Chapter Text
It was Friday. The grey afternoon light filtered through the grimy windows of the university psychology department, thick with the smell of chalk dust and stale coffee. It was time for me to leave work. Even so, I still took another half hour, having to help the intern secretary who had arranged for me to accompany me to class. I honestly thought it was outrageous — do you think that just because I'm getting older I'm no longer able to walk alone in the school where I've been working for years? Pathetic. As soon as I got to the car, a battered, moss-green Austin Allegro that coughed more than it purred, I would slam the door and turn on the radio. The tinny speaker crackled with The Cure or Joy Division —the same voices, from the same radio hosts. It was comforting somehow, to see that at the end of the day I could be me again and not me in a hurried routine. At that time I still had to smoke in secret. Dora hated the fact that I smoked or even the thought of it — even though she was a user herself. So, to avoid any more fights and excessively big hurts, I didn't do that anymore. In front of her. It was already 6 PM and the sky was still strangely clear. Heavy rain was coming in the distance, which could be seen behind the soot-stained Victorian facades of the smaller buildings . Maybe it would be a good night to just clear my head. It had been a while since I had done that. Lighting my cigarette, a cheap, unfiltered Embassy Regal, I take a long drag and then exhale the smoke through my nostrils. That's when I look at the streetlight, a sickly orange sodium glow, attracting so many beetles to its light. Do they realize that if they stay attached to it for too long, they will die? The mere thought is vague and I don't need to go into it too deeply. But it's obvious. These beetles are the reflections of many relationships. My own, for example.
I drive through the streets. Past boarded-up shops plastered with '80s election posters, beneath the shadow of the looming, brutalist council estates. Not focused on any specific place. The London streets are strangely taking me to a place on their own. I brake abruptly, with a screech of worn brake pads, when a young man pushes himself in front of the car. My heart stops for a moment and then I breathe—it's not because of a scare that I'm going to have a heart attack, Jesus. I roll down the car window, the manual crank stiff and groaning, and stick my head out.
— Are you okay there? —I ask, but the guy just runs away, his shell suit jacket a flash of garish nylon in the gloom.
I frown and then click my tongue, release the clutch of the car again. It doesn't make sense that so many people are in that part of town. London is big. But whenever I think about its underground, I'm flattered that it's just created its own system over the years. When I walked through these streets I was 16 years old. The air tasted of coal smoke and exhaust from leaded petrol then. But now there are more buildings. More neon lights. More bars. That's when I decided to stop at one, why not?
The bar with the red neon sign flickering erratically, spelling "The Cherry Pit” catches my eye —even though the entire street has almost the same signs. I put my hands in my drab, beige overcoat pockets and look through the windows of the place, which looks lively inside. There is smoke. A dense, blue-grey haze hanging under the low ceiling. Probably not just from cigarettes. The thumping bassline of Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy" vibrated through the glass. I lift my head again and look at the sign. There is a cherry that blinks slower than the rest of the sign by an integer. This cherry is attached to a man in jeans. Stonewashed, tight, ripped at the knee.
— Cherries, huh.
I find it funny to myself. A weird way of saying it's a gay bar. Family," they called it in hushed tones sometimes, a code in a world still shadowed by Section 28. I've been to some before. Not alone. But now I am. Far from my curious 16 years of age, I know what I'm doing here. But I didn't come for the same reasons. Just a whiskey or a spliff for the night and that's it. With the promise in mind, I enter and soon hear rock music —Queen this time— in the back of my ears. The lights in the place are red, just like the cherry on the sign. It is humble but has something to pay attention to: men. Men in leather jackets, men in vests showing off gym-toned arms, men with mullets and men with sharp, New Romantic fringes. I don't know if it's because I was in my 30s, but seeing the situation of certain young guys there left me with the same itch in my ear. Even in the tough situations I went through as a teenager, I would hardly think of giving in to a position like that to live. But who am I to say that? So as if I were a regular here, I go to the tables in the back, closer to the dark, sticky with spilled beer, and settle down at one of them. That way I would have peripheral vision of everything. My back cries out just for my bed, my ribs creak just from the action of sitting. But I will survive a night out of the routine, there is no way I won't survive. I wouldn't want to feel guilty, I never talk to Dora anymore. She has her own little chatter, so as the quiet man of the house, I just listen. But recently that headache has become more pertinent. And so I don't want to snap at her any time just because she says so. It's just become a pain to deal with stuff like that.
