Page 16 of Hamartia
@ljh: (My lawyer did not want me to send you this message. Kekeke)
I hold my breath while I read it over a few times, blinking in disbelief. Then, for a reason I don’t understand, I close the app, set my phone down and walk over to the window. I down my beer entirely, before coming to my senses and practically bolting back to the couch. Who knows how long he stays online for?
@theraphascott_: Never listen to lawyers. It’s my life’s motto
@theraphascott_: Not too much pain. And nothing’s broken! (Except my pride.) Thanks for caring :)
My panic to get the message out quickly before he disappears offline means I don’t overthink it whatsoever.
The little ‘read’ text appears below, telling me he’s seen it, but no dots appear telling me he’s typing. But something better happens. A picture comes through. It’s the same beach from his post, except this one has his feet in it. Stretched out in the sand.
@ljh: I felt guilty enjoying this view while worrying about your nose! LA is very beautiful.
I laugh because my instinct is to reply, unironically, that it’s not as beautiful as him. But I have to fight that instinct.
@theraphascott_ No guilt necessary. Great pic, man! Is it Malibu?
This time the little dots do appear and I feel fucking elated at the sight of them. Over a text exchange with a guy who almost broke my nose this afternoon. A guy I’ve been obsessing about for the last two years.
It’s insane to me right then. But I don’t feel any guilt about it, which is weird. Maybe because of the insanity of it. Because it is a guy. Because I know nothing is ever gonna happen with this person, because I’m not gay. If it was another woman then yeah, I would be a piece of shit. But he’s not. So, I’m fine. This is fine.
@ljh: Yes, we are in Malibu.
My spine straightens. I’m not sure why the word ‘we’ has such a bizarre effect on me. But it does. I can’t think of anything else to say to that, except to ask him who he’s with but I honestly don’t even want to know. Is it better if he’s with a chick or a dude? Does it fucking matter?
Do I just leave it there then? I mean, it’s hardly an open question. But my body feels on edge, like I’ve snorted something by just talking to him and I’m not quite ready for that feeling to fade yet. I debate for half a minute over it, figuring it’s absolutely something a guy could say to another guy he has no sexual interest in whatsoever. It’s also got enough in it to suggest it could be something else, if the person reading it wanted it to be. My hands tremble slightly as I write it.
@theraphascott_: Let me know when you’re next in town and I’ll show you my favorite beach in LA! You’d love it!
As soon as I hit send, I want to unsend. I feel the heat creep up my throat to my cheeks, my ears burning hot too.
The moment he sees it I think my heart stops. As the seconds tick by, I imagine him staring at it, feeling awkward and a little creeped out.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, squeezing my eyes closed and digging my thumb and index finger into them. I want to gouge them out. I may as well have asked him to let me know when he was next in town so I could suck his dick.
But as I glance down at my phone, the relief, and something else, courses through my body.
@ljh: I will do that. And if you are ever in Seoul, let me know and I will show you my favourite sunset :) Take care, Raphael! J
He’s clearly ending the conversation, but for some reason I don’t feel disappointed. I feel only elation. Giddy—is that even a word guys use?—nervousness giving way to a heady sort of joy.
November
Camille walks into the room to the sound of whistles and catcalls from the guys. She rolls her eyes at them and looks at me—I can only give her an apologetic smile. She looks incredible in white, in a dress that’s really just a tuxedo jacket which stops just below her ass, and white heels that show off her dainty ankles and tiny feet. I love Camille’s feet. Pretty sure I’ve a foot fetish of some kind because I genuinely get hard just thinking about them sometimes. Little cute toes that she’s always got painted and these small little ankles that look sexy as fuck in open toe shoes like she’s wearing now.
From nowhere the image of Jaehyun’s small pale feet and a bejeweled ankle blasts itself into my mind. I’d spotted it in one of their videos, how I’ve no idea, but when I did, it had felt as intimate as seeing his cock.
“You look beautiful,” I tell Camille as she comes toward me, sliding an arm around my waist.
“Thank you, puppy,” she says, lowering her voice to hide the pet-name from the others. “And you look very sexy.”
I’m wearing black: a black suit and shirt with an open collar and probably too much silver around my neck. But the way her eyes dip lustfully over them and the flashes of my tattoos, tells me it works. I lean in to kiss her, licking the taste of champagne from her lips.
We’d offered to host everyone at our place before we left for the ceremony. We were going in three cars; Camille and I were expected to arrive together of course, the rest of the band in a second car, and Sam and the rest from the label, in a third. I’d link up with the guys on the carpet for interviews when the cameras got what they wanted from Camille and me. I feel nervy, jittery, and it’s about more than the award.
It’s about the fact that he’s going to be there.
I’m going to see him for the first time since the day he thought he’d broken my nose. We haven’t spoken since those messages back in September, though with every picture and story he’d posted I’d wanted to reach out. Wanted to click that little heart or leave a comment, reply to some video of him in the dance studio, in a designer clothes store, eating some amazing looking meal, of his cat. But I hadn’t. I hadn’t unfollowed him—and he hadn’t followed me back—but I hadn’t liked any of his posts either and it was mainly because of his words in the car on the way to the hospital.