Running Parallels

📅 March 31, 2018; 3 days after Chey's reappearance

►ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ (ᴍᴏsᴛʟʏ ғʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ) ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ sᴇx ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ᴀʙᴜsᴇ, ʙᴜʟʟʏɪɴɢ, sᴇʟғ ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ◄

Chey had gotten used to the fact that life didn’t pause. It didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, didn’t allow for time to adjust—whether it was to things falling apart or falling back into place. Anarchy still seemed to be coming to terms with that, though, and he sounded rather frantic as he was preparing to leave for work:
“I’m so sorry,” he stressed, “I swear, I really would take time off, but Xe—”
“—but your coworker Xenith managed to get the flu, yes, as you said yesterday!” Chey laughed, rolling his eyes good-humoredly, “And you’ll make yourself late today too if you stay here apologizing again! Don't worry, Key. Maybe K-O and I can drop in later; be terrible distractions, impact your job performance.” Chey grinned, while Kohao made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat and didn’t turn around from his seat at the breakfast bar, but Anarchy seemed somewhat reassured nonetheless by Chey’s gentle teasing.
“You’re more than welcome to. Really, Chey,” Anarchy said, “You being back is so much more important to me than work. I swear, if I didn’t have to go—”
“I know, ‘Key, really, quit fussing! I’ll be here when you get back. Or I’ll crash your shift. Just get going! We’ll be fine.” Chey gestured between himself and Kohao as he offered Anarchy a reassuring smile, and Anarchy finally managed to get himself out the door, with one last “Okay, okay. I’ll see you guys later tonight.” 

As soon as the door shut behind him, the apartment seemed to drop fifteen degrees...for the third day running. Chey stayed casually sprawled across the living room sectional, but could feel the tension in the air as the usual chilly silence set back in between himself and Kohao. This time, Chey decided to break it before Kohao could go his usual route and shut himself in his room.
“You know you don’t have to fight me for him, right?” Chey asked, unfolding his arms and loosening his posture slightly. 
Kohao looked coldly over his shoulder. “What?” 
The glacial tone made Chey want to roll his eyes, but he settled for leaning back, an amused smile playing on his lips with his answer: “I’m just saying that you don’t have to angrily side-eye me forever. I’m not trying to steal your best friend.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Kohao responded flatly, looking pointedly away again, and Chey couldn’t help but laugh.
“Does no one ever call you out on your shit?”
Kohao bristled immediately at the question and spun swiftly around in his barstool, already halfway to a snarl.
“You trying to lose teeth?” he snapped, baring his own. 
“You won’t hit me,” Chey replied breezily, and Kohao’s jaw set tighter.
“You don’t know shit about me,” he hissed. Chey just shrugged an unconcerned shoulder.
“Sure don’t. But I’ve seen how you and ‘Key talk to each other. Look at each other. I mean, you clearly—”
“—You’re going to stop talking,” Kohao snarled in interruption, “Now.”
“...are really close with him,” Chey continued anyway, quirking an eyebrow, “‘Key’s important to you; he cares about me. You wouldn’t risk it. Sure, I don’t really know you yet—but I can tell that you’re aggressive, not an idiot.”
“Congratulations, then: You officially have a higher opinion of me than my father, who thought I was an aggressive idiot,” Kohao spat bitterly. He started to turn away again.
“So did you and ‘Key bond over that? Shitty dads?” Chey asked, keeping his tone light even in its curiosity, wanting to prevent Kohao from closing off.
“Yeah, sure.”
“C’mon Kohao,” Chey whined playfully, draping himself over the arm of the couch, “Talk to me.”
“What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?” Kohao asked icily. Chey smiled pleasantly back at him.
“How are we supposed to become friends if I fuck off?”

Kohao faced Chey fully again and glared at him almost contemptuously; with raised eyebrows and a curling lip.
“How insanely fucking stupid are you that you think we’re gonna be friends,” he sneered.
“Oh, very stupid,” Chey drawled obnoxiously in response, “You’re an aggressive non-idiot and I’m an annoyingly friendly moron.”
“Yeah, alright,” Kohao snorted; he’d been unable to keep an edge of amusement from his tone.
“Kohaooo,” Chey said, drawing the name out into another exaggerated whine, “I’m bored. Tell me about yourself.” He was pleased to see that his antics—however irritating—seemed to be working: Despite his best efforts to appear otherwise, Kohao was looking begrudgingly amused. 
“How much do I gotta tell you before you leave me alone?” he asked, sounding less hostile despite the tone of the question.
“Enough to get me to leave you alone,” Chey grinned back, and Kohao rolled his eyes. 
“I’m twenty-two.”
“Hm. Noted, but not good enough.”
“I was born in July.”
“Good for you! But I’m getting antsy,” Chey said, whining histrionically again, “Don’t make me snoop around your room. I hate snooping.”
“Okay, well, being in a band barely pays shit, so I’m a gay camboy for a living and you’re gonna fuckin’ hear it because these walls are nowhere near up to code,” Kohao deadpanned, and Chey finally raised his eyebrows with interest.
“Alright, are you fuckin’ pulling my leg right now, K-O?” he asked, dropping his whiny falsetto and sitting up.
“Yeah. The walls are up to code. I’m just a loud sonofabitch.”
Chey laughed, hard enough that Kohao’s smirk looked like it was at risk of becoming a genuine smile by the time Chey finally caught his breath to respond.
“Okay, okay. Neat. Do you enjoy it?” he asked, tilting his head like a dog.
“What, camming?” Kohao asked. He seemed wrong-footed by the question and averted his gaze, looking focused and thoughtful as the smirk slowly slipped from his face. “...I guess I don’t,” he said eventually, the sarcasm having left his tone to be replaced by something more troubled, “I like feeling wanted? I like feeling desirable.” He hesitated. “It’s not really what I am to them.” 

