Author: SpeakOfMeAsIAm PM
Halfway through the bus ride to Nice, I decide I hate class trips. I hate France. I hate Italy. I hate Sam, and his stupid cardigans, and the way he’s always kissing me. SLASH.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Friendship - Words: 481 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 10 - Published: 12-10-09 - id: 2750564
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I hate that stupid cardigan. Even after sitting here in the almost-dark for two – three? – hours, that's still all I can think about. That fucking cardigan, dangling off the hook on the bathroom door and just begging to be knotted up and shoved in the bidet.
I shift down the counter until I'm just close enough to jerk the cardigan off the hook. The door rattles loudly, and out in the bedroom portion of the hotel suite, I hear Sam snorting and rolling in his sleep. Instinctively, I clutch the cardigan to my chest and wait, frozen, until he's silent once more. The last thing I need is to have him wake up and come in here to try to talk to me. Sharing a room with him for the next nine days is going to be bad enough after tonight.
The cardigan pockets must be full of half-inch bolts, considering the way they're digging into my ribs. I flatten the woolen demon out on the counter next to me and empty the pockets. There's a fistful of euros, a half-empty pack of Doublemint, and a passport. A passport he probably doesn't even remember is here, even though Signora George told us at least a dozen times today that we should lock our passports in the safe every time we get to a new hotel. I flip through the passport booklet until I get to the page with his picture. He looks the way everyone does in official photos; his eyes are a little hazy from the flash, and look more black than brown. His skin looks grainy, and his hair is disheveled, like someone snapped the picture while peering into his bedroom at four in the morning. And his mouth – I cough without meaning to – is curved into that DMV expression; not quite frowning, but sure as hell not a smile.
I snap the passport shut and flick it across the bathroom, where it hits the tile with a slap. Sam snuffles in his sleep again. You deserve it, you Mr. Rogers bastard, I want to hiss to him. If you'd put your passport in the goddamn safe like you were supposed to, like I told you to, I wouldn't have thrown it.
And I wouldn't have thrown it if I hadn't locked myself in here two – three? – hours ago.
And I wouldn't have locked myself in here hours ago if he hadn't made me panic.
And I wouldn't have panicked if Sam had taken five seconds to think to himself, Maybe I shouldn't kiss Jack the second we land in Paris and check into our first hotel. Yeah, maybe that could go badly.
And none if this would make any difference if I hadn't liked it as much as I did.