Truth [An Aaron Tveit Fanfiction]

Five: Tattoos

We sat hunched over our bowls staring at my laptop. Binge watching seasons for no reason, of course!

Michael laughed and pointed at the screen with his spoon.

“I love Moz!” He said scooping more chili into his mouth. “He reminds me of me . . .” he said mumbling between his chews.

I swallowed my spoonful and laughed.

“What; bald, socially awkward, has trust issues, pathological liar-” he grunted cutting me off and I lifted an eyebrow at him. “May I go on?”

“No.” his eyebrows knit together as he glared at me. “I meant the intelligent, funny, and witty part.” I laughed and looked back at the screen as it zoomed in on Matt Bomer’s face and his gorgeous blue eyes.

I sighed and smiled.

“I would be Neal  . . .”

“What are you actually gay, married, and have three children?”

“Oh, of course!” I lifted my arms to my apartment. He laughed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yeah! I’m a gorgeous, attractive, sexy,” I winked and continued “humorous, lovely, deceiving, and a lying thief.” I said in all seriousness.

“Mhmm . . .” he rolled his eyes and stifled a laugh.

I smiled and turned back to the laptop, thinking.

“Hey.” I asked blankly as the credits sped across the bottom of the screen.

“What?” he asked as he shoved more chili in his mouth. I nodded at the screen, jabbing at the air with my spoon.

“Do you know anyone named Michael?” he lowered an eyebrow at me and twisted his mouth. “Brown hair, blue eyes, crinkles when he smiles, a voice of silk, and gorgeous blue eyes?”

“Michael?” he tilted his head. “Michael, Michael, Mike?” I nodded feeling the gears in my head spin. I could see his working too. “Could it be Mike?” We were fetching at anything.

We were silent, thinking.

I clicked onto the last episode of the season and it started.

“Mike Warren?” Michael finally suggested.

“Yes!” something clicked. Mike! His name was Mike Warren! I turned to him with wide eyes. “How did you get that?” he gave me an odd like it was plastered on my forehead.

“Uh, I just saw that you had Graceland on your watchlist and we were listening to Elvis earlier . . .” he said slowly. “It was just a wild guess, why?”

“That’s him!” I squealed again, in excitement. I always felt accomplished when I put something together. Like how the ‘U’ and the ‘A’ make Underarmor and like how the dots make up the Blackberry symbol . . .

Hey, I only said I was smart academically.

For the most part, at least. . .

* * * * *

I coiled back; my wrist feeling nothing compared to my ears.

I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

“You were the lucky one; you were.” She spat at me; the sharpness of her menacing voice as cruel as the slap on my wrist.

I just stared at her. I didn’t know what she was talking about.