celestial bodies Dara could name held in his gaze.

Fuck . Is there nothing left in his life that he doesn’t immediately relate to Noam?

Dara finds himself at the back of the school heading to the back gate, fully intending on making good on his urge for alcohol, when he looks down and sees Noam’s coat still on him. It’s Noam’s favorite one, a red and black varsity jacket that he hasn’t taken off since fall began. Dara had stared at it, studied it until he'd memorized the way it creased, the exact pigment of the cloth. It’s such a familiar sight that lately, Dara had began to see it as synonymous with the word home .

Dara’s shaking, he realizes. Badly. He slumps against a nearby wall, sliding down with his head bent between his knees and his fingers in his hair. He tries to breathe, but his breath comes out in short gasps ringing in the empty night. He pulls the collar of the jacket up and buries his face in it, stifling on its warmth, wanting to choke himself within it.

And then, suddenly, he stops shaking. He holds his face against the cloth of the jacket a bit more, breathing in Noam’s scent and letting it wrap around him like the coat. Dara stands up, dusts off the seat of his uniform pants, and starts on the path back to the dorm.

When he opens the door to the suite, only Ames glances up at him, the lights dim as they watch a movie. “Hey, where were you—” She notices his jacket, face breaking out into a sly grin. “He’s in the boy’s room.”

He doesn’t even nod to her, completely ignoring her waggling brows, before marching down the hallway and into the boy’s room. He swings the door open, letting it slam shut behind him as he walks until he’s right in front of Noam. Noam stands up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, his face filling with confusion and worry and hope , his voice breaking over Dara’s name, and—

And that was it, really.

Dara reaches up, grasping Noam’s face between his hands and pulling him down to his lips. He crushes their mouths together furiously, Noam’s hands floundering before finding Dara’s waist. And then they were wrapped around him, pulling with as much strength as Dara. “Wait,” Noam gasps, sending a shiver down Dara’s spine. “Dara, this—”

“I didn’t fuck General Ames,” he says before planting another kiss on his mouth. “Today. I didn’t. I couldn’t .”

“What? Dara, what do you—”

“What do I mean?” Dara laughs against his lips. “I mean you are such an asshole, Álvaro, and you don’t even know it.”

Noam sends him a very, very confused look at that, but Dara just laughs and kisses him. Dara’s sure Noam’s suffering from whiplash and he wants an explanation, but right now he wants nothing more but to (finally, finally) let out all the feelings he’s been boiling in for ages.

Dara pushes Noam back against the bed and moves over him, kissing up his neck and at his jaw. “Wait, wait,” Noam says again, and Dara almost groans in frustration. “Before—before we do anything else, I just. I need you to know that I’m not just gonna, gonna—”

“I know.”

“—fuck you and then leave you, like all the others, because—”

“I know .”

“I like you. A lot. And I want this to mean something for you—”

“ Noam. ”

Dara has an exasperated grin on his face, sitting up enough to knead his hands into Noam’s shoulders. Noam shuts up, a blush flushing his face and a heady look in his eyes that Dara eats up. 

This time, when they kiss again, it’s Noam’s hands on his face pulling him down.

Chapter Text

Afterwards, as they lie in Noam’s twin size bed, Dara suggests that they go out and join the others before Taye gets back and sees them here. Noam buries his face into Dara’s neck and groans, arms clenching tighter around Dara’s torso. Dara chuckles, threading his fingers into Noam’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

Noam lifts his head up, squinting at Dara’s face before breaking out into a broad grin. And—of course—they end up kissing again. After about a minute, Dara breaks away and rests his forehead against Noam’s. “You are so bad for my self control,” he whispers.

“You? Have self control?”

Dara’s hands still while cording through Noam’s hair. Noam gulps, “Shit, I’m sorry I didn’t, um—”

“Think that one through?” Dara supplies, raising a brow. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Dara presses another kiss between Noam’s brow when his guilt only seems to intensify. “It’s alright,” he says, gentler. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

Though, Dara’s sure that this topic would come up again. Noam, as always, wouldn’t be able to leave it alone and Dara’s always been somewhere on his list of broken things to fix. Now, he’s just been bumped higher. 

“Come on,” Dara says. “We should get up now.”

They manage to roll out of bed this time, throwing on clothes and helping each other fix themselves up until they look at least halfway presentable. Dara tries not to think of how this is the second time he’s had to do this today, and honestly it’s not that hard to forget when Noam’s not even bothering to hide his stares anymore. 

Dara bites his lip against a smile, furrowing his brows to at least try to disguise his glee. “Wipe that dopey look off your face,” he says, Noam rolling his eyes. “Or else everyone’s going to know what just happened.”

Noam’s face gets contemplative. “Would that be a bad thing?” he asks. “Or… something that you’re not comfortable with?”

Dara knows what he’s really asking, a scared and half-hopeful what are we now? hidden badly in his eyes. Dara reaches over to the bed, picking up Noam’s jacket. As he slides his arms into the sleeves, he says, “No. Not really.”

Noam smiles. Dara turns away before he can see his face heat up.

