Page 51 of Angel of Thursdays

Cassiel crouched at the turntable. He’d gotten up after the notebook, crossed back to the low table, and his hands had found the machine because he wanted to touch something. So he placed his thumb on the ridge of the dust cover and watched the platter turn. The track had ended, moved on to something he didn’t recognize yet.

May sat against the base of the couch, his legs extended, the blue oxford untucked.

“I can’t do this with the money,” May said.

Cassiel turned his head.

“Tonight’s the last booking. No more STDY, I just want us to be us. I can’t be here with you on Christmas and then see a notification tomorrow with a dancing lady emoji going ‘Hey STDY BDY, your boyfriend gave you $160!’ —And you are that, right?”

Cassiel never liked the word ‘boyfriend.’ He barely tolerated ‘partner.’ But that was about semantics and labels. This was about May. May’s financials, May’s pride. May wanting to be something both more and less complicated than what Cassiel had led them to, all the way back in August when Chuseok and being alone was the foreground of his worries.

“I am if you say I am,” Cassiel said, turning back to face him.

“That is… uncharacteristically roundabout.”

“Yes, May, I am your boyfriend.”

“Better,” May said, standing up. Cassiel straightened and closed the distance, and so did May, until they stood inches apart. They were of similar heights, so their eyes came level. Cassiel should have kissed him then but he spoke instead:

“But you need the income.”

May’s eyes were dark and his voice was quiet when it came, the syllables bitten and precise.

“I know I need the income.” His eyes stayed on Cassiel, his arm extending back in a twisted showman’s gesture. “I live in this.”

“I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Shut up. No. Cassiel, listen. You did the math. Cool. Great. I know you did the math. You’ve been doing the math since I told you about the accident. You looked at my shithole apartment tonight and you ran the numbers again. You’re right. But you don’t get to hand me a fucking… five-hundred-dollar turntable and then be all ‘Oh, but you need the money.’ You’re not going to be my sugar daddy.”

The song played on, indifferent. Cassiel’s fingers wrapped around his index, feeling the ridges of the fidget ring.

“I did not say that,” he said, because he needed to be heard. “I didn’t ask to be your ‘sugar daddy.’ That is not what this is. I wanted your Thursday mornings, so I paid for them. You don’t want this to be a transaction—fine. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re losing money.”

“I’ll keep other clients. Take more, even.” May’s voice was clipped. “I’m not going to quit STDY. That’s work. But you and me—that’s done. The fake shit is done. No more bookings. No more rates. I show up because I show up.”

“Okay,” Cassiel said.

“Okay?”

Cassiel stared at him. What else was there to say? He had listened. He had heard.

May stared back. The flat look on his face held for another second, and then his shoulders dropped and his hand came up and Cassiel watched as May dug the heel into his eye. All Cassiel could do was count his breaths, the seconds before he spoke again. The record had stopped. Side A was done.

“Thank you,” May said.

“Don’t thank me for agreeing to stop giving you money to be with me.”

May’s breath came out—short, not quite a laugh. “I’m thanking you for not—for not being an asshole about it and arguing.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.” May’s hand circled Cassiel’s wrist. His left, where the pulse sat close to the surface. May’s thumb traced the tendon once and stayed. His hands were still steady. The argument had run through his voice and his bottom lip and his eyes and had not reached his fingers.

Cassiel didn’t move. The notebook sat on the couch behind May. The turntable sat silent at Cassiel’s back, the needle parked at the end of Side A. The arithmetic was still in the room—correct, rejected. He didn’t know if the hand on his wrist was forgiveness for something he hadn’t sought or something else altogether.

May kissed him. It was nothing like the first one. This was May’s weight shifting forward, his hand leaving the wrist and finding Cassiel’s collar instead. He pulled, and Cassiel’s lower back hit against the arm of the couch behind him. Then May’s knee came up over Cassiel’s thigh. There was still you don’t get to in his grip, the argument’s heat still in his mouth—warm, breath quick, mouth tasting of grape soju, a man who had been running hot for the last five minutes and hadn’t yet come down.

Cassiel’s hand went to the back of May’s neck and stayed, the ring warm against skin.