Tab was sketching little doodles of people when Nick arrived that afternoon. Or rather, Tab was sketching Nick, from memory: hundreds of tiny figures dotted the page in baggy jeans and carrying black sports bags. He kept drawing in those surprised eyebrows and sharp cheekbones, but left the rest of the face blank.
If one of the gods had ever smiled on him, it was the God of Memory. He had spent so long (a whole five years, ever since his first ever crush) admiring boys from afar that drawing Nick from memory was…well, easy.
And then the door was thumped open by a heavy boot, and the little dark-blue sketches with fluffy lines and soft shading…became insignificant. Because Nick wasn’t fluffy lines and soft shading. He was shaved head and broken teeth and hard muscle and…
“Hey.”
And that
