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“Aren’t we all blessed? Jesus comes to my place,” Orion snorts. He doesn’t bother looking up from the counter.
“Isn’t that joke a bit old now?” Jesus feigns irritation. He twists the cap off the whiskey bottle and the sharp scent of alcohol permeates the room immediately. “You know that’s not how my name is pronounced.”
Chelsea has already abandoned the conversation. She yanks open Orion’s refrigerator, the seal peeling away with a wet sound. “Only three of us?” The graduate student calls, scanning the shelves. “Are Vivek and Mary coming?” She emerges with an armful of chocolate bars and a cup of yogurt.
“Nah, they caught the flu,” Orion crosses to the oven, the floor cool under his feet. He tears open the bags of seasoned corn kernels. Reaching for the tray, he asks, “Butter or caramel?”
“I didn’t know stupid people could catch the flu,” Jesus says as he balances the whiskey bottle and three glasses in his hands, careful not to let them knock together. Then he collapses comfortably onto the sofa. The cushions sigh under his weight. “Both?” He tilts his head toward the kitchen, “Can we have both?”
From the other side of the room, Vince is observing them inside his cage. It’s not unusual for his master to bring people to his place. Men, women, doesn’t matter. Orion welcomes everyone into his space. It comes naturally for him. Master’s job as a waiter helps; he’s used to new faces, used to quickly bond with people.
Vince shifts his weight. The movement sends a prickle through his only hand, pins and needles creeping from wrist to elbow. He clenches and unclenches his fingers slowly. The cage is ever uncomfortable but at least his master never forgets to feed him.
Still, the thought gnaws at him. What if Orion forgets to feed him because he’s with company? The idea tightens his chest. Vince imagines the hours painfully stretch on while he’s curled up and starving until morning.
His thoughts are cut short. Chelsea accidentally meets his eyes from across the room. Her eyes widen as if she sees a wild animal. “Ri,” Startled, her voice raising, “What is that?”
Vince’s stomach drops. He lowers his head immediately, eyes falling to the floor, shoulders curling inward. He knows better than to stare.
“Bro, that’s just my boxy,” Orion answers casually. He doesn’t look away from the oven, watching the caramel kernels jitter and swell, eager to wait for the first pop. No matter he has seen it, he just can’t contain the childlike excitement of watching corn kernels puff up. The sound reminds him of fireworks.
“I’m not your bro,” Chelsea retorts.
“You’re our bro now,” Jesus chuckles, already pouring whiskey into improper glasses: thick, mismatched coffee mugs. The liquid glugs unevenly, some of it sloshes over the rim. He doesn’t bother wiping it up.
Chelsea doesn’t laugh. Her attention returns to the cage. She studies Vince’s cage and features–his long wavy chestnut brown hair hanging loose around his shoulders, his dusty eyes. Her gaze flicks down and Chelsea doesn’t wince when she notices that Vince only has one hand. “No idea you had a boxy.”
“Yeah,” Orion says after a beat. The popping kernel grows louder now, erratic. “Inherited him…” he trails off, his voice strained. “He used to be my mom’s.”
She is quick to react, “I’m sorry about your loss, Ri.” Her tone softens.
“That’s fine,” Orion replies flatly.
The kernels explode into rapid bursts, filling the kitchen with noise and the sweet smell of caramel. Vince inhales despite himself. The scent slips past his prided discipline. He imagines the texture, the way caramelized sugar melts in tongue. It must be a contrast compared to his dull, standard pet food he is fed. The thought makes his stomach growl. He hopes no one hears it.
Jesus rises from the sofa, glass in hand, and studies Vince openly from across the room. His gaze is slow and appraising, “Damn, he slays.”
Vince keeps his eyes trained on the floor. He knows better than to respond. Usually reaction to his looks only invites trouble. Yet he doesn’t even realize that he’s biting his own lip.
“Huh,” Orion says distantly, watching the last stubborn kernels swell and burst beneath the glass lid. “Yeah, he’s a Romantic.”
“That explains things,” Chelsea murmurs, glancing back at the cage. Her eyes linger, observing Vince in a way no less invasive.