After they get settled into the couch with the rest of them, Ames looks over at Dara and grins, holding a thumbs up out to him. Embarrassed, Dara shoves her and she falls over on the beanbag, cackling. 

Dara spends the next week light as dust in a shaft of sunlight. Of course, though they went through the effort of fixing themselves up after that first time, it was still obvious to everyone what happened. Besides a few suggestive glances from Taye and a warm thumbs up (Dara wonders where she got that from), they don’t confront them about it.

And, true to word, Dara does nothing to hide their relationship. He’s always been pretty fond of PDA, and though he’s not disgusting about it Ames will still fake gag every time she spots a lingering look or an obvious touch. At the end of the first week, a few rumors have already popped up about their involvement around the gossip circles of the school.

Dara doesn’t see Noam much during the school day though, so mostly the rumors go ignored. It sounds impossible to them, both that Dara Shirazi, Lehrer’s son, would date someone from such a ‘lowly’ class background, and that Dara Shirazi would date at all. Noam seems not to notice the rumors, or if he does he ignores them. He’s already used to being gossip fodder, probably.

Not that Dara isn’t. And certainly, there’s a part of him that wants to give them something to talk about, to tell all the girls and boys who eye Noam up with some Cinderella fantasy in mind to back off. But, for the first week at least, all he does is enjoy the honeymoon phase.

Of course, nothing is as easy as that when it comes to them. 

Their first fight is exactly seven days after their first time, in the boy’s dorm too but on Dara’s side of the room. It wasn’t even about Lehrer this time—Dara’s not entirely sure what it was about in the beginning, but somehow it developed in a way that dragged the words “You’re not exactly a relationship person, Dara” from Noam’s lips. 

Which pissed Dara off, maybe more than anyone watching would think warranted. It’s true, after all. Dara had never been a relationship person, had never been ashamed of the fact that he wasn’t. What irked him was the implication behind Noam’s words, that he was unsure of how invested Dara was in this, in them , when Dara had wrestled and wrangled with himself before giving in to his own feelings, when the want to be with Noam had turned into practically a need. When Dara was sure he wouldn’t even blink before killing for him.

Dara isn’t a relationship person. So, can’t Noam see how much this has to mean to him, when he’s willing to try despite it all?

But, okay, that much is fine. That much is still very much Noam Álvaro , a regular spat between the two. No, what made it so much worse was when Noam had brought up General Ames. Because of course, the longest time Noam ever went without addressing an issue he thought important is one week. Maybe Dara should count himself lucky he waited this long at all.

As it stands, though, Dara had stormed out. He’d gone to Leo’s pub, looking like such a mess that Leo had wordlessly handed him a glass of his usual and spent the rest of the night at Dara’s corner of the bar, listening to him rant. Dara had downed the first drink, and then the second, and then—and then he’d stopped, because there was Álvaro’s voice in his head again reminding him of how little self control he had. 

Without the alcohol, it had taken Dara the whole night to cool down, only leaving the pub when Leo closed, then walking back to campus stone-cold sober and searching the sky for Mars. He couldn’t find it. 

Noam was still up when Dara had gotten back, sometime around four in the morning. He was sitting up in his bed, on his laptop which he shut as soon as Dara opened the door. He tried to say something, an apology probably. Dara gave him a weak half-smile, though maybe it turned out more of a grimace, and shook his head.

Dara shucked off his coat, his jeans and socks, then got into the bed next to Noam, raising a finger to his lips when he tried to talk again. He might not be mad, but he still wasn’t ready to deal with him yet. And then he’d rolled over and fallen asleep.

Dara wakes first, at seven thirty in the morning. Noam, who’d stopped studying so late into the night, is no longer as used to running on three hours of sleep and so didn’t wake when Dara got out of bed. He wakes up an hour later, walking into the common room in weekend attire: sweats and a faded tee. 

Dara is sitting on the sofa, half watching the news while scrolling through his phone. When Noam comes towards him, Dara hands him a cup of coffee—an olive branch. Noam settles in next to him, neither speaking. Bethany and Ames come out of their room, chatting, before spotting them on the couch and quickly scurrying into the kitchen.

Finally, Noam opens his mouth. But he doesn’t get a chance to speak.

On the TV, a female news anchor’s voice announces: “... Tom Brennan, head of the Migrant Center and advocate for immigrant rights was found dead in his office at precisely 5:28 A.M. with a bullet wound in his head. Police suspect it was the work of anti-immigrant…”

Dara freezes into his seat. Everything in the world turns to static as he turns to look at Noam, whose eyes are wide and staring at the television screen. He has a look of pure shock on his face, slowly morphing into horror, and Dara wonders how it’s possible to hurt this much for another person. 

“Noam?” he says, reaching out a hand to Noam’s arm.

But before he can touch him, Noam stands up, muttering a “I have to go” before running out the front door, still in his sweats and t-shirt. Dara stares after him, hand hanging in the air before flopping back down. 

He doesn’t know what he should do. Does he run after him? Does he give him space, to grieve for himself and with the people who can grieve too? Yeah, that…. that sounds right. Dara doesn’t even know Brennan, only through the information on Noam’s file and what scant stories Noam has told him. This is about Noam’s outside life, after all. Dara had no place there.

