Chapter 19

Matt

I've never been so bored in my entire life. That's really saying something, because when I finished college, I did a stint working in the archives with Ian, and for a while everyone was worried I'd developed some kind of sleeping disorder. As in, I literally fell asleep while checking documents.

This is even worse than that.

"It's a couch," Ian mutters beside me. "Why does it have to come in so many different colors and… stuff?"

I shrug. I've never really cared what color the furniture is. I mean, I've never actually been shopping for furniture—the stuff Ian and I have in the house was just picked over from what was in our parents' houses. After the Battle, when Gabe and Con decided to make their move to Illinois official and permanent, we all sat down to talk about the houses. Our parents were gone, and even though technically the Collective's bylaws state that treason means forfeiture of all property within a Collective compound, nobody was going to argue that we shouldn't inherit it—not after we saved their bacon.

The final decision was that we didn't need two four-bedroom houses for just me and Ian, and, truthfully, neither of us wanted to live in those houses again—not knowing what our parents had done. We told the housing committee we wanted to trade them both for a three-bedroom one. Family housing is at a premium in the compound, so they were only too happy to agree, and then we kept the furniture and other stuff that was in the nicest condition and fit the best in the new house, and told the housing committee to take the rest for the dorms.

So, yeah—never had to buy new furniture in my life. I think our couch is brown. Though it might be beige. Or black. It's definitely either leather or vinyl, because when we spill drinks, they're easy to clean up. What more does a guy need in a couch?

A lot, apparently, since Marc and Dylan have been talking to the salesman—excuse me, design associate—for fifteen minutes. Dyl even looks a little interested.

"At least it's comfortable," I tell Ian, slumping further into the cushions. That's the main reason I told Dylan I liked this one—because I've been sitting on it for nearly half an hour now, and my ass isn't numb. Not like the first one Marc thought was good.

"True. Man, I could go for a nap right now. Think they'd notice?"

On cue, Marc looks sharply in our direction, eyes narrowed. Damn his demon hearing.

"He noticed," I point out.

"Yeah. I fucking hate when he does that. A guy can't get away with anything when his boyfriend has super hearing."

I don't bother to respond; what's there to say? "I told you not to hook up with the demon who tried to kill your brother" is mean, since they're in a committed relationship. Besides, Ian's idea of a nap is really appealing, and if I keep my trap shut, Marc might not notice.

Snuggling deeper into the couch I'm really glad Dylan's going to buy, I let my eyes drift shut. Despite my best efforts, I didn't sleep well after that stupid dream woke me, and lunch, though way fancier than I'm used to, was good . I thought all that fussy rich people food was supposed to be more for show than actual eating, but I wouldn't complain if I ate it every now and then. There was this steak thing… hell yeah. I had three courses and cheese, because according to Marc, cheese completes the meal. I don't know about that, but the cheese was good too. I am stuffed , I'm tired, and I'm bored. Definitely the perfect combination for a little doze.

My thoughts drift randomly as the sound of Ian's regular breathing tells me he's doing the same as me, and I sink deeper into?—

A car alarm starts going off. It's not close—maybe a block away? Just close enough for the high-pitched sound to travel and drive me insane . I wait for the owner to turn the damn thing off, but seconds turn into minutes, and finally I huff and open my eyes. "That's so fucking inconsiderate," I mutter, sitting up straight.

"Wha? Huh?" Ian jerks awake. Marc turns to glare at us both.

"The car alarm," I explain to my bestie, just as it stops. "Finally."

He rolls his eyes. "You woke me for that? I couldn't even hear it."

I'm about to ask how he could possibly have missed it when the sales-design-whosit tells Dylan how much the couch costs. My head whips around so fast, I hear my neck crack. "I'm sorry, how much ?"

"How much what? What are you talking about?" Ian complains.

"The couch that costs almost as much as a brand-new car."

The sales guy coughs lightly. "That's a slight exaggeration." His condescending tone just adds to my annoyance, and I'm about to tell him where he can shove his overpriced but shockingly comfortable couch, but Marc stops me.

"I believe you'll find it isn't," he says to the guy in a voice so cold, I'm surprised icicles don't form. "Perhaps we should patronize a store where the associates have a better grasp of economics, Dylan."

Okay, my brain is still groggy from my almost-nap, but did Marc just defend me?

"Maybe we should," Dyl agrees. "I like the couch, and I also like that chair you pointed out, but since my boyfriend has to live with my choices as well, I don't think his opinion should be ignored." He smiles at me. "Right, Matt?"

The sales guy goes pale. Losing commission on a couch and a chair? Because I'm a petty bitch and like to rub salt in wounds, I add, "Yeah, maybe. Though that rug over there is really nice. Do you think we can find something like it someplace else?"

