Prologue

You are disgusting. The affection you hide makes us want to sneer and laugh behind your back. How could you be in love with someone like that? Vomit is piling up behind your throat, shameful and yet pitiful. You wouldn't want him to find out. It would become another conversation to mill about for everyone else—no major effect on their conscience but yours. You wanted to wait forever for him. 

Once they had talked to you, "Hey you, you know the rumors, don't you?" You never answered then. However, you know that fingers are pointing at you, jeering and jostling and clapping. The audience is you. You imagine the glances, the nods at the meetings, and the willful hope of emotions. But now that you see him in direct contact, your doubt is shaking inside you like a boiling pot of water, and shame lines at the side of the pot. You are twisting his words to fit you. The food tastes unappetizing; it is all a miserable sludge you have never minded. Where were you again? 

Staring between the fork and the plate of food, you know, it is a terrible dinner date. You try to think that you shouldn't be like that. Yet he was also the cause of these thoughts. 

You are delusional. 

You are hiding. 

The secret sitting on your throat to the tip of your tongue makes you tremble, too afraid that you want it to pass on like everything else. Another lost cause, you think. Only when you remind yourself how he had told you that you were special do you believe otherwise. Maybe the strange glint in his eyes was nothing to worry about; you could have also imagined it. In the end, you are sitting across from him, an indispensable truth with a frozen type of unforgettable. What last secret you had dies out under the guise of social niceties: "It was nice meeting you again." 

It's hard to tell if it is a blessing when he replies with a twisting and turning smile, which you think is created in distaste, all rotten and wrong, "Since when did you turn so stiff? It's been years since we last saw each other." Your face freezes and burns in cold anger; it is with extreme effort that you ignore the question thrown out from Augustus's mouth. Anyone but you might have screamed. He was mocking you. 

__

"Oh, don't be so mad, Vass." 

Stupid nickname. Vassana was your actual name. 

But you were weak. 

He smiles at the tint of anger shadowing your face and body as if he knew. 

You attempt to breathe. Only because you knew causing a bigger scene wasn't worth it. 

You avoid his eyes. The table of food became a more appreciative sight. With trepidation, you eat again. 

Augustus still hasn't taken a bite. His clean plate and fork still have the same shine on them. You would have fed him if you cared enough- but you were never that type.

Suddenly- His hand places itself on yours. Yours clenched in, and he splayed on top. 

It was warm. It was almost the same size, but his hands were slender. Would it have been better if you were smaller? You think. 

Immediately, the annoyance at your thoughts beats the rest of the thoughts; you want to pull away. He squeezes your hand. 

Wondering if you should fight him, his words are abrupt. 

"You know, I heard the rumors."

Anxiety paralyzes your disagreements. You can't move.

Your hands sweat terribly. 

What was he going to say?

You imagine your head falling, decapitated in the literal sense. It would be a more preferred way to die than his future words.

But it's strange, why hasn't he said anything else?

You peek at his hand on yours, then finally give up to look at his face.

His smile is there.

Nothing changed?

Yet you know something had to have changed. 

A sudden blink is all it takes.

A beautiful red envelope your eyes, turning them on and off, like those static and cranky TVs that flash something gorey then clean, the sort of scenes that belonged in a slasher film trailer. The earlier restaurant that seemed clean and all pure in its draped gold and bright red seems far; perhaps a few years ago, it would have been more possible. What greets you now is a terrifying crime scene, fresh blood that sits on the tablecloth, a couple of body parts that were only a few feet away, a haphazard hatchet near it, and a broken entrance door that would have collapsed from one touch. 

You weren't a big horror fan. Your breathing technique fails you. All too tight and closed in at what was showing up again, left alone with Augustus in front of you and some corpses as comfort wasn't what you had in mind for an ideal dinner date. That is, if the dinner date wasn't already falling apart.

Your breath becomes harsher pants. Was it possible his smile became wider?

You stay—a dog waiting for its owner. 

Where was your earlier aggression. 

The space between you two closes. A wine glass clanks, and something spills. Maybe it was the red wine, hard to differentiate from the blood. 

You should move. You know that, but you're too afraid.

He has a strong scent of iron clinging to him. Red splatters are on his clothes, a splatter mainly on his sleeves going to his hand. You hold in your shaking. Showing fear in the last few minutes of your death- is ill-suited for you. 

When he is only a breath away from you, what he tells you next is wholly unexpected. He is a mystery. Always has been. 

"After all these years, I considered killing you. But now, I don't mind."

..- Mind what? The love? The hate? Me? 

Too many answers are cluttered around you like unpacked moving boxes.

It is too late when you feel it.

His warm lips don't let you escape. You don't move. His dirty red hand holds the back of your head. 

Your complex feelings force you to do something, anything. You bite.

He's bleeding.

A second chance window is all you need. You grab the cutlery knife- aiming for his hand that had been holding onto your head earlier. 

He snatches your armed wrist before you reach his. 

He mutters, "That was a bit rude," licking the blood on his lips.

You wince; you are losing sensation in your gripped wrist; dark bruises and a broken wrist come up. 

You couldn't resist anymore; you glared at him. 

You snark back, "Maybe don't kiss without asking first." You're rough in all the wrong ways. You know he doesn't think that, but it's hard to wash away the build-up dirt of your beliefs. 

It's a split second. 

He laughs, an honest one. 

He doesn't release your wrist even when you have dropped the knife.

As he calms, he stares at you with curiosity. The worst possible type of attention that you have gained again. If your heart bursts into ripped-up shreds, you hope you're the only one who knows. 

"Can I kiss you?"

You blame your love for him as you make the first move this time. It's unpleasant; you almost want to bite him again, hate and break him in the same ways. You hate the slight differences between you two. A weapon would fit well in your hands right now. It lessens the distance you could always see with him. 

Suddenly, your wrist is released, and only a loose hand remains. You encircle your other hand around his neck. He allows you. You think about permission, the random bubbled-up pondering. Should you or should you not? You decide not to. You and he let it sit there. 

Another honest laugh and a smirk spill out from him. The bastard was always taunting you. "You could do it." 

He gives permission. You're too easy to read is what comes up first. The next is seen with more disdain and a miserable longing that you always knew. It curses and sinks like the same black sludge and red you have seen, the two merging until it colors the ground into a darker red, not vibrant anymore. You keep looking at it, immersed in the beauty and understanding that you both were a terrible pair. 

But you also like it. You wish you were higher than this.

When you finally let go of his neck, you say with an unmasked dislike, mostly towards yourself, "I'm gross."

He massages your bruised wrist.

"Aren't I worse than you?"

…

The meaning catches on, and you nearly teased him for it. His severe eyes and faking jovial manner stopped you. You take in his features: same short black hair styled too neatly, cruelty that never could disappear from his green eyes, an everlasting smirk. You determine that you still hate his face. He looks all out of place and is still the same person you knew all those years ago. You would recognize him anywhere, but not really, either. 

His manner wouldn't let you forget. You ponder about his words. Instead of a tease, a statement is formed and leaves you. 

"You like me."

There was no denial or acceptance, just another infuriating smile.

Augustus asks, "You?" 

I.. love. hate. love. hate. Two words are running, frantic, worry, wishing, hoping, maybes, fuck it. 

After all these years, You think you hate this part of you too.

"I hate you." 

Nothing about him falters. It's one of his strengths. He holds no reaction to your confession, besides for another kiss. 

"It's enough that I like you."

You think he knows. You think a lot. You wonder if you'll ever say those words back. You don't think you will.

He grins. "Want to date?"

And what else can you say but yes? 

You're weak. You wish you had one of his strengths.