Chapter 8: Calling
The laughter from Alex’s story had subsided into a low, comfortable hum of conversation, punctuated by the clatter of empty glasses being collected by a weary-looking bartender. Theo was ordering another round, his voice slicing through the din. Alex felt the familiar, pleasant buzz of whiskey warming her blood, a buzz that matched the low-grade satisfaction humming under her skin. The memory of Angel, pliant and desperate beneath her, was a private film reel she could replay at will. It colored everything with a possessive gleam.
Her phone, face-down on the sticky table, vibrated with a sound that cut through the bar’s noise: the opening chords of a cheesy, sweet J-pop song Angel had set for himself. A smirk touched her lips before she even moved.
“Speak of the devil,” she drawled, scooping up the device. The screen glowed with a picture of Angel, his face half-buried in a giant, poorly-knitted octopus, his dark eyes crinkled with laughter.
She swiped to answer and brought the phone to her ear, leaning an elbow on the table and turning slightly away from the booth, a futile attempt at privacy her friends immediately ignored. Their own conversations died mid-sentence.
“Hey, Kitten,” she said, and her voice was different. Still low, still rough around the edges from smoke and liquor, but the performative crudeness was gone, replaced by something warmer, more proprietary. It was the tone of someone addressing a beloved, slightly ridiculous pet.
Theo mimed gagging. Jamie grinned, cupping a hand behind his ear.
A small, hesitant voice filtered through, tinny and sweet against the bar’s bass. “Alex? Hi. Sorry, are you… out?”
“At The Anchor with the gremlins.” She watched as Maya, who had been listening unabashedly, clasped her hands to her chest, her expression melting. Alex rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the slight curl of her smile. “What’s up, baby? You okay?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine. I just…” A soft, rustling sound came through, like he was shifting fabric. “My package came. The one from Osaka. The… the special yarn.”
Alex knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d been tracking it for a week, eyes glued to his laptop, murmuring about limited-edition colorways with names like ‘Sea Ghost’ and ‘Dawn Mist’. It was obscenely expensive for string, in her opinion, but watching his whole face light up when he talked about it was worth every penny.
“Yeah? They finally pried it out of customs?”
“Mmhmm. It’s here. But it’s… it’s quite big. The box. And I’m in the middle of casting on for a new project and my hands are all… tangled.” His voice was a plea wrapped in apology. “I was wondering… if it’s not too much trouble… could you maybe pick it up from the parcel office on your way home? It closes at ten. I know it’s out of your way, I’m sorry, I should have—”
“Angel.” She cut him off, her tone leaving no room for his flustered spiraling. “Breathe. Yeah, I’ll get it. Text me the pickup code.”
The relief on the other end was palpable, a soft, audible exhale. “Thank you. Really. You’re the best. I’ll… I’ll make you that sweater. The charcoal one. Soon.”
“You better. I’m freezing my ass off in this jacket.” She wasn’t. The leather was lined, and the whiskey was doing its job. But she liked the idea of him worrying about her, of his clever hands working on something meant for her skin. “You eaten?”
“I had some noodles.”
“Which means a handful of dry ramen bricks while standing over the sink. I’ll bring something. Real food. No arguments, Princess.”
From across the table, Maya let out a muffled squeak. Theo was shaking his head, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across his face.
On the phone, Angel huffed, a sound of weak defiance. “I’m not a princess.”
“You are when you pout. And you’re pouting right now, I can hear it.” Alex’s voice dropped another fraction, into a register meant only for him. “Want me to pick up some of those mochi you like from the market? The pink ones?”
A beat of silence. Then, a small, defeated, and utterly pleased whisper. “…Yes, please.”
“Got it. Stay out of trouble. Don’t stab yourself with a knitting needle. I’ll be home in a bit.”
“‘K. Be safe, Alex.”
“Always am. See you, pretty boy.”
She ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the table with a clatter. For a second, she just stared at it, the ghost of his voice still in her ear. Then she became acutely aware of the silence at her table. Four pairs of eyes were fixed on her, expressions ranging from awe to utter disbelief.
It was Maya who broke the silence first. She leaned so far across the table she almost toppled her drink. “Oh. My. God.”
Alex picked up her fresh whiskey, took a sip, and leveled a flat look at her. “What?”
“Kitten? Princess? Pretty boy?” Maya’s voice was an octave too high. “Alexandra ‘I-fuck-for-four-hours’ Hawk, you are a marshmallow. A big, leather-clad, tattooed marshmallow!”
“I will stab you with this swizzle stick,” Alex said, without heat.
“No, no, she’s right,” Theo chimed in, his eyes gleaming. “It’s the dichotomy. The sheer, staggering cognitive dissonance. One minute you’re graphically describing using someone as a living sex toy, the next you’re using a voice I can only describe as ‘doting lumberjack’ to promise to bring him pink mochi.”