“Hey, we’re only three people here. Do you think we can play with your pet, Ri?” Jesus asks as he drops back into his seat. Then he gestures vaguely toward Vince with the rim of the glass, “The more the merrier.” He lifts the coffee glass again, takes a long sip, whiskey smearing his mouth. “Damn, this is good!”
Orion doesn’t answer immediately. “What game do you have in mind?” He asks at last.
Jesus hums. “Anything. Party game?” He drinks again, before adding casually, “Whoever wins, they get to spend the night with your lovely Romantic?”
Vince’s heart sinks. No. His body reacts before the imagery can catch up. He instinctively tries to make himself as small as possible. His single hand curling tight against himself as if he can physically reduce his presence. He just stares at the floor harder, wanting to disappear.
The room feels suddenly louder. Too many eyes around him.
But something in Vince resists even that. His fingers don’t relax. The fist stays clenched, his jaw tightens. Mistress Bea would never. For a heartbeat too long, his eyes lift before looking down again.
Chelsea breaks the tension by unwrapping her chocolate bar. She bites into it, frowning slightly. “Jesusito, that’s boring,” she says, unimpressed, “Cliched and boring.”
“Yeah,” Orion agrees, finally looking over at Jesus. His expression sharpens. There is no way he’s sharing those intoxicating lips and gorgeous locks of hair, those soft pleading eyes and slender frame. “I have to agree with Chels here.”
Jesus makes a loose, coaxing gesture toward the other coffee glasses, nudging them across the table with the back of his fingers. “Alright,” he says, already grinning, “then do you have an idea?”
Chelsea answers by taking another bite of her chocolate bar. She drops onto the couch and reaches for the remote without asking, thumbing it on like it’s her own place. Bloomberg flickers to life, talking heads filling the room with distant market chatter. “What about rock paper scissors,” she says around a mouthful, “with a twist?”
“I am intrigued,” Orion replies. He pulls the popcorn from the oven at last. Steam billows up as the smell intensifies; burnt sugar and butter. He then dumps the popcorn into a large plastic container.
“We take turns playing rock paper scissors with your boxy,” Chelsea continues, nodding toward the cage without looking directly at it. “If we win, we get to slap him. If he wins, he gets to eat one popcorn.”
Vince’s breath catches. Just for a moment. His fist tightens further, nails pressing hard enough to sting. There’s a particular kind of discomfort in being discussed like this, like a toy. He doesn’t look up. But he doesn’t shrink any further either.
Jesus lets out a delighted laugh, "Bro, that’s sick. It’s just like that TV show, right?”
“You can say so,” Chelsea replies, already unwrapping more chocolate. It's dark chocolate this time.
Orion carries the plastic container over and sets it down on the table between them. The popcorn shifts, releasing a wave of sweetness into the air. “I’m in,” he says.
From the cage, Vince swallows. His throat feels dry. His skin feels too tight. He understands his role in Orion's household. But still, the idea of being played with publicly, casually, settles heavy in his chest. He tells himself to just endure.
Orion then rises and crosses the room. The key ring chimes softly in his hand as he crouches in front of the cage. Metal scrapes against metal and the lock clicks open. He pulls the door aside and gestures with two fingers. “Come here, pet.”
Vince hesitates before complying. His limbs protest as he crawls out, his joints stiff, muscles aching from hours folded too tight. Pins and needles flare through his arm. He swallows, keeping his head bowed.
On the couch, Chelsea has already claimed the popcorn. She curls one leg under herself and scoops a handful of caramel kernels into her mouth, chewing noisily. Sugar glistens on her fingers.
Orion tilts his head. “What do you say?”
“Thank you, Sir,” Vince answers immediately. He still doesn't look up.
Orion studies him for a second longer than necessary, “You know how to play rock paper scissors?”
Vince nods once.
“Good.” Orion turns back toward the kitchen. “Jesus, make another batch. Butter this time.”
Jesus groans theatrically but gets up anyway, already walking toward the oven. Meanwhile Chelsea leans forward slightly, popcorn cradled against her stomach.
Orion returns his attention to Vince, “Alright. First round.”
Truth to be said, Vince doesn’t think much about it. He has no strategy whatsoever. He’ll just throw whatever comes first in his mind.