Dara knows all this. And yet.

And yet there’s a part of him that’s screaming, that hasn’t stopped screaming since the news anchor first spoke those damning words. He wants to take the world, Noam and Lehrer’s God, in his hands and shake, ask them why they must keep hurting the only man Dara will ever love. He wants to rewind time and kill whoever put that bullet hole in Brennan’s forehead before they can reach him, if only so that he doesn’t have to see that expression on Noam’s face.

He knows it’s selfish, knows he has no right to touch Noam’s grief just to satisfy his own. But still, the urge to run after him vibrates in his legs and his clenched fists.

From behind him, Ames’ voice rings out. “What are you waiting for? Go after him.”

She’s leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and a serious expression on her face. From the look on her face, and on Bethany’s too behind her, they’d seen everything. Dara only wastes a moment more deciding, then he bolts up and dashes into the boy’s room. He grabs his coat, Noam’s coat, his running shoes, and then after a beat of hesitation, the bottle of bourbon Lehrer gifted him for his birthday that he still hasn’t touched.

He runs out the door and out the dorm building, passing by a few classmates that shout out to him and that he ignores. He manages to hail a cab right after exiting the school gate, giving them the address for the Migrant Center. 

The twenty minutes it takes to drive there feel like a lifetime. He spends the whole drive staring out the window, bouncing his leg and whispering to himself be okay, be okay and knowing that there’s no way Noam’s okay right now. When he finally sees the the squat brick building, with multiple police cars parked outside, he shoves a wad of cash at the taxi driver and jumps out the car, not bothering to wait for change. 

The police stop him before he can run in, and he notices how the whole place is cordoned off. He almost cusses out loud. Then he spots the figure of the lady Noam was talking to that day while volunteering and runs up to her. She turns to him as he comes up to her, eyes red and puffed. Dara feels bad, but still he rushes to ask, “Noam, did he—where—do you know—”

She places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a small but remarkably sturdy smile. “He came by, but the police wouldn’t let him, or any of us, in. He—he was arguing for a while, but when it was clear they…” she shakes her head. “He ran off.”

Defeat settles heavy in Dara’s bones. But the lady (Linda?) continues, “I couldn’t say for certain, but I’d bet he’s—here, let me write the address down for you. Do you have a pen?”

Dara did, luckily, have a pen in his coat pocket. Linda scribbles down the address on his arm. “Thank you,” Dara manages to say before running off.

Linda smiles at him, wobbly this time. “You take care of him now, y’hear?”

He nods, then hurries down the street. He pulls up Google Maps on his phone and types the address in, sighing in relief when he sees that it’s only a six minute walk away. He runs, internally thanking Coach Li, their PE teacher and track adviser, for the grueling training. He gets there in two and a half minutes, panting at its gates.

The gates to, Dara realizes, a cemetery. 

The gate has already been pushed open, stuck swung out in dirt. Dara steps in, catching his breath, his sneakers making soft sounds against the frozen ground beneath him. Slightly unkempt grass covers the whole area, peppered with yellow patches weaving between plain tombstones. 

There aren’t many people here this morning, and among the few kneeling in front of graves, only one isn’t wearing a coat. Dara walks down the rows, his pace slow, not at all like the frantic sprint he’d taken from the Migrant Center. In cemeteries, everything must exist sluggishly.

Dara reaches the row Noam’s in. He stops, and just watches his kneeling profile, still in a way that Noam never is in Dara’s experience of him. Noam is a whirlwind, a thing of fire and electricity. He shouldn’t belong among stones like this.

Dara steps into the row, the walk to Noam’s side strangely serene, all insecurity and frenzy fallen away. When he gets there, Noam doesn’t look up at him or even seem to notice him. Dara drops his jacket around his shoulders, then sits down next to him. 

Still, Noam makes no sign of recognition, his focus wholly on the headstone in front of him and the engraving of his mother’s name. Dara stares at it too, wondering what memories Noam has flashing in his mind right now. If they’re good memories or bad ones. If he comes here often to relive them. 

Dara opens the bottle of bourbon with a cap opener he carries in his coat, setting it down between them. “You said you’ve never had bourbon before,” Dara says, tone quiet.

Finally, Noam’s gaze shifts, first down to the bottle and then up at Dara’s face. There are no tears in his eyes, no redness around them either. He looks hollow, gutted. Resigned. Sitting in front of his mother’s grave on the morning of his pseudo-uncle’s death, Dara realizes just how much he’s lost.

Noam’s eyes return to the tombstone, but his hand goes to the bottle. He takes a sip and then sets it down where it was before. Dara takes it, taking a sip himself.

When he sets the bottle down, Noam speaks. “My mother was Jewish,” he says, and Dara nods. “Used to read the Old Testament to me as a bedtime story. Sometime, after I got older, she replaced those with her parents’ stories from the Holocaust.”

Noam picks the bottle up again, fingers brushing over the label before bringing it to his mouth. “She said… she said that, as descendants of survivors, it was our duty to keep their memory alive. That the moment the world forgets is the moment when the Nazis have won.”

