“Fine, whatever.”
He starts to head to the bathroom, but I clutch his wrist.
“Now what?” he asks, watching me slowly.
“Why are you so adamant about hiding your sexuality? Being bi or gay isn’t a taboo, you know. This isn’t the sixties.”
“None of your business.”
“You’re such a dick. I’m just asking.”
“Well, don’t. I told you this is just physical, so stay in your lane. My problem with my sexuality is my own. If you can’t accept that, I can go somewhere else.”
“Like fuck you will.” I grab him by the throat and relish the pop of his pulse beneath my fingers. “My cock is the only cock you’ll sit on, got it, baby?”
“You need to stop talking to me in that language.”
“But you enjoyed this language a few minutes ago.”
“I give up.” He releases a sigh. “Let me go so I can shower.”
“Can I join?”
“No.”
“Are you going to run away again?”
“I’m not running away. I’m leaving.”
I let him go with an exasperated breath and I expect him to fuck off to the bathroom, but he faces me.
“Don’t do this, Nikolai. I’ll see you in the morning?”
I release an affirmative noise and he smiles, but it’s tight, like my fucking insides.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but he shakes his head and slips into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a fucking lock.
Locking me out.
Figuratively.
Literally.
19
BRANDON
A bit longer than two weeks pass in the most bemusing blur.
What started like a temporary loss of control has categorically turned into the most tragic addiction.
Every night, I say I won’t go to the penthouse and I manage to hold out for a few days—nightmare-riddled, completely sleepless, and absolutely torturous days.
I bury myself in the studio, in practice, in being outside of my skin. Day in and day out, I manage to lie to myself for a few hours, only to relapse to daunting bad habits again.
The blood and the penthouse. Both are dangerous addictions of different proportions.
Both are pulling me apart and leaving me completely desolate and unable to look at the distorted face in the mirror anymore.
Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist.
I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness.
I’m just me.
His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.
But that vacuum of emotions only lasts for the duration of the mindless release and the unbound lust. It lasts until I lose his touch and I’m forced back into my own skin.
I do the forcing—every time. I just rip off the plaster and walk away, but it’s getting harder to willingly lose his lips, his touch. I’m almost scared of that moment when I have to lock myself in the bathroom and battle my demons. They’re rather vicious lately.
The more I enjoy myself, the more painful the aftermath.
But it’s not as painful as forcing myself away from that damn penthouse. It’s not as painful as waking up every day and having this queasy feeling in my stomach because I know he’s waiting outside the mansion’s gate. Grinning.
Nikolai isn’t really a cheerful man. I’ve seen him outside, multiple times, even though I like to pretend I don’t. And yes, he’s loud, but not in Remi’s carefree, funny way. He’s notoriously violent and curses a lot.
Killian often kicks him so he’ll shut up, or Jeremy will whisper or speak to him calmly so he’ll stop drawing attention or rein in his infamous bursts of violence.
He doesn’t show them the version he shows me. Always smiling, grinning, and being an infuriating ray of sunshine, as if my mere presence makes him happy.
That part boggles my mind. Why would he be happy with me when I can’t stand myself most of the time?
No matter how often I ask that question, I can’t quite find an answer.
Still, I enjoy whatever I get, even if it hurts.
Even if every day, I want to watch the blood endlessly flow out of my wrist.
Today is one of those days. I didn’t go to Nikolai’s penthouse yesterday and I feel like I’m sucking breaths through a straw.
I stare at my painting and feel the urge to topple it over and light it on fire. The perfect silhouette of a mountain and a lake that I’ve been working on for weeks feels fake, completely at odds with what my fingers actually want to create. I’ve made more paintings that I don’t want to admit exist, but this perfectly manicured scenery has been a fucking struggle to work on.
Mum said maybe it’s because I’m not focused, but what she doesn’t know is that I couldn’t have been any more focused. It’s just that this thing feels wrong.
Painting landscapes has been my crutch for years. My way to avoid creating anything with eyes. But it’s not working anymore.
If anything, I’m starting to see them in the same light Lan does. Pathetic. Mediocre. Unoriginal. Boring.
Boring.
Fucking boring.
I pull out my phone and stare at the text I sent Nikolai earlier today because he didn’t join me on my run this morning.
The first time he didn’t—the day of that fight—I felt a hollowness so deep, I didn’t know how to explain it. That hole got bigger the following day and I ignored it.
Today, however, I had trouble breathing. The twat has left his mark in every corner of our running path with his endless questions and shameless flirting so that I can’t go there without feeling his shadow.
Why did he make it a habit if he wasn’t going to keep it up?
So I sent him a text.
Me
Slept in?
Nikolai
Nope.
Then why didn’t you come over?
Missed me?
You wish.
He left me on Read. The audacity of the bastard.
Me
Are you ignoring me?
Nikolai
Doesn’t feel so good when the roles are switched, huh? And to answer your question, I borrowed a page from the Brandon Asshole Dictionary and decided not to show up for the fuck of it. Just like you ghosted me last night.
We never agreed that I’ll be there every night.
Then be here every night. Just like I go to see you every day.
I can’t. You know that.
I know nothing.
You’re being ridiculous.
Me? Ridiculous? Jesus fucking Christ. Have you seen your hypocritical face in the mirror lately?
I do. Every day. I have to force myself away from him to see that fucking black hole in solitude. And his pointing it out doesn’t make me feel any better about this damn situation.
Breathe.
Fucking breathe.
Me
This is going nowhere. Let’s stop talking.
Nikolai
Aaaand you’re back to your favorite hobby. Run away, baby. You’re a champion of that bullshit.