Chapter Nine: Cousin Savior

Therefore, he thought, everything would end here—but to his surprise, hard, cold skin pressed against his back, saving him from falling onto the sharp mouth of the tiles.

Josh’s eyes were glued shut.

“Are you fine?” A familiar voice cut through the closet of his mind.

His lids unlocked. His hands were sweating, and his foot felt like a rock against the slippery droplets of water.

It was Nathan, the one who had saved him from the fall. The strands of Nathan’s wolf-cut hair made a glorious entrance into Josh’s vision.

“Hey man, get off!” Tristan yelled.

Josh regained his composure, though his throat was clenched by an inexplicable acid, as if a large chunk of fur had been shoved down his esophagus.

Tristan grabbed Josh’s shoulder, his touch installing a loathsome, measurable heat that made Josh’s blood recoil. He was starting to feel the rush of his heart trying to jump out of his body.

Now he was behind Tristan.

The scent of Tristan’s body flew toward his senses. Sunflower perfume?

“Man, you should thank me. Isn’t it obvious I saved him?” Nathan answered Tristan, whose ribs seemed to burn with the intensity of smoke.

Josh’s lips were sealed, his mind racing. Why was Nathan here?

“Okay, then?” Tristan replied to him, looking like he was about to punch the life out of Nathan’s monolid eyes.

“Stop! Both of you, please shut up! I didn’t waste my time coming here just to watch the two of you kill each other!” Josh yelled, bruising both of their egos instantly.

Tristan’s jaw froze as if a bomb had been planted in it.

Meanwhile, Nathan’s hand moved down to the pocket of his blue jeans, casually checking his phone as if the explosion hadn't happened.

The living room felt radiant with tension, the walls starting to crawl in Josh’s vision, trying to convince him to beat some sense into these two. He needed to get straight A’s on his paper. They didn’t know how his father’s hand and belt would change the atmosphere of his life instantly if he failed.

“Anyway, what are you doing here, Nathan?” Josh asked, regaining his cold posture.

Tristan moved away from them and returned to mop the crimson puddle of water on the tiles.

“He’s my cousin,” Tristan said honestly, his tone cold.

“Yes, I’m his cousin,” Nathan confirmed.

For the next moment, Tristan explained the situation. He wanted to move out of his parents' place and change schools for a reason he refused to spit out. His parents agreed, but only if he lived with family—therefore, he was connected to a cousin. Boom, they were roommates.

The door creaked as Tristan closed it and locked the knob.

Click.

The sound sealed them inside. Josh was already sitting on the edge of the mattress, and to his surprise, the room was well-organized.

The sheets on the bed weren't lying on the floor. The pavements of the room were clean, and his face was promoted in the reflection of the polished mirror. The walls were not what he expected—they held a vibe that his skin would love to fuse with. It was dark, cool, and surprisingly tasteful.

A poster was stuck on the wall—it was Avril Lavigne holding her guitar.

“Okay,” Tristan said as he faced Josh, rubbing the back of his neck.

He sighed and nodded, the tension still lingering from the fight with Nathan.

“What?” Josh asked, his guard fully raised.

“My mind is starting to hit the warm water, you know? My cousin is annoying,” Tristan said as he walked closer to Josh. The boundary barrier between them flickered dangerously.

“He’s not that annoying,” Josh replied. He took out the heavy math books they were about to study. He refused to admit that Nathan had saved him.

Tristan scoffed, and his hand flew above gravity in a dismissive wave. “Come on, you don’t have to lie to me, Mr. President.”

Josh’s brows boiled. The nickname was a scraper against his eardrums.

“For fuck's sake, stop calling me Mr. President,” he replied, not glancing up from his bag.

“Fine by me,” Tristan replied with a smirk that Josh could feel even without looking.

Tristan returned to the room moments later with a bunch of snacks to pick from.

One thing that Josh loved the most—though he would never admit it—was the Choco-Vita Milk in Tristan’s hand. It was his childhood favorite, a weakness he kept hidden under his iron exterior.

“Give me that,” Josh said. He didn't ask; he demanded. He grabbed the drink from Tristan’s grip, their fingers brushing for a millisecond that sent a shockwave through Josh’s arm.

“Hey! That’s mine!” Tristan yelled out loud.

“Not anymore.” Josh chugged the drink open, the seal cracking with a satisfying pop.

“You are absolutely rude and disrespectful. First, you order me around like a waitress, and now this?” Tristan chuckled so hard he looked like he might swallow his own tongue.

“Yes, whatever you say,” Josh replied and rolled his eyes.

His heart beat in rhyme with the blink of his lids. He took a sip, the sweet chocolate liquid calming the acid in his throat.

They studied for the past thirty minutes, and yet, there was progression. It wasn't silent, though.

“That formula is archaic,” Josh criticized, pointing his pen at Tristan’s notebook like a sword. “Use the derivative method. It’s cleaner.”

“It’s boring,” Tristan argued, leaning in closer. “My way gets the same answer but with more style.”

“Math doesn’t need style, it needs accuracy,” Josh snapped.

He watched Tristan’s hand scribble numbers on the page. The handwriting was messy but correct. It annoyed Josh. It threatened his throne.

Every time Tristan leaned over to check Josh’s work, the scent of sunflowers invaded Josh’s personal bubble. It made Josh’s hand curl up into a ball, fighting the urge to slam it onto Tristan’s face.

But deeper down, in the system error of his chest, there were those moments where his heart wanted to fuse with the boy next to him.

He was glad the room was dim enough that his cheeks were not painted pink. He was the King, and Kings do not blush over their academic rivals.