Hello. I'm not dead. I understand that loads of you are probably pretty pissed at me, and I get that, but I haven't been doing nothing, I've written over 190,000 words of content to give you in due course. This fanfiction is very much ongoing, and the next chapter should be out soon. It's nearly done!
Thanks for all the reviews, seriously.
Trigger warnings: Mildly dubious consent, non-explicit sexual themes, homophobia, conversion therapy, abuse, death of parent/s, bullying.
The store is cool, a fan whirs noisily on the counter, little streamers tied to its grate flutter in a strong, flickering breeze. The man behind the counter is reading a newspaper, he barely looks up as Alex enters. Like many people in the area, he's Latino, with dark hair, a large, muscular frame and olive skin. He's probably in his late thirties, with a wide nose, strong jaw and tight curls. A chubby toddler sits on his knee, maybe one and a half years old. He plays with a toy that every minute or so begins a mechanical, chiming little tune and lights up.
A poster of some soccer players wearing Nicaraguan colours hangs behind him as well as a rosary and a picture of The Virgin Mary. It reminds him a little of home on Nevis. The nearby church his mother would avoid unless quiet, the stacks of flowers that had surrounded Mary's statue after the hurricane.
He shudders as he steps into the path of the fan, pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself and keeps his head down as he steps lightly, quietly towards the back of the store. His hood is up, as usual, as Pace has left dark bruises around his left eye and jaw. He knows it's unlikely anyone would say anything if they did see them, but he's had the odd religious pamphleteer approach him to ask if he's okay. It's never welcome, he always pulls up his hood and darts quickly off.
He scans the shelves with a practised, starving eye, looking for something substantial he can eat and fit comfortably in his pockets too. A sandwich would satiate his hunger for the rest of the day, but they're too big. A granola bar is the perfect size, but that won't be enough. He's starving.
His eyes fall on a bagel, it's contained in a little plastic packet, flat enough to be hidden under his jumper yet substantial enough to keep him from passing out today. He glances at the man behind the counter. He's bouncing the little boy on his knee absently, still absorbed in the newspaper.
Alex grabs the bagel and shoves it beneath his jacket in one quick, fluid motion. He doesn't have the courage to look back up at the man, just begins the slow walk back up the aisle, holding his breath.
He can see the sidewalk, bright white in the shining sun, speckled with decade-old gum and just-smoked cigarette butts. He's about a yard from the door when the man's voice rings out sharply from behind him.
"Hey, kid!"
He spins around, shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down.
"What?"
He hears the child gurgle and the sound of a newspaper shuffling. He doesn't chance a look up at the counter, just takes tiny steps backwards, away from the door.
"Not buying anything?"
Alex starts, wills himself not to flinch away. The man's got an accent, though it's not as heavy as some of the ones he hears around here. This man must have lived here for some time, decades even, but he's learned to pick up even the slightest indicators that someone is like him. Maybe if he speaks Spanish now the man will have a little more sympathy for him, he knows he always feels a certain kinship with people who speak his mother-tongue.
He pivots on his heel, takes a barely audible breath and shrugs.
"No, dejé mi dinero en casa. Lo siento."
No, left my money at home. Sorry.
If the man is surprised, his voice doesn't show it when he next speaks.
"¿Lo qué hay debajo?"
What's under there?
He's stood up now, evidently, his voice has moved from behind the counter to about a yard in front of him and his presence is all too clearly felt by Alex, looming, dangerous.
He makes a run for it. Quick as a flash, he whips around towards the door and starts to sprint, thinking about what coach says at school.
Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, Alex, keep your elbows tucked in, don't slouch.
He makes it about three yards out onto the street when a hand closes around his bicep and jerks him back. He cries out in pain as fresh bruises are pressed down upon and slows, panting. He's off his game, slower than he should be from hunger.
No one on the street spares more than a glance. He's a teenager in a hoodie with a mysterious bulge under his jacket, held tight by a shopkeeper after having just bolted. It looks... Well, it looks exactly how it is.
He's pulled back inside the shop. Not roughly, though. It only hurts because of his bruises. If his arm wasn't injured, Alex knows he'd not be in pain at all.
"Voy a preguntar a nuevo ¿Lo qué hay debajo?"
I'll ask again, what's under there?
Alex turns around to face him, unzips his jacket and shoves the bagel at the man, willing himself not to cry. That bagel was the first food he'd touched in days. He'd been so close to getting away, so irritatingly close.
He's so hungry. He's so, so hungry.
The man takes the food with a grunt and Alex shuffles on the spot slightly, his stomach seizes up with anxiousness or hunger, he's not certain.
"Quitate la capucha, chaval."
Take down the hood, kid.
The word takes him by surprise slightly. Chaval. It's slang really, means 'kid'. It's almost friendly, though, like how the British say 'mate'.
He doesn't want to take down his hood, but his dichotomy here is between obeying this man and him calling the cops. It's not a nice choice, and one could quickly turn into the other, but he'll go with the safest option for now.
He pulls down his hood and glances up at the man, his chest heaves in panic but his eyes are hard and defensive, giving away nothing. The man stares at him for a few moments, taking in his bruised, hollow-cheeked face with a thoughtful, creased-brow expression. He moves his hand silently from Alex's bicep to his wrist and wraps his fingers around it. Even through a layer of jacket, they touch easily.
The man sighs, he presses the food back into Alex's hand. The teenager looks up at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed.
"¿Qué?"
What?
"Vuelver si tienes hambre. Parece que necesistas algo de comida."
Come back if you're hungry. You look like you need some food.
He doesn't hesitate, he rips the plastic wrapper off, chances a final look at the man and eats the whole thing in about a minute. He knows it's a little gross, bolting his food like that, but what's grosser is the fact that his nails have gone blue from malnutrition.
"Tienes ganas de vomitar, chaval ¿Os padres se olvidan de alimentarte o algo así?"
You'll be sick, kid. Parents forget to feed you or something?
Alex still has his mouth full with the last bite of bagel but he swallows quickly and shrugs, not looking up at the man. He's right, there's a fair chance he'll get sick, but there was also a fair chance he'd have collapsed if he hadn't eaten something. Honestly, if this man hadn't given him the food back, he wouldn't have been above begging. Or stealing from somewhere else.
