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Lahn lies awake on the couch, staring up at the dark ceiling. He’s too sober for the thoughts he’s having right now, and it’s making his head hurt. The apartment is cold and he pulls the sheet closer around himself; the outfits Trevor has him in never cover enough to keep him warm. It just adds to another reason that Lahn doesn’t like this. It’s demeaning, it’s uncomfortable, and it hurts like a bitch every time he rolls his ankle in a pair of heels.
He turns onto his side, trying to loosen up more. His headache is more obvious now. Lahn’s got the idea now to demand Trevor to put a stop to whatever the fuck this is, first thing in the morning. It wouldn’t be hard, it shouldn’t be hard. At least it wouldn’t have been a few weeks ago, when Lahn first showed up and Trevor had been too much of a pussy to tell him to fuck off. But Lahn could swear to god the guy got worse, got less whiny and more shouty. Harder to say no to. Impossible to say no to. Lahn’s not scared of Trevor, he’s not scared of the guy who throws a tantrum when Lahn brings a girl over. They’ve fought, yeah, but Trevor wouldn’t hurt Lahn, or at least Lahn isn’t sure he would.
But if it’s not fear keeping him from defying Trevor, then what is? The heroin? Lahn could easily find whatever cash Trevor has laying around and take off while the man’s at work, score some more and never look back. There’s always going to be some friend or acquaintance to take pity on him, Vicky maybe. She wouldn’t be a bad roomie at all. But something about the idea of defying Trevor makes Lahn feel a little sick. Not scared, just nervous. There’s a difference, he tells himself, repeats it in his head. He’s not scared of Trevor, he’s not scared of Trevor. He’s not scared, but he stole the gun anyways.
Lahn can still feel Trevor’s mouth on his, still has a little shudder run up his spine at the memory, but he’s not scared at all. Just nervous the way the feeling of Trevor pinning him to the bed made him feel. Sick the way he feels when he can’t recognize his made up face and curled hair in the mirror, sick the way he felt when he responded to the name “Dorothy” for the first time. And now he’s made himself hyper-aware of the lace undergarments he’s wearing, how they feel wrong against his skin, itchy and uncomfortable. He has to get out of them, free himself from whatever the hell this is, every instinct in his body is telling him that being dopesick on the streets is better than being this, but instead, Lahn forces himself to take a deep breath and close his eyes. It’s fine for now. Just because he can’t say no doesn’t mean he’s scared. He’s not scared of Trevor. He’s not scared of Trevor. At least not yet.