Denial turned anger

The next few days in Spain passed in a blur of touristy excitement for Ishan, but irritation for Aryan.

They visited grand cathedrals where Ishan tried (and failed) to understand the historical significance while Aryan, being Aryan, sat quietly and pretended to be interested.

They went to the movies, where Ishan dramatically gasped at plot twists while Aryan side-eyed him like he was a child seeing cinema for the first time.

They dined at fancy restaurants, walked through bustling markets, and even visited a flamenco show, where Ishan clapped along enthusiastically while Aryan looked like he was being held at gunpoint.

But everywhere they went, one thing remained consistent—people treated them differently.

Waiters were a little too cheery. Strangers offered them smiles that lasted a second too long. Women frequently stopped Ishan to compliment his shirts, which was nice, but then they’d throw in a casual,

“You two look so good together!” much to Aryan’s annoyance.

Ishan didn’t think of it as a big deal. He thought

'Of course we looked good together. We are two most eligible Indian guys exploring Spain. What was so strange about that'

Aryan, however, was less amused. He noticed that not only were women complimenting Ishan, but both men and women were also trying to hit on them.

And somehow, Ishan remained blissfully unaware of the weird energy surrounding them.

Today was no different. They had gone to a fancy restaurant for dinner, and before they even ordered, the waitress returned with complimentary drinks and a bright, beaming smile.

“It’s on the house,” she said sweetly. “We’ve never had Indian guests like you two before.”

Aryan’s grip on the menu tightened. Like us two?

Meanwhile, Ishan was grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Gracias! Wow, people here are so nice.”

Aryan said nothing. He just sipped his drink aggressively.

Back at the villa, Ishan was still buzzing with excitement. He practically bounced into the living room, stretching his arms as if he’d just won a marathon.

“Dude, did you see that girl at the restaurant?” Ishan announced, plopping onto the couch. “She was totally hitting on me.”

Aryan, who had been silently wheeling himself toward the bookshelf to grab a drink, barely looked at him. “She wasn’t hitting on you.”

“Nah, she so was.” Ishan flipped his hair dramatically, like a Bollywood hero about to break into a slow-motion song sequence. “She even complimented my hair! I think she likes guys with long hair.”

As if to emphasize his point, he ran his fingers through his hair, accidentally loosening his bun. His long, straight hair cascaded down, reaching all the way to his lower back.

That was the final straw. The dam of frustration Aryan had been holding back for days finally burst.

“Could you just shut up?!” Aryan snapped, looking up at him with sheer exasperation.

Ishan surprised by his words. “Dude, relax—”

“I was just saying some girls like guys with long hair,” Ishan added, hands still tangled in his hair.

Aryan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Why the fuck do you think she liked you?” His voice was tight, strained, like he’d been holding something back for too long.

“But—”  Ishan blinked, thrown off by sudden change in his voice.

“She didn’t think you were just some long-haired guy, Ishan.” Aryan’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“She thought you were a femboy. Or some half-transitioned thing trying to pass.”

He looked into Ishan’s eyes, as if daring him to deny it.  He continued spaying venom, “And me? She thought I was your gay boyfriend.”

A strange weight settled in Ishan’s chest. His fingers twitched at his sides, suddenly too aware of the soft glide of his own skin.

“But I’m not gay!” He tried to argue, but his voice cracked, betraying the uncertainty that had started to creep in.

"Yeah?” Aryan cut him off, voice low, razor-sharp. “You sure as hell act like one.”

"You don’t even realize, do you?” His voice was quieter now, but it hit harder.

“The way you carry yourself, the way you talk with your hands like—”

He made a quick, exaggerated wave, mimicking Ishan’s movements with mocking precision. His jaw clenched.

“You walk into a place, flashing those stupid manicured nails, flipping your fucking silky hair around, and then act surprised when people mistake you for something you’re not.”

“Yeah? Well, you sure as hell act like one.”

His eyes flicked over Ishan, taking in every tiny detail that had been noticing for days.

“Look at yourself! You’re still walking around with manicured nails, your fucking lip balm has a pink tint, and your hands? They’re so fucking soft, like they’ve never done a real day’s work in their life.” His voice dropped lower, venomous."

“And you—” he gestured, his lip curling, “you move your fucking hands when you talk like some prissy little *faggot*.”

His anger had been simmering beneath the surface for days, ever since they landed in Spain. Ever since strangers kept looking at them differently.

Ever since women giggled and told them they “looked cute together” while men openly stared. Aryan had convinced himself it didn’t matter, that it was just a misunderstanding.

But the worst part? Ishan didn’t seem to mind.  He basked in it. Enjoyed the attention. Acted like it was nothing.

“I thought this trip would be a break from this husband-wife circus, but no. Looks like you fucking *love* being someone’s wife. Or rather—”, Aryan gritted his teeth, he let out a bitter laugh, “—a trophy wife.”

“That’s enough.” Ishan’s voice came out sharp, the tremor in his hands the only sign of how much the words had cut. “Just because I listen to your bullshit doesn’t mean I can’t talk back.” His fists clenched.

“I saved your ass in those board meetings, Aryan! I was the one who stopped you from becoming Atul Oberoi’s fucking puppet! I’ve been parading around like a clown, acting like a fucking fag in front of my own parents just because I promised your father I’d keep up this goddamn marriage act” His voice cracked, his eyes burning. “And this is how you fucking treat me?”

Aryan’s face paled. The anger drained from his features instantly, like he had just realized the weight of his words. “I—I didn’t mean that,” he tried, voice unsteady, but Ishan had already pulled back.

“Oh, you definitely meant it when you called me a faggot.” Ishan wiped his face roughly, furious at himself for crying. His voice steadied, colder now. “I’m done.”

Aryan’s stomach twisted.

“If you want to stay here, stay.” Ishan’s words were clipped, final. “I’m going back home. Back to my life.” He turned, his expression unreadable.

“Just declare that Radhika Raichand fucking died in a road accident or something. You’ll get sympathy, you’ll get your damn company back, and you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

Without waiting for a response, he tied his hair into a tight bun, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the villa.

“Ishan, wait! I’m—” , Aryan tried to apologize but its too late the door had already been shut with enough force to rattle the walls.

Aryan sat there, jaw tight, staring at the empty space where Ishan had just stood.

And for the first time, the anger faded—leaving something else behind. Something he wasn’t ready to name.

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Sometimes the words cut deeper than knife, the strange feeling that was supposed to be love turned out to be an annoyance...

Or is it Aryan trying to deny his feelings in the form of anger. One thing is clear... He said something that he shouldnt have..

Whats your opinion for this chapter?Is it their last conversation ever? Where did Ishan go?

Will Ishan come back?