WICKED BOY (17) (Patreon)

happy birthday Megan 😭

Isaac isn't one to be chastised into silence, which is why it's so surprising that he has been, if even for just a moment. He gawks at Ez, utterly baffled at his question.  His grimace is deepset, chases down to his jawline when he pats at the pockets of his coat like he isn't quite sure what to do with his hands. 

"Milan, I think  — that perhaps, things have gotten out of hand again."  It’s all Isaac has to say to me.  He doesn't meet my eyes and instead stares at the leg of my glasses that's tucked behind my ear.  It's the closest thing to an apology that I think he's capable of creating in this moment, and it's one that's done with discomfort.  "...We should be having this conversation alone."

I shake my head, eyebrows gathering together in a delayed display of betrayal.  Ez looks like he's itching to tear him in half, and I raise a hand to him to quiet whatever pissing match has ignited before it engulfs my apartment complex.

"Why?"  I ask Isaac.

"What do you mean, why?"  He huffs, "I don't even know this guy.  I'm not sure if you know this guy."

"Don't worry about him.” There’s something unspoken when I meet Ez’s eyes. Something that I hope conveys that I need this.

“How can I not —”

“What were you about to call me...?"  The words spill and interrupt him without much thought.  I don't know if it's a question I want answered, as far from the truth as it is.  Isaac takes a deep breath through his nose — and I think, now, he's steadfast in the realization that I haven't forgotten being called cold, bitter, or an alcoholic.  Those things might be true.  They may have stung, threaded themself inside a memory that won't fade anytime soon.

But this isn't me. That word — it doesn't suit me.

"Go on and say it." I press.  "It's not like you to hold back."

"...You took that job from your Dad, knowing I wanted it. You went home with this guy, knowing I wanted..."  Isaac says it between clenched teeth, a deflection, a nervous glance tossed in Ez's direction.  He fumbles in his pocket when he realizes that he's staring right back.  "And — you couldn't give a rat's ass."

"I know you wanted that job."  I wrinkle my nose.  "If he had the intention of choosing you for that position, I wouldn’t have asked for it.” Isaac’s jaw clenches at that like I’ve insulted him further. “It's not that I didn't care about—"

"You've never cared, and that's the problem."  Isaac snipes.  "You don't care about me.  You don't care about — ambition, or life, or if you drink yourself into the dirt. I don't know why I bother."

"Can you let me talk?"  I feel my arms crossing over my chest, the Venus on my breast-pocket dipping and hiding beneath black fabric. 

"Why should I let you talk?”

“I thought this was a conversation. Was I wrong?”

Isaac scoffs at that.

“Your Dad hands you everything that I want and opportunities that I'd — God dammit.  I'd love that view of Pennbrook," he continues.  He taps his chest hard enough that the fabric of his winter jacket stays wrinkled.  "and you get so sloshed you can't make it in for work the next day."

"You invited me to drink.  I drank."  I shrug.  "Big fucking deal."

"You,"  his face pinches with my remark, words strangled with a new frustration,  "you and I — we were having so much fun at that party, and you weren't so fucking uptight for once.  You made me think — I thought you were going to let me,"

"I didn't make you think anything.  You thought we'd run off into the sunset after I finished my second bottle?"  I hear my tone, a dull and tired thing, "you think, what?  I didn't reciprocate... And what?  Then I was cold and bitter, right? And now, you’re angry — and what were you going to call me?”

"I was pissed — and it's not fair to me that you're even bringing that up right now — that's not what we're talking about!"

"And what were you going to call me?"

"You know what I was going to call you,"  Isaac seethes. 

"Pretend that I don't." 

"A slut."  Isaac nearly yells it, his cheeks pigmented rosy and angry. I stare at the strange hue, how it bleeds down into his neck.   The veins there are more visible when he yells. "Does that make you feel something?  Being called that?"

My chest heaves when I exhale, because it does, for once. It makes me feel indignant.  It makes me finally feel righteous in my anger towards him and my hurt — because it's the only word that someone has called me that doesn't drift around in my headspace with things like,

Maybe I am?

When wasn't I?

How could I prove that I'm not?

Ez stands from the couch.  I laugh lightly, thinking of how — between the vodka and the testimony to my character being preached out into the empty, sad, barely decorated room — how he's not going to stay, paid or not because I'm a mess. 

I'm a clutter of the worst words, and most of them fill that empty jar inside of me like another sort of depraved collection, lingering for years after they're said.  I can't even tell when to be affronted, because each insult might ring true — maybe, even if not now, maybe one day. 

I can never tell.

Ez lifts one arm towards the television with the remote in hand. He pauses it.  Our eyes meet again, but this time I don't wave him away.  I just stand there — laughing quietly. 

I don't defend myself. 

I don't love myself enough to do so. 

Isaac is still smoldering with overdue anger, his eyes bright and angry.  If he were any less poised of a man, I'd think he'd hit me.  My father was a poised man, too — so maybe I'll be surprised. 

Maybe he will.

"Ya’ done now?"  Ezra's voice cuts through so roughly — his charm and flirtation stifled like he's smudged the hot end of his cigarette over his words.  "I'm tryin' to watch my fuckin' show." 

My eyes chase him, and catch his sneer — it's so subtle but so vicious, and that's just enough to have Isaac taking one step back from my personal space. My stomach is twirling like I've taken a plunge on a rollercoaster ride, no less than captivated by Ezra's presence overtaking my living room.

Everything happens quickly after that dive.  Ez steps away from the couch, and Isaac steps closer to the door.  He reaches to open it, just as Ezra meets him — reaches above him to slam it shut.

"... But you're yap yap yappin',"  Ez is between us so fast it makes my head spin, right up on Isaac's back, ducked down into his ear.  I wonder if Isaac can feel his grin, "bitchin' in the background like I stole your fuckin' toy."

Isaac looks like he might say something, but Ez is a force against him, enough weight that Isaac is visibly reconsidering his words.

"Most men don't like to feel like toys."  Ez whispers, low and snide and confident.  "But you wouldn't know what Milan wants to feel, because you're too caught up in what you feel."

I blink when he says my name.  I feel my heart surge with it — twirl with it, so giddy it makes me absolutely sick.

"A-and?"  Isaac's hands are trembling.  I watch them because I don't know what else to do.  “You think you’ll ever know what he feels?” For some horrible reason, the quake of his voice brings a stifled, terrible satisfaction to me.  "Or that you know better than me?"

Ez smiles back at me, presses his nose into Isaac's hairline when his smile grows, and lids his eyes. I can’t stop staring.

"I have every intention to make him feel whatever the fuck his little heart desires." Ez hums, one hand on the doorknob, “but I think he’s feelin’ a bit... Bothered at the moment.”

I watch him, as curious as ever, and Ez winks before his eyes slide back towards the door handle.

“Should I do somethin’ to make him feel better?” Ez’s grip tightens, “Mmm?”

Isaac’s eyes screw closed.

“Or do ya’ wanna get the fuck out of here?”

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