Damon Louis couldn’t quite believe Rian Falwell had just thrown a f*cking balled-up paper towel at his head, like they were in grade school trading spitballs. But then he couldn’t believe Falwell was staring at him like he’d happily gut Damon, too, his imperious little pale mouth twisted in a knot and his previously bone-white cheeks flushed with anger that reflected in glittering hazel eyes. People didn’t glare at Damon. They didn’t even make eye contact. But Falwell didn’t have the slightest qualms about glaring at him, standing there like the lord of his five by five domain, slender presence bristling fit to fill the tiny cubicle he’d commandeered as his… Damon didn’t even know what to call it. Studio. Workroom. Junk closet. Dumpster. Especially when Falwell had cluttered it wall to wall with kitsch, this kind of…whirlwind of clay and paint and pictures and delicate bits of papercraft that fit together in a bizarre aesthetic chaos, where it all coalesced in an esoteric pattern like some strange art installation in and of itself. While Rian himself was part of it, lit in white and amber by the single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and the golden sunlight falling…