— Hey lad, —the barista — a burly bloke with a shaved head and a faded Clash t-shirt stretched over his chest —finally notices me and leans his strong arm on the counter as he grabs another pint glass fogged with condensation to serve — want something to wet your beak? Fancy a pint?
My eyes wander over the beer options on the counter, handwritten on a chalkboard: Watney's, Stella, Guinness, I didn't want to order something boring — Is there anything stronger than this here? — the barista looks at me and then he looks at the beer taps. He nods and then points with his head to the bottle rack. Dusty bottles of Bell's, Teacher's, and a single malt I couldn't afford. In the end I got a whiskey. A double, neat. I probably won't venture to get vodka or something like that here. It's my first time here. So I sit back with my back against the sticky vinyl upholstery of the chair, while sometimes I let the glass rest between my lips and mustache. So as not to make it obvious that I'm watching the movement of the place. The clack of pool balls, the raucous laughter, the low murmur of conversations trying to be heard over the music. Maybe I'll come back here later. It's quiet here. Less chaotic than the other gay bars on the street. I'd be a good match. So this is where things could have been different. That moment when the camera of life starts to slow down and you see that person. The person. He was so carefree. Leaning against the jukebox, bathed in its shifting coloured lights. The red lights mixed with the alcohol made my vision blurry. It felt like I was seeing a nymph. My brain couldn't actually make it happen, it just made it seem more convincing to me that this was a person and not a threat to my fragile and abandoned system. Was it lust at first sight? I can't exactly say. But it's not like he wasn't already mesmerizing enough.
My head returns to reality only with the screams that I barely knew I had to hear. Because the reason was him. In the back of my mind the sounds came together and formed syllables and then I heard
— Fucking lock it, Black! You bloody ponce!
The guy who screamed is dragged out of the bar by two bouncers in bomber jackets, while others are just as confused by the event. But they soon return to their normal schedule. The jukebox clicked, whirred, and started playing "Blue Monday.” The problem is that I didn't come back. Is it Black his name then? I thought to myself. The sinful figure had red light reflecting off his wavy black hair, half spread to one side, half thrown to the side. He seemed undecided on how to look best when he was supposed to be getting ready. The eyes could be light, because the heavy black smokey eye around the eyes made them stand out. Kohl-rimmed and intense. So fast and yet slow, the half-staggering steps make him end up on the bar counter. Still looking over his shoulder, the bastard smirks as if he's won a prize with the scene that who knows how must have started upstairs. He doesn't even bother to adjust the black coat — a long, vintage military style thing, maybe from Oxfam — he's wearing, because there's nothing underneath, just skin and tattoos. Exactly. My eyes are interested in each one, but there are so many that I can barely see. There is some kind of black fluffy fabric — faux fur, ratty at the edges — on the collar and the end of the sleeves that makes him look funny but original. I don't have much to offer other than looking. He throws his arms on the surface of the counter while he might be saying something to the barista — who seems to know him well. He lays his head on the counter and his hair follows him, doing justice to spread out. He then lets one elbow rest and his chin lays on the palm of his hand. His hands. It has black nails and fingers full of information, with different rings of each type and tattoos. He's probably getting a gentle lecture from his barista friend. He doesn't even seem to really listen, just looks at the barista with a slight smirk and then raises his eyebrows sometimes at the other's sharp words. His only defense however is to snort a laugh and shrug his shoulders
— He started it —that's all he says.
I look at the glass I've been holding tightly in my hands this whole time. There's still about two fingers of whiskey left inside. I tip the glass to my mouth and feel my throat burn just the right amount. I think about looking again. Do I have that right? To look at him again? When the possibilities invade my head, I look up and he's already looking at me.
Fuck.
There are half-lidded eyes staring at me from a distance. Should I pretend I didn't see him before? No, that would be cowardly. He doesn't seem like the kind of person who would care though. He didn't seem to be dealing with scenes like that for the first time. He almost seemed proud. Who knows what happened to that. But the point is, he has no way. He opens his lips, a piece of gum on the tip of his tongue, which turns the gum in his mouth to a different position. Jesus Lord. He then looks at the barista, who was doing his best to clean the drink drops from the counter. He moves his mouth, probably saying something. Could it be me the subject? No, don't freak out, Remus.