Chey knew he’d stumbled out onto thin ice with his question and went silent for a moment or two as he mulled over his response, choosing his words carefully.
“I used to like the praise,” he eventually said, keeping his voice soft and serious, “When I first started...You know. I liked being told I was good, or talented, or pretty.” He paused, and as the words hung heavily in the silent air, Kohao raised his averted eyes to look at him again—and Chey felt distinctly like he was out in the woods, being sized up by something wild, something dangerous. He swallowed his uneasiness, though, and continued;
“One night I was with a man. A regular. He ran his fingers through my hair and said, ‘You’re such a pretty thing, I wish I could keep you forever.’” Chey paused again and Kohao’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. “‘Pretty thing.’ ...I can’t really describe what that felt like.”
“It’s like being killed without dying,” Kohao spat. His words didn’t cut through the air so much as rip through it. “It feels like the ground giving out beneath you. Like being stripped of your identity, your personhood, being condemned to worthlessness. Being buried alive. It feels like swallowing clay.” Kohao turned away, his eyes dark and his expression bitter. “You’re not a thing. You weren’t a thing. You were a kid.”
At first, Chey just stared, dumbstruck, at Kohao’s back. If he’d expected anything, it definitely hadn’t been that. 
“...Yeah,” he said softly, and took another heartbeat to study Kohao. Sized him up. And decided to take a risk. “What happened to you, Kohao?”
Kohao bristled as if provoked despite the timid tone: He spun around furiously, eyes ablaze, muscles tensed.
“My parents didn’t love me and the kids at school liked me better on the ground with a split lip,” he spat hotly, “You already know I tried to gun down my classmates. Do you need details? Need to know what I got called? Need to know about every time I got kicked in the stomach or what I used to fucking cut myself?”
“I’m not challenging you, Kohao,” Chey murmured, half raising his empty hands as though in surrender, “I’m not asking you to prove you were hurt.” 
Kohao gave him a searching up-and-down, as if assessing the honesty of his words. 
“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, glancing away, “you and ‘Key went through worse.”
Chey knew he should drop it, but couldn’t bear the downcast eyes and self-dismissive tone: He stood up and took a cautious step towards Kohao.
“It’s all pain, though,” he said softly. 
Kohao visibly tensed. “Leave it, Chey,” he said, but Chey couldn’t—and took another tentative step forward. 
“Who told you that you were a thing?”

Kohao’s head snapped up and he strode across the room to stand almost toe-to-toe with Chey, who resisted the instinct to flinch.
“I said leave it. You don’t get to fucking ask me that,” Kohao hissed through gritted teeth. His words spelled a statement; his tone said threat. Chey shook his head, though, feeling more distressed by Kohao’s pain than his posturing.
“You believe it. Why?”
Kohao clenched his fists at his sides and Chey tensed defensively, wondering if he’d been wrong and he really was going to get hit.
“Because I deserve it!” Kohao snapped instead of throwing a punch, letting venom take place of violence, “Gonna demand to know why that is?”
“I’m not demanding anything, Kohao. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Chey said softly. Again, he ducked his head and showed his open, empty hands as stand-ins for a white flag. A beat passed, and Kohao took a sudden, leery step backwards.

“I don’t fucking trust you,” he spat, jerking his chin higher, his eyes narrowing.
“You don’t have to,” Chey murmured; careful to keep his voice quiet and his head low; his posture non-threatening. Kohao was acting cornered and Chey knew a line had been crossed somewhere. “I trust you, though. And...thanks for talking to me. I can leave you alone, now.” He tilted his head towards his bedroom at the end of his sentence, and Kohao gave him a sharp nod. 
“You can’t trust me. You’re a fucking idiot,” Kohao snapped at Chey as he passed.
“...I think I can, though,” Chey said softly, pausing to look back over his shoulder. He risked giving Kohao a cautious smile as he quoted his words from earlier: “‘You’re not a thing. You weren’t a thing. You were a kid.’” 
“I know what the fuck I said,” Kohao snapped insolently, and Chey inclined his head. 
“Yeah. But you said it. Sure, I don’t know you; don’t know why you think you deserve—” Chey’s gaze briefly flickered down to Kohao’s scarred arms, “—the stuff you put yourself through. But ‘Key clearly trusts you—and so do I.” 
Kohao glared coldly. “Then you’re still an idiot.”
Chey just shrugged, then—and let it go. When it came to picking battles, this felt like one that time would win for him, anyway.