“I didn’t even say anything,” I choke. “Why are you telling me to shhh?”
“Shhh,” he says again, the sound weirdly comforting. I grip his arms and shove a little like I’m trying to get him to let go, but I don’t shovethathard.
“You have a safe word,” he murmurs, holding me tighter. “You know how to use it.”
“A fucking–a safe word for ahug?!” I snap, pushing harder. “I don’t need to fucking safe word for a hug, if I want you to let go, I’ll fucking make you let me go.”
“That’s not your safe word, though, is it?”
And I hate that he knows right away what I’m doing, that he knows I’m intentionally not saying it, because then my whole charade just becomes so obvious. But I still can’t stop it.
I grunt, angry and defensive. I shove at him again, and he squeezes me harder. I squirm, push against him, and struggle until he’s holding me so tightly I can barely breathe.
“I don’t need you!” I shout and strain against his hold.
“Shhh,” he says again. “Shhh, Tommy.”
“Shut up!” I croak, and I lightly pound my fist against his back–not wanting to truly hurt him, but not willing to stop whatever it is that I’m doing with this fake fight. “Get the fuck off me!”
“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs despite my thrashing, letting me drum on his back, ignoring the paltry blows. “Shhh, shh.”
I struggle some more, fighting against his hold, I even bite him, until I know his fingers digging into my back will leave marks and replace the bruises that have almost completely faded from my spine.
Then I slump against him, barely able to breathe because he’s got me so tight. My fists against his back loosen until I’m gripping his shirt, gripping him. I lay my head against his shoulder, resting it there, dizzy but calmer than before.
Young-gi loosens his hold in increments. Slowly, like he’s testing to see if my sudden submissiveness is a ploy. But I juststay there, quiet and mentally all fuzzy, until his hug is soft and warm and I can breathe easy again.
“You woke up in a bad down-swing,” Young-gi finally murmurs, and I’m startled to realize my eyes were shut. I blink them open and stare at the pulse in his throat as he continues. “You had a rough morning, and you didn’t know what to do. You made a poor decision. We can blame it on the drug, and get a do over, hm? Say that you didn’t mean it, that you would’ve stayed if you’d been feeling more like yourself. And we can just go from there.”
An olive branch. A peace offering. A chance to get a clean slate this morning, and say that me disobeying him and running off was an accident; that it wasn’t my fault.
But I know myself. And I know that even without the withdrawals, I’d have made the same mistake. I usually do.
“What are the other options?” I ask, my whisper rough and cracked. “What if I’m just a piece of shit, and I would’ve run off anyway?”
His soothing pets on my back still, and tension sparks between us. He doesn’t say anything, leaving me more room to explain myself.
“What if I–” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What if I’m just a coward, and a liar? And I deserve to be alone? What then?”
“Tommy,” he says my name so low and dark, so good. “Are you asking me for something? Something you need?”
“What if I, what if I’m disgusting and stupid–”
“Tommy.”
“I don’t want you to let it slide,” I blurt, hiding my face against his shirt. “I don’t want you to tell me it’s okay and we can just forget about it. I want you to fucking beat the shit out of me so I can stop feeling like this, so I can feelanything elsebut this. I want you to hurt me, I want you to hollow me out–I can’t keep on, I’m not, I don’t–hit, I just can’t think like this. All the noise,it’s all so loud and so ugly. I’m so ugly inside, Young-gi. This is who I am, okay? I’m just ugly.”
“You’re asking me for correction.” It’s a statement, but I get the feeling that he wants me to confirm it.
“I’m asking you to give me what I deserve!” I shove away from him, the hugging too much all of a sudden. Too soft. Better than what I should be getting. “Give me what I deserve for being such a little shit!”
He studies me, the tension between us unbearable. Just when I’m about to start yelling again, he moves.
With predatory focus, he stalks me. I flinch and scramble backward until the backs of my knees run into the couch and I fall onto it. He keeps coming, overtaking me, and pushes me down until I’m laying on it. He crawls over me, holding me down with a hand on my throat. He isn’t choking me, just keeping me where he wants me, but I…like it. And I shudder, a fission of unexpected heat curling through me.
“You want correction, Tommy? Fine,” he says, stern and biting. “I want to correct you. So that makes us even. You want to get what you deserve? What you deserve is a reminder to ignore those loud thoughts and listen tome.What you deserve is something to keep you from making this mistake again. You want me to hurt you? You want to replace one pain for another? You want me to make you feel small and embarrassed so you don’t have to feel those other, more confusing things?”
An angry, wounded sound escapes my throat and I thrash under him, try to hit him, pissed off that he can see through me so easily. He grabs my hands, manhandles me, and flips me over onto my stomach. I try to push up but he’s shockingly heavy, and a knee on my back presses me into the soft cushions. I shove my face into the softness of his couch and scream, furious and broken.
