You Stress Me Out (BoyxBoy)

Draft Part Two

Hey, reader! This is an old version of this book from when I was a literal child. Feel free to skip ahead on the table of contents to "YSMO Updated Revisions" or just "YSMO Chapter One" to start your reading journey off right.

With love, A.J. Hyde
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"Do you know how to pronounce the word 'you' or do you say it like that to hide your intelligence?" I ask offhandedly, my focus on the clouds passing by above. I'd love to be outside right now, or rather anywhere else than this building. Nixon chuckles, kicking his feet up on my desk and blowing a ball of smoke at the ceiling. His gold eyes watch me intently, studying me as I lean against the windowsill.

"Does it matter why I talk the way I do?" He fires back, his lip lifting in a half smirk. "What about ya? Do ya sunbathe in front of me because ya want to defy me or because ya're comfortable with me?"

"Maybe I just like the sun."

He shrugs. "Maybe I just like mispronouncin' certain words."

I purse my lips together, crossing my ankles before me. "You're awfully sassy today. Something bugging you?"

He taps his foot to no particular beat. My head tilts slightly, eyes lingering on his ankles. Did I actually stumble onto the truth? "Are ya worryin' about me, old man?"

"Consider it a special privilege considering everyone else in this building is too scared to talk to me." Thanks to a certain somebody, I tack on in my head, my jaw clenching with the thought.

Picking up on my mood, he takes a long draw on his cigarette and stands up, not releasing it as he comes up directly in front of me.

I wait patiently, more than used to his games. Nixon is prone to boredom, I think. He's easy prey to it, and to make up for the fact, he likes to mess around and make attempts at getting under other people's skin. At least, that's what I assume motivates him.

My gut tightens as he props an arm up at my side and leans into me, thoughtlessly entering my personal space. He breathes out the smoke and I take it in, letting it linger at the beginning of my throat. When I breathe it out for him, a slight minty flavor lingers on my tongue despite the smoke, clinging to my tastebuds as if to stake his claim for him. He passes the cloud back to me, not allowing me to regain back any of what was lost of my breath, easing just a fraction closer.

The cloud gets smaller and smaller as we play out our little game until Nixon is towering above me, his lips practically closing over mine. I don't worry about how near he is though. He always pulls away. No matter how intense that peculiar little glint in his eyes becomes or how overwhelming the scent of his cologne gets. He will pull away. He breathes in the remaining wisps of smoke one last time before stepping back, taking back up his position leaning against the far side of the window.

"I told ya, I'm monopolizin' ya." He smirks dryly, his gaze drifting out across the distant field before settling back on me. Ah, there's that devious shine I know so well. "I take this very seriously, Dr. Michaels."

Despite having spent four days only talking to this kid, I still don't understand his odd habits - like calling me Dr. Michaels at random times instead of "old man", saying "ya" and not "you", or playing smoking games with someone he clearly doesn't care for. To be honest, I know hardly anything about this kid, and yet he seems to know me like the back of his hand, drawing out my responses like some well-practiced expert.

I plow my fingers through my hair, sighing at the few blonde strands that fall out at the rough movement. "Why are you going to this school?" From what I understand, you have to be a total delinquent to wind up here, but I've never seen Nixon with even an ounce of blood or drugs on him. Well, besides my nicotine.