PRE-VENOM
'You aren't human, and it's time you act like it.'
Perhaps the only way to describe Damon Hill involves the use of the word 'devilish.' After all, he's got a curious birthmark to match the giant trident-sized hole in the back o...
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CHAPTER THREE: YOUR PORCELAIN FACE
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A haphazard disarray of Chinese food is littered across the coffee table in the middle of the living area, foods Damon didn't even know existed now introduced to his taste buds. And he has Jane to thank for it all, but he's not sure the mysterious woman would like him expressing his gratitude. After all, they've just had a conversation about how much she hates thank yous, and maybe that's a sign he shouldn't say it anytime soon.
Instead, he takes his appreciation and shoves it into his mouth alongside a forkful of noodles he's already forgotten the name of. They're salty yet sweet, and there's just enough grease that he doesn't feel guilty about eating two servings.
"You're hungry," Jane observes about twenty minutes too late, just as the boy sheepishly chews on the last bits of orange chicken in his mouth. She barely ate any of the food, her take-out box still considerably full. Still, she hands it over to him. "You can have the rest. I'm not hungry."
He almost lets out a soft "Thank you," but has to kick himself in the back of his skull to remind himself that she probably wouldn't let him eat her food if he says it. So, he offers her a small smile to show his gratitude before digging in.
"So, sad boy," she addresses him in a way that doesn't feel condescending in the slightest, though her words say otherwise, "when's the last time you had a proper meal?"
She looks at him with the eyes of an old friend, one that has stuck with him through thick and thin, but of course he doesn't notice. He's too busy eating his third serving of noodles and chicken and beef and—damn, he's eaten a lot of food.
"Last Christmas?" he says it like a question, as if he's not completely sure about his answer. And it's true. He's not sure. It could've been a hungry Thanksgiving, a barbecue-less Independence Day, or maybe even that one Valentine's Day a year ago when he snuck out to grab dinner with a boy he doesn't remember the name of. He's not sure.
Jane's heart, although quite small and beating only for herself, aches.
She can't imagine living like he has for so long. It's September, which means Sad Boy's been hungry for nearly nine months, and she feels the urge to give him all the food and shelter in the world. She wants him to stop fending for himself, to start accepting help, but she can't seem to voice that. He would probably run away again if she did, anyway.
"Well, to make up for that, we are ordering some new food everyday," she offers with a bright grin, eliciting one from him as well, though his is a bit more melancholic. "Chinese today, Indian tomorrow! Or maybe Italian. We'll see."
He wants to ask, he wants to ask so bad: When does everyday end? Because his last family, albeit one that signed paperwork that specifically stated he'd only be with them for a couple months, promised everyday as well. And the last. And the last. And the last.
In fact, he's pretty sure everyone that's ever bailed on him has promised everyday.
She must be a mind reader or just extremely intuitive because, at the smallest flinch and twitching of his brow, she knows something is terribly wrong.
"When I say everyday, I mean it," she clarifies, giving him a charming smile. "Till death do us part, stranger. Us runaways need to stick together."
He furrows his brows. "What are you running away from?"
She tilts her head with that same, comforting yet seductive smile and answers, "Life, an ex-girlfriend, Hell. Take your pick."
His ears perk up at the word 'girlfriend' and he subsequently ignores any other part of her answer, arguably the most important parts. A thousand questions enter his brain, but only the dumbest one finds its way out:
"You're gay?"
She doesn't appear phased by it, as if she's been expecting him to ask for hours. On the contrary, she lazily clasps her arms around Damon's neck and looks him straight in the eye. He looks right back—what else is he supposed to do?—and he swears he can see the shape of the moon in her eyes.
"I believe sexuality is fluid," she confesses, and a smirk soon dons over her face. "Don't you?"
It's like she knows everything about him, from his early years to the awkward prepubescent ones he's been trying to forget. Or, maybe she just likes to pretend she does so she isn't surprised by anything he says. Either way, he feels comfortable around her after her most recent confession, and that's probably why he doesn't hesitate to answer her.
"Yeah. I've never had a girlfriend, though," he confesses lamely. "Or a boyfriend."
"And the self-proclaimed introvert finally shares a bit of his life with me!" she announces with a chuckle from both of them, unclasping her arms shortly after.
He's left one last piece of beef in his box and she picks it up with her nails, bringing it up to his lips. Wordlessly, he parts them and lets her place it in his mouth.
"I'm curious," she says, looking up at the ceiling, as if she can see the stars straight through it. He swears he sees the Aquila constellation appear in her eyes, flagging her apartment as the Olympus she's given the sad boy. "Why haven't you ditched me yet?"
That's a question he can't answer.
Not because it's a particularly hard one—no, the answer is quite simple. He hasn't run away because a part of him believes Jane might be the family he's searched his entire life for. A part of him believes she might be his saving grace, his angel sent down from Heaven to look over him and make sure he doesn't fall into any sort of trouble.
Her question is a question he can't answer. Not because of any of the reasons above, but because he's fast asleep on the couch.
She notices almost immediately and can't fight the small smile on her face, and neither can she fight the homey feeling at the pit of her stomach. It's one of nostalgia, as if she's been here before in this exact same position, and Damon will probably never know she feels this way when she's around him.
She tries her hardest not to make a sound too loud as she looks for a blanket to cover him with. She only has one in her room, on her bed, and it doesn't take long for her to realize it's the only one she's got. It's pretty cold in her apartment around this time—she can see Damon visibly shivering—so she makes a sacrifice.
And before she knows it, the boy on her couch snuggles up to the blanket she's placed over his body and he looks far more innocent than before. He looks like there's a thousand things out there that can cause him pain; but nothing will ever hurt him again, not if Jane has anything to do with it.
On the eve of October, on that relentlessly brisk night, she feels the dark, almost demonic glow of her eyes as she whispers, "Night, Damon," and turns off the lights.