"Gracias."
The man surveys him for a moment as he takes tiny kitten steps backwards towards the door.
"¿De dónde eres?"
Where are you from?
Alex flicks his head in a sideways direction, towards the apartment block at the end of the street.
"El piso en la esquina"
The apartment on the corner.
"¿No, de dónde eres?"
No, where are you from?
Alex nods in understanding and shrugs. He feels the back of his ankle heat up as he steps slowly out into the sunlit street. Any second now he can make a dash for it, get away. Because this man seems nice, but so did Mr. Elliot, so did the Harveys.
"Caribbean."
He says, and then runs.
He doesn't look back once, just weaves quickly through the crowds of people, clutching his jacket around himself tightly, his eyes set on the turn off up ahead.
He doesn't want to go back to that little bodega. He doesn't want people's pity, he doesn't trust people's pity. He'd thought Mr. Elliot had been kind, had thought there'd be no strings attached to the food or the clothes or the shelter. He knows better now, he doesn't want to make the same mistake twice.
But he's so, so hungry.
He doesn't think he's eaten in days. Pace has been in a particularly foul mood lately, he threatened to throw Alexander down the fire escape stairwell last night, had grabbed his hair, forced him towards the balcony. Alex had nearly thought he'd actually do it, he probably would have if it wouldn't certainly kill Alex, if it wouldn't alert the neighbours. It was an empty, nevertheless terrifying threat. Pace is full of those.
So he's not feeling great this week. It's a Friday afternoon, he's not eaten at all today and every time he stood up from his desk in class, his vision swam. That man had told him to come back if he was hungry, he had seemed sympathetic, but Alex doesn't want to become reliant on anybody's kindness. It's usually the first thing that goes when people get what they want out of you.
But, maybe just this once. Maybe... Maybe the danger of him not eating outweighs that of the man himself? If he thinks about it, the statistical probability of meeting people that might take advantage of him lowers every time he does meet that sort of person, doesn't it? So because he's had that experience with Mr. Elliot, the odds of him meeting someone else like that have lowered, right?
Fuck, he's not very good at math.
So he walks into the bodega.
The bell tinkles and the man looks up from behind the counter. His kid sits up on the counter, chubby legs kicking playfully as he dangles a teddy bear by its ears, making laughing, gurgling sounds as he swings it in circles.
The man obviously recognises Alex, because he quickly stands up, setting down the newspaper.
"Hungry?"
Alex nods jerkily, once and the man walks down the main aisle towards the large open fridge at the back of the shop, where the sandwiches are kept fresh.
"Ham okay?"
Alex takes a deep breath.
"Sí."
He wouldn't complain even if it were pickle or something equally detestable. Maybe even the school meatloaf. The man passes him a sandwich, it's in one of those triangular cardboard box things and amazingly, still three days within its best by date.
"I- I... Thanks."
The man says nothing, merely smiles and walks around the back of the counter to sit back down.
"They don't feed you at home?"
Alex shrugs, focuses his attention on opening the sandwich and taking a large bite. He tries not to focus on the pain in his jaw as he chews; bruises, again.
"Who gave you those bruises?"
Alex swallows, shrugs and goes back to his sandwich.
"What's your name, at least?"
This is starting to feel like an interrogation.
"Alejandro."
He likes his name best in Spanish, it's what his mom would call him. Feels more like what it was meant to be. Feels safe, feels like home. He introduces himself as that only to fellow Spanish natives though, otherwise all the white people would butcher it.
Alex-ando? Ale-hen-dro? Ale-jan-tho? Can I call you Alex instead? God, he can picture it so clearly. Probably because it's happened before.
There's also the small matter of not wanting to reveal his 'real' name to this man. Alexander is just the English version of the name, but if he can lead this man to believe everyone calls him 'Alejandro', he'll have more trouble identifying him.
Well, I'm Marco," he gestures at the little boy, "this little guy's Santi, short for Santiago."
Alex nods, finishes the first half of the sandwich. It's fine, tastes like any ham sandwich might. To Alex though, it might as well be a meal from a Michelin star restaurant. He's so hungry, he'd probably rate the school canteen enchiladas (they're absolute shit, taste like scraps his mom would feed to the birds) five stars at the moment.
"When d'you last eat?"
Alex wipes some crumbs off his shirt and begins to absently tear up the cardboard, feeling the food settle comfortingly in his stomach. He can hear his cells thanking him, for eating something at last. As though he's had a choice.
"Few days."
"¿Tienes sed?"
Thirsty?
Alex looks up in surprise, almost doesn't believe his luck. This man's fed him, now he wants to give him something to drink too? It makes him wary, gives him goosebumps.
"Uh... No sé."
Uhh, I don't know.
The man shrugs nonchalantly, takes some juice from the fridge and hands it to him. He accepts it with a trembling hand, a little scared of his casual kindness. The man obviously detects his fear and smiles slightly, sitting back down on the seat behind the counter. Alex leans back against a stack of orange juice cartons and takes a sip of the drink. His mouth is dry from the sandwich and over all the hunger, he hasn't properly realised how thirsty he is.
He drinks it all in about two minutes, swallowing until his throat hurts. He can feel his stomach gurgle contentedly, so you're finally taking care of me now?
He catches his breath then, just for a minute or two. He hadn't realised how tired he was, maybe it's the food. He wants to go to bed, he won't have to get up early tomorrow morning. It's a Friday, no school tomorrow.
"Where are you sleeping tonight?"
Alex plays with the plastic label on the bottle, tearing it off and into small segments. He bristles slightly, tearing the plastic in a motion perhaps a little too rough, given the fact that the man is only being kind. Well, he's at least putting forward the appearance of kindness.
"No soy un indigente."
I'm not homeless.
"¿Cuantos años tienes?"
Alex licks remenants of sandwich out of his teeth, God, he's still hungry?
"Quince."
The man nods, looks him up and down. Alex bridles slightly, shies away. The man doesn't seem to notice.
"Okay ¿Tienes padres?"
Okay. Do you have parents?
"Tenía padres. Soy en acogida."
I had parents. I'm in foster care.
