Theo pushed him away then, and he had that surprised look on his face, the vulnerable look. Theo seemed just as—just as unbalanced, like the world wasn’t what he expected it to be. As if Jack wanting to kiss him were a terrible and wonderful gift, and he was unworthy. And there was something lingering behind his eyes, gray as gravel, words that neither of them had been taught how to say.

Theo looked away, uncomfortable but obviously pleased, and picked at the chips they had crushed between their chests, something to do to keep from reaching out and grabbing Jack again. He blushed. “You are so embarrassing, oh my God.”

“Can’t help it.” Jack leaned back against the wall, elbow brushing against Theo’s arm. “I’m not really good at the self-control thing.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Theo smiled at him, eyes still shying away.

“Home?” That word was just as intimate as kissing. Jack wondered when Theo’s shabby little apartment had become his, too—his place. Where he lived and where he was—where he was fully himself.

“Home.”

The last few chips were tossed in a trash can; Theo rubbed his greasy fingers on Jack’s T-shirt. Jack had learned that Theo liked to see him messy. Liked his unkempt edges. Liked him. Liked the scruffy boy just as much as Jack liked Theo’s flawlessness. “Oh, thanks.”

“Any time.”

Back in their apartment—home—they wedged themselves into the small bed, their positions familiar and intertwined. Another unexpected thing, wanting to touch, even when they weren’t having sex. Cool night air flowed through the window and Jack pulled their blanket up, a cocoon of them, together, huddling for warmth and for—

Jack tried to imagine a future of this. Them. In those last few breaths, evening out before they fell asleep, it seemed almost possible. His sharp and caustic man, brought low and more beautiful for it, a fallen angel. And him, a boy still defined by the past, by what everyone thought he should be, but finally choosing something else.

And he wanted it. He buried his nose in the back of Theo’s neck, right against the shorn strands of blond hair, and he wanted him with a gaping maw of hunger and deprivation and need. And he whispered words against Theo’s skin, Theo fast asleep and unknowing, and he poured out a lifetime of that need, words broken and halting until his low voice was scratchy and unpleasant in his throat.

He slept.

He dreamed of returning home.

When he woke, panicked, guilty, Theo turned to him, gray eyes open and a bit wild and his. Belonging to him. And he knew he could never want anything as much as he wanted this.

Chapter Eighteen

Theo often ate in the kitchen.