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In the morning, Timothée rubbed his throat, his mind hazy, trying to piece together what had happened last night. The back of his head ached terribly. Timothée slowly got up and walked into the bathroom to look in the mirror. His neck was sore and bruised from Armie’s fingers.
Armie woke and came up behind Timothée, kissing his neck and the back of his head.
“Hey Timmy. Look, I’m sorry about what happened last night. It’d been a long day, I’d had a few drinks, and...it really just pisses me off, the kind of incredible horseshit that people do to try to ruin someone’s life. Anybody with a phone or a laptop who knows how to use Adobe Photoshop can put together anything, and half the morons on the Internet will be inclined to believe it. The other half...well, know better.”
“Mm.” Timothée took Armie’s hand and kissed his fingers as they trembled and curled anxiously into a loose fist. “I’ll be okay. It’s...not alright, what happened, but in the context it’s understandable.” Timothée’s voice was hoarse. “I will be okay. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but I’ll live. I’ve been through worse.”
“Maybe, but the more I think about it, the worse I feel. Every time you’ve wound up hurt in the past month has been because of me, indirectly or not. Sit down, baby, let me take a look at it.”
Armie pulled on the mirror to reveal a small medicine cabinet. He took out a small drugstore first-aid kit, ripped open one alcohol wipe to wash his hands, and promptly tore open another one and began to gently wipe Timothée’s bruised throat.
Timothée hissed and closed his eyes. “Putain! Ça fait mal. Can’t you do that a little more gently? You’re a fucking monster...”
“I know, baby.” Armie smiled sheepishly and pressed his lips to Timothée’s forehead.
“I can’t live like this anymore.” Timothée held Armie’s face and pulled him towards him. “I’m not gonna do it. Do you hear me?”
“Uh-huh.” Armie turned and nipped Timothée’s fingers.
“Armie!” Timothée cried faintly. “You pushed me. And choked me. And hit me!”
Armie glanced at Timothée blankly. He slid his hand gently up behind Timothée’s hair to the nape of his neck. Timothée felt him gently probe the bruise there, now a swollen goose egg. With a soft tug, he drew Timothée towards him.
Timothée resisted. Kneeling in the fluorescence, Armie smiled at him darkly. He twined Timothée’s curls around his fist and leaned his face into it, taking a deep breath. Timothée’s lips parted in a soft moan.
“Timmy. You’ve pushed me. And slapped me. And bit me.”
“Yeah, but…” Timothée frowned and looked down at his feet. He sighed and let his eyelids drift closed. “That was in...the heat of the moment.”
Armie chuckled. “Ah, I think I get it. You get a little bit of pleasure out of hurting me.” He took in a slow breath. Timothée opened his eyes.
“You can hurt me, if you take pleasure in it. Just never outside the bedroom, or wherever else we find ourselves when the time comes. I…take no delight in it, Timmy. Knowing that I hurt you again - Jesus, knowing that I directly caused you pain and suffering - makes me sick. It makes me want to bash my face into the wall.”
Armie kissed his forehead again. “You need to lie down for a little bit. I’m taking you back to bed.” Timothée hummed drowsily and closed his eyes.
Armie picked him up and gently lay him down. Timothée whimpered and slumped back against the pillow. “Armie, my head fucking huuuurrrts.”
“I’m sorry, Timmy. I got some Excedrin from the store. In case of hangovers and stuff. I’ll go get you some, and a can of Coke. I’m sorry,” he repeated. He brushed Timothée’s cheek with his knuckles.
Timothée groaned. He thought of Armie’s hands at his throat, his enraged glare, the heat of his body so close. He hated the desire that had come over him, dark and hot, in the middle of the violence.
“I’ll be right back. I love you,” Armie added, almost as an afterthought.