The man, Marco, Alex should call him by his name, really, suddenly looks slightly awkward and lifts his kid off the countertop, rocking him gently. Alex wonders if his dad did that sort of thing when he was young, he can't remember having much contact with him. There is one memory of him though, clear in the haze of all the other nebulous recollections of his early childhood.
It's of him, his brother and his dad, playing volleyball on the beach. He thinks he was about three or four, because he remembers his dad lifting him onto his shoulders easily, he remembers having chubby, weak little fists that couldn't hit or throw a ball properly.
Still, he sees his father's smile, one of the few memories of it. Sees James laughing, with sand in his hair. Hears the smack of skin hitting rubber ball. Tu turno! Dos puntos! Invalido!
He dumps the bottle in the bin beside the door and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, not looking up at the man. He doesn't understand why this man is being so kind to him, unless it's for some more disingenuous reason that Alex has yet to discover.
"¿Porqué haces esto?"
Why are you doing this?
The man sets the baby down on the counter and leans against the candy shelf, watching him with a slight frown, almost as though he doesn't know himself, or at least has to think hard about how to articulate his answer.
"Tengo un hija como de tu edad. You're just a kid."
I have a daughter about your age.
Alex bristles slightly at the latter part of this man's sentence. He's hardly a child, at fifteen, he's seen more of this world than most adults can lay claim to. But the first bit, about him having a daughter about Alex's age, he thinks he gets that. He wonders whether his dad, wherever he is (or isn't, Alex isn't going to fool himself with the notion that his dad is definitely alive), feels a certain attachment to kids Alex's age. Probably not. He didn't feel any sort of attachment to them.
He watches the man for a moment, looks down at his bitten, cracked nails and nods slightly, just once. The man smiles at him, and somehow, it's not malicious. It's not sympathetic, nor is it sarcastic, or saccharine. It's just warm, and miraculously, he finds himself returning it. Even if his little twitch of the lips is more reminiscent of a Mona Lisa smile than anything else.
Alex doesn't have anywhere else to go.
His entire body aches, he's covered in bruises, his bicep burns like it's still on fire, still held to scorching metal.
Pace had let him lie there on the floor after it'd happened, gasping, whimpering in pain for a few minutes before he'd dragged himself away across the floorboards to his room. He'd taken off his shirt to reveal a hissing, long, red burn stretching across his arm.
The skin almost looks like it's melted, or cooked, or whatever the fuck happens to skin when it's been burned that badly. He doesn't know exactly how severe it is, whether it's a first, second or third degree. He can feel it, God can he feel it, so the nerves are okay. But it's not white like a simple oven burn, it's an angry red and already starting to blister.
He'd held a cold, wet t-shirt to it, Pace had been in the kitchen where the ice was, but it was still burning, burning, burning. He had to bite down hard on his fist when he'd put his t-shirt back on, it'd hurt so much. He'd had to leave that place.
Pace doesn't ask him where he's going. He knows Alex isn't going to tell anyone, he never will. Pace has made sure to impress that on him. He stumbles down the staircase of the apartment and across the street. The bodega's in view, just opened, its little neon sign like a beacon for him to follow.
He doesn't have anywhere else to go.
Marco sits behind the counter reading his newspaper as usual, Santi biting at a toy with a gummy, near-toothless mouth and slobbery little fingers. Alex doesn't much like babies.
Marco looks up at him as he enters. Alexander isn't wearing his hoodie today, he couldn't get it on, thought covering the burn with any more than a thin layer of cotton t-shirt would be detrimental to the injury. Besides, if he's pulling on a hoodie, he can't cover his mouth, then he'd scream. It would hurt too much.
"Hey, do you need something to eat?"
He does, but that's not why he came here. He needs bandages, or ice, or antiseptic, or all three.
"I- I... Not exactly. I hurt myself."
He steps out from the shadow that the poster on the glass has cast over him and looks at the floor, unable to make eye contact with the man he's come begging for help to. Marco stands up and Alex flinches slightly. The man walks to the door, flips the open sign so it faces them and looks him up and down anxiously.
"What happened? Are you okay?"
Alex rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, his eyes tightly shut, holding his breath, letting the man see his arm in all its mangled, crimson glory.
He hears a sharp intake of breath and a soft mierda, before he opens his eyes and shrugs at the man, an apologetic expression colouring his features.
"Who did this?"
Alex scoffs, as though the idea's absurd to him, as though his foster father didn't pin him down and hold a burning frying pan to his arm minutes earlier.
"Hot water pipe. They're exposed in the boiler room of the complex, I fell against one."
He thinks this is believable. Gentrification is slowly sucking up their area, trying to turn Brownsville into a middle-class paradise, yet this neighbourhood is still poor, it's not so hard to believe that a landlord would save some money, cut some corners and not cover a hot water pipe.
Marco watches him for a moment, his arms come to fold over his chest and his eyes narrow.
"So what about the person who gives you all those bruises? You sure it wasn't them?"
Alex smarts, tries to fold his own arms but discovers quickly that the movement hurts.
"Of course I'm fucking sure. If you don't wanna help, I'm leaving."
He pivots on his heel and grabs the door handle, making to pull it open before Marco steps forward to touch his shoulder. He refrains from flinching and looks up at him with dark, darting eyes and a defiant expression. He wants help, but he's far too proud to beg for it. He'll leave if Marco doesn't press him to stay.
"Look, I've got stuff for that. I won't ask how it happened, okay."
"You know how it happened, I told you."
Marco shrugs and starts rummaging around in the space beneath the counter, where Alex supposes he must have a first aid box or something. Again, he marvels at the kindness of this man. It still makes him wary, but even if he has some ulterior motive, he hasn't made it know yet.
Besides, what's better, a foster father who makes no show of liking you but beats you just the same, or a shopkeeper you don't really know, who seems to want to help you?
Marco takes out a first aid box and opens it, rummaging around for, well, whatever you need to treat a burn. Alex hopes he has more knowledge of treating burns than he does. He only knows to cool them.
"What do I do to it? Do I bandage it or..."
Marco, as an answer, sets some bandages out on the counter, along with one of those cold pack things you bang a few times to get working and some antiseptic wipes. Alex winces at the thought, he knows that'll sting badly.
"I... Are those necessary, I mean..."
