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Skov’s jaw aches.
He’d taken three fucking pills of painkillers and still, it wouldn’t stop. Not surprising, really, with how much he’d relied on K for that shit. Drugstore painkillers can’t really measure up to the fucking euphoria K could cook up. And now that his K stash is running low, he needs to ration. Funny, how he’d gone from first in line of all that dream shit to licking scraps off the fucking floor.
He’s Blake fucking Skovron. He doesn’t lick off the floor.
Skov’s jaw aches because he fucking finally managed to do something he’d tried to do for ten fucking years. Piss off his mom to the point where fists would fly. Just because. There had to be a reason his dad called her a monster before he divorced, right? And there had to be a reason he hadn’t taken Skov with him.
He’d drop out of Aglionby if it wasn’t for Swan and Jiang. They’re the only ones that can still awaken the thrill that comes with racing. Lynch has stopped racing. For some goddamn reason. It annoys Skov so fucking much. Lynch is a fucking catholic softboy, why should he get to set his life right before Skov can?
He misses K. Withdrawals have been hell.
So yes, Skov’s jaw still fucking aches, and it’s only getting worse from the way he’s grinding his teeth.
But he can’t stop. He’s so angry he feels tears burn in his eyes and he doesn’t want to cry.
It’s so fucking embarrassing; how he cries at anything. Happy? Here come the fucking tears. Disappointed? Be prepared to have rivers streaming down your face, bitch. Angry? Wanna see how long you can yell for before your words become broken sobs.
K always hates—hated—it when he cried. “Don’t be such a pussy,” he’d leer from behind those dumbass sunglasses, “Toughen up, man.” Then he’d normally punch Skov in the shoulder so hard he’d start to tear up again. There was a reason Skov was the only one in the pack without tattoos.
He’s sitting on the hood of his RX-7—newly painted gold because his annoying-ass stepbrother just had to key the bright blue finish, he’s gonna kill Jordan the next time he sees him, he swears—outside of that shitty-ass diner he doesn’t care to remember the name of, waiting for Swan. The sun is low, casting a pink wash over the parking lot. Skov has parked so lopsidedly he’s taken three spaces right in front of the door and the parents walking by him from the outskirts of the lot glare at him while they pass. He throws his best sarcastic smile back, sometimes a middle finger or two.
His hair—recently dyed an electric blue to honour the memory of his car’s old skin—probably doesn’t help. Not the lip piercing either. Definitely not the bruise blooming up his jawline.
Skov’s aching for a fight. He swears under his breath when he gets yet another text from Swan saying he’s gonna take five more minutes. Fucking snail. He says they’re gonna race but Skov knows Swan enough to know that they’re gonna end up stoned as hell in his bed in that shitty dorm. Maybe make out a bit. Depends on if Swan gets high enough to forget he’s straight and if Skov’s feeling up for a little self-hatred.
And there his jaw starts aching again. Teeth grinding together. Fuck all this. Fuck his emotions.
Through the glass, in the diner, he can see them. Talking to that little firework of a waitress that Proko always loved to torture with his shitty-ass flirting (she’s probably glad he’s not around to do that anymore). Richard fucking Gansey the Third is leaning against one of the tables, all broad shoulders and tanned skin and perfect teeth and…
Skov clenches his hands. Fuckfuckfuck him.
Skov’s mom is “friends” with Dick’s mom. What it means is that Dick’s mom tolerates Skov’s mom until she oversteps and then she’s out on the street again, begging for anyone higher stationed than herself to pay attention to her. Mrs Dick Gansey the Second already has her halfway out the door. What it also fucking means is that Skov has seen Dick Three’s face much more than he’d like.
At those goddamn lunches. Dinners. Pool parties. Those fucking pool parties. Where Dicky hadn’t given a fucking care in the world and strutted around shirtless like he wasn’t completely fucking built. Both of them, though, knew the uncomfortable feeling of women far above their own age trying to cup a feel of them, so in the middle of an assault, Dick had kidnapped him, promising to show him the magnificent, in-built cave pool in the Ganseys’ basement—maybe the worst lie Skov had ever heard.
What was completely fucking hilarious was that they actually had a fucking in-built cave pool in their basement.
They hadn’t talked or anything, fuck no—Skov knew who he belonged to, and he certainly didn’t want Dick to own a bit of him as well. Was a bit afraid of what might happen if he let him have that kind of control. What had happened, though, was that Dick had pressed him up against the edge of the pool—cave wall, whatever—and kissed him until his lips were aching red. Yeah. Dick fucking Gansey liked dick. It would be funny if Skov legit hadn’t dove underwater to suck him off.
But he’s over that. Miss him with that gay shit. Everybody does some kind of gay crap with their bros every now and then. Doesn’t mean they’re actually gay. K, at least, followed that rhetoric. Had no issue bullying the kids at school that even dared look a little bit like a girl, but also had no issue pressing Proko’s head down to his crotch and letting him work. “There’s a difference between being a fucking fag and letting a guy be the girl for you,” he’d sneered at Skov when he’d tried to tease him about it. Then he delivered a punch to Skov’s stomach so hard that he’d had to skip football practice the next day. K never said what sucking dick made Proko. Skov still thinks it’s kinda hypocritical.
