thats what they want a

You needle him because you don’t know how to not. You push him and

you keep pushing, and, to your entirely hidden delight, he pushes you right

back. He pushes you so hard that your head is spinning, and for the first time

in your life you’re scrambling to keep up. It’s never happened to you before,

this push-pull of constant snarling, and you love it, you’re drunk on it, you

never want it to stop. He hates your tattoos, your t-shirts, that you play The

Clash at 3am and that you leave dogeared William Gibson novels all over the

lab, regardless of what is beneath them or whether you’re even reading them at

the time. He hates you, so thoroughly, so viscerally, that it almost hurts,

but he sees you, and when he hates you his hate encompasses all that

you are and have the potential to be.