To Perceive an Image

Thirty-Nine: Images of Theft

The Image World, September 27, 2040, 11:45 PM

"And does your majesty have a plan for how to do this?" I ask a grinning Flynn. As much as I think he looks handsome grinning, I have to burst his bubble. I'm seeking logic here. Even if his dimple looks adorable as fuck.

He leans closer, resulting in his abdomen getting borderline squashed by the armchair, but he doesn't care. His stomach can get as squeezed as it wants. He's the one who didn't accept my offer for him to lie on the bed with me. Saying he had to look at his computer for something. He hasn't spared the screen a single glance in the last thirty minutes I've been here.

Karma for not listening to me.

Call it Azail karma.

His habit of leaning inches closer to wherever I am makes maintaining eye contact fall within a challenging range. The joke is on me; I'm looking at his eyelashes because the idea of looking at his eyes will make that dizzy spell come back. No amount of distance will help my struggle. Curse his room for being small and leaving a mere two-foot distance between his bed and chair. Having long legs make contact with my stretched ones inevitable.

His fingers snap, followed by a knowing smirk, "ID's," he says like it's obvious.

"Huh?" my uncontrolled mouth asks, not waiting for my brain to think before speaking. My eyebrows furrow, confused to the skies. I contemplate sitting up, but my arms crossed behind my head feel mighty comfortable.

Flynn stands up, and I don't get to ask him where he's going before he plops himself onto the bed to my right.

Even though we established an unspoken rule that the left side is his, we didn't follow the memo today. Look at me laying on his side as if I own it.

His weight made the bed drop, and I almost fall to the ground. He caught my arm in time. Imagine helping people when your face looks like you fell on it and did. We both sigh in relief when we realize there are no casualties. The mister in question leans back and crosses his arms behind his head the same way I did. The sight of his legs dangling off of the bed made me laugh. His attempts at swinging them result in him bumping his feet onto his desk one too many times. Ouch.

"You steal my clone's work ID, and we infiltrate that building all roots of evil come from in secret," he whispers. I don't know who would give enough of a fuck to tune in on us, but I whisper too. "Unrelated, but knowing the fact that you have a clone is hot," my voice came out as serious as I had hoped it would. Flynn, however, did not look impressed.

"I feel cheated on," he sighs, shaking his head. To further express his melancholy, a frown tugs his lips down. I turn my back in intricate ways to lean my weight on my right arm, "sir, I called you hot. What part of that translated to cheating on you?"

"The part where you called Flynn junior hot," he states as a matter of fact.

I roll my eyes, "sorry, I would never. But I will make fun of you for this." I laugh, already imagining how much fun I'm going to have while doing that. My laugh gets cut short, replaced with a squeal when I feel a pinch at my sides. Moving away from him to escape the torture fails because he grasps my arm to keep me still.

"If you do that again, I will not speak with you for an entire hour. I promise you that," and just like that, I no longer felt a hand keeping me still. That's what I thought- smirk it out, Azail.

Flynn rests one of his hands on his heart, clenching the fabric of his shirt as if he's in pain. "You would never," his eyes widened a smidge. I make a pathetic attempt at rubbing his arm to ease his stress. It looked pathetic because my hand was a solid centimeter above his arm, and the alleged rub disguised itself as a pat. Physical touch will never be my forte, I'm sorry.