In Hell We Dance

Wrong

-Connor-

You know, I'm actually changing my mind about this place. Give it a few nice carpets—a rich indigo blue, a new kitchen, complete with microwave, refrigerator, and sink, and it's looking pretty livable, if I do say so myself.

I don't feel so bad about leaving Isaac here. As much I mean. Of course, I worry endlessly, having to restrain myself, literally by biting my palm, so I won't drive over there and drag him by his collar. Not that that'd end well for me...

I shiver, then suck at my throbbing palm. I bit too hard. I think I'm bleeding. God, he makes me feel so many... emotions. Confusing ones. Aren't they all?

Real wordsmith there, Connor. I seriously have the vocabulary of a teenage girl during their One Direction phase. Do they ever go out of that?

I have yet to stay the night with him since... yeah. Despite the new floor, the presence of windows, locks on doors, actual power now, and dare I say it... No, I won't spoil the surprise. Despite all that, it feels like we're not moving any closer. I'd say we weren't gelling, but it's more like a false indifference. We talk more openly, and we've gotten to know each other better. But we're still holding back. He can know shit like, where I went to uni and what I do, but I can see behind his eyes, he doesn't want to know more.

Like, I'd offered to bring him my sketches. I'm no Oscar—that kid's a born Van Gogh—but they were more than passable. Enough to be submitted in a professional portfolio. I have that, not that dad could know. Divine dresses; three-piece suits, fur boots, bags... the whole shit. It's all there, and I'm adding to it, coming to Oscar for advice, but he sees the world in a way I just can't, and so he can offer no better advice than proportions and what colours complement, which I throw out of the window, because in the fashion landscape, going by the colour wheel is so faux pas, so 1950s.

Isaac gave me this half-grimace, half sympathetic smile that really just pissed me off. But I stomached it because then he spoke about himself. His stories were so... extraordinary.

Weird, I know, but though by most standards he'd lived a shady life, just hearing how he made it out there, all by himself... It wasn't just admirable. It was damn incredible. He won't go back too far. I know he was born in Miami, and for the most part, he keeps his accent, but nearly all memories of the place have faded—he can only catch feelings, vague shapes, nothing tangible. Living here for a while, some English slang has infected his lingo, but he still calls police officers cops, money cash, etc., and some of that has rubbed off on me. It's so exotic. Not really, but by my standards, yeah it is.

As far as I can make it out, his mother and him split—she passed on?—shortly after arriving in this crummy little country. What spurred the move is again not information I'm privy to, I just know he was left all alone in a strange new world. His mother was a great teacher, someone who knew the real world. By that, I mean how to survive, no matter what. There are the people that are against the world, yet find a living regardless, like Isaac's mother; there are people who fit into the system, like the majority; there's those who know the system's loopholes, dirty, yet legal backdoors and heartless deals that thrust you to the top, like me, and then there's Isaac, someone who sees all of that, and just... scoffs at it. Ignores it. Whatever.

Isaac has found his own groove, slipped comfortably in the cracks as he is, and now he is exploiting that cockiness to get to the top. Really he has the drive of someone like my father, only without the name or wealth, and a hell of a lot more aggression—sexual and otherwise. It is his fiery exterior, hiding an ice cold heart inside that draws me like a moth to a flame. I just don't get it, but I love hearing him talk. Love standing close to the fire. I'm maybe broken in that way, but it's a good kind of broken, I think.