He’s silent for a while. Dara looks at the headboard, imagining the woman Noam is telling him about, who sang hymns around the house and argued Marxist philosophy to anyone who would listen. Noam had spoken of her before, always with such pride in his voice. Now, there is only loss. 

“She killed herself,” he says. Dara bites his lip. I know . “I found her hanging in the bedroom when I was twelve.”

Noam takes a deep breath, and Dara sees wetness well up in his eyes. “I didn’t—I didn’t know,” he whispers, his hands clenching on his thighs. “She was fine, she was happy. We didn’t have much, but we were happy. And then, then she—”

He breaks off, tears sliding down his face. “I didn’t know .”

“Noam.” Dara reaches over to squeeze at his arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Noam just shakes his head, reaching up with shaking hands to wipe away his tears. “The last time I saw Brennan,” he gasps, voice thick. “We had a fight. I told him that he wasn’t doing enough, that we could never make real change like this. And now he’s gone.” Noam lets out a bitter laugh. “I guess he must’ve been doing enough, if someone thought to put a bullet in his head for it.”

Dara doesn’t know what to say, or if he’s supposed to say anything at all, if anything he can say would help. If him being here helps. He just watches Noam, rubbing his hand up and down his spine, and waits. 

“Everyone I love is gone, Dara.” Noam looks at him when he says this, not crying anymore but letting the last tears drip down his face. “Mom, Dad, Carly, and now Brennan. Everyone.”

Dara’s frozen, his hand back in his lap and his eyes wide as Noam stares into them. In the back of his mind, he thinks that he is turning into one of the tombstones.

“Everyone,” Noam says. “But you.”

Underneath a cold December sky, sitting with the boy he loves in front of his mother’s grave, Dara’s heart breaks.

Chapter Text

Brennan’s funeral was two weeks after his death. It was organized by Linda and Noam together; Brennan didn’t have any family in the U.S., though he’d basically been a part of the Álvaros. Noam was busy with preparations for the two weeks leading up to it, spending most of his time not at school or his job with Linda, and Dara didn’t see much of him for the duration of it.

Noam would get back to the dorms around ten or eleven every night, then would do his homework and go to sleep. Which put him between the sheets only slightly earlier than he used to in the beginning of the year (Carolinia gave an unholy amount of homework). Dara always waited up for him, and without Taye awake to groan at the PDA, Noam’s taken to sleeping in Dara’s bed every night. Which is, Dara thinks, the only good thing to come of this situation.

Noam seems to deal with his grief well, or at least as well anyone really can. He hadn’t cried since that time, he just appears exhausted at all times. Dara tries not to think about how that’s because he has experience, but his words from the cemetery haunt him.

Two days before the funeral, Noam asks Dara if he wants to come with him. Dara almost says yes, if only to do what he can to support Noam during that time, but he knows he’d be nothing more than a distraction. This is a part of Noam’s life untouchable to Dara. So Dara tells him no, and Noam doesn’t argue, just nods like he’d known when he asked.

The funeral is on a Saturday, and Dara helps Noam prepare himself for it. He does his tie for him when Noam throws up his hands in frustration after the third try, helps him rehearse his eulogy, and walks to the gate with him. Despite that, on the path back to the dorms Dara can’t help but feel useless.

Until Noam gets back that night, drenched to the bone from the sudden shower, Dara is unable to focus on studying for finals. He keeps checking his phone for texts, and then checking the clock for the time when he forgets that his phone has a clock in it as well. The other three are visibly worried over him. Bethany hands him a cup of tea every time he seems particularly agitated, and he loses count of how many times that happens.

When Noam finally gets back, Dara rushes over, scowling at his wet… everything. Noam grimaces. “In my defense, the weather report didn’t say it was gonna rain.”

Dara sighs and ushers him into the showers. When they reach their dorm room, Noam turns to him with a grin. “Are you fussing over me right now?” His grin only widens at Dara’s sour look. “That’s so cute.”

Dara’s face flushes. “Shut up, Álvaro.”

Secretly, Dara’s glad for the teasing. At least Noam looks alive now, nothing like the husk he was the last two weeks. Perhaps he had found some closure at the funeral. 

Noam turns to him fully, grin softening into a smile. His hands come up to cup Dara’s face, and—damn his height—he leans down to press a kiss to Dara’s forehead. “I’m fine,” he says, pressing his forehead against Dara’s.

Dara’s arms wrap around his waist, drawing him against himself and letting his clothes soak against Noam’s wet ones. He searches Noam’s face for a lie, but there’s nothing fake about his smile. A smile not like the ones he gives his classmates or friends, or even his protestor buddies, but one just for Dara. Dara holds it inside him like a pearl. “Are you sure?” he still asks.

Noam nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I love you.”

They both freeze. Noam hadn’t said it directly to him after the cemetery, and Dara hadn’t thought it appropriate to confess given the circumstances. Noam didn’t even look like he meant to say it this time, but that he’d been holding it in too long and couldn’t anymore. He’s still smiling, but it flickers at the sides with anxiety as he gazes into Dara’s eyes. 

