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Theo hovers in the door frame of Scott’s bedroom.
Scott is digging through a basket of laundry, muttering under his breath.
Theo could be next to him in four steps, he calculates. He could help.
He could hear what Scott is saying if he stretches his senses a little.
But the air is thick and heavy with the scent of anxiety, laced with something too familiar. He’s smelled depression on Scott before. It makes Theo’s stomach hurt.
It’s not Theo’s place to help. It’s barely his place to stand, at the entrance to Scott’s bedroom, trapping Scott in, calculating the distance between them.
Scott finally drops a red flannel back into the basket, and looks up. The lines of his face are scrunched and wrinkled before they smooth into a placid smile.
It’s as wrong as the smells.
Theo could ask Scott what’s wrong.
Instead, he says, “Hayden called; she’s running a few minutes late. Liam is already at the bus station.”
“Thanks.” Scott sounds wrong, too.
Theo doesn’t leave. He leans against the door frame, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
Scott kicks the laundry basket across the room, with more force than it deserves. Clothes tumble onto the carpet. The red and black flannel falls open. There’s a dark brown stain edging the hem. One sleeve is hanging off the threads, and there’s a ragged gash on one side.
Theo takes a breath. “She’s fine. Just mundane bus delays.”
Scott nods, his smile faltering only for a moment before his lips turn up again. “Thanks for letting me know.”
It’s a clear dismissal. Blunt, even, for Scott.
Theo still doesn’t leave.
Theo knows what a plea for help sounds like. He’s had a lifetime to learn. How to move forward. How to ignore tears and screams and hands grasping at his limbs.
Scott sighs, nostrils flaring. “Um, did you need anything else?
“Did you?”
Scott sits down casually on the bed. “I’m fine.”
The easiest Scott phrase to interpret, even if his heart is always steady as a drum when he says it.
It’s easier to forget that Scott is a practiced, nuanced liar.
The best lies are the ones you believe.
Theo’s had one lifetime to learn that, too.
Maybe he has another lifetime to learn something else.
Scott doesn’t move when Theo sits beside him on the bed. Even when he sits too close and the sides of their arms brush. When their pulses seem to race together.
“You could just wear a different shirt.”
Scott laughs. Something small and tremulous. “I know.”
Theo takes a calculated risk and places his hand on Scott’s thigh.
Scott doesn’t pull away. There’s another smell just under the anxiety, just past the sadness. Something Theo can’t quite name.
Theo is good with words. Charming. Silver-tongued.
Now, when he needs them most, the words are too thick. Like mercury.
Scott sighs again, deeper this time. Like he can expel his emotions into the air. “Had a phone call with my dad. It’s nothing.”
Scott doesn’t pretend to believe that lie.
Before he can calculate this risk, Theo lifts his hand, wraps his arm around Scott’s shoulders.
The world narrows to the feel of Scott, hard and warm and present. To the way the smell of anxiety fades. To the way Scott’s pulse flutters.
Theo keeps his arm loose.
Everything is different.
Theo still never wants to let go.
Inexplicably, Scott scoots closer until their thighs are pressed together. He lays his head on Theo’s shoulder. Scott wraps an arm around Theo’s waist. Brushes his thumb along Theo’s side.
Theo closes his eyes.
He squeezes Scott’s shoulder and pulls him a little tighter.
The smells in the air still aren’t quite right. But maybe they’re a little better.
“It was an ugly shirt anyway,” Theo murmurs into Scott’s neck.
Scott’s laugh is real this time.
Theo’s too.