Washed
Right Out, Chapter Thirteen.
Prompts used: we need to talk, have a character take a sick day.
"Riles.
You're here."
A
hand—Jonathan's hand—set itself on Riley's shoulder. He’d
been trapped. The usage of his nickname—Riles—had
once thrilled him, but now it terrified him. The other man's hand
felt cold through his shirt, and Riley immediately regretted not
bringing his overcoat.
"It's
okay," Jonathan continued. "You don't have to say anything.
You don't even have to look at me."
Riley
heard the sound of Jonathan slurping from a cup, and he realized
Jonathan had not gone far while he’d been looking for him. He’d
probably only been on the other side of the street, buying a coffee
and biding his time until he knew Riley would show up.
"Please,"
Riley said. "Don't."
"Don't
what, love?"
"It's
over—"
"What’s
over? Our relationship? Our several year, fully formed and realized
relationship that you want to throw away over some recordings?"
"Jonathan,
about that. We need to talk."
Jonathan
tightened his grip on Riley's shoulder in response. His fingers
threatened to dig into his shoulder, reach past the fabric and
through the bone. "We don't need to talk about anything. It's
obvious what needs to be done, don't you think, Riles?"
"What
is—"
"I
mean," Jonathan babbled on, oblivious to Riley, "our
relationship is clearly on the rocks, thanks to you. I tried so hard
to make us work together, to make you better for us, and you repay me
with this? I definitely don't appreciate this, or your friends
freezing me out, and especially not changing the locks on
your—our—place. That was not nice."
"Please
let go." Riley lifted his hand and reached back toward where he
knew Jonathan's own hand was.
"Don't
touch me."
Riley
stopped mid-way. Jonathan's voice had lost every single drop of
warmth. He let his hand drop back on the table. If he’d felt
trapped before, now he really felt more so. He felt like he was going
to cry, or scream, or something even more unpredictable. That's when
fate played its own hand.
"Hey,
dude? Heads up. Assault is illegal."
Riley
whipped his head around before anyone could stop him. He saw
Jonathan, who wasn't directly behind him at all but had side-stepped
into his vision, and in front of him was the young man with the
golden waves of hair. He looked vaguely Greek, with light brown skin
and green eyes. God bless him, whoever he was.
Jonathan
hissed. He hissed,
like a deranged cat. If Riley hadn’t been so concerned for his own
safety, still threatened by the tightened claw of a hand on his body,
he would’ve laughed out loud. "Excuse me?"
"He
asked you to let go, and you haven't." The mystery golden boy
didn't seem at all fazed by Jonathan's hiss. "No means no, dude.
Give the guy some room."
The
bitter laugh that came out of Jonathan's mouth made Riley wince. "And
who are you?"
"Police,
homicide division. Who are you?"
The young man leaned in. "Should I escort you to the precinct
now or later? Either way, this is going to end up with you in jail."
Jonathan
wrenched his hand off of Riley's shoulder and took a step back. "No,
no, no, no, no—"
and then he was off, running down the sidewalk.
He knocked into a metal mailbox as he turned the corner and
disappeared.
The
young man took a seat across from Riley. "Hey. Are you okay?"
Riley
absentmindedly rubbed at the place where Jonathan’s fingers had dug
into his skin. "Yeah... I guess. I will be."
"I'm
not police by the way," the other man explained. "I just
watch a lot of TV shows about detectives. I actually work in a flower
shop, but I took a sick day. Well, a mental health day. Same thing,
right? You'd never guess how much anxiety builds up when you're
selling flowers on the regular. Shit, sorry, should I shut up?"
He
blinked. "Um." His brain was still catching up with what
had happened,
along with processing the vision in front of him. "It's okay.
I'm still..."
"Out
of it?"
Riley
nodded.
"I've
been there. Well, not there specifically,
but I know what that place is like. My name’s Fiore, by the way."
"Riley."
"Oh,
good." Fiore's face flushed. "I mean—he called you Riles
and that’s not a real name, so I was hoping—"
"It's
a nickname." He corrected himself: "Was
a nickname. We're not together. It's complicated."
"Hey.
It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself to me." Fiore
stood up. "Um, do you need an escort back to—home? Work?"
"Yeah,
I'm supposed to be working right now..." Riley couldn't help but
look around, half expecting to see Jonathan's head poke out of an
apartment window or shop doorway. "It's just across the street,
but sure. If you don't mind. And thank you, for earlier."
Fiore
smiled. It was a smile that made flowers blossom just so they could
catch a glimpse of its warmth. "No problem."
Maybe,
Riley thought, there was hope for him after all.
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