"They'll sting, but yeah, they're necessary."
Alex bites his lip, says nothing. That'll hurt like a bitch, but he'll do it anyway, there's not much point in resisting something that's only going to help him. Marco hands him the compress and he bangs it vigorously against the counter top to break the gel pack. He holds it to his arm, screws up his face as the initial stinging kicks in, then relaxes as the injury starts to go numb.
He sits there for a while, on the pallet of cereal and juice boxes. Marco turns the sign back to open and customers trickle in, few sparing Alex a glance. He, to the tired, uninterested eye, might be Marco's son. They share dark hair and skin, it's an easy thing to assume.
Alex takes the ice pack off about fifteen minutes later and reaches for the antiseptic wipes. The store's empty at the moment, the last customer to come in had asked for a pack Silk cut blues, then left thirty seconds later. Alex takes out one of the wipes, steals himself, then presses it to the burn. It takes a second for the chemical to seep in, but when it does, it burns. God, it's like the frying pan's being held to it all over again. He lets out a small yell and pulls his hand away instantly, the antiseptic still stings and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
"Just wipe it once or twice, get it over with."
Marco stands anxiously behind the counter, watching Alexander with stern concern in his face. He must still doubt Alex's recounting of events. He nods, takes a deep breath and wipes along the burn, pressing down marginally and gritting his teeth with the pain of it all. He closes his eyes, repeats this and finally, wrenches his hand away from the injury. Marco grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, dampens the bandages and hands them to Alex, who begins to wrap his arm.
He can only feel lucky now, a huge sense of relief and gratitude washes over him and he takes a long, deep breath. He was so, so lucky to have this place to come to. He can't imagine what might have happened to his arm if he couldn't treat it, put some antiseptic on the injury. A brief scenario flashes through his mind, of an infected burn, red and itchy, spreading throughout his body. Fever like sickness, the type that killed his mother.
He doesn't dwell on these thoughts, just closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. He then remembers why all this had happened in the first place. He'd been hungry, so, so hungry and thought, in his starving delirium, it would be a good idea to try and take some of the granola bars stashed under the sink. He's an idiot. You never steal granola bars! Too loud to eat and full of empty calories; every abused kid knows this.
That hunger, which has been over-shadowed this past half hour with pain, comes back in full force and he winces as a cramp throbs painfully in his stomach. He presses a hand to it, which is futile, that won't do anything to make the pain cease, and sighs.
"Are you hungry?"
Alex opens his eyes, watches Marco warily for a moment and then nods. The man holds up a hand, as if to say 'one second' and walks through a small door behind the counter. He comes back a moment later with something in tupperware, must be something he's made himself. Leftovers?
"Gallo pinto, if you want some. It'll be better than what's in that fridge."
Alex takes the food, opens the box and stares down into it for a moment. He doesn't remember his mom ever making gallo pinto, it's a Nicaraguan dish anyway, but fundamentally, loads of Latin cooking is similar. Gallo pinto isn't so different from arroz mamposteao. His mom made that all the time.
He's about to take a forkful, it smells so good, just like their old kitchen in the evenings before dinner, when something in his brain tells him to stop. Why is he accepting homemade food off a perfect stranger? The sandwiches and drinks were all prepacked, this is different, this is dangerous.
He pauses, puts down the fork and shakes his head, his stomach screaming its disapproval. He really, really wants to eat, but he doesn't trust this man enough to just take food off him, food that could have anything in it.
He gives the food back to Marco, shrugs and sits back against the wall.
"Soy alérgico a cilantro. Lo siento, mi madre siempre lo hizo sin cilantro."
I'm allergic to cilantro. Sorry, my mom always made it without it.
Marco nods in understanding, takes back the food and goes to the fridge. He's none-the-wiser to Alex's true aversion to the food.
"Entonces, esto no es tan bueno, pero, deberías poder tragarlo sin vomitar, son soportables."
Well, this stuff's not as good, but you should be able to choke it down. It's bearable.
Alex smiles slightly, the anxious, hissing creature inside him placated. He's going to eat something, something safe and out of a packet. His arm will be okay, he won't be hungry for the rest of the day.
Alex is in the bodega again that Wednesday, eating a sandwich Marco's given him and checking over some science homework. It's quiet this evening, the fan spins sluggishly and the weather's getting warmer. It's past sunset, so the people coming in now are all dressed for nights out, asking for various beers or liquors, or else cigarettes. Santi has been put to bed and the store is quiet, Marco's fiddling with a chunky old CD player, trying to get music playing.
Alex reexamines his answer on stem cells and scratches out a few sentences he thinks are incorrect. He doesn't even look up when he hears the door open, just hears some footsteps shuffle in and a voice he recognises ask for a pack of Marlboro Mediums. Alex's head snaps up to see Pace at the counter, digging in his pocket for his wallet. He hasn't seen him, Alex is frozen.
Pace takes the pack Marco hands him and turns to leave. His profile comes into view and Alex holds his breath. His foster father's head turns about half an inch and his eyes fall on the teenager.
"Alexander?"
He says nothing, squeezes his fists hard, eyes darting to the door.
"What are you doing here?"
Alex says nothing, looks pleadingly at Marco for some help. He looks bewildered, he's not going to take the hint. Alex is fucked.
"Get up. You're leaving with me, now!"
Alex scrambles for his things, pushes hair from his face and shoulders his backpack. Marco's eyes follow him as he leaves, he looks scared. Alex shakes his head and hurries after Pace, the door swings shut behind him.
The apartment is eerily quiet and dark when Pace opens the door and shoves him into the sitting room. His push is so hard, Alex trips over the corner of the rug and goes sprawling, his chin lands on the hard toe of one of Pace's boots and his head snaps forward painfully, like a car when the breaks are slammed unexpectedly. His hands are clammy, sweat seeps out of his pores like fear, which oozes dark and thick through the cracks in the walls of the room around him. He's in for it, he knows he's in for it. This is going to hurt, he's not going to be able to move properly for days.
"What the fuck was that, what the fuck was that?"
"I heard you the first time," Alex groans, rolling onto his back and pressing a hand to chin, it throbs dully, hot and aching. That'll bruise nastily.
