Deranged Love - Hanma Shuji

Chapter 21

His comment was left without an answer and the rest of the ride was spent in silence. It was just banter after all, the usual one—that I realized rapidly. Maybe I was getting over my head thinking he'd fuck me, he was a lot of talk for little actions; I had planned on making a point of that very thought when entered his apartment but the moment we did, he got a call. One he picked up with his smirk falling from his face, leaving nothing but boredom adorn it once more as he walked to the couch and sat down with his legs crossed, his ankle over his knee. I was aware of how "down bad"—as he'd call it—I was when seeing him sitting like that was more than attractive. It gave off power, confidence and I couldn't help but be drawn to it. With a rough turn of my head, I tore my gaze from him and walked to the kitchen. All the stress that had gathered inside me in apprehension of this tattoo had kept me on my toes, awake. Now that it was gone, it left me completely drained. I needed a pick-me-up.

Rummaging through Hanma's cupboards for something to snack on or drink, I felt something hit the back of my head, almost making me hit the cupboard's door from the impact. Turning around rapidly, I looked at the ground where a pillow lay, then at Hanma with furrowed brows. He was still on the phone but this time he was standing behind the couch, only leaning on it as he gestured something. Raising a brow, I mouthed, "No drink?"

A smile drew itself on his lips, he shook his head and pointed to his left at the shelves on which rested many bottles. With a few seconds of thinking, I pointed at him then mimicked the action of drinking. I never imagined doing charades with him but it worked as he nodded and I walked to the shelf, taking a glass from the display in front of it. Once I saw most bottles were the same, if not for their dates, I grabbed a random one and poured him a glass. Staring at it a moment, I poured myself one too and brought it to my lips as I handed Hanma his drink.

Before I could even take a sip, he grabbed the glass from my hand and emptied it in his—a small droplet of whiskey dripped down my chin as I mouthed "Why did you do that?"

Hanma placed my empty glass on the table and sat back on the couch. Covering the microphone, he smirked, "If you used your brain for more than half a second you'd know alcohol ain't helping much with scarring your tattoo. 'Gets the blood going and stuff." He then took a sip and raised his glass towards me, "It's great to relax though! You should do the same, you look tense." And just like that, he returned to his call, his head resting on the back of the couch as he drank more. I took one last look at his form, my eyes settling on his throat as I watched him gulp down the drink before tearing my gaze from him and ushering to the bedroom. It felt strange how open his bedroom was, so I moved to the corner of it once I made sure to close the blinds—when I took off my shirt, I looked down at the air-tight, pocket-like plastic that covered the tattoo on my skin. Ink had filled it since we had left and I couldn't help but poke it a few times. I had this urge to rip it off to see the ink flow out of it and when I pinched it to do so, I quickly stopped and put on a shirt. "No, not a good idea." I mumbled to myself as I put on some pants.

Getting this tattoo after last night felt like there was something more behind it. Like Hanma had put it, I had been branded and I suppose it had been to officially make me part of Bonten... But it also made sure I did not forget last night—not only the night Mikey accepted me as one of them, but also the night when I killed someone and got rid of bodies, all in the name of Bonten. I hardly believed it would be forgettable in the first place, but now I couldn't help but tie this tattoo to that very night.

The night my morals took even more damage, the night I considered letting all go but found a way to hang on a little longer by clinging onto Hanma like he was all that was standing between me and that never-ending spiral of guilt. Making him my anchor had been anything but a wise decision, and even knowing this, I found comfort in it. That was all I wanted, all I needed to survive Bonten: comfort—him. To hell with everyone else, right? No one had ever been there for me; in the end, promises did not matter because as he had said so many times, anyone could be bought.