They count off. Hands move. Orion throws paper. Vince throws rock.
Chelsea lets out a short, pleased laugh through her chewing, like she’d just seen the outcome she expected.
Vince is processing his loss but Orion doesn’t hesitate. He stands and strikes Vince across the face, open-handed and hard. The sound cracks through the room, louder than the TV. Vince’s head snaps to the side. He squeezes his eyes shut on reflex, breath hitching.
When he opens them again, his gaze stays lowered but his voice is steady. “I expect nothing less from you, Sir.”
Orion’s expression tightens, irritation flaring where amusement had been. “You’d better watch that pretty mouth of yours,” he says quietly.
“I apologize, Sir,” Vince dips his head in acknowledgment, not wanting to provoke his master further.
Orion glances over his shoulder, then back down at Vince. “You wanna try, Chels?”
“Sure!” Chelsea says immediately. She pushes herself up from the couch, the popcorn bowl tucked against her hip, caramel kernels rattling softly as she walks over. A few pieces spill onto the floor; she doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care.
Behind them, Jesus is still in the kitchen. Butter melts and releases a rich, mouthwatering scent that only enriches the caramel sweetness in the air. It only makes Vince’s stomach clench.
Chelsea stops in front of him, still chewing. “Alright,” she says lightly. “Ready?”
Vince thinks he's going with something different this time. They count off.
Chelsea throws scissors. Vince throws scissors. A tie.
She blinks before grinning, "Another round?"
“Nope,” Orion is amused but firm. “Jesus, it’s your turn!”
“Coming!” Jesus calls from the kitchen. The corn kernel pops sharply, footsteps approaching as the smell thickens and follows him into the room.
Jesus steps closer and pauses, just long enough to make Vince anticipate his move. He rolls his wrist once, eyes flicking briefly to Vince’s hand.
Vince steadies himself from the previous pain. His cheek still sears. He moves first.
Scissors.
Jesus’s hand comes down a fraction of a second later.
Rock.
Vince notices it, the delay and the shift mid-motion. Jesus cheated, clear as day. Vince doesn’t react. He can’t. He knows the hierarchy too well, Jesus is his master's guest while he is just some object brought out for entertainment. A protest would be punished. He lowers his gaze and accepts the outcome.
Behind them, Chelsea and Orion have drifted closer together, shoulders nearly touching as they share the caramel popcorn straight from the plastic container. Chelsea feeds Orion a handful without looking at him. He accepts it absently, eyes on Vince. They chew and watch with great interest.
Vince braces. He squares his shoulders, breath shallow, jaw set.
Jesus slaps him. The sound is duller than before. The impact still stings, still snaps Vince’s head to the side but it lacks Orion’s weight and precision. Almost disappointing, even. Vince blinks, steadies himself, says nothing.
Orion exhales, lifts his coffee glass, and takes a slow sip of whiskey. The rim leaves a faint wet mark on his mouth. Then he sets the glass down and steps forward.
“Alright,” he says lightly. “My turn.”
Orion doesn’t bother counting this time.
Paper.
Vince’s hand moves on reflex.
Rock.
The loss registers instantly. Third one tonight. A resigned thought crosses his mind—that whatever fragile luck he has must be thoroughly spent. He draws in a breath and braces, muscles tightening, feet planting more firmly against the floor. He doesn’t look up.
The slap comes hard.
Orion’s palm connects with such precision, the impact cracking through Vince’s head and snapping it sideways. Heat blooms across his mouth. For a split second the room tilts, sound thinning out into a distant whine. When he steadies himself again, he tastes blood in his tongue.
Vince presses his lips together, then licks them carefully, smearing the metallic tang away. He keeps his expression neutral. His breathing measured, he refuses to give any reaction.
Behind them, the oven timer chimes. Jesus turns away from the game and pulls the butter popcorn free, steam rolling up in fragrant waves. The smell is richer than before, heavy and indulgent. He dumps it into another plastic container, kernels rattling loudly, butter pooling at the bottom.
Chelsea straightens, wiping her fingers on a napkin as she stands. Clearly she’s been waiting for her turn. Her attention sharpens again, anticipation plain on her face.