What really pisses him off, though, is Lynch. Lynch and fucking Parrish, apparently. They’re standing with their backs to Skov, Lynch’s hand down in the backpocket of Parrish’s jeans, grabbing his ass like some sort of cliché old-school TV-heartthrob. Parrish is leaning in to him so obviously, it’s a wonder he hasn’t toppled over yet. They fit well together. Move naturally in accordance with each other. When Parrish turns his face to listen to something Dick says, Lynch leans in to nuzzle at his cheek, trailing kisses there.
Skov’s jaw aches.
Parrish is pretty, he’ll give Lynch that much, but there’s no fucking reason for Parrish to have gone for Lynch. But Skov can see the appeal. If he squints. There’s something enchanting about that tattoo. Skov has always liked laying his lips across inked skin and bite. Maybe Parrish likes to bite…oh fuck no.
Skov groans and slams his forehead against his knees. He’s such a disaster already, he doesn’t need another fucking worry. Especially not with bright blue eyes and very fucking appealing lips and…Skov presses his fingernails against the inside of his wrist, letting the pain flare for a good few seconds. He breathes slowly out as he lets go, getting his anger under control. K always loved to rile him up, see how far he could push Skov into his destructive rage.
When Skov raises his eyes again, they’re greeted by Parrish and Lynch’s creepy ass stares on him. Skov’s skin starts to crawl. He knows Lynch is something like K, which means he’s creepy as fuck. And Parrish…Parrish looks like he’s got ten thousand people inside his head, constantly giving him strange-ass knowledge from all fucking decades. Skov has no fucking idea where he was going with that metaphor, but he’s sure it’ll make sense to someone.
Anyways, Skov wants to run. Wants to scramble behind the wheel and take off, because he’s sure that they’re currently planning to kill him. Lynch taps Parrish’s shoulder twice, murmurs something when Parrish automatically leans in and then takes Parrish’s hand to lead him outside. Well, fuck, Skov’s not even written a will.
“Skov,” Lynch growls as he makes his way outside and Skov bares his teeth with his replying smile. “Lynch,” he drawls, dragging out the L and finishing it off with a flourish. He glances at the other boy. “Parrish,” he says, more uncaring, “Or…are you Lynch, too, now?”
Parrish gives him a humourless smile. Skov feels like he’s being fucking autopsied by them. “You wanna fight or somethin’?” he says, lounging back in a way he knows annoys Lynch a lot.
“Just wanted to know what was so interesting,” Lynch says, “Since you were staring so much.”
Skov glances at Parrish. “Don’t worry,” Parrish says, that creepy-ass smile still on his lips, “I’ve got a leash on him. He won’t bite this time.”
Skov can’t keep down his haughty laugh. “So that’s what you get up to in the bedroom, then,” he says, and K would call bull on his false confidence in seconds but K’s not here anymore. Lynch isn’t afraid at all. Lynch, behind-the-wheel-vicious-grin-hypermasculine-to-hell-and-back Lynch, isn’t afraid of his boyfriend so obviously laying claim to him. And Skov’s jaw aches again, the fucking bitch. They don’t reply to his barb and Skov hates that he misses Lynch’s fiery rage.
Skov inclines his head, and can’t come up with some sarcastic reply to save his fucking life. “Hard not to stare, with the way you’re feeling up your boy,” he bites out and tries not to make the underlying jealousy obvious. And that of all things makes Parrish’s cheeks flare red. It’s a pretty look.
Lynch is trying to figure him out, Skov can tell, because his eyebrows are raised in that specific way. Skov could try to relate, turn this into some sappy-ass “I know what it’s like” conversation, but he’s Blake fucking Skovron and he’s a tough-ass man who hung out with Joseph Kavinsky and he doesn’t do feelings. So if Lynch takes him as a bigot for this, Skov doesn’t care all that much. The rest of the fucking world already assigned him “bigot” the moment he walked into school with his perfect blonde hair and sneering lips and hands stuffed in his pockets.
“You got a problem with that?” Lynch finally asks, in that really amusing way he does when he’s not sure whether to be angry or not. Swan had called it “cute” until K had sneered at him and told him to not talk like a fag. The air had been considerably colder between the two after that. Not that anyone really cared. K sold the good shit and Swan wanted the good shit.
And, fuck him, Skov isn’t really looking for a fight, even though his body is aching for one, because Swan’ll turn it into an issue and then get too concerned with taking care of Skov instead of messing him up like Skov wants him to. So he runs his fingers along the fucking gold paint that he’s growing to actually like, and says “Not everybody’s as lucky as you, Lynch.”
Lets the implication hang between them.
A second goes by and then one of Lynch’s eyebrows raise up, and Skov can just feel how differently Lynch views him now. Parrish is still just staring at him, that creepy-ass gaze steady on the bruise. Ah shit, true. Parrish’s dad used to throw him around, didn’t he?
Skov wants to backtrack his words at least three sentences now, but Blake Skovron doesn’t fucking backtrack, so he meets Parrish’s gaze with that razor-cutting smile that K always used to say got him a little bit hot. Another thing Skov’s added to his hypocrite pile. To Skov’s both dismay and glee, Parrish offers one back. Kid grew a backbone, apparently. It robs Skov of a chance to intimidate, but damn if that smile isn’t hot on Parrish.
“Come on, Lynch,” he says, voice a kind of tone that gives Skov fucking shivers, “Gansey should be about done with his rant now.”
Lynch only answers with an uninterested hum, but it doesn’t seem to faze Parrish. He grabs Lynch’s hand and starts dragging him away, and where Skov would normally expect Lynch to snap and bite at it, he just…goes. No protest. Happy to let his boyfriend take charge where he needs to.
Aching. Fucking. Jaw.