Dara smiles back. “I love you, too.” He presses a quick peck against Noam’s lips, then pushes him away. “Okay, go shower now. You smell.”

Noam laughs, bright and twinkling like Christmas bells (though, Dara supposes Noam doesn’t celebrate Christmas). For a few days after that, everything is well again. With the funeral done and his grief put mostly to rest, Noam devotes himself fully back into his studies. Dara gets hired as an unpaid tutor again, and manages to find a little more patience than before. Though still, Ames makes noise complaints when their arguments get a little too heated.

And then, because the universe can’t give Dara a break, things come crashing down again. 

On the Thursday after Brennan’s funeral, two weeks before finals, Ames walks into the common room with her face in her phone. “Hey,” she says, snapping to Noam where he’s studying with Dara on the couch. “Have you seen this?”

She holds her phone screen out and Noam reads off of it. Dara watches his brows get tighter and tighter until pure, unbridled fury washes over his face. He jolts forward to grab at Ames’ phone, but she jerks it out of reach just in time. “Woah woah woah,” she says. “I don’t need you throwing my phone at the wall, ‘kay? This is new. I’ll send the article to you.”

If Dara wasn’t concerned before, than he sure as hell is now. He’d never seen Noam this angry—and Noam is angry a lot . Constantly, Dara thinks sometimes. He reads the first line of the article over Noam’s shoulder: “Police investigation shows connections between popular immigration advocate’s murder and Republican candidate Harold Sacha” and stops there, because Noam’s on his feet.

Noam paces around the room, scrolling up and down the article, his face contorted in rage. Dara glances at Ames, but she just shrugs. Dara grits his teeth. For the second time in too short a while, he feels completely helpless. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! ” Noam screams. “That son of a bitch! ”

Then, as Ames predicted, Noam hurls his phone against the wall. As it crashes onto the floor, Dara sees the screen shatter. Noam stands there, huffing, for a few seconds before whirling around, grabbing his coat and leaving, slamming the door behind him.

Dara swallows, and gets up too. Before he can take a step, he feels Ames’ hand on his arm. “Not this time, Dara.” She shakes her head at him.

Dara sits back down. He pushes his hand through his hair, cursing—he doesn’t even know who now, really. Maybe he’s cursing this past month in its entirety. In his pocket, his phone’s text notification goes off. He opens it, seeing the link to the article sent from Ames’ phone. He looks up at her, but she just gives him a look before sitting down next to him.

He reads through the article, chewing on his lower lip. By the end of it, his brows are twisted together like Noam’s were, though for a different reason. He looks over to Ames, letting his expression do the talking. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too,” she says, leaning back against the couch. “Not exactly Sacha’s style, is it?”

Harold Sacha definitely isn’t past assassination to further his own goals. But Brennan hadn’t been a competitor, just a nuisance that had thus far not been able to make a serious impact on Sacha’s campaign. And, all his other faults aside, Sacha was not quite petty enough to risk killing him just because of a few leaked details (which, Dara thinks now, Noam had probably obtained) and organizing Anti-Sacha strikes. 

Dara holds Ames’ gaze, an unspoken conversation passing between them. As children of government officials, they’d grown up around politicians and had been soaked in their circles for perhaps longer than many of the politicians themselves. Dara wouldn’t say he’s close to Sacha, but certainly he grew up with him, and as a little kid it was often easy to get himself in places he shouldn’t be and see things he shouldn’t see. He probably knew Sacha better than most of his colleagues.

Of course, Dara knew Lehrer far better. After so many years studying him and learning every idiosyncracy, he’s the only person in the world who really understands Lehrer. Dara knows his touch when he sees it.

“What are you gonna do?” Ames asks, face serious.

Dara pushes a hand through his hair again, letting his curls catch on his knuckles and fall back over his face. Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye at whatever unsavory acts Lehrer did for his career—or, as Dara had realized before, his own sick pleasure. 

But this time, it’s personal. “I’ll give him a call,” he says.

Ames nods, lips tight. “Better go somewhere private,” she says. “We don’t want Taye accidentally walking in while you’re accusing the Democratic candidate of murder.”

He nods, slipping on his coat and walking to the door. He pauses next to Noam’s shattered phone, giving Ames a look. “Hell no I’m not cleaning up this shit,” Ames scoffs. “He’s your boyfriend. You take care of it.”

Dara rolls his eyes and steps past the phone. Noam could deal with it himself when he came back. He opens up the door and heads out the dorm building, gaze catching on the snowflakes falling from a black sky. Some time in the last two weeks, the first snow arrived and refused to leave.

At least Noam brought his coat this time. 

Dara heads to a deserted area of campus: behind a dorm building he knows is empty. His breath comes out in white puffs of cloud, and his fingers shiver while finding Lehrer’s contact. He puts the phone to his ear and listens to it ring, sure that Lehrer wouldn’t pick it up and half-hoping that he doesn’t. 

Lehrer picks up on the fourth ring. “Dara,” he says, an almost pleased note on his voice. Dara grits his teeth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What did you do.” Dara doesn’t hesitate now that he’s got Lehrer on the line, voice biting and flat.

