Cold and Charisma (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Archer's Perspective

After I had to witness the unfortunate–and somewhat heartbreaking–sight of Riley, someone I care about more than words can express, drinking out of a bottle of vodka, I took it into my own hands to solve this dilemma.

I told myself it wasn't my place to care. But that was a lie. A painfully obvious one. Because I do care. I care way more than I should.

When I got home after walking my dog—still replaying that brief porch moment with Riley—my brain wouldn't shut up.

Just because he grew up in Russia chugging vodka like water didn't mean it was healthy. Or normal. Or okay.

But then again, who am I to care about what he does–? No–fuck.. I do care, so much, that seeing him drink himself to the point of tolerance made something in my heart twist.

He never listens. That's the thing. The first time we ever met, he was literally trying to buy a pack of beer. I face-palmed at the memory and stared blankly at my wall, wondering how someone like him can be so careless and so... breakable at the same time.

His body is a mess of bruises—half from soccer, half from sheer stubbornness—and every time I see one, I feel this weird urge to fix everything. To protect him. To wrap him in bubble wrap and make him drink water like a normal person.

Who would I be if I didn't put an end to this? Even though it certainly wasn't my place, and never will be, I still felt a certain obligation to take care of him. It's not like I can help it, okay?

Riley has such delicate, angelic features, that sometimes I forget the grimace he can cast using them.

Fine, if he won't take care of himself—I will.

That evening, I drove to my grandparents' house, where their backyard is basically a tiny orchard, and spent an embarrassing amount of time climbing trees to pick oranges. Yes, I'm aware of how ridiculous that sounds.

Archer Wilson: robotics captain, top of his class, certified idiot climbing fruit trees for the boy who called him "pathetic" three days ago. Well, I had to make sure I only got the best for the best–in which case, the best is Riley.

On the drive home, my mom's favorite saying kept echoing in my mind—it's a labor of love.
And unfortunately, it fit too well.

I wasn't doing this because I loved cooking. Or because I enjoyed manual labor.
I was doing this because—God, help me—I loved something else far more.

Or someone.

Okay. Nope. Abort. I did not just think that.

Since my mom has always been into cooking, preferring homemade over store-bought, she'd accumulated a myriad of cookbooks over the years... one being a book about how to make the best juices.

I flipped from page to page before settling on a recipe, and studying it like I should've been studying for my English test, but I figured this was more important right now.

Riley was really doing numbers on me–I skipped parties, gatherings, and dinners to study... But here I was, skipping my favorite pastime to–ugh, make orange juice.

Yes, I know I'm already labelled as 'pathetic,' and a 'tryhard,' by Riley, among other harsher insults, but I couldn't stop myself.

As I put all my efforts into making the best orange juice for him, I felt satisfied when I finally got a taste of it. It wasn't too bad. Plus, it was nonarguably a far healthier alternative than vodka.