He only talks back to Pace when he knows a beating's inevitable anyway. If he's going to end up battered and bruised regardless, getting in a few insults won't hurt. Well, won't hurt any more than is already guaranteed.
Pace stalks forward, crouches down beside him and seizes a fistful of his hair, jerking his head sharply up from the floor. He wishes he'd tied it up today. God, he really doesn't learn, does he?
"Are you begging now, then? You begging for food like a fucking tramp?"
Alex shakes his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the pain. Pace grabs his chin, bony fingers squeezing tightly into his aching flesh.
"Look at me when I speak to you!"
Alex's eyes fly open at once and he's immediately met with the unpleasant image of his foster father, only a few inches from his face. His eyes are yellowed slightly, his face flushed with anger and his breath stinking of beer. Alex thinks he'd ask someone to shoot him if he ever became like that. Maybe he can make a deal with Rob...
"So what are you doing for all that food, huh?"
Alex says nothing, knows it's just better to let this man scream at him, just take it. Normally his rages die down quicker when Alex keeps his mouth shut.
"Are you whoring yourself out, you fucking scum?" Alex swallows thickly and Pace shakes his hand a little, still clenched in his hair. He hisses in pain, eyes watering. "Just like you did with that other one? How many have you bent over for, huh?"
Alex lets out a sob of pain, his stomach churns with guilt and disgust, his scalp burns like his hair's about to be ripped clean out.
"It's not," a sob, "it's not like that!"
Pace pulls on his hair tighter and Alex groans in pain as he feels strands of his hair split. He thinks of Mr. Elliot, of what this man's suggesting and he just wants to curl up into a ball and scream.
"Just like your fucking mother!"
Alex bares his teeth and snarls furiously, struggling against his foster father's grip, seeing red. This man doesn't insult his mother, Mama, who's been the only adult in his life not to disappoint him. He'd heard what the people on the island said about her, about their family. This just rings a little too close to home.
How dare he say these things, how dare he talk about Mr. Elliot? Pace knows about that, he'd heard Knox on the phone with Alex one day, he's mentioned it almost every time he's gotten drunk and beaten him since.
"You asshole, you don't know the first thing about my mother! You don't know anything!"
He kicks away from the man and wipes some of the tears that have been forced from his eyes away. He flies at his foster father then, his head lands straight in his stomach and then, he's a furious torrent of sharp elbows and knuckles.
Ha! Pace has been unintentionally arming him for this by starving him, he wouldn't have such bony, sharp limbs if he'd been well-fed! Karma's a bitch.
He lands on top of the man and feels tears flowing from his eyes as he rakes his fingernails across his face. He's just thinking of his mom, of how hard she worked for them, of how she'd cried when people would say horrible things about her. How eventually, they'd stopped going to the packed, busy masses in the local church and visited in the early hours of the morning instead. Yet, he can't remember a single thing said about his dad! Not about his promiscuity at least.
His victory, however, is short-lived. Pace is so much stronger than he his, he's all fired up with alcohol-fuelled rage and Alex's attack has only made him more livid. He throws his foster son off him and Alex lands in a heap on the ground, breathing heavily, winded.
"It must be true if you're so defensive all of a sudden, I can't say I'm surprised. They say a pup follows in the bitch's footsteps."
Alex tries to stand, wild-eyed, livid, tears of fury rather than pain streaming down his face. He's knocked quickly to the floor by a punch, however. It lands directly on the highest point of his cheekbone and pain blossoms across his face like an oil spill in the ocean.
He's screaming at Pace as the man kicks him all over, it might be Spanish, English or French. Sometimes he can't tell when it gets like this. His words are punctuated with whimpers and sharp intakes of breath, occasionally the gurgle of spit or vomit sounds from his throat, but mercifully, he isn't sick.
"Connard! Connard! J-je - Ah!- te deteste! J'espère que t-tu brûles en enfer! ¡Te odio - f-fuck- gilipollas! ¡Te odio! ¡Maldita se- sea la madre que t-te que te parió!"
Asshole! Asshole! I hate you! I hope you burn in hell! I hate you, Asshole! I hate you! Damn the mother that gave birth to you!
He's glad Pace doesn't understand Spanish, or French for that matter. It doesn't really make a difference though, because he's beaten black and blue anyway. He falls unconscious after a little while, it's a blessing really, until he wakes up.
He comes around a few hours later. He's still on the floor of the living room, right at the foot of the couch, lying limp and tangled on his side. Blood is sticky on his face and beneath his head, his entire body sings with pain. It's alive with it, it hums through him like electricity, he's a live wire in a circuit, the voltage turned all the way up.
He lies there, not moving, for a little while, whimpering in pain. The floor is cold beneath him, but any attempts to cul up into a tighter ball and warm himself result in such a sharp stab in his ribs that he has to bite his lips nearly in half to stop himself screaming.
He reaches up and arm and begins to press gently down on each of his ribs. Miraculously, none are broken, but he thinks they're probably bruised or cracked. He moves a hand gingerly to his face then and doesn't recognise the shape beneath his fingers. It's swollen, sticky with blood, like he's been pushed defenceless into a killer bee apiary.
He collects himself for another half-hour before getting to his feet. It's dark out, the curtains have been left open and below, Brownsville is lit only by the sultry orange glow of street lights and the searching headlights of cars. It could be past two, Pace is definitely asleep.
He moves quietly to the bathroom and tends to his injuries. They're bad, real bad. His scalp stings and judging by the blood in his hair, some of it has been ripped clean out. His face is unrecognisable, his own mother probably wouldn't even know him. Who has he become?
He goes to sleep with a tub of ice-cream wrapped in a tea-cloth clutched to his face. Pace won't really care. He doesn't mind Alex tending to his injuries, otherwise the school might become wise to what's going on, as long as he doesn't bother Pace with any of it. All that man cares about is the beating him up bit. Alex can do what he likes in the aftermath of it all.
When he wakes up, the swelling's gone down a fair amount. Ice cream has melted and leaked all over his face and shirt, though. It's a good look, could easily be bird shit. He wasn't thinking straight last night. He might have been concussed, maybe he still is a little. In any case, he scrubs it off as best he can and rubs some more sudocream into his injuries.