“Hmm,” Lehrer says. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to be a little more specific. I do a lot, Dara; I’m a busy man.”

Dara’s other hand balls into a fist in his coat pocket. “Brennan.”

“Tom Brennan? You mean the immigration advocate?” Lehrer fakes ignorance. “He was a good man, if a bit naive. A shame he died so young.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Dara’s cold fingers clench around his phone.

“Then are you talking about Sacha’s… involvement? I don’t think such an act would surprise you by now.”

“The thing I’m questioning here is Sacha’s involvement,” Dara says.

A manufactured pause. “Are you accusing me of something?” Lehrer doesn’t put too much effort into trying to sound surprised, however. 

“Just. Curious.”

“And why is that? Why the sudden interest? You’ve never cared much for… politics before.” Lehrer’s voice, for the first time that night, sounds genuine. “Is it… oh.”

Dara wants to snap at Lehrer, tell him to get back on topic and stop avoiding his questions. But then Lehrer says, voice half-amused, “It’s the Álvaro boy. You’ve gotten attached to him. Or perhaps more than that.”

In one instant, all the snow falling from the sky gets transported to the inside of Dara’s body. If he thought Noam’s name sounded disgusting on his voice that time before, it’s nothing compared to how it twists Dara’s gut now. “Stop changing the subject. Why did you do it? You’re already leading in the polls, aren’t you? Are you so fixated on absolute victory that you’d resort to this?”

Lehrer’s voice gains edge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dara, but if you wish to make a formal accusation I’d be willing to call up a lawyer for you.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Calix.” Dara’s breath comes out hot and rough.

Lehrer huffs a laugh. “Alright. You want to know what I had to do with Tom Brennan’s assassination?” Dara can picture the cold smirk on his face. “I assisted in the police investigation. They found my input invaluable.”

Dara almost cusses out loud. From Lehrer, that was as good as a confession. But Dara hadn’t even bothered to record this conversation for a reason; he knows Lehrer would never say anything self-incriminating. He knows he’ll walk away from this call seething but powerless as ever. 

“Thank you,” he bites out, then ends the call.

Dara leans against the wall behind him, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t get much of a reprieve, because almost right after his back hits the wall Noam’s voice sounds out from the right. “What the hell was that?”

Dara’s eyes snap open and he stands up straight, facing Noam. His heartbeat jackhammers, suddenly warm in the frigid snowy day. “Noam? What are you—I thought you went out. To Linda’s, or something.”

“No money for a cab,” Noam turns his pockets inside out. “I was coming back to grab some cash when I…”

He gestures to Dara, and Dara almost gets deja-vu. What is with Noam’s penchant for always being exactly where Dara doesn’t want him to be? “How much did you hear?” Dara asks.

“Most, I think. Enough.” Noam crosses his arms.

Dara gulps, casting his gaze around as if it’ll land on something that could save him from this situation. He sighs after a few moments, eyes finding Noam’s face again. “Noam, there’s something… something I should tell you.”

“Dara, Lehrer didn’t kill Brennan,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Sacha did. They’re taking him into custody now.”

Dara shakes his head, mouth dry. “No, Noam. That’s what he—what Lehrer wants you, everyone , to think. But this—this is him , Noam,” Dara says, eyes wide and begging Noam to understand. “Everything has been him . This whole election has been by his design, perfectly in his control the whole time.”

Noam’s the one shaking his head now, confusion and nausea coloring his face. “That’s— impossible. ”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, and you don’t want to believe it, but—”

“Why, though?” Noam asks. “If he’s been in control, as you say, then why? Why go to such lengths if he’s already going to win?”

Dara knows he heard him ask that exact question to Lehrer minutes ago. Dara’s eyes harden. “Because he’s a sick bastard. Because it’s not enough for him to just win, he has to crush the other opponent. He has to make history.”

Noam stares at him, expression incredulous, stricken. He starts shaking his head again, releasing a breath, and Dara knows he still doesn’t really believe him. Noam is as stubborn as bedrock. “Did he—did he say that? Did he tell you that he framed Sacha?”

Dara nods. “Basically.”

“Did he tell you directly, clearly and exactly, that he framed Sacha? Killed Brennan?” Noam presses, moving in and grabbing Dara by his shoulders.

Staring into Noam’s wide, frantic eyes, Dara can predict how the rest of this is going to unfold. His gut starts sinking already. “No, but—”

“Then how can you accuse him, like it’s been proven already? You don’t have any evidence, Dara.” Dara’s stomach drops out the rest of the way. Somewhere inside him, something crucial shrivels up and dries out. “You—look, I know you don’t like Lehrer, but you can’t let your personal feelings get in the way of—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dara’s shout tears itself out of his throat, and now he is livid, he is cracking apart with rage.

He pushes Noam back hard, then gets in his face and grabs his collar, slamming him against the wall of the empty dorm building. Noam looks at him in shock. “What the fuck do you know, huh? Always—preaching your damn morals while you blindly follow a man that, that… and you ignore everything I warn you about, act like I’m just some melodramatic rich boy with daddy issues. You—”

Dara breaks off, breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands trembling where they’re clenched in Noam’s collar. He knows how crazy he must look now, and Noam’s blurry face sure tells him exactly that. His hands come up to curl around Dara’s wrists. “Dara, what are you—”

“Lehrer raped me.”

