The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(80)

Afterward, Dara kissed him openmouthed and hot and messy, grasping at Noam with both hands like he’d die if he didn’t have more—more of that, of Noam.

And as it turned out, Dara’s mouth was good at more than just talking.

Later, when their hair was nearly dry, they lay tangled up in the narrow twin bed, Noam’s fingers laced into Dara’s curls. Dara tracked a trail of languid kisses along Noam’s sternum.

Noam had been with boys before, but Dara was definitely the most experienced. A part of Noam felt awkward in comparison, like a child pretending to be grown up.

“Don’t,” Dara murmured and bit him just beneath the collarbone.

“Don’t what?”

“You’re overthinking things,” Dara said. He lifted his head, propping his chin against Noam’s chest. “I can tell.”

Noam made a face at him, but there was no point denying it. Dara’s forefinger traced little patterns on his skin, as if oblivious to the way that made Noam’s heart stumble.

“All right. I won’t overthink things.” He skimmed his hand down Dara’s side instead, again incredulous that Dara’s skin could be so smooth. “You have been with a lot more people than I have, though.”

“So?”

“So . . .” Noam turned the words over on his tongue, not sure how to phrase this. They felt unwieldy, like holding stones in his mouth. He looked at Dara and bit the inside of his lip until it hurt. “I know this doesn’t mean we’re together. I know you’re not really a relationship person.”

Dara’s mouth flattened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean . . . I mean, you like to . . . I don’t know, Dara. It’s pretty clear you’re not into relationships. That’s all.”

But Dara had already pushed himself upright, twisting one hand in the bedsheets.

“I can fuck whomever I want.”

“Of course you can,” Noam said, baffled. “I’m not saying you can’t.”

He ignored the part of himself that felt like it was withering just saying so, hearing Dara talk about wanting to fuck other people—it wasn’t like Noam thought he and Dara were, would be . . .

Dara wasn’t a monogamous person, maybe, which was fine. But.

“I can’t not say something, Dara. I’m sorry. But you have bruises on your leg, and on your ribs, and here . . .” He reached for Dara’s arm, to brush fingertips against the yellowing marks just above the elbow, the ones Noam hadn’t noticed until Dara had his head down between Noam’s thighs.

Dara jerked his arm out of reach.

Noam put his hand back on his own knee, safe. “I’m not going to be a shitty friend and pretend not to notice.”

“Maybe you’d rather whisper sweet nothings in someone’s ear and have boring, predictable sex, but not all of us aspire to such bland heights.”

Wait. Did Dara think Noam was boring?

Noam bit the inside of his lip, suddenly adrift in an uneasy sea. He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Okay. So someone gave you those bruises during sex?”

Dara’s cheeks flushed darker than Noam had ever seen them before. For a moment Noam was so sure Dara was going to—hit him? Curse at him? Something. But Dara swung his legs off the edge of the bed and grabbed for his trousers instead, movements jerky and inhuman.

Noam sat up, abruptly conscious of his own nakedness. “Dara. Please just talk to me.”

Dara rounded on him again with flashing eyes and his shirt gripped between both hands. “I do talk to you. I talk to you all the time, álvaro, but you never listen.”

“Okay, like when? You don’t say shit, Dara. I feel like I barely fucking know you sometimes, and that’s not for lack of trying.”

Dara jabbed one finger at Noam’s chest. “I try to tell you about Lehrer.”

“That’s such bullshit, Dara, and you know it. Just because I don’t agree with you—”

Dara hurled the shirt onto the floor so violently that Noam startled where he sat, knocking back against the headboard. “Shut the fuck up. If I have to listen to you justify your own willful ignorance one more time—you—” He dragged a hand back through his hair too roughly, fingers tugging at the messy curls. “I try to tell you, but I don’t tell you, do you understand? You think you know everything, but you know nothing, you know absolutely nothing. It’s not about you agreeing with me. Lehrer—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Dara. I swear to god. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh, believe me,” Dara snapped, “I know.”

Okay. Okay, fine—fine. Noam shoved the bedsheets aside and got to his feet, heat flooding his whole body in an unexpected wave.

“You wanna talk about some fucked-up shit? All right. Yeah. Let’s talk about that, because you’ve known about Ames’s dad for I don’t even know how long, and you haven’t done shit about it.”

Noam was taller than Dara when they were both standing straight, and right now he needed that. He needed the way Dara took a half step back when Noam crossed his arms over his chest, that brief retreat like a victory, fuel for Noam’s anger.

“You won’t shut up about Lehrer and his hypothetical corruption or whatever, but there’s somebody in government we both know is corrupt. You made me keep quiet about it. You said you’d handle it. Well? What have you done, Dara? Because as far as I can see, you’re content to let a murderer sit as home secretary and do nothing.”