The swelling's not totally gone, in fact, his face still looks puffy and bloated. He'd have been able to pass it off as an allergic reaction, if it weren't for the fact that his skin is almost entirely purple and red.
When Pace wakes up to find Alex cleaning the living room (it's a normal ritual, his foster father gets drunk and doesn't pick up the beer cans and ashtrays after him) he takes one look at the teenager and declares that he won't go to school that day.
"You'll stay here until the swelling goes down. You'll use your make-up to hide the bruises. Is that clear?"
Alex has a bottle of foundation and some concealer reserved for occasions like this. He layers it on thick when he has to, has gotten good at making it look natural, not cakey or patchy. He nods and wipes down the surface of the table. Cigarette stubs and ash scatter the coffee table, as well a collection of small, ring-shaped stains from the bottoms of beer cans.
"I'll be out all day. If you so much as poke your head out of the door, I'll make sure you're off school for longer than a few days. Am I clear, Alexander?"
"Crystal," he mutters, pocketing half a pack of un-smoked cigarettes he's certain Pace has forgotten about.
He spends the day inside, smokes those cigarettes and sleeps for as long a period of time as he can. He wishes he were at school, he's bored. He can't move very much, his body is stiff, aching and sore all over. It's easier to just lie in the warmth of his bed and sleep.
He wakes up at about three o'clock and hobbles to the kitchen for a bag of something frozen. He finds some peas, wraps them in a cloth and holds the first to his face for ten minutes, then to his ribs. He wonders if Pace would be angry if he ate something. The last thing he had was that sandwich yesterday, he hasn't eaten since. Cigarettes don't count as breakfast.
He makes himself some toast and a mug of coffee. Eats it on the couch with a handful of painkillers and sleeping pills. It won't hurt him, his intention isn't to overdose. They'll just put him out. He just hopes it'll be enough to make him a little woozy, it'd be nice to lose himself in a numb, syrupy sleep for a few hours. That'd be better than lounging here, in pain, awake, bored.
He goes to sleep again after that, on the couch. When he wakes up, which is a few hours later, judging by the darkening colour of the sky, Pace's footsteps are audible in the hallway. Alex groans in pain, his ribs are killing him, and sits up. Pace's figure darkens the doorway and he looks up at him tiredly, too exhausted to flinch or avert his gaze.
"Did you go out?"
Alex shakes his head. He doesn't really want to move his jaw and speak, that'd hurt. He's still a little drugged up, his head's slightly foggy and his limbs move like they're weighted, like he's running through water. This evidently doesn't go unnoticed by his foster father, who surveys him with a shrewd eye.
"What'd you take?"
Alex stands up unsteadily, pushes some hair from his eyes, it's come undone and messy since he fell asleep and his clothes are all wrinkled and sweaty. He wants a shower.
"Just some painkillers," he slurs.
Pace grunts, takes his cigarette out from between his lips and stubs it out on Alex's arm. He stares down at the burn on his flesh for a second, but doesn't react. His head's all fuzzy, his nerves are dull and everything seems to be reaching through layer upon layer of thick fabric. It's only a faint, muted pain.
"Fucking junkie."
Alex says nothing, just moves past Pace towards his bedroom. Pace'll start drinking now, he'll stay in the living room tonight until he stumbles to bed in the small hours or passes out there, amid his own mess of beer cans and cigarette stubs. God, Alex is going to have to make that deal with Rob.
He takes the next day off too, just for the swelling to go down properly. Three-day old bruises are always a little yellowed, the colour of that ochre moss that grows in the cracks of old walls, and dark purple, like wine. Before he lived with Pace, he used to scoff at those poets that talked about 'thundercloud bruises blooming across skin', and in a way, it's still a little too flowery for the subject matter, but now he sort of gets it. They do kind of bloom on skin, like those sped-up videos of thunderstorms rolling in across the sky.
He covers up all this with some foundation and concealer on the morning of the third day. He does it in the bathroom mirror when he wakes up, inspects it carefully afterwards. He doesn't think anyone will notice, they'd have to get pretty up close to him. He hopes Rob doesn't kiss him today, as much as he'd like that, he'd probably see the traces of make-up around his eye.
He and Rob aren't exactly together... It's complicated. They're friends, they act just like best friends, until they're alone and the tension crackles between them. Rob first kissed him a few weeks ago under the bleachers on the soccer field. They'd been revising together, Alex had been testing Rob on his French, and he'd kept mucking up his pronunciation.
"Uye-il? uhh-y-il?"
Alex falls into a fit of laughter and shakes his head, hair bouncing around him in dark tendrils. It goes to his collarbone now, he'd gotten Rob to cut it for him a week or two ago. He flips it back, ties it up quickly and sighs, shaking his head with a broad grin.
Rob pouts at him in mock anger. The shadows from the bleachers cast stripes across his white t-shirt. His dark skin is clear and smooth in the sunlight, his posture lazy and his legs long as he stretches across the grass. He's only a couple inches taller than Alex but he's infinitely more graceful. Alex imagines he'd be a good dancer, when he lets his thoughts dwell on that sort of thing, though he's never seen Rob do more than sway slightly to music.
"It's œil, you need to say the œ like eu, kinda."
Rob glances down at his book, nods and tries again. This time, the word comes out a little better, but still sounds more like an interjection of pain or surprise than the French word for eye. Rob's accent is quite noticeably New York, it's endearing. He does say 'cwaffe', instead of 'coffee', but it's not quite as pronounced as the movies might make you think. He also has a habit of saying 'aight?' which Alex has, unfortunately, picked up. He's got a New York accent of his own, but it's far less noticeable than Rob's.
"Better, but you need pout more, let your throat close up a bit when you say the œ part."
Rob tries again, Alex shakes his head, demonstrates himself and fights back more laughter. Rob is going to love œuf, œuvre and cœur. Alex, eventually, takes pity on him. He leans forward, reaches out a hand and squeezes the flesh on either side of Rob's mouth so he's pouting. Rob starts, then rolls his eyes. Alex can feel his cheek muscles twitching, like he's trying not to smile.
"Say it now."
