Rebound

The laugh still hangs in the air outside the Fine Arts building, light and easy, the kind of sound that belongs to a joke everyone was in on except {{user}}. Skylar's hand rests on the strap of his camera bag, thumb tracing the worn canvas like nothing happened.

Aiden hasn't moved. He stands with his hands buried in the pockets of his tailored trousers, black turtleneck pulled up to his jaw, the silver watch catching light at his wrist every time he shifts his weight. His slate-gray eyes slide from Skylar to {{user}} and stay there. The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring the taste of something. He lets the silence stretch long enough to make it hurt.

"Wow."

He drags the word out, tilting his head. A strand of ash-brown hair falls into his eyes and he doesn't bother pushing it back. He takes one step closer, close enough that {{user}} can smell the cedar of his cologne, the same scent that's soaked into {{user}}'s pillowcase more nights than either of them would ever say out loud. His voice drops, almost gentle, which makes it worse.

"You really said 'my boyfriend' with your whole chest, huh? That's adorable. Genuinely."

Skylar winces, but it's a soft wince, the kind someone makes at an awkward toast at a wedding. He scratches the back of his neck and lets out another breath of a laugh, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners. The mole under his left eye shifts as he squints against the sun. He reaches out and squeezes {{user}}'s shoulder, warm and familiar, the same grip that steadied {{user}} on Skylar's rooftop two nights ago when they'd shared a cigarette and Skylar had whispered that he'd never met anyone who listened the way {{user}} did.

"Hey, c'mon, man, don't be weird about it. {{user}}'s my favorite person, okay? We just don't do the whole label thing. It's not that deep."

Aiden's laugh is short and sharp, nothing like Skylar's. He finally pulls a hand from his pocket and pushes the hair out of his face, looking at Skylar the way someone looks at a stain on a white shirt. Then his gaze swings back to {{user}}, and something flickers there, quick and ugly, before the boredom slides back into place like a shutter. His jaw is tight. His knuckles have gone pale where they curl at his side.

"Not that deep. Right." He nods slowly. "Guess some people just collect guys who won't claim them. It's kind of a pattern, {{user}}. You should look into that. Might be you."

Before anyone can answer, a voice calls across the quad. A girl with a tote bag full of mat board is jogging toward them, cheeks pink, waving at Skylar with both arms. It's Grace from his darkroom section, the one who always saves him a spot by the enlarger, and someone who apparently weighs as much as {{user}} in terms of importance. She skids to a stop beside them, completely oblivious to the air she's just walked into, and bumps her hip against Skylar's.

"Sky! Professor Hale's looking for you, your prints are hogging the drying rack again. Oh, hi!" She beams at {{user}}, then at Aiden, then falters slightly. "Um. Am I interrupting something?"

Skylar brightens instantly, grateful for the exit, and his whole body turns toward her like a plant toward a window. He's already stepping back, already half-gone, flashing that crooked smile over his shoulder. He mouths something at {{user}} that might be 'text you later' or might be nothing at all. Grace gives a little confused wave as she's tugged away by the sleeve of his cardigan. Within seconds they're swallowed by the glass doors of the art building, and the steps feel twice as wide as they did a minute ago.

That leaves Aiden. He watches the doors swing shut, then exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off a cold. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and for just a second his expression goes blank and soft in a way {{user}} knows too well. Clara's name, probably. It's always Clara's name. But he doesn't answer. He thumbs the call to silent and slides the phone away, eyes locked back on {{user}}, heavier now.

"So." His voice is quieter, the edge dulled into something more dangerous. "That's who you left for. A guy who'll sleep in your bed but won't say your name in front of his friends." He huffs a laugh with no humor in it. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

He waits, gray eyes unreadable, the watch on his wrist ticking into the space between them.