Then he rolls his eyes to look at me again and he smirks. Would I become a target? I would get in trouble for that. But for some reason I wouldn't back away. I would see where this would lead. But shit only gets worse when he promptly gets up — staggering — and comes over. The barista, frowning the whole time, nodded along and he probably regretted saying who knows what about me to the Black. I look at the barista, he looks at me and when I see the bastard he is already sitting, arms crossed on the table and leaning forward.
— Hey, handsome. Never clocked your mug 'ere before. I've never seen your face here. If I had, I would have recognized it.
His voice is strangely familiar, really strange. There's a hint of something in his tone. A posh accent sanded down by cigarettes and something rougher. Of course there is. But really, maybe it's the way his jaw clenches and then relaxes as he chews his fucking gum as if he had the greatest reason to look so attractive doing so.
I was probably frowning and looking at him neutrally, but inside, I was looking like a fireworks festival. Suddenly I felt warmth. Maybe it's his transmission. He's so full of information. I've probably said that before. But it's always surprising. Even today I remember how long it took me to learn every part of it without it being something new. He had necklaces, chains, earrings, he even had the problem of going through a metal detector if he ever needed to. There were details about him that I didn't catch in this impression. Because he was still talking, but I was focusing on his mouth, or his eyes.
— ...like, that would certainly be a real fun. Do you want to go now?
I didn't even know what he was saying, I just nodded. I blinked a few times and then took a breath. This night would be quick. Literally. There's no point in going past midnight here. It's not even rush hour yet, which is usually ten to eleven. Last orders" would ring out soon. I notice that he has an anticipatory look in his eyes and his pupils are not as pulsating as before. Dilated, dark pools. He swings one leg under the table. He must be the hyperactive type or he must just be stoned. He looks sober, but still clearly drunk. There's something about his face that makes me want to pull him in and kiss him. What the hell are those thoughts, Remus Lupin? You are a married man.
— Remus, right? — he takes me out of my trance again and he looks at my name tag — a cheap plastic rectangle on a frayed lanyard — on the cord still around my neck from university.
— Pretty name. For a pretty face. — he says and smiles smugly while grinning. A flash of crooked white teeth.
— You been cruising places like this before? Have you been to places like this before? I assume you know that people don't always come here just to drink — he says and looks me up and down.
No one has ever dried me with a look like that before. I felt roasted by the heat of his eyes
— I want to give you the entire courtesy of the house. Half price, love. On my tab. So you would only pay half. On me.
I didn't understand a thing he was saying, I just looked at him with the most neutral look in the world and confused at the same time. He bites his lip and then leans forward further, arms still folded
— Come on, I don't bite... — he almost purrs and then smirks — ...only if you want me to. Bit of rough trade, eh?
Okay, that was enough. I just had a fish face the whole time. I was born with this bored face. But the truth is, I've never felt so entertained before. Even when he pulls me up the stairs by my tie, I look back but see no point in going back. Why go back? To that routine? Nah, I was fine like this. But then I realized that he probably wouldn't want to take me to a room just to look at me and talk. He would want more. And get paid for it? He said half price and that it was courtesy of the house. But how can a beauty like that be sold like this? He does however look pompous. As he throws me into the room and closes the door behind him, a heavy, fire-door thud, he huffs and staggers back into the doorway and then grins. I look around—a run-down room with sheets of unknown origin — nylon, garish floral pattern — and peeling wallpaper — damp patches blooming like inkblots —and peeling wallpaper—nothing out of the ordinary. My eyes then fall on him. God, was he wearing those skintight, low-rise leather pants the whole time? He must have shed the coat downstairs. I'm sure he wasn't. I wouldn't let that pass so fast. He walks towards me with heavy booted steps, Doc Martens, scuffed and enormous, his nose is at the same height as my chin. He is now in the dim light of a lamp — a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling —, and I can see that his skin is pale, looking like a parchment that was given to a child and asked to draw on it. He thinks I was making eye contact, but no, I was just welcoming him in my mind. The idea of someone so stunning next to me still makes me dizzy. He lets the tip of his tongue pass the corner of his lip, then runs to his lower lip. He must be analyzing me, just as I am doing to him. He however seems to do it faster than me. He looks at my badge again and he takes it in one hand, a hum from the back of his throat awakens and he raises an eyebrow
— You're a teacher? Fuck me sideways. Holy shit. — he grins and then looks me in the eye again
— That's cool. — I don't know what he expected me to say, but I just look at him and then remember that I shouldn't even be wearing that badge outside of work.
