lost [editing/rewriting]

𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢-𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎

You know that feeling when someone you care about a lot tell you to come over and you drop everything you're doing and run there? 

Yeah, I was just about to smoke some weed, sit down, breathe, maybe calm the anxiety starting to shine through again. But I put away the joint and took the stairs to our dorm, hoping that'd be quicker, when Sam texted me, telling me Emmett was out the entire weekend and I could sleep in his room.

Now I'm out of breath, dizzy as fuck and trying to get through the corridor to Sam's room, but I think it's pretty worth it.

Sam gives me a look I like to call you're an idiot, Aiden. You'd think it was a regular you're an idiot look, but I'm pretty sure I can hear my name in there. At least I like to imagine I can. "You didn't have to run." 

"I just took the stairs," I say, panting. "Daily exercise and all." 

Sam shakes his head a little and pats the spot next to him. "This is only because I'm done with everything I need to do for the week. Don't think we can do this often." 

I sink down in the mattress, half-laying against the wall. His lap would make a perfect pillow, and, I mean, we have made out with each other a few times now. Still, I don't know how romantic that is. Like, are we people who make out because it's nice, or are we people who make out because it's nice with each other?

I'm most definitely the latter, but Sam? I know he's pretty much said differently, but I guess my brain can't really trust its own memory unless he says it about once every hour, so I'm just going to assume that he kind of hates me now and would never ever want to cuddle.

"I was going to watch a movie," he says.

"Sounds good." 

Sam grabs his computer, sitting on his other side, and opens up Netflix. 

Are we talking watching a movie or Netflix and chill? 

I'm not really sure what not going further means. Or, well, I know what it means, obviously, but how much further? Sex or relationship? Guess that depends on what he thinks is further. To me, that's commitment, but that's just me.

Either way, I don't have a problem with the latter. I probably shouldn't think of it too much, though. 

But he's so fucking hot. I wonder if he could grow a beard. He'd look so good in just a little stubble. Or a full beard. Or longer hair. Or shorter hair. With and without glasses. Damn, he's just perfect. 

He's wearing them right now, his glasses, and it's pretty obvious how much less strain it is on his eyes. Usually he has this pretty much constant tense eyebrows, now they're just neutral.

"You're pretty in glasses," I say.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"I'm not joking." I push myself up a little. "You look like a hotter version of Harry Potter."

"Hotter?" 

"Come on, don't tell me you don't think Daniel Radcliffe is hot." 

He scrunches his face together. "Aiden, I didn't watch Harry Potter and ask myself whether he was hot or not."

Well, I did.

I don't say that. Something about it tightens my throat. Probably how fucking gay I am. God.

Sam takes off his flannel, revealing his scarred arms, and continues scrolling through Netflix like it's nothing. It is nothing. They're scarred, not wounded, and that's good. He's great for overcoming that.