I had hoped Seth would let it go once we were in his van and headed to dinner, but no. He wanted to know more about this jiu-jitsu instructor—where he was from, how old he was, whether I thought he was attractive or not. I told him I didn’t have an opinion, and Seth gave me a look that said he clearly didn’t believe me. When I told him his name, he scoffed at that. “What’s that? His stage name?”
I shook my head and sighed, tired of this conversation and his incessant questions, which had started out as amusing but had quickly veered into irritating and obsessive. I wanted to tell Seth it was probably his own guilty conscience getting to him, but I didn’t want to start a fight.
In the parking lot to the restaurant, Seth finally just came out with it, “Are you fucking him, Hiroku?”
I glanced over at him; he looked truly distraught. Part of me wanted to put his mind at ease, but our agreement was to keep our extracurriculars to ourselves. He’d invaded my privacy by showing up to my practice early, so in that regard, I didn’t owe him anything.
“It’s none of your business, Seth,” I said gently but firmly. The look on his face nearly broke me. I didn’t think he was acting because I saw a glimpse of the boy I fell in love with, the one who just wanted to be loved unconditionally.
Seth took a deep breath and steeled his gaze. His vulnerability transformed into something harder. He was furious with me but trying hard not to show it.
We went inside where the band was already waiting. They were supposed to pick out which songs from Petty Crime’s repertoire would be recorded for their debut album. Seth said he wanted me there as an objective observer, but my role quickly turned into that of a mediator. Mitchell and Dean went with the flow, so most of their arguments were between Sabrina and Seth. Sabrina wanted to cut the slow songs, which she said were boring and sad and self-indulgent. Seth wanted to keep them because he said they demonstrated their range as musicians. It often came down to the difference between who was getting more airtime—Seth’s voice or Sabrina’s drums. I offered input where I could while trying to be as diplomatic as possible. I also engaged Mitchell and Dean in the conversation by keeping the questions simple with “this or that” type decisions. We were at the restaurant for almost three hours, but at the end, they’d more or less decided the song list for their first album.
“We still need one more song,” Seth said. “Something with a hook that will play well on the radio. Our anthem…” Seth studied the yellow legal pad where he’d scribbled everything down. He made a note “anthem” as a placeholder in the list of songs. Then he made everyone sign it. He handed the pen to me.
“I don’t need to sign it, Seth.” The band trusted me as an advisor, but I didn’t want to insert myself into their decision-making process or give myself the same weight as the others.
“You’re going to write the Petty Crime anthem, Hiroku,” Seth said as if I was being daft. “And shoot the video—for money this time—so I want you to sign it.”
It was like when I’d designed their logo, and Seth put me in charge of merchandise. I should know better than to question his intentions when it came to my role in the band. I glanced around at the other members who were all nodding in agreement.
“Fine then.” I took the pen and scrawled my name,Hiroku Hayashi. I studied my own signature as I hadn’t in a while. It was then that I realized the tattoo on Seth’s chest wasn’t just my name in cursive; it was written in my handwriting as well, as if I’d signed my own name to his skin. I set the pen down carefully and stared at him in awe. For all of the time and effort I’d put into trying to understand him, Seth was still able to surprise me.
“You just figured that out,” Seth said, looking a little hurt by it. Part of me wanted to ask him what the hell he was thinking when he got that tattoo, but a larger part was scared of his answer.
The sex later that night was rough, even for me. Seth was punishing me for not being as committed to our partnership as he was, according to him at least. He didn’t need to say it in those exact words because he told me with every admonishing thrust, tearing into me like he was trying to rip open something inside of me. I was sure I’d have finger-sized bruises on my hips and blood in my stool when it was all over. But I grit my teeth and bore it because on the other side was mind-blowing pleasure, and I was willing to go into the trenches with Seth in order to get there.
Seth didn’t say anything about it afterward. The only time he’d apologize after sex was if I didn’t climax. Instead, he stunned me again by suggesting we get married.
“I’m sixteen,” I reminded him, worn out from the physical and emotional strain of the day. I dismissed the idea immediately. My age was actually the least of my concerns.
“Priscilla was fourteen,” he argued.
“That was when they met,” I corrected. “They didn’t get married until much later, and Priscilla claimed she was still a virgin.”
Seth grumbled. “This friends with benefits situation isn’t working, Hiroku.”
I wished I didn’t care so much about Seth’s feelings or what he wanted. If only I could act in my own best interest, but our close connection and my own mental weakness caused my mind to get muddled, so that I began to believe his desires were mine as well.
“What more do you want from me, Seth?”
“I want to put you in a cage, and only let you out to be with me.”
His pretty, little bird in a gilded cage. He may not have said it so plainly before, but it was something I’d always sensed: his obsessive demand for total dominion of my mind, body, and spirit. “It sounds like what you want is a sex slave. Or a waifu.”
Seth rolled onto his side and stared at me. He didn’t have curtains in his apartment, so the light pollution from downtown Austin filtered in and cast a yellow glow on his face. And that damned tattoo. I was trying to make light of this serious and slightly fucked-up situation, but Seth wasn’t having it.
“You’re not allowed to be with anyone else,” he said severely.
I stared back at him, trying to be calm and rational about it. It would be easier to just give in—it wasn’t like I was seeing anyone anyway—but I had to stand my ground or risk being trampled by him all over again.
“You’re not my boyfriend anymore, Seth, which means you aren’t allowed to make those demands.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, anger permeating from his pores like an overpowering perfume, but he didn’t kick me out of bed or demand that I leave—he’d never do that anyway. Instead, he pressured me to go again, even though he knew it’d be painful. One way or another, he’d get what he wanted from me, and my compromise was that physical pain was far easier for me to endure than emotional pain.
As Seth climaxed for the second time that night, I thought again about what Jeovanni had said about not making myself less to allow my opponent to be more.
But there was a strange kind of power in yielding too. Seth derived his life source from me, and in that way, I’d created this monster.