— I never imagined having a psychology teacher before. But there's a first time for everything, right? — he murmurs and the intoxicating smell of smoke and whiskey invades as he begins to take off his coat. I didn't even think about it, but my hands quickly pulled his coat up to his shoulders again and covered him. The rough wool scratch against my palms. He looks at me and then raises his eyebrows. A surprised "oh?" falls from his lips. He sees my hands on his shoulders and he might have seen it. Seen the thing. The round, almost thick golden ring. He forms a devilish smirk and then looks at me.
— You’re married, —he says smoothly, even seeming like my marriage is favorable to be said in such a way. A statement, not a question. — It's okay, you're not the first married man I've shagged. Dealt with. — he murmurs and then he wets his lips that always seem dry. With a squeeze on his shoulders, I turn him around and sit him on the bed, I sit next to him. I don't know what came over me at the time, but I felt I should make everything clear. He must have more experience than me in this, anyway.
— Look, the truth is, yes, I am married. But my marriage is going through a shitty time. The divorce papers are done, but I don't have the heart to serve them on my wife. So, I hope you don't end up...um...you know, thinking that I'm the same guys you must have dealt with back then because they actually liked to cheat on his wife.
A silence stretches after my voice comes out gruffer than usual, and I feel like a fool. I felt like I had this stuck in my throat for a long time, and now to have said it to a stranger, I felt like a desperate person. He looked at me with a face that seemed so carefree that it made me wonder if he felt the gravity of what I said. But who was he to care? He lets out a sigh and then lets a hand pass through the inside the sleeve of my coat
— Sweetheart, I know. I know because I look at you and see those doe eyes. And I think it's right that you tell me this now… — he pauses and then climbs onto my lap, his hands going to hold the sides of my face — ...but I don't care. I just want to give you a good time, okay? Maybe tomorrow morning you can tell me more. Then I will listen to you indeed. But now? I want to leave you on cloud nine, got it?
Annoyed and shocked. I was shocked and I was annoyed too. Everything happened so quickly and refutably that I felt pathetic for even saying anything without his permission. He was right. I was just jumping the gun. He was drunk —and probably high, or that was just his normal state— but he still knew what he had to do. Which made me a little sad. But that soon changed when he responded with kisses on my neck and rubbing himself on me. Damn hips just going down and as deep as they could while I barely felt like I had woken up properly all day. He huffs and then lifts his head and looks at me.
— Come on, focus on nothing but me.
He mutters and then half lids his eyes at me. While he looks very into it, he focuses on wanting to undo my belt. He scares my hand away when I reach for his hair that falls in his face. He clicks his tongue and looks into my eyes again once he unzips my pants
— Sorry, though. I understand you're not hard right now. You probably don't do that to yourself anymore to get reactions, right? — he says now with a slight frown and a truly apologetic tone. In fact, how would I masturbate in such a chaotic house that I barely have any privacy or time? And it's fucking embarrassing to even plan for this, if Dora knew about this, she would call me a shameless bastard. However, I already lose it when he touches me. And he notices. He fucking notices.
— Okay, you clearly haven't had a handjob in ages. Bit rusty, professor? — he raises eyebrows and kind of smirks. He doesn't sneer indelicately, at least that much.
— Try doing it to me while I do it to you. — he murmurs and doesn't take his hand off my cock even as he unties his pants. The stiff leather groaned. And me? Well, I was still in shock. From the first moment. Why does this feel so natural? Why am I not uncomfortable? And why the hell haven't I run away from here yet? The answers become clearer as I perceive them. — Shitty pants — he grunts as he holds his breath so he can pull down the leather of his pants. It's so hot to see more of him. The sharp jut of his hipbones, the trail of dark hair, the tattoos. I felt like a teenager again, seeing a dick that isn't mine right in front of me. But what intrigues me is the fact that he's not wearing underwear. Of course he wasn't. I blink a few times and then moan as I feel the light glide of his palm over my length. He presses his hips down, arranging a way for my cock and his to rub against each other as his hips move. The way he lets it happen down there and then runs a hand with icy rings down my neck to the back of my neck, makes a husky growl deep in my throat. With his other hand, he brushes his hair away from his face, tossing it to the side. He kisses below my jaw and sucks just below my Adam's apple. The effortless hips certainly do what they're supposed to, moving forward and back, up and down. I wonder how someone like this exists. I still think about that first time. Because the first time didn't make it the last. But it didn't last that long. He opens his eyes and looks at me when he sees me nuzzle his neck as my orgasm made me feel like a desperate maniac. His eyes widen a little, then he slowly stops moving, until he's just in my lap again. The only thing is that he has his chest and abs with my cum, in an abnormal proportion — probably. He and I are both still breathing heavily, but he seems more surprised than I am. I feel embarrassed. I let my face buried in the stranger's neck and still murmur softly
— I'm sorry. I'm so sooo sorry.