It comes out, this time, near perfect. Alex leans back, grins and sprawls out on the grass. Rob looks surprised at himself, at Alex, that this rather strange technique worked. He closes his book and lies back on the grass, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed. Alex opens his eyes then, props himself up on his elbow and watches him. He looks so peaceful like this, Alex can't tear his eyes away from his lips. He thinks of moments ago, when he'd touched them. Rob opens one eye and catches him staring. He stretches and grins at his friend, it's ever so slightly knowing.
"You know, I've only said it right once. We should practice it some more."
Alex's throat closes up a little but he nods quickly and rearranges himself so he's facing Rob more directly.
"That thing you did helped," Rob suggests, his voice casual and his expression impassive. Alex nods, butterflies in his stomach fluttering, and reaches out to touch his mouth, squeezing lightly.
He says the word until they're both laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sitting under the bleachers, Alex's fingers squeezing Rob's face, repeating the French for eye over and over.
Alex's laughter dies and then, they're both silent, staring at each other. Alex's hand still touches Rob's mouth, but he's not squeezing anymore, just touching it. He takes a chance, brushes his fingers over Rob's bottom lip with a slight exhale. Rob's lips part slightly, his eyes are fixed on Alex. The gaze is completely transparent.
Alex's fingers brush against the wet inside of Rob's mouth and suddenly, this isn't a joke anymore, this is something that's actually happening. He leans forward slightly so that they're only about an inch apart and feels Rob's teeth and tongue against his finger. He opens his mouth slightly wider and Ales shifts another inch forward, unable to breathe. Then, Rob reaches up, closes a hand around his wrist and pulls his hand away. His entire body goes cold but a second later, Rob is kissing him.
He lets out a small oomph of surprise but quickly settles into the rhythm of it, melting up against Rob and reaching out a hand to hold the back of his head. Rob brings a hand down to hold his waist and pulls him closer, so their chests are pressed together. Alex's mind strays to Mr. Elliot, remembers the feeling of his weight on top of him, but pushes it all down. He's not going to let that ruin this moment, he's going to pretend that what's happening now, this kiss, is the only moment he'd ever existed in.
The next time he sees Marco, his bruises are nearly healed. The swelling's nearly completely gone and his skin is only vaguely yellow and purple. He isn't particularly hungry, Rob had shared his lunch with him that afternoon. Rob doesn't know about what happens at home to Alex. He knows he doesn't eat enough, but Alex has convinced him it's because they can't afford to buy much food, rather than the truth. That Pace gets as much as he needs, but practically starves Alex.
He enters the Bodega because Pace is drunk and Alex was there. That's never a good combination, it's like oil and water. Pace, when he's drunk, starts off in a better mood than usual. By this, Alex means he'll turn a blind eye to mess or insolence. Then, once he's a few beers deep, he'll become angry. He fumes, he throws things, he yells and beats Alex up. This is the longest stage of the whole progression, it lasts for hours sometimes. Eventually, if he drinks even further past this point, he becomes incoherent and disoriented. This gives Alex an opportunity to get away to the bathroom and clean himself up. Normally, he'll return to his foster father passed out on the couch.
Pace was in a good mood when he left, but Alex knows that won't last long. He's going to wait it out.
Marco grins at him when he walks in, which he returns. He sits down on the palette of orange juice and coke cans, watching Santi sip on a juice box. He's got a purple mouth now, it looks like artificial grape flavour.
"Is your face okay? It looks a bit..."
Alex tuns away from Santi to Marco, whose smile has faded slightly and is watching him in concern from behind the counter. He reaches up a hand and touches his cheek, where he can still feel marginal swelling beneath his fingers.
"Si, está bien."
Yeah, it's fine
Marco frowns slightly, peers a little closer and sits back on his chair.
"Es ilegal que un adulto golpee a un niño y dejar marcas ¿Lo sabías?"
It's illegal for a parent to hit their kid and leave a mark. You know that?
Alex frowns and crosses his legs, avoiding eye contact. He does know that, he's wondered a lot about where people draw the line between discipline and abuse. Pace has certainly crossed it, no good parent nearly kills their kid, has sent them to the ER more than once.
"Sí. Lo sé."
Yeah. I know
Alex frowns and shrugs, still avoiding all eye contact. He can't tell Marco anything, he's dealing with this himself. Pace will kill him if he tells anyone, and that's barely a hyperbole.
"¿Tu padre adoptivo hace esto?"
Your foster dad do that?
Alex shrugs again and stands up, begins to idly pace the store, running his fingers along the items on the shelves, turned away from Marco. The shopkeeper lets out an audible sigh but changes the course of the conversation. His tone becomes lighter, Alex's posture relaxes.
"Hungry?"
Alex shrugs, turns back to face him and folds his arms.
"I had lunch at school."
Marco shrugs, glances up at the clock above the door. The minute hand has just moved to make it five thirty-five.
"That was hours ago, you don't need a snack or anything?"
Alex laughs, this guy's acting like his dad or something. He shrugs and turns back to the shelf behind him. It's the candy section, full of brightly coloured wrappers and bold fonts. He doesn't eat much candy these days, but that's not for a lack of want to. He likes Hershey's, M&Ms and Snickers just fine. He is a teenager. He just never has money to spend on that kind of thing.
He picks up a Hershey's bar and holds it up to Marco, tilting his head, asking for permission.
"Sure."
Alex grins, sits back up on the palette and opens the chocolate. He and Rob share stuff like this sometimes, but he doesn't get it often, he sometimes forgets what they taste like. Customers come in and out, normally with only a nod or nothing at all in Alex's direction. He and Marco chat a little on and off, in Spanish, about coming to New York. Turns out he came here nearly fifteen years ago after his daughter was born, from Nicaragua. He opened up this place soon after and in the last two years, he's been working towards getting into university.
Alex is starting to feel more comfortable here, more welcome. Like maybe Marco was the sort of person he could give half a chance. That is until a girl of about fifteen bounces through the door.
She, unusually for this country, wears a school uniform. It's a plain, dark blue pleated skirt, a white blouse and a black blazer. Her hair is like Marco's, thick and very curly, bouncing around her head energetically as she steps into the shop. Her eyes are dark and her face is small and cheerful. A backpack is slung over her shoulder and her socks gather in crinkles around her ankles.
"Mija!"