She says, stepping forward with a small smile, “My turn now.”
Vince lowers his hand once more, already preparing for whatever comes next. His cheek still throbs, lips tender where the skin has split. He gives her an acknowledging nod before starting, hoping that luck is on his side this time. Probability has to bend eventually.
Paper.
Chelsea’s hand snaps down without hesitation.
Scissors.
Her grin widens, teeth flashing under the warm light. Vince exhales softly through his nose, the hope draining away as quickly as it had formed. Turns out luck isn’t on my side tonight. He then braces for impact.
Vince somehow manages to relax his shoulders, breath loosening. This is just another round, another loss. The pain gradually lessens over time.
Except that he’s wrong.
The blow he receives is unlike others. This is a concentrated force from a knuckle. His cheek ignites in an instant, red hot and throbbing, before radiating into his jaw and temple.
His world tilts. He’s thrown sideways, stumbling a half-step before his legs give out and he drops hard onto the floor. He blinks rapidly, his vision swims. Faint ringing fills his ears. Vince presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. No blood, thankfully.
For a second, the box boy doesn’t understand what happened. Then it dawns on him; that wasn’t a slap, Chelsea punched him.
“Woah, that’s cold, Chels,” Jesus says around a mouthful of popcorn. The kernels crunch loudly, obscenely cheerful against the aftermath of the blow.
Chelsea flexes her hand, shaking it once, then rubbing her knuckles with her thumb. There’s a pained grimace on her face after she punched Vince. “Damn that professor,” she snaps, “You know he gave me an A-minus? After I stayed up three nights straight on that damn paper.”
She inhales sharply, still working her hand. Orion, watching from the side, clicks his tongue. “Yeah, just don’t damage his teeth, okay?” A pause as he sips on his drink. “They’re perfect just the way they are. And you bet I’m not covering dental expenses over this silly game.”
Vince tries to push himself up. Instinctively, he reaches with the arm that isn’t there. The motion aborts halfway, leaving him pitching awkwardly onto his shoulder instead. He adjusts, planting his one palm flat against the floor.
Getting up takes concentration now. His breathing turns shallow, uneven. He hates how long it takes, hates how exposed it makes him. Finally, he manages to push himself upright, hair falling into his face.
“Okay,” Orion says, stepping back just enough to cede the space. “Jesus. Your turn.”
Jesus wipes his fingers on his jeans and steps forward, still chewing. He looks down at Vince with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They play quickly this time.
Vince throws rock. Jesus throws scissors. A beat passes.
Jesus blinks, then lets out a short laugh, “Huh. Guess you got me.”
There’s no slap this time. Instead, Jesus orders Vince to kneel and brings himself closer to Vince’s level. Too close. He gestures, “Open your mouth.”
Vince hesitates but he does it eventually.
“Wider, boy.” The word lands wrong. Vince’s stomach tightens. There’s a shift in Jesus’s voice that makes the command sound wrong. Vince complies slowly. He opens his mouth, jaw stiff, eyes fixed somewhere past Jesus’s shoulder.
Jesus plucks a caramel popcorn from the container. “Eat this,” he says lightly, then adds, with a grin that makes Vince’s skin crawl, “Gorgeous.”
He flicks his wrist. The popcorn misses, bouncing off Vince’s cheek and skittering across the floor. Heat rushes to Vince’s face from the sense of being watched. He keeps his mouth open, humiliation settling heavy in his chest.
“Oops,” Jesus says. He tries again.
Another miss. Then another. Each failed toss stretches the moment out, makes it feel deliberate. Vince stays still, throat dry, acutely aware of how exposed he looks, kneeling and waiting like this.
Finally, a kernel lands where it’s meant to.
Vince closes his mouth and bites down. The caramel shatters softly. Sugar melts across his tongue, warm and rich. The crunch feels just right. Butter and sweetness bloom together, vivid enough to momentarily drown out the ache in his cheek and jaw. It's good.
For a fleeting second, he lets himself savor it. Vince imagines himself eating the popcorn freely, without an audience. The thought hurts more than it comforts. He swallows.
