sexual tension

wrath ( nischay)

3:48 A.M.

Nischay sits in your living room couch, fuming.  His jaw is set, dark eyes firmly fixed in front of him, his gaze staring daggers at whatever happened to be in front of him.

Your phone sits in front of him on the coffee table. It’s long dead, long past the point of being functional, and long past being helpful in finding you.  

Nischay hasn’t seen you since he stormed out hours ago.

***

“I cannot believe you right now,” he says in a low voice full of wrath.  “I - cannot - BELIEVE - you.”

“Can’t believe ME?” You say back, your voice raised louder.  “What about you?! I have to deal with pictures with every random girl you meet, the constant fanservice, the attention given to everyone other than me–”

“I’m not the one going on dates with other people when I’m in a relationship!”

“For the last fucking time, nischay, it was not a date! It was a friend I haven’t seen in FOUR YEARS–”

“And suddenly after that long, he’s more important to you than me?” nischay snapped back, fists clenched in anger.  “You know what, screw this.  I’m done.  I’m just - I’m so done.” With that, he swiveled on his heel, marched out of your apartment, and slammed the door behind him.

You sink to the floor, hot tears dripping down your cheeks, half out of anger, half out of self-hatred because this is the sixth fight this week and because you almost hope he doesn’t come back.

***

He expected you to be there when he returned.  There, in your apartment, probably crying because you missed him and ready to take him back, just like you were yesterday and the day before that. Maybe she went to her ‘friend’s’ house, he thinks bitterly.  Usually the anger burns out by now, but the coals are still hot in his stomach, still fueling the train of vicious, wrathful thought that is careening out of control down the track of his brain.  

When he hears the metallic clicking of your key sliding into the lock, his gaze snaps towards the door. You stumble in, eyes bloodshot and hair a mess, and nischay  almost laughs at the sight.  You’ve never been drunk in your life. I don’t like the idea of losing control, you told him once.  I don’t like being influenced by something other than reason.  

You almost pass him by, but he stands up, making his presence completely clear.  You squint through smudged eyeliner.  “Oh. You’re here.”

Nischay is taken aback, because he’s used to alcohol making people loose, free, more emotional - but you, on your first time drinking… your initial feelings towards him are cold.  That isn’t the teary welcome he’d come to expect.  

Then, he really does laugh: mirthlessly and angrily.  “Look at you.  You’re a mess.  You should be happy I’m here, babe.”

If possible, your eyes narrow even more.  “Don’t call me that.” You try to push past him, but nischay is having none of that.

He grabs your wrist, more out of pity than anything else, because at this point standing up by yourself is getting to be a hassle.  “What? Don’t call you babe? I’m your fucking boyfriend.”