"There's no need for that," the guy jumps in, his smile shaky. "I misspoke earlier—you did say almost , after all, and that's certainly true. I wouldn't want to put you gentlemen to any inconvenience when we can easily assist you here."

Ian snickers like an asshole, but I can't say I blame him.

"We would be late for the ballet if we had to begin again elsewhere," Marc muses.

"Oh, you're going to the ballet? How lovely! It's still Dos Mujeres this weekend, isn't it? I loved Carmen , of course, but Broken Wings …" He gasps and presses a hand to his chest. "Frida Kahlo lived such a life."

Ian and I look at each other. What the hell is he talking about? Dos Mujeres … I know enough Spanish to know that means "two women." But I don't speak ballet at all, so fuck knows what the rest means.

My bestie shrugs, reading my thoughts perfectly like always. Well, almost always. He missed it when I was mentally screaming at him not to fuck the demon and fall in love.

"She truly did," Marc agrees. "Not many know this, but she was offered the opportunity to take a far easier path, and she refused it."

Uhhhh… what the fuck ?

Ian scrambles to his feet. "Well, we don't want to be late for the ballet, so maybe we should stop talking and start buying." He claps his hands like a preschool teacher. "Chop-chop!"

It's my turn to snicker like an asshole, but he has a point. Marc can't be going around spilling demon secrets to normies. "I like this couch," I add, swallowing my instinctive urge to add that it's not worth the price. Dylan's current couch is just goo— Okay, so I can't honestly finish that sentence, but it's fine . Ish. It can be replaced for a lot less than the cost of this one, anyway.

"Me too," Dylan says firmly, shocking the pants off me. "In the brown leather."

"The toffee? Absolutely. An excellent choice," the guy gushes.

"And that chair in the striped fabric we looked at before," Dyl adds.

Marc nods approvingly. "An excellent combination."

"It truly is," sales guy agrees. "Your boyfriend also mentioned a rug? The one he likes comes in a muted olive and taupe that will complement both pieces perfectly."

Score one for my big mouth. "Actually, now that I think about it?—"

"Could we see a sample?" Dylan interrupts, and Marc smiles. The sales guy hurries off to get his carpet swatches—because that's a real thing, oh my god—and Dylan turns his gaze on us. "You guys suck."

"What?" I protest. "I didn't?—"

"We promised Marc we could do what he wanted, so stop sulking. I can't believe you fell asleep in a public place."

"Not all the way asleep," Ian defends.

Before Dylan and Marc can tell him what they think of that argument, I cut in. "Babe, this stuff is… It's nice, don't get me wrong. I would totally have an affair with this couch. But it's pricey."

"I have the money, and this furniture is solid. Make sure you like it, because we're keeping it forever." He gives me a look that says not to question him further, and I remember suddenly that his dad was good with investments—which Dylan inherited. Plus, the only thing he spends money on is his tech, and most of that is expensed back to the Collective.

And I love that he's planning our forever.

I sigh. "I do like this couch." It's a peace offering, and he grins.

"Me too."

"Dylan has excellent taste in furniture." Marc leaves "but not in men" unsaid, but the words hover between us all.

"Do we really have to go to the ballet tonight?" Ian whines. "Is it even in English?"

Marc huffs. "It's ballet, Ian. They dance ."

"Oh my god," my brother-bestie mutters.

"It's only a couple of hours," Dylan consoles. I'm not sure why he's so determined to be the peacemaker today—usually he'd just tell us all to fuck off. But he seems really set on all of us getting along and Marc being happy. "Maybe we can get some rooms at that hotel and order room service after."

I can see from his face that the offer was totally impulsive and he regrets it.

"That's very kind of you, but not necessary," Marc says smoothly. "We'll have a lovely evening at the ballet, supper afterward, and then spend the night at your apartment. I'm sure we can arrange expedited delivery for your new furniture and have it in place before Ian and I leave on Monday." He smiles. "Tomorrow, we can look for a coffee table."

"Ian and I are going to the market," I blurt. "He's always wanted to see it. Farmers' market. Lots of great stuff. And cheese! That cheese today was awesome. I bet we can find some good local cheeses at the farmers' market, right, Ian?"

"Right!" He nods so hard, I think his head might pop off. "And wine! Cheese goes with wine. By the time you get back from buying a coffee table, we'll have cheese and wine and some… other stuff that goes with it. Fancy lunch!"

"That does sound nice," Marc muses.

"The weather's going to be good tomorrow, too," Dylan adds. "Maybe we could have a picnic? The botanical gardens are supposed to be great at this time of year."

Yikes. That wasn't part of the plan.

"Any carnivorous plants?" Marc asks, and my jaw drops .

"I… don't know." Even Dylan seems weirded out by that, but Marc waves it off.

"Never mind. I do like a well-kept garden, and with the proper supplies, a picnic can be delightful."

Suddenly my idea to get out of shopping doesn't seem so clever after all.