Jamie was laughing again, a deep, rumbling sound. “Special yarn! He was worried about his special yarn! And you’re gonna go get it! I’ve seen you tell people to go fuck themselves for asking you to pass a wrench.”
“It’s different,” Alex muttered, feeling a strange, hot prickle at the back of her neck. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was more like being caught in a sacred, private act.
“How?” Leo asked, genuinely curious. “How is it different?”
Alex swirled the amber liquid in her glass. She looked at the ice cubes, melting into sharp, cold shapes. “Because he doesn’t expect it,” she said finally, the words coming out rougher than she intended. “He apologizes for asking. He thinks he’s a burden. Every fucking time.” She glanced up, meeting their stares. “You all ask me for shit like you’re owed it. He asks like he’s stealing. So I give it to him. To prove he’s wrong.”
The table went quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet. The teasing atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by a sudden, stark understanding. They were seeing a crack in the armor, and it was disorienting.
Maya’s face softened completely. “You’re in love with him.”
It wasn’t a question. Alex didn’t flinch. She took another drink. “He’s mine. That’s what it is.”
“But the pet names…” Maya pressed, undeterred by Alex’s gruff deflection. “The care. You remember his favorite mochi color. That’s love, you Neanderthal.”
“Call me a Neanderthal again and see what happens,” Alex said, but the threat was automatic, hollow. She sighed, the sound a low rush of air. “The names… they fit. ‘Angel’ is too big for him. Sounds like some churchy, pure shit. He’s not that. He’s small. Gets flustered. Has a smart mouth when he’s comfortable. ‘Kitten’ is right. ‘Princess’ is because he’s fussy and delicate and needs things just so. ‘Pretty boy’ is because he is.” She shrugged, a massive roll of her shoulders. “It’s just facts.”
Theo leaned back, tapping his chin. “And when you’re… you know. Not picking up yarn or buying mochi. What do you call him then?”
A dark, slow smile spread across Alex’s face. The intimate, tender mood shattered, replaced by the familiar, predatory gleam. “Then I don’t call him much of anything. He’s not really in a state to remember his name, let alone a pet name.” She let that hang, watching the blush rise on Maya’s cheeks. “Sometimes, if he’s really gone, crying and begging, I’ll make him say it. Make him say ‘thank you, Alex’ in that broken Japanese of his. Or I’ll call him my good boy. But that’s a different thing. That’s… ownership. The other stuff, the kitten shit, that’s just… maintenance. Keeping what’s mine happy.”
It was a crude, brutal parsing of her own emotions, but it felt true in her mouth. Love was a word used in songs and on grocery store balloons. What she felt was more primal. A possessiveness so deep it demanded both cruelty and care. You didn’t lovingly maintain a tool you didn’t intend to use hard.
“Jesus,” Jamie whispered, but it was with a kind of respect.
“So you’re leaving,” Leo stated, glancing at the old clock behind the bar. “To get his yarn.”
“And his mochi,” Maya added, dreamily.
“Yeah.” Alex knocked back the rest of her whiskey, the burn a clean finale. She stood up, her height making the booth seem suddenly small. She pulled her wallet from her back pocket, tossed a few bills onto the table—more than enough for her share and the round—and shrugged her jacket back on properly. The leather sighed in protest.
“The saga continues,” Theo said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Domestic bliss awaits. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me a lot of room,” Alex shot back, tucking her phone away. She grabbed the pastel yarn bag from under the table, the stark contrast between it and her entire appearance somehow finalizing the whole bizarre picture.
As she turned to leave, Maya couldn’t help herself. “Give Angel a hug from me!”
Alex didn’t look back, just raised a middle finger over her shoulder as she weaved through the crowded bar towards the door. The cold night air hit her like a slap, washing away the beer-and-smoke stench, replacing it with the damp concrete smell of the city. She lit a cigarette, the flame cupped in her hand, and started walking.
The parcel office was in the opposite direction from her apartment. It would take an extra twenty minutes. The mochi place was another detour.
She thought of Angel, probably curled on their sofa now, his current project abandoned in a soft heap beside him, waiting. He’d be wearing one of her old hoodies, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the hem reaching his knees. He’d smell like tea and that faint, clean perfume he loved.
The memory of his voice, small and apologetic, replayed in her head. “It’s quite big. The box.”
A smirk touched her lips around the cigarette. Everything about you is small, she thought, but the edge of the thought was blunted, affectionate. She picked up her pace, her boots striking the pavement with a steady, purposeful rhythm. The city lights blurred around her, just a backdrop to the singular destination: home, and the quiet, delicate boy who was, in all the ways that mattered, hers to ruin and to reassemble, as she saw fit.
The yarn was just yarn. The mochi was just rice candy. But the act of fetching them was a language. A promise. I hear you. I provide. I return.
She dropped her cigarette, grinding it under her heel, and turned the corner towards the bright lights of the late-night market, already scanning for the pink confections.