He shakes his head and then searches my face while his eyes are more awake than earlier. He swallows and still looks bewildered, the poor guy probably not even close. I grunt to myself and I just want to beat myself into a pulp and have to be reborn as a groundhog.
— It 's okay. It's okay. — he whispers and then purses his lips and he takes a deep breath — Just, you should have warned me, ya know. — he murmurs and he smiles a little. I like not seeing anything right now. My eyes are closed and my nose is smelling the intoxicated coat. He then pouts and takes both of my arms and puts them around his waist. He looks at the top of my head, still not having the choice to see my face. He hums
— Better this way? — he purrs and he hopes this has worked, but I just let my arms go limp as two noodles. He sighs and then he runs his hands through my hair and he makes my head go back, he can now see me. He looks at me and he blinks slightly. He kisses the tip of my nose and then looks at me.
— And like this? Better? — he whispers, I can feel that he no longer has the smugness of before, he is sensitive now. He must feel weird by the whole strange event. But he still looks at me and even without an answer, he smirks a little and then he gives in to his impulses. He runs his tongue over my lips and then he looks at me again. This may be the first time our eye contact lasts so long
— Open your mouth. — he whispers and looks at me, almost between a request but also a doubt. I don't know how to act yet, sorry. So I just stammer something, which happens to make me open my mouth. He then deeply consumes my soul. The cavities of my mouth feeling a warm, wet, unfamiliar tongue. My God. Not giving up on continuing, he still straddles me, his knees that remain on either side of me, getting more to work with. A kiss is not just a kiss. A kiss doesn't even describe what happened. I felt not only lips, I felt nature, I felt soul, I felt fervor, I felt dizziness. I felt his impurity and at the same time his holiness. All my sensory senses heightened as I could hear a sharp moan from him as he gasped out a sob as my tongue passed over the roof of his mouth. It's a mix of his saliva and whimpers. But I like it. The mess slowly moves away from my senses. I just know that we were nothing more than that that night. I was very scared, though. Scared of the chlamydia, the whispers, the fucking plague they talked about on the telly every night. Scared of the fire I felt. Of how with each vibration the blessed grunts were made with each press of our lips. Every time our teeth wanted to devour our souls. How I just wanted to stop being someone for him, how he seemed so broken and he just wanted to have his pieces put back together. And I knew how. But I didn't want to. Not now. Hooking up would be enough for now. But what surprises me is the reluctant murmur as he senses my hesitation
—No, no, no, don't stop. Hey look here—he wanted as much of my attention as he could. He didn't give up. By this point his lips were almost bursting. There were bruised spots and yet he was breathing as if he was in a race against time. He's got hazy eyes and his lips know nothing but to seek mine again and make the open scars open, and I feel like a fool now. What was I doing for Christ's sake? Kissing a guy whose name I don't even know. Like I wasn't late to go home. Dora would be watching the ten o'clock news, wondering. But what was it? I felt like I was on break from school and I was skipping class. And that left an adrenaline rush and at the same time a huge guilt deep inside me. I groan and then close my eyes.
— I have to go sometime, you know. Gotta shoot.
I can even feel him huff the hair out of his face in frustration, then he grabs my face by the jaw and he lifts it up close to his face and he has no moral ideas right in those eyes now.
