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Summary
He shouldn't be thinking of him.
No, he shouldn't be thinking of him for years now. He doesn't even know why this is happening to him. He hated him.
Then why did he find himself staring up at the ceiling for hours now, lying in his bed at a unbearably hot late summer night, shifting in the covers every two seconds while thinking of a certain redhead.
A tiny, hotheaded slug with a tacky hat. A slug with horrible fashion taste and stupidly piercing eyes.
...
He is so doomed.