They keep going. Sometimes Vince loses. Sometimes, unexpectedly, he wins. Each outcome is received with the same cheer.
When he loses, there’s the familiar constriction in his chest and the bracing of muscles. When he wins, the reward is small: a single piece of popcorn, tossed or handed over, consumed under watchful eyes. Either way, the room keeps moving around him—laughter, chewing, glasses clinking, and Bloomberg’s voices reporting the market.
He learns quickly that the butter popcorn is greasy, coating his mouth in a way that makes him vaguely nauseous when paired with pain. The caramel, though, is sweet and crisp. He hates how much he prefers it. Hates that his body responds so eagerly to something so trivial.
Each time he eats, he’s acutely aware of how it looks. Kneeling. Waiting. Mouth opening on command or expectation. He's just a piece of entertainment.
At some point, the losses start to blur together. The wins don’t feel like victories. His shoulders sag, tension bleeding out from fatigue. His cheek throbs, aching, each strike stacking on the last. He stops trying to track probability. Luck feels like a joke now.
But the humiliation sinks deeper than the pain.
Being watched like this hollows him out. He doesn't feel like himself. Sounds come late. Movements lag. Eventually, he’s breathing through his mouth without realizing it. His head dips forward between rounds.
The game gradually peters out.
Bloomberg’s tone then shifts, numbers flashing red, and Jesus, half-laughing a second ago, freezes mid-chew. "Wait, what the fuck?" He leans closer to the screen, squinting. “No, no, no.” His phone is already in his hand. You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words come faster now. "My stock just tanked."
Orion glances down at his own phone. The glow paints his face a sickly blue. He reads once. Then again. His mouth presses into a line. “Mary’s being hospitalized,” he informed his friends.
The room shifts around the sentence. Energy drains, the laughter stops.
Orion turns to Vince. “Back in your cage,” he says. Then, after a beat, he shoves the full plastic container into Vince's hand. Caramel popcorn sloshes against the sides. “Take this.”
Vince nods, "Thank you, Sir."
His legs feel rubbery as he crawls back, palm slipping slightly on the floor. The bars close with a soft metallic click. The container bumps against his knee as he settles, awkward without the balance he once had.
Vince waits. He always waits. There is usually a pause before the door is locked, a hand reaching for the bowl, the routine gesture of Orion feeding him. It doesn’t come.
The box boy stays still for a moment, listening. Maybe Orion will remember. He often does, late and muttering an apology he doesn’t mean. But there is nothing.
Glasses clink as the clock moves toward midnight. Someone turns the volume up. Jesus pours again, heavy-handed now, cursing under his breath as he texts. Chelsea laughs too loudly at something unrelated. Orion stands by the window, phone pressed to his ear, gaze fixed on the dark outside. When the countdown starts, they gather, voices overlapping.
"Ten... nine... eight..."
Fireworks crack somewhere distant.
In the cage, Vince sinks down onto his side. The aches catch up to him all at once. His cheek pulses. His jaw throbs.
"Three... two... one... Happy New Year!"
Cheers erupt. Someone whoops. A cork pops. Arms sling around shoulders. The room fills with light and sound and movement, all of it flowing around the cage as if it isn’t there. As if he isn’t there.
Vince blinks. He curls in on himself, the plastic container pressed to his chest. The popcorn rustles. Orion doesn’t look over. Not once. His stomach growls in hunger.
He thinks of Mistress Bea, of her steady hands, of the way she spoke to him. The absence aches as painfully as the phantom weight of his missing arm. This is his first year he spends the new year without Mistress Bea.
Tears slip free before he can stop them. They don’t come all at once. One gathers at the corner of his eye, clings there, then spills. Another follows. They fall soundlessly, darkening the fabric beneath his cheek. No, he's not supposed to cry over this. Crying fixes nothing. He knows this.
Vince brings a piece of caramel popcorn to his mouth. It crunches softly, sugar melting, small and comforting.
Across the room, the party goes on. Laughter spikes. Someone starts a song.
In the corner, behind metal bars, Vince eats and listens and waits. The popcorn filled plastic container sits in his lap like a consolation prize. He starts this year with sweetness covering his tongue and nothing else to hold onto.