— Are you scared? — he whispers almost challengingly but also with a tone of understanding — Scared of getting attached? — and that's when my heart stopped. And I also have no idea how, but what would later form thanks to a simple and dirty whisper from a guy with experience. I wouldn't think it was bad. But from a broader perspective, it would be the biggest ambush in life to have to deal with feelings. It's never been something I could understand. It's not like a poem, or a patient report. It's about yourself. And I don't know anything about myself other than the fact that I'm a coward. And to realise he thinks I'm scared, it's written all over my face. He searches my eyes desperately for a nudge, so he's not the only one talking. But my head screams. He just can't hear it. I let out a breath and looked down, I hadn't realized how long I had left my hands on his thighs. The cool leather against my palms. He looks almost like he's about to lose his mind. I shouldn't have put so much stock in this. Not in an affair of one night. Not in a man. I had more than a few weeks of work before Christmas. The school nativity, the staff party, the empty pretence with Dora. And that wasn't what I wanted as a gift.
— Yes. Yes I am, — I look at him as my eyebrows furrow a little and he looks at me with blue eyes almost pleading.
— I don't know anything about you. Still, I feel like I shouldn't go into this too deeply…
— It's Sirius. — he cuts through my speech with a quick, breathless voice. — Sirius Black. You... You can call me by my real name, but... not here, ‘kay? Stick to ‘Pads’ if you come back.
His words make me blink several times and then I look at him and snort. What makes him think this will happen again?
— And why do you talk as if you and I will see each other again? — my voice is particularly colder, a sharp look and I even feel something like indignation in the pit of my stomach.
Sirius. Yes, that's the name. Now that he has a name, it seems more characteristic. A star. He's a Black too. The Blacks. Old money. Political donors. Thatcherites. It makes me wonder what someone from a well-known family in London is doing working in a gay bar as the evening's entertainment. He doesn't look good. Not posh. Not anymore. I've noticed that since he started looking at me. He's not all there. He's wide-eyed most of the time. Pupils like saucers. His laid back personality is short-lived. It's like someone unplugged it. Or like someone left a child alone with the monster under the bed. The heavy smudged black shadow around the eyes is blurred into dark circles, and that makes him look like a survivor all of a sudden. Suddenly I feel like I understand him, but not completely. He had stopped since I spoke and for more than a few minutes he had just been staring at me with his hands loosely on the sides of my neck. He swallows hard and then takes a shaky breath.
— Because you're in the same boat as me. We're both fucked, professor. You have nowhere to look but a great void that you have projected yourself into. And that scares you. — he has an almost threatening tone, one of understanding, and also of designation. He pokes my chest with a finger and he looks into my eyes like a sly one
— Me and you. This seems strange. But I feel like you won't be able to get rid of me. I already made that clear when you let me kiss you, — he whispers and looks from my eyes to my lips.
— Do you know that all this you're doing is a threat? You're proper mental, you know that? That I can just not listen to you and leave? — I say it in the same tone I speak to my patients, but my eyes are sharp and my eyebrows are drawn together.
His reaction is purely theatrical. A gaze that pauses on my chest and he still has his hand there. He runs the tip of his tongue over his outer lip and tilts his head a little to the side. He doesn't show it anymore. That desire, that feeling of not wanting to be left. There must be more to him than what he appears to leave on the surface. It bothers me.
— You can go, — he whispers softly and then looks at me. The irises bathed in something I can barely feel but that gives me chills. What do you mean I can go? Wouldn't that mean you could just come after me? Before I could contest it, he sighs and relaxes his shoulders — but you wouldn't find it strange that I could have easily seduced you by now, and that you wouldn't forget me in a moment? Like a bloody earworm. You wouldn't forget. And when you're in the position you're in, in a broken marriage. I think I know how to fix it.
The words are tempting. He can make everything sound like candy, and just go and take as much as he wants and die of diabetes happily. But he's not wrong. And the way he talks about fixing what's already broken and irreversible, makes me feel sick to my stomach. I imagined many things. How Dora and I would end our suffering. But it wasn't like that. I would trust a Black with all my pure divinity so that he would blind me to what was happening. Because there was no turning back. He would kiss me again. He would whisper in my ear again. He would smirk breathlessly as I kissed his neck again. Again. Again. And again. Until I realized he had never said a single word about how weird I was. How he didn't find it strange at all when he saw my scars and how he didn't even ask why I was limping the whole way here. No flinch, no pitying look, no "What 'appened to you, love?". I've always been used to people suspecting my own physical incapacity. And how it affected me even at times like this. But he didn't give a damn about that. He went deep into everything he could capture from me and he made me something new that night. I would feel how destructive and merciless it would be to get up the next morning. But I didn't care at the time. I just wish this shit would go away. And yes, I would let him blind me, and
even whisper afterwards
— I told you.