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I cup his cheek gently, turning his head towards me and forcing him to meet my gaze.
“No.” I say, dropping the ice pack and wrapping my arms tightly around his neck. “I’m not letting you push me away this time.”
He tenses and I think he’s going to push me off. I hold on, trying to communicate the depth of my emotion in this hug. He releases a breath and it’s like the weight of the world rolls off his shoulders as he sags into me.
I hold him for a long time. No words are spoken, but we rock back and forth slightly.
When I pull back from him, his eyes soften. He stares at my face wordlessly for a couple seconds before his thumb comes up and collects a falling tear, tracing it back up to my eye before veering off my cheekbones. It’s only then that I realize I’m sobbing.
I’m crying for a boy with no parents and a man built from those consequences.
“Your dad just abused you and I’m the one crying, I’m so sorry.”
His gaze is fixed on the tear on his thumb, his eyes shining in wonder.
“You really do care about me?” He asks and there’s surprise in his voice.
No wonder he didn’t believe me when I told him I had feelings for him. Why would he believe me when that’s how his own father treats him.
I nod wordlessly.
He pulls me into his body and wraps his arms around me. One hand comes down to palm my ass as his lips claim mine in a violent kiss. The metallic taste of blood on my tongue brings me back to reality.
“Wait, stop.” I say, wrenching my lips away from his. He lets me go reluctantly. “I need to take care of these cuts so they don’t scar.”
I grab the first aid kid from the walk-in pantry and a chair from the kitchen table and come back to stand in front of him.
“Sit.” I order, pointing at the chair. Surprisingly, he obeys without argument.
I find and take out all the materials I’ll need to help clean him up and set them on the table before sitting in a chair in front of him.
Dousing a cotton swab in hydrogen peroxide, I dab it slightly against the cuts on his left cheek. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react in any way.
I know he won’t want to talk about it, but I can’t pretend that didn’t happen and I didn’t just witness it.
“Why did you tell me to hide?” I ask. “You didn’t say the words with your mouth, but I heard them loud and clear.”
“He would have hurt you too.”
I swallow around the emotion in my throat at his answer. Part of me hopes that’s the real reason he called me a quick fuck. Because he was worried about my safety and not because that’s all I am to him.
“So, he’s done this before?” I ask, my voice small.
He doesn’t answer. Like before, his eyes say it all.
Another tear drops down my cheek as I apply wound seal cream to two cuts before covering them in a bandaid.
“He’s rarely here so it’s not often.”
“We need to go to the police.”
He laughs humorlessly. “The police in Switzerland are not like the ones in America. And he’s in all their pockets so they won’t do anything. I just need to graduate. Once I do, I’ll get access to a trust fund from my grandfather and I’ll use it to get the fuck out of here. He’ll never see me again.”
I cup his unharmed cheek in my hand. His voice hardens as he pulls away from me and tries to distance himself. “I don’t need your pity.”
I crawl onto his lap and wrap my arms around him. His size dwarfs me when I sit pressed against his chest like this. I turn my head and kiss his throat.
“It’s not pity. It’s empathy.”
