Lost Creek Hollow i know your style

and you’re hilarious.
the jest dies, buried on his tongue. nose scrunched up, ears back, eyebrows tucked downard. a sharp splash of ice water poured over his face with jaime’s sudden praise that jolts alamar awake.
alamar’s never been sweet. he’s not like jaime, the kid who’d only wanted attention and a home to call his own, who was good and quiet and overall a sweetheart. he’s the monster, remember?
alamar wishes he kept facing away, instead of towards him. if only because it reminds him of all his faults, the flaws that scar and the sour that’s embedded to  his head. jaime deserves better. always has.
if they were friends, alamar would joke about how he’s getting too sappy—they’d laugh about it and move on. but they aren’t. he doesn’t know what they are, and he doesn’t want to find out either—not now. the answer scares him more than it ought to.
you should sleep, he settles with, because he doesn’t know what else to say.