“I left!” I shout, kicking at him, punching at him. He and another guy grapple with me, until Yosef fucking sits on me until I run out of steam and end up slumped and tired with his weight on my back.
“I get it,” I pant. “I fucked up, but I left, didn’t I? Got myself out of the picture. Took care of myself, stopped fucking up his life–I was already gone! So, what, he’s bringing me back just to beat me or some shit? Me leaving wasn’t enough?!”
“Tommy…” Yosef shakes his head, gets off me, then snaps something at the other guys in Russian, fast and tense. They all back off as I push onto my hands and knees, giving us as much distance as they can in the confines of the van. I want to get to my feet, to fight, but the swaying movement in the vehicle is making me nauseous and I feel weak. All I manage to do is sit up on my knees, and even that has my head spinning.
Yosef leans over, puts a hand on my shoulder and hunches down beside me on the floor, making a point to look me in the eyes. “Whatever you think you did, that’s not the problem. He’s madbecauseyou left.”
What? “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.” No hesitation.
“He couldn’t want me to stay, not after that,” I deny. “I fucking, I’m such a fucking, I can’t even–” I put my hands over my face and groan, all twisted up inside.
“What’s this?” Yosef asks, tapping the phone number written on the back of my hand.
“None of your fucking business,” I snarl.
“There you are,” Yosef says, getting a little less somber. “If you can still be a brat, you’ll be alright. Eh, Tommy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, turning away from him, leaning against the cold metal of the van’s interior.
“That’s the spirit,” he grunts, keeping a wary eye on me like I’m about to try for the door again. But I just sit there, silent and sullen. Eventually, some light Russian conversation starts between the guys in the car, and I scowl. They’re probably talking about me being a piece of shit.
I’m confused and anxious. If Yosef is right, if Young-gi is mad because I left… Does that mean he wants me back? He wants me to stay? Maybe…maybe last night wasn’t so bad after all.
But no, no, I was disgusting. He’s not even gay, he didn’t ever explicitly say he was, he never admitted to wanting anything with me. I just fucking–ugh. I’m too scared and confused to fully believe Yosef, but his assertion is rooted in my mind anyway. A pathetic little hope starts to grow inside me.
And I’m so stupid, so foolish, for letting it bloom. Such a moron. Haven’t I learned anything?
A tear slides down my cheek and I wipe it away, feeling way too much, thinking way too much.
We come to a stop a while later, and when the door slides open, I recognize Young-gi’s apartment building. I’m right back where I started this morning, and if it’s possible, I feel even worse. All this back and forth in my head is making me nauseous, all this up and down in my heart is giving me vertigo. I might be sick; I feel green.
Yosef eventually has to pull me out of the van, because I just sit there. He walks me through the building while I stumble on weak legs, everything feeling unreal. My heart gets louder and louder in the elevator. I’m trembling. I don’t even know why.
Fuck this, fuck everything. Fuck me for being such a stupid piece of shit.
The elevator chimes. The doors slide open. Yosef walks me to the only door in the little hallway, Young-gi’s door, and knocks.
A few seconds later, the door is thrown violently open. I blink, so emotionally overwhelmed that I don’t even flinch. Young-gi looms in the doorway, still wearing the clothes I left him in this morning, every inch of him rigid and angry. I can see it, even though it’s subtle. Bizarrely, his muted expression calms me, whereas Bruce’s made me unsettled. Without hesitation, he reaches out, grabs my shirt, and yanks me into his penthouse. The door slams shut behind me, leaving Yosef in the hallway.
Young-gi grips my shirt with both hands and holds me there in front of him, staring at me. His signature cold anger blisters me.
I put my numb, shaking fingers over his clenched ones, but turn my face away, unable to meet his stare head on.
“Tommy.” My name is a rumble; an incoming storm.
I gulp. “What?”
“What?” he repeats, too quiet and calm, the threat understated but very real. “I told you to stay here, but I woke up and you were gone, and you’re asking me, ‘what?’ You left, that’s what.”
“I thought–I thought you’d want me gone.” I scowl at the floor, but then my frown wobbles and I close my eyes. “I just thought…you’d want me to be gone.”
A long pause. A tense silence. “I see.”
And then he lets go of my shirt, and I open my eyes in a panic, wondering what I did wrong now, but he’s not pushing me away. Instead, he slides his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen, my arms held out at my sides, not even breathing.
“Shh,” he pets the back of my head, running a soothing hand down my spine. “Tommy, shhh, it’s alright.”
