Kahlua, Contrition; In Lieu of Love

 📅 February 2018

【ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ sᴇx ᴀs sᴇʟғ-ʜᴀʀᴍ, ɪɴᴛᴇɴsᴇ sᴇʟғ-ʜᴀᴛʀᴇᴅ + ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛɪғɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ ᴜsᴇ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ sᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ】

Everything had fallen apart after the thing with ‘Key, honestly. It had been fucking necessary, Kohao knew it, he’d had to smash it all to pieces, he’d had to shoot that plane out of the sky—but he knew hope and he knew himself and he knew he historically had sucked at pulling triggers so he might as well fucking kamikaze and make sure the job was done.
He still felt like he was failing, though.

His first bet had been heroin. He could ruin everything with that; even without dying it’d be as good as suicide if he started on it. But like a coward he’d gotten Nick to talk him out of it and then he managed to be a piece of shit to Seth, too, and it was like he couldn’t stop hurting every fucking person in his life he came across. He’d been rollercoastering through it, between fever-high anger at them all and then the devastating drop back down into the fact that he knew the real problem and it was him.

He’d spent a week or so getting beyond wasted; pushing even his alcoholic’s tolerance past its limit more than once and puking like a college kid. But then he’d dropped into that devastation again and realized he didn’t deserve that anymore, the reprieve that alcohol gave him—not when he’d broken ‘Key’s heart and left him with the pain he kept seeing in his eyes. Anarchy had to feel it. So Kohao decided he did, too. 

That’s when he stopped drinking so heavily when going out; started going back to what he termed the ‘Disconnect’ method, which was as painful as a self-dissection and therefore, he felt, perfect fucking punishment. Storm had bailed him out the other night, with keen eyes and kindness, but he knew it was undeserved so tonight he’d fled to a safer spot, or rather—an unsafer spot, where he was sure none of his friends frequented and he wouldn’t have to worry about being rescued from himself—or anyone else—against his will.

Gripping his empty glass, Kohao let out a shaky breath, hating the anxiety in his chest. The bar should’ve felt familiar, to him; should have felt like his own territory. But he wasn’t running himself the way he was used to; he’d had a couple of shots but was nowhere near drunk. Guilt and loss had made homes in his chest and stomach and he was determined to keep them there, deserved, not drown them in alcohol.
But he was also determined to live up to the worth he felt suited him—and that meant finding someone to take him home and use him. His tried-and-true method of blacking the fuck out was now no longer allowed, so he was left drawing breaths and trying to disconnect; to blank out emotion, history, reality. Reduce himself to a machine, an object—to become a single facet of himself and nothing more. He decided to sum his identity up through his ‘fuck me’ choker: Focus on that, contain his worth in it.
All other personal information was to be discarded; he wasn’t a guitarist, a singer, anything. Not now.
He shut his eyes to concentrate; to slip away from himself.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
I’m a slut, I’m an object.
Use me. 

“You look like you could use another drink,” a male voice said from beside him, cutting across his internal monologue.
Kohao opened his eyes to see who had spoken, and quite nearly dropped his jaw when he did: The man was as tall as Seth, wearing a smirk and a white dress shirt, with mismatched eyes and a scar over his left eyebrow that Kohao’s gaze lingered on.
Well, I couldn’t choose a better rebound, he thought to himself, somewhat bitterly. Still, he stuck to his persona as best he could; lowered his eyelids and cocked his head to the side to properly expose his choker.
“Are you offering or making an observation?” Kohao asked cooly.
“Both,” the stranger replied, taking the barstool beside Kohao, “So. What’s your beverage of choice?”
“Black Russian,” Kohao said smoothly, deciding against his usual of just straight vodka. The stranger nodded, smirk still in place, and waved over the bartender to order the drink.
“I’m Isaac, by the way,” the man finally introduced himself, just as the bartender slid the Kahlúa back into the well and placed the glass in front of Kohao. He took the drink and gave Isaac an up-and-down.
He knew what name he should give in return. Knew his own modus operandi: Play the part. Take the role.
Bennet. Bennet Reed.
He felt undeserving of the shield his pseudonym would provide him.

“I’m Kohao,” he said, taking a slow, decisive sip of his drink.
“Kohao,” Isaac repeated, rolling the ‘O’s across his tongue, as if testing out how well the name fit his mouth, “Interesting. I’ve never heard it before. Where are you from, then, Kohao?”
“Don’t know that it matters. Neither of us are here for chit-chat, are we?” Kohao asked dryly, the rhetorical question both honest and protective; Kohao felt strongly that Isaac had no business knowing the history or truth behind his name.
Thankfully the dry tone worked and Isaac’s eyes glittered with amusement.
“Fair enough,” he said, “but I’d rather get to know you at least a little bit before the night...escalates.” He tilted his head and gestured casually towards Kohao. “What does your throat tattoo say? Your, ah, choker obfuscates it.”

Kohao raised his left hand to the choker, running his fingers over the steel letters that he used to attempt to conceal his typical aggression. It was only a half-hearted disguise and he knew Isaac could see the gun tattooed on the hand he’d raised, anyway.
“It says, ‘I take the gun out of my mouth and point it at you,’” Kohao said finally, miming the action with his hand, two fingers forming a pistol aimed at Isaac’s heart. Kohao glanced away as he lowered his hand back to his lap. “So. Sorry if troubled, quasi-homicidal twinks aren’t exactly your scene.” An edge had crept into his voice: The interaction was shattering Kohao’s brittle façade and he knew his averted gaze looked more bitter than flirty, but Isaac surprised him.
“Honestly, that might be my preference,” he said, his gaze approaching analytical. “You’re interesting, Kohao.”

There was a vulnerability that settled over Kohao, there, in the space after Isaac spoke. He was failing to maintain his mask but still was being looked at with glinting eyes and obvious interest, and it unsettled him. There was a distinctive internal protest, a ‘no, don’t see me like that when I’m myself!’ but it was weak when sidelined by his self-disgust, which told him he should be viewed like that inherently; it was what he deserved or even better than. The split between his ‘real’ identity and his flirtatious act was messy and flickering, incomplete from the start, so he settled into the discomfort of it and made his choice. Deserved. 
“‘Interesting.’ Sure,” Kohao said, allowing himself to smirk, to coyly raise his eyebrows, “You’re free to explore my hidden depths back at your place, then.”
Isaac laughed in response but held up his hand; shaking his head almost disbelievingly as Kohao drained his glass like a professional alcoholic.
“Eager, aren’t you? Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with it—but really? You’re not going to ask me anything about myself? I could be a serial killer,” Isaac said.
“All the better,” Kohao replied, only half-sarcastic, “Serial killers would probably be more willing to indulge in knife-play. And I’d get to die. Either you’ll slit my throat or fuck it, I win no matter what. Am I still interesting enough for you?”
Isaac’s smirk had cooled slightly but remained in place; less warm, more predatory.
“Oh, more than,” Isaac said almost too smoothly, in a tone that sent a chill down Kohao’s spine.
He kept his eyes level with Isaac’s despite it.
“Then let’s get out of here.”