Chapter 6 #9
What am I meant to do? Clap my hands together and go, "Oh yeah, babe, super casual, they were talking about you like you're some drunk sex toy on legs, wondering how easy you'd be to take advantage of, and my brain cracked in half, so I beat the guy until his nose stopped pointing in the right direction. Nothing crazy. Very chill of me."
Yeah. That'll go over great.
How do I tell him without putting that poison in his head?
How do I explain what set me off without making him picture it, without making him think there was even a world where someone could look at him that way?
He doesn't deserve this filth. And now he's confused. He wants answers. He should want answers.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. "We just had beef. Old shit. You know how it is."
I can feel him freeze behind me.
"Seriously?" he finally says. "You started a goddamn fight over some ego bullshit from years ago?"
I shrug, even though it makes my shoulder scream.
"Felt right."
He scoffs. "You're insane."
"Probably."
"You embarrassed everyone."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
He takes a step closer, and I can practically hear the tension in his body. "You could've gotten arrested."
"But I didn't."
He lets out a bitter laugh. "You're unbelievable."
I turn around to look at him. Jesus Christ. He looks so damn innocent with that expression that it almost makes me sick. Not in a bad way. In the ‘fuck, you really have no idea what world you're standing in right now’ way.
He's angry at me. I can see it all over his face.
But this time? I don't give a shit. Not even a little.
Because I know exactly what I'm doing. I know what filth I'm shielding him from. I know what kind of sewer words were being thrown around about him.
And if he ever heard them, if those images ever touched his head, they'd rot him from the inside.
So yeah. He can be pissed. He can yell.
He can be disappointed. He can think I'm reckless and violent and stupid. Let him.
Because for once, I know I'm right.
"I handled it," I say softly.
"You made a scene, Gio."
I smile at that. Bad move. Pain cracks across my cheek. I wince, and the smile turns into a grimace.
He steps closer. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because it hurts when I do."
He stares at me, and something in his expression shifts, just a fraction. "I'm still pissed at you," he mutters, dropping his eyes.
"Like. Really pissed."
"I know."
"You're an idiot."
"I know that too." Silence again.
"Sit down."
"What?"
"Sit," he repeats, pointing at the couch like he owns the place.
"I'll get the first aid kit."
I hesitate. Want to say no. Want to keep standing, stay angry, stay in control.
But I sit.
He disappears down the hall like it’s his place, and I exhale, trying to unclench my fists.
The bruises are blooming now. My cheek throbs.
My ribs ache every time I breathe too deep. But none of that compares to what’s eating me from the inside out.
I lied to him. I watched his face when I did it. And I feel like the biggest piece of shit alive.
He comes back with the little white box and tosses it onto the table next to us.
"We should make you a subscription card for this thing."
"Frequent flyer miles?"
"Yeah. Every five fights you get a free punch in the face."
I laugh. It hurts like hell.
He pulls out antiseptic, cotton pads, tape.
"You don't have to do this," I say.
"I don't want my dad bringing up another dinner table story about how 'Gio the stray dog' got into another mess."
I wince. "That bad?"
"You should hear what he calls you when you're not around."
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed after breaking someone's face. Very comforting, Rava.
Your family probably thinks I'm the antichrist.
And the messed-up part? It actually stings. More than I want it to. Now I'm wondering.
Do they sit around imagining scenarios where I'm the villain ruining their precious son? Do they picture me as some monster he needs saving from? Because I don't see them that way.
As much as I pretend I don't care, they've been in my head more than I realize. Their opinions. Their reactions.
I don't think I'm a bad person. Not at the core.
Yeah, I'm rough around the edges.
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 time I'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.
He's almost seen my worst side, and somehow he is still here, after I've spent years making fun of him too.
It pisses me off. It scares the hell out of me.
And deep down, it makes me want to fall to my knees and ask him why the fuck he hasn't run yet.
I want him to leave Italy as soon as possible.
Tomorrow. Now, if possible.
Because I'm so fucking scared right now.
"Don't move," he mutters. "I should let it sting."
"Oh, baby. It always stings."
He doesn't respond.
He just presses the pad gently against my temple.
But his hands are so careful, like I’m glass, and now I remember those messages Sophia sent me, her complaining about this exact thing, how Rava treated her like she was fragile, and I let out this bitter little laugh because the irony is fucking unreal.
The world doesn't appreciate shit.
People like her get something that good, and treat it like an inconvenience. God knows what he went through with her, what she twisted, what she demanded.
You poor bastard. No wonder you're tired. I didn't understand how someone could be that soft and still burn me like that.
His knee bumps mine.
His face is close now, focused, lips parted slightly. I can feel his breath. I don't breathe. He hesitates.
His eyes drop to my mouth and pause there. "There's blood," he says quietly. "On... your lip."
"Oh?" I ask.
He nods. "Yeah."
I tilt my head just a bit. "Lick it off."
His gaze snaps to mine like I'd just slapped him, and then he stands up. "I'm done. You're exhausting."
I catch his wrist before he can walk off, laughing through the ache in my ribs. "Whoa, hey. Come back. My wounds aren't healed yet."
He tries to pull away, but I tighten my grip just enough.
"Rava," I say, dragging his name out slowly. "You gonna abandon your patient? I'm gonna tell your future students about it. They won't be happy."
He looks down at me, exasperated, flushed, then sits back down with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "You're the worst."
I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes, because under all the games, all the flirting and teasing and fucking tension, we both know something has shifted.
He goes back to dabbing gently at my cheek, and I watch him, memorize him, the way he bites the inside of his lip when he concentrates, the way his fingers tremble when they get too close to my mouth.
I want to grab him, pull him in, bite his fucking lip until he moans, make him admit it.
But I know I shouldn't, not only because I am technically not allowed, but because I would definitely destroy him.
He is still close, too close.
His hand moves up without warning, fingers on my jaw, and he grips me like he's done this before, like he's allowed, like I'm something he can just hold and move, and then he tilts my face toward the light, toward him, like I'm nothing more than a goddamn object he's fixing, and I let him.
Fuck.
Fuck. He doesn't even realize what he's doing, that his thumb is pressing right beneath my cheekbone and his fingers are curled just tight enough to hold me there.
Motherfucker.
This is so hot I could punch a wall.
What the fuck is wrong with me? He's not even trying. That's the worst part.
I should flip the table, break something, remind him who the fuck I am. But I can't. Not now. Not with his hand on me like that.