Noam goes still. His hands slacken. Horror creeps over his face, and a part of Dara is so damn triumphant at that. Finally, he’s listening .

“When I was fifteen, the first time. And he beat me, too,” Dara lets out a wrangled laugh—or a sob, there’s no difference now. “Kicked my ribs in, held my head underwater until I almost passed out. Told me I deserved it. Told me I wanted it.”

“Dara,” Noam breathes. His face floods with emotion, but Dara just releases another laugh-sob and clenches his hands tighter in Noam’s collar. 

“You think it was General Ames? You think it was Ames that—that made me like this?” He shakes Noam against the wall. 

“ Dara ,” Noam chokes out, his hands coming up to cup Dara’s face. Dara only realizes that he’s crying when Noam’s thumbs brush away his tears. Noam’s face is saturated with regret, a glorious twist in his brows and cheeks and a trembling in his lips that Dara feels in his jawbone. 

“No one believed me, Noam,” Dara whispers.

Noam’s arms grasp him into a tight hug, and Dara crumbles into them. Noam presses I’m sorry into his hair over and over again, and Dara presses his face into his shoulder, muffling his sobs against cloth and flesh. He doesn’t know how long they stay there like that, wrapped around each other and trembling into the night.

--

They find their way back sometime around ten, when Dara’s eyes have lost their redness and his breath leveled back to normal. Dara didn’t know when, but a while ago they’d ended up a heap on the ground, two bodies curled together. 

Dara stands up on only slightly wobbly legs. He offers an equally wobbly smile to Noam and extends a hand out. Noam takes it, pulling himself up, and when they start walking, neither of them let go. 

They aren’t totally fine yet—there’s no way they would be, not after that. No doubt Noam will want him to come clean about Lehrer and get him disqualified from the election (which he’d pretty much won at this point, with Sacha on trial). Dara will have a long fight with him about that, and they probably won’t ever be able to agree in the end. 

But for now, Noam presses his shoulder against Dara’s as they walk, and Dara presses back. They take their pace slow along the cobblestone pathways, fading in and out of the orange light of streetlamps. Not for the first time, Dara thanks Carolinia’s founder for not enforcing curfew.

After a while of silence, Dara tips his head up to the sky and squints against the falling snowflakes. “Shame. You can’t see many stars tonight.”

Noam looks over at him, a small smile on his lips. “You really like your stars, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Dara knocks his shoulder into his. “I always thought… one day, I’d like to live somewhere close to nature. Somewhere I can see the stars.”

Noam’s smile crinkles his eyes. He nods, turning to look at the blank sky too. “Well, maybe one day we can retire onto a farm in, like, South Carolina or something. Raise goats.”

Dara whips around to stare at him the moment Noam seems to realize what he just implied. He turns bright red. “Ah, not that—I mean, if you want to of course I—”

He uses his free hand to cover his face. “Damnit, I messed up again.”

Dara laughs. A full, real, deep-belly kind of laugh. Noam’s smile peeks out from between his fingers, and for the first time in a long while, Dara thinks of a happy future. For the first time in a long while, he wants to live.

Chapter Text

On the evening before the first semester of Dara’s freshman year in college began, he lays on his stomach in a bathrobe, a messy hotel bed below him. He’s on his phone, texting Ames from her dorm in West Point, which she moved into yesterday and was already fighting with her roommate. She’s telling him a story about running into a sexist in the cafeteria and knocking both him and his bottle of gatorade out with a punch to the gut.

Noam walks out of the bathroom wearing a similar bathrobe. “What are you laughing about?” he asks as he flops onto the other side of the bed.

Dara shows him the text conversation on his phone. Noam shakes his head in disbelief after reading it. “Hasn’t she only been there for two days? How has this already happened?”

“Ames,” Dara supplies as an explanation. 

“Fair.”

Ames tells him she has to go, though she continues to complain about freshman orientation for a solid two minutes afterwards. When she finally stops texting, Dara sets his phone down and rolls over onto his back.

Noam is staring at him with a complicated expression on his face. Dara sits up, reaching one hand to his face and caressing his cheek. “What is it?” 

“Just thinking,” Noam says, leaning his face into Dara’s palm. And, despite all the time that had passed since they got together, little things like that still never fail to make Dara’s heart skip a beat. “It’s been just about a year since we met, right?”

Noam’s classes start up one week after Dara’s do, so it’s been exactly one week less than a year since they’ve met. At this point last year, though, Dara already had Noam on his mind in the form of a manila folder and a mugshot of a boy with burning eyes. Dara looks into those eyes now, feeling a smile tug on his lips. 

He considers briefly how, just a year ago, most of his smiles were manufactured, crafted to suit situation and please others. Now, they’re still like that, but at least when he’s with Noam, they steal onto his face without warning or his control. 

“What, are you feeling nostalgic?” Dara teases.

Noam nods, gaze falling down. He takes Dara’s other hand in his and squeezes. “I really didn’t like you at first,” he says.

