Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,22
of it, a sink, two short feet of counter space with a standalone oven, and two cooktop burners.
He normally didn’t care. It was his space, and he needed privacy more than he needed luxury or amenities.
But he was suddenly painfully aware of how sparse it was, as Rian stood past the threshold and turned his head slowly, hazel eyes scanning the room.
Between the kitchen and the open single-room living space, the room was barely fifteen by fifteen; Damon had fit a twin bed in the corner, piled high with a box spring, a base mattress, and not one but two roll-out shikibuton-style futons meant for floor sleeping, but which made better mattress toppers than any Serta he’d ever damned well tried. The futons were stacked with homey handmade quilts, stitched in radial patterns of intersecting circular and square geometries to make designs that centered black on white four-pointed stars. A sofa would have made the place feel cluttered, so he’d opted for a deep, comfortable recliner instead, settled in the opposite corner from the bed and facing the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall.
He had no decorations on the walls. Not even pennants from past team wins, or his own trophies from his high school football days. He’d left those with his parents when he’d moved out, mementos of the boy he wasn’t anymore so they’d have something to keep when he wasn’t there. The only other things in the room were the small coffee table, the laptop atop it, his nightstand, and a row of bookshelves stretching beneath the window, along the wall opposite the bed. With the minimal furniture choices and most of his belongings in the closet, paired with the fact that he was lucky to get a corner unit in one of the narrow towers, giving him windows on two out of four walls...
Somehow, the space always just felt clean and cozy, instead of cramped.
But he still couldn’t help wondering how Rian—with all his airs and little decorative fripperies and that sense of refined elegance that said he came from a life accustomed to more—saw his space.
If he saw someone who preferred simplicity...
Or if he just saw a man with a barren, empty life, devoid of nearly all trappings save the little subtleties he doubted Rian even noticed.
But rather than the thin judgmental smile Damon expected...
Rian let out a delighted gasp, stepping deeper into the room, standing on the oval rug with its concentric circles of rainbow colors, turning in slow arcs. “You have your own room? How did you even manage...?”
“Luck and timing,” Damon said, after a startled moment. “There are only four cupola units, and they’re all this small; the rest is all staircases. Most people would rather share a room to have five times the space, but a few of the grouchy cranks like me prefer our privacy.”
Rian laughed, and it lit his face up as if someone had touched a match to the sparking wick of a candle inside a lantern. “Oh, I’d kill for this. Especially rooming with Walden. Though I’d probably cram myself in a tiny corner and fill the entire place up with art supplies. I admire your restraint.” On a light, dancing step that made his shawl swirl around him, Rian turned toward the bed, reaching out to run his fingertips lightly along the edge of one quilt. “...these are Mashpee designs, aren’t they?”
“Uh...?” Damon’s brain blanked. He—what—what? “I...yeah. I picked them up at the annual pow-wow up in Cape Cod a few years ago.”
And then never went back.
He’d stood so awkwardly on the edges the entire time, wishing he knew what he was missing in every graceful movement of the fireball ceremony when it was like watching a foreign show without the damned subtitles, wondering how the hell he could be one of the People of the First Light when he was so goddamned much in the dark.
Before he’d bought blankets like some kind of fucking tourist just to say he had something from his people.
And then run the fuck away.
Rian lifted his head, looking at Damon with a curiosity so frank it almost looked innocent; Rian looked so entirely different when they weren’t scowling at each other, his face open and fresh and sweet, freckled and warm with unspoken laughter. “Do you go every year?”
“I...no.” Damon averted his eyes, dragging a hand over his wet hair and mussing it. He really didn’t know what to do with Rian bright, enthusiastic, interested. “I just... I don’t.”