Pretty Boy [bxb] | ✔️

Chapter eighteen: You can't do that

"Eastenders," I say, telling him the name of the show. I wait a little bit, preparing myself for more insults from him, but he never says any. His facial expression is calm, no hint of disgust or anger as he removes his jeans under the covers. He's wearing the same tight-fitting shirt. "So, you don't despise me and think I'm ugly?" I ask him.

He gives me a weird look, "Um...no. I think you're far from ugly. Do you still not believe that I like you?" He questions. He's so casual.

I let out a breath.

It was a dream. Oh, thank goodness. It felt so real; like a memory and not a dream at all! I was so certain that he was going to punch me. I genuinely thought that at some point after him saying those things about me, I fell asleep and woke up again. But it never happened. I was asleep the whole time. A dream.

What a stupid and completely unrealistic dream, too. Alex has never really laid a finger on me. He has pushed me into a locker before, but it's never been more violent than that. He's never mentioned my body either, or my anxiety. My looks, however—he has, unfortunately. Not in a really bad way, though. Just a passing comment like he thinks I look like a maggot. Childish things.

"No, it's not that. It's just a dream...I had," I say truthfully, feeling awkward at the fact that I'm telling him that I had a dream about him.

He grins, looking awfully excited over the prospect of me dreaming about him, even when I have just told him that he called me ugly and that he despised me. Interesting.

"You dreamt about me? What happened in it?" He asks, so I tell him. When I finish my tale of woe, he scoffs. "I would never say that. What the fuck?"

"Yeah, I—I don't know why I dreamt it."

"Maybe it was your brain trying to translate that you don't fully believe that I like you. Are
you scared that I'm lying?" He guesses. "Well, not scared—you know what I mean."

That does make sense. Even after our talk on the plane, I still have my suspicions, naturally. I have every right to, anyway. This is all happening so quickly. I guess I was trying to avoid that and focus on what I've been told, and my brain doesn't like that, thus making the dream. How merciless! I blame the anxiety.

"Yeah, I think so."

"I get it, it's OK." He smiles. "Anyway, it's getting late. We should go to sleep. We have to get up early for that Thames boat thing," Alex says. I agree with him, so he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp so we're submerged into darkness. "Goodnight, Matthew."

"Goodnight."

"Are we going to the Tower of London tomorrow?" He asks as I shut my eyes. I can hear him shuffling around, and I assume that he's removing his shirt.

"Yeah, after the boat ride," I respond, not bothering to open my eyes. I turn to my side and hug a pillow to me.

"Oh, cool. I've always wanted to see where people have been beheaded." Alex laughs.

"That's gross."

"You're gross," He teases. "Anyway, sleep tight."

"You too."

"I—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

After that, we go to sleep. Or, at least, Alex goes to sleep. I toss and turn for hours after this, my mind going into overdrive, thinking of things that I'd rather not think about. It's the early hours of the morning when I decide that I won't be getting any sleep like this at all.