Yeah, my brain likes to test limits just to see who flinches. I poke, I push, I fuck around with danger more than I should.
But it's not because I'm evil. It's just... I don't know. I like to see where the line is.
Sometimes I step over it on purpose, just to feel something.
He comes closer. Sits down. Right in front of me.
On the couch. Face to face. My legs are on the couch.
He sits like he’s being judged by God.
I just stare, and he feels it. "You know, I'm not always like this," I say. He dabs alcohol on the cut. I hiss.
"You mean violent?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No. Well, yes. I mean dangerous."
He slowly, so slowly, reaches out toward my face, and he's so careful with it that it throws me off, because this is the first timeI've ever seen someone hesitate to touch me, actually hesitate, like he's scared he'll hurt me.
Everybody else? They're fearless fucking idiots.
They grab my arm, my neck, my shoulder, like I'm public property just because I'm loud and chaotic and always in motion, like being the loud one gives them some kind of free pass to invade my space.
Excuse me?
No the hell it doesn't.
Me talking a lot does not equal "touch me whenever you feel like it."
But Rava comes closer like he's approaching a wounded animal. He starts cleaning it. I let him.
Until he gets close to the cut under my cheekbone. Then I flinch hard and hiss through my teeth on purpose, just to see his reaction.
He jumps back like he's been electrocuted.
"Shit, I'm so sorry!"
I grab the side of my face, choking a laugh.
"Fuck. That hurts."
His eyes go wide. "I didn't mean to—are you okay?"
I pause, then smirk. "Nah. Just fucking with you."
His face twists with disbelief, rage, embarrassment all at once. "Asshole," he shouts. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Hey," I say, laughing now, even though it makes my whole face sting. "You should've seen your face. You looked like you were about to cry."
"Because you suck, Gio."
I shrug, grinning. "Yeah. I do."
He curses under his breath but grabs the cotton pads again, soaking one in antiseptic. But he laughs.
Is he actually sick? How does he still look at me like that? After everything? After the shit I say, the shit I do, the way I blow up, disappear, lose control, lose everything?
I don't get it. I don't fucking get it. I've burned people for less. I've destroyed things that made me feel half as much. But he walks into the fire and doesn't flinch.
