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Falling in love with Kim Theerapanyakul is the most singularly awful, wonderful thing that has ever happened to Arm. It’s like drinking the finest champagne, only laced with broken glass; like driving a sportscar on winding coastal roads, knowing that the brakes have been cut.
It begins after yet another meeting with Korn that winds through brittle politeness to screeching anger and ends on icy acceptance. Kim storms out of Korn’s office, sees Arm watching, drags him outside by the wrist. Why are you always watching me? he seethes, vicious and raw. Because I can’t look away, Arm replies, self-destructively honest as always.
For the next six endless, painful months Kim calls on Arm whenever he needs to be taken out of his head. Arm’s happy to do it, to set Kim on his knees or on his back while drawing him into a safe space. It meets a need in Arm, too, soothes some deep-dwelling urge to protect and control. He loves seeing Kim’s face go slack and his body go pliant, loves the peace that steals over him like a sunset tide. He likes being for Kim what nobody else can, likes making Kim’s life easier, likes wrapping those broken-glass edges in softness and care.
But gradually the awareness creeps over him that he’s falling in love, prickling across his skin like poison oak, hot and insistent and impossible to ignore. It’s obvious that Kim doesn’t reciprocate the feeling, that Arm is just a different kind of tool for a different kind of Theerapanyakul. Arm knows he should end things, that Kim’s frosty disdain was better than his portioned-out attention, being ignored better than being dismissed. Arm’s used to disappointment, to being hurt, and he can cope with it better than the slippery hope that coils around his heart and whispers maybe in his ear; Fuck him better, maybe he’ll love you too. Be there for him no matter what, and maybe he’ll want you back.
It’s an ordinary Saturday night when Kim knocks like he always does, two quick taps, not waiting for an answer. Arm’s already halfway to the door when he lets himself in, hair damp from the rain, bruises on his face and whisky on his breath. He drops his jacket on the chair, looks around like he’s never seen the place before, and walks to the bedroom in silence. They don’t talk as they undress, as Kim kneels, as Arm pushes a gentle thumb past rosebud lips. Kim yields beautifully under his hands and Arm gives him everything he asks for, because he doesn’t know how else to exist around him. In return Kim takes and takes until they’re both spent and breathless.
Afterwards, Arm lies on his back staring at the ceiling, counting his breaths, waiting for the familiar ache to crest and pass. But instead of rising and leaving, Kim curls warm and heavy into his side.
I needed that. Everything’s been so loud lately. My head doesn’t ever shut up any more.
Arm doesn’t say anything, just lets him talk.
This, Kim says, hand resting flat on Arm’s sternum, fingers spread like he’s claiming the space. This makes it quiet.
Arm’s chest goes tight and painful, a cage of wires stretched to breaking point, his heart a bloodied hummingbird beating against the bars. That’s why I’m here, he says, and wonders how the words don’t cut out his tongue.
Kim hums, satisfied, and settles more fully against him. His breathing evens out, slow and deep, until Arm’s sure he’s fallen asleep.
Arm stays awake, staring at the ceiling, watching the light and shadow of car headlights passing outside. A minute passes, two, twenty. He replays the night in his head, not to savour it but to catalogue it. He thinks of all the ways he’s been proud of not making this complicated for Kim, of always being calm and reasonable, of believing that he could handle the sex without the heart. He recognises the dangerous pride of feeling useful and wanted when he knows Kim really doesn’t care.
If we keep doing this, I’m going to disappear. I’m going to cut myself to ribbons on the blades of his indifference. I’m going to give everything inside me until there’s nothing left, until I don’t know myself any more, until he gets bored and moves on and I’m a husk in the dirt where I belong.
Kim shifts in his arms, nuzzling closer, an impossibly soft sigh breaking over Arm’s throat. It keeps him on the hook, dangling helplessly, exposing his belly for Kim to gut him all over again.
Next time, Arm thinks. I’ll end things next time.