Dara’s hand drops from his face. Noam looks up and chuckles at his expression. “You were such an asshole, Dara, don’t even try to deny it.”

Dara huffs, but doesn’t deny him. He was an incredible jerk to Noam in the beginning, and from Noam’s point of view it was completely unwarranted, too. Dara himself has trouble remembering the root of all his ire now; he keeps thinking that it was because of something else, something even his self from back then didn’t realize. Something about Noam that drew Dara to him like a beacon, and that Dara had resisted with all his might. 

“Well if I recall correctly, that didn’t exactly stop you from eyeing me up from the moment we met,” Dara smirks at him.

Noam rolls his eyes. “Being attracted to and liking are two very different things, Dara.”

Dara knew that. This past year had been a lesson in that very thing, after all. Dara watches Noam’s expression fade from amusement into something softer, more blue. “I wish I…” he begins, glancing away and back to Dara’s eyes. “I wish I tried harder, those few weeks. I wish we had more time.”

Dara rubs his thumb over the back of Noam’s hand, and Noam looks down at the motion. “There’s nothing you really could have done, Noam. I was pretty deadset on not getting to know you.”

“What made you change your mind?” Noam’s brow furrows, eyes still on their intertwined hands.

Dara sighs, leaning back against the headboard and letting his head bonk on it. “I’ll be honest with you, a lot of it was Ames’ meddling,” he admits.

Noam laughs a bit at that. “I suppose I should thank her the next time we meet, then.”

Dara smiles at that, imagining Ames’ smug face. God. Dara hopes that military training will mellow her out a bit, but most likely she’s just going to become even more insufferable. “I also just…” Dara says, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really hated you, not deeply at least. Sure, your presence irritated me to no end—”

“Wow, thanks .” 

“—but that was mostly pettiness,” Dara knocks his shoulder into Noam’s. “I think… I think I hated how much I was drawn to you.”

Noam stares at him. Dara turns pink under his gaze. “Okay, I think that’s enough for the night. That’s the most cheesiness you’ll get out of me for the next year.”

“Aw, c’mon. I say embarrassing shit all the time!”

“And do, don’t forget about that,” Dara snorts. “Reckless kid. Do you know how much trouble you cause me?”

Noam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Almighty Dara, thank you for covering my ass so much. What would I ever do without you,” he deadpans.

Dara narrows his eyes. “Jesus. I should be glad you only knew Ames for a year, she’s rubbing off on you too much.”

Noam grins at that. “You love us.”

Dara releases a long suffering sigh. “Against my better judgement, yes.”

Noam flops back against the headboard like Dara, and for a while they just enjoy a comfortable silence, bathing in each other’s presences. Dara’s going to miss this most of all, he thinks—the banter, yes, and their more private activities too, but there’s an ease of being between the two of them that he has with scant few people. 

As if he heard his thoughts, Noam says softly, “I’m going to miss you.”

“So you’ve said,” Dara says. “Multiple times, over the past few days.”

Noam turns on his side to face Dara. “Still.”

Dara looks over at him. Noam had managed to keep it together during graduation, in part because Lehrer had made it and he was trying very hard not to punch the president and cause a scene. But in Leo’s pub that night, after Ames and Taye had fallen asleep in their drinks and Bethany had given up on waking them, he’d been teary eyed and heartbroken. 

He’d only gotten better when Dara told him he’d planned a road trip over the summer for them. And the past two months were probably the best in Dara’s life, travelling up and down the East Coast in a rental car (Dara wanted a luxury brand, but Noam had disagreed so hard they went with a regular sedan). Dara caught himself, at multiple times through the summer, thinking of stopping time. How great it’d have been if they could live that summer for the rest of their life.

But eventually, they’d driven to New Jersey where Dara would attend Princeton. And now here they were, looking at each other on a hotel bed a few blocks away from the university campus, Noam trying not to cry. 

Dara smiles, leans forward to press a kiss to Noam’s lips. “We’ll be okay,” he whispers. 

Noam nods. “We’ll kick ass at this whole long distance thing.”

Dara laughs, and then he leans in to rest his forehead against Noam’s. They spend a while just looking at each other, memorizing each other’s faces in one of their last private moments together for a while.

Later that night, after they’d turned the lights off, Noam lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. Dara’s on his side, one arm strewn across Noam’s chest, watching it rise and fall. Neither of them can fall asleep. 

Noam says, just as a particularly loud motorcycle passes by in the street below their building, “Do you remember that night in Leo’s pub, when you got drunk off your ass and punched that racist asshole trying to pick a fight with me?”

“Of course. Leo embarrassed me, on my own graduation night, telling all the others about it.”

Noam chuckles at the memory, then falls silent again. Dara lifts his head up to look at him. “What about it?”

“I think,” he says, his voice a low rumble in Dara’s chest. “That was the night I fell in love with you.”

All breath escapes from Dara’s lungs, carried away by tiny faeries lighting him up from the bones. They stare at each other, an ocean of meaning passing between their eyes. Eventually, Dara falls back down onto the bed, on his back this time, and punches Noam in the shoulder. “Dork.”

“Asshole.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”