Page 41 of Dream a Little Dream

“Oi, that’s mine.”

Of course it would be Archie’s. There couldn’t have been anyone else in the whole damn Chepstow Hall housing fifty students, and this Flat Two containing ten, itcouldhave belonged to. He’d steered clear of the arsehole all week. Kept his nose clean, too. Been to all his lectures. Seminars. Even did his reading. It was almost like he was trying to be the professor’s pet.I wish.And on receiving the timetable of when he was supposed to see the dreary welfare officer and talk about hisfeelings, he’d responded with a positive. He was looking forward to it. He’d missed winding up his therapists. Making themthinkhe was a narcissistic sociopath.

He never showed his true self.

Ever.

What would that achieve? People expected him to be a certain thing. So he was a certain thing. Slap a label on him, he’ll be it.

Aaron twisted from the bin, facing Archie. The bandage stretching across the arch of his nose had Aaron chuckling. He didn’t need the damn thing. It had been a week since the incident. Probably thought it scored points with the girls. Cause fuck knew he needed the help there. Aaron had done him a favour.

Aaron held up the jar of shit. “What? This?”

“Yeah. Take your fucking hands off it.”

“Bit possessive, there, Arch. Of your…” Aaron read the label, kitting his eyebrows together as if the recipe of ingredients was the most fascinating text he’d ever read. And he’d just finishedThe Psychology of Criminal Conduct, 6thEdition. He arched an eyebrow. “Yeast extract?”

Archie stepped farther into the kitchen. “I said, put it down.”

“Or is it the vegetable juice concentrate that has you all tightfisted? Vitamins? B12 and folic acid.” Aaron peered back at Archie. “You know who they give folic acid to, right? Pregnant women. Are you pregnant, Arch?”

“Fuck you. Put it down.”

“You’re very irritable. That can be an indicator of a lack of B12. I guess now your mum’s fully severed that umbilical cord she fed you with for eighteen years, your nutritional intake has suffered.”

“Put. It. The fuck.Down.”

“You should eat more of this.” Aaron waggled the jar. “Might settle those irritants. Helps with depression, too. Are you feeling sad? Do you miss your mum tucking you in at night?”

“I ain’t telling you again.”

“Because you’ve forgotten?” Aaron winced. “This can also improve memory function.”

“You don’t put that down, I’ll smash your gay fucking face with it.”

Aaron laughed. “My gay fucking face?”

“Yeah. Your gay fucking gay face.”

“It’s not only my face that’s gay.”

“Don’t want to know.”

“You brought it up.” Aaron cocked his head, then chucked the jar in the air and caught it. “How do you plan on smashing my ‘gay fucking face’ when I’m the one holding it?”

“You think I can’t wrestle that out of your puny hand?”

Andthereit was. The common misconception he’d suffered with for years. That, because he was shorter, slimmer, didn’t work out at the gym, or play any team sports, he was a pushover. Blokes considered him non-threatening. But it didn’t take muscle and brawn to win a fight.

It took planning and creativity.

And callousness.

“Go on then.” Aaron waggled the jar.

“What?”

“Smash my gay fucking face with it.” Aaron blew him a kiss. “See, I think you like looking at it. Certainly can’t get enough of it. Do you masturbate to me?”

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