Marco looks up from his newspaper and grins broadly at the teenage girl, reaching up a hand to high five her. She smacks it energetically and all at once, Alex feels like he's intruding on some sort of family moment. He shouldn't be hanging around in this place, he should just go down to Central Park, chill out by the lake.
The girl turns to him and looks him up and down with furrowed eyebrows. She glances at her father and crosses to the drinks shelf, picking up a bottle of juice.
"¿Quién es el niño?"
Who's the kid?
Marco smiles at him but he just stands up, pocketing the last of his Hershey's bar.
"El nombre de el 'niño' es Alejandro, y él habla español, así que ten cuidado."
'The kid's' name is Alexander, and he speaks Spanish, so be careful.
She looks him up and down again, taking in his ragged appearance and bruised face. Her eyes crease somewhat and she tilts her head.
"¿Eres tú un indigente?"
Are you homeless?
He scowls at her, his stomach feeling tight and a blush creeping across his face. Marco looks a little annoyed and shoots him an apologetic look from behind his daughter's back. He ignores it, he's far too proud to keep taking food of a family that just see him as a charity case.
"No. Me voy. Gracias, Marco."
No. I'm going. Thanks, Marco.
She watches him as he leaves and he hears Marco call out an ¡Espere!, but he doesn't look back, just walks out onto the street and pulls up his hood.
"Eva!"
Marco runs a hand through his hair and stares at the door Alejandro just walked out of before turning an exasperated gaze to his daughter.
"What?"
She hops up onto the pallet that the boy had been sitting on and opens the bottle of juice, taking a large gulp. Her hair blows in the breeze from the fan and she huffs in annoyance before tying it up into a knot.
"You can't just ask people if they're homeless!"
Eva shrugs and takes off her school bag. It's heavy, weighed down with all her revision booklets and folders. Her back's been killing her all day.
"He looked it."
Marco frowns, picking up the pacifier from where it'd dropped from Santi's mouth and passing it back to him.
"Well, he's not."
"What was he doing here anyway?"
Marco sighs. This is a difficult conversation to have, and a difficult situation to have gotten himself into.
"I... Well, a week or two ago I caught him trying to steal from here."
Eva raises an eyebrow, "so the most logical conclusion was to invite him back and give him more stuff, desde luego."
Marco dismisses this, continues as though he hadn't heard her.
"He was trying to nick food, I was going to take it back, but you've seen the kid. He looks like he never eats, malnutrido ¿Sí?"
Eva plays with the plastic wrapper around the bottle of juice and dangles her legs over the edge of the palette.
"He's always bruised up, he's not homeless, but I think the guy he lives with beats him up. He came in with a horrible... quemadura on his arm the other week, told me he fell against a hot water pipe.
"Tal vez lo hizo."
Maybe he did?
Marco shakes his head, "it was the wrong shape, and it was bad, like something hot had been pressed to his arm. You know when fall against something hot, you step back at once, don't you? This didn't look like he was able to."
Eva frowns, takes a swig of her drink. She's starting to feel like a bit of an asshole.
"And he's been away for a couple of days now, then he comes in today moving like he's got broken ribs or something, with a bruised up face."
Eva bites her lips and plays with a strand of hair, "why don't you call child services or something?"
Marco shrugs, grabs Santi's shoulders before he reaches too far for his toy and falls off the counter.
"I don't even know his full name, or where he lives, or if it's even his foster father doing this."
Eva crosses her legs and watches her little brother play with his toy. Her dad's always been the protective sort. He looks so tough, he's got this big tattoo on his back and everything, but every time they go on the subway or walk through the city together, he has to stop when they see those homeless parents and their kids on the corners.
They're not always super steady, financially, Eva knows this is because of her expensive tuition fees (her dad insisted on putting her in private school) but it seems like he can always spare five bucks for that young woman and her baby near the B15 bus station.
She supposes it's the same for Alejandro. She's not seen him around before, but he's her age. Maybe they have mutual friends, who knows? Brownsville is small, maybe he goes to the public high school most of her elementary school friends go to now. She takes out her phone, still contemplating the situation, and finishes her drink.
Across from her, Marco sighs. Santi's diaper needs to be changed and that's always a messy, unpleasant experience.
This might actually be it. This might be the time when he actually does it. Purposefully or not, Alex wonders if this is the night Pace loses it and kills him.
He pins him up against the wall first, both large hands come up to wrap around his throat and press down hard, cutting off his air supply. He tries to stay still, knows Pace will hurt him more if he struggles, but soon he's kicking and thrashing to get away, the muscles in his throat fluttering desperately for air. He brings up his hands to pull at Pace's grip, scraping his nails down them and pinching his flesh, but it doesn't give. His vision's starting to swim now, little black buzzing dots like flies swarm his vision.
Pace lets go. Alex crumples to the floor, previously only held standing by his foster father's iron grip. He chokes and splutters, frantically gasping in air and trying to crawl away across the floor, his chest heaving and his hair hanging down into his face. His lungs burn like he's swallowed kerosene and had a match lit in his mouth, his head pounds from the deprivation of oxygen. He's caught with a sharp kick in his side and he topples over onto his back, winded, barely able to breathe.
Pace stalks forward, he's so much taller than Alex, infinitely stronger and more willing to hurt, strangle and crush. He kicks Alex again in the stomach, Alex's body seems to curl around the blow, trying to absorb it, but the pain still winds him. He groans, rolls onto his stomach and lies there, panting, his pulse rattling in his veins. He hopes Pace will just get bored, maybe if he's unresponsive, becomes like a rag-doll, he'll get bored kicking something yielding, something that doesn't yell or cry or flinch away. There's a reason the guy doesn't just use a punching bag.
This goes out the window when Pace begins kicking him over and over, his ribs, his stomach, one even lands right between his legs and he lets out a yell of pain, curling up into himself and feeling hot, wet tears roll down his face. Pace doesn't even falter, he crouches down and seizes Alex's head up off the floor by his hair, twisting it around his hand and exposing his tear-streaked face. He lands a punch right on Alex's mouth and he feels blood gush hot and metallic from his lip. He runs his tongue along all of his teeth and feels one a little looser than it had been before.
Pace punches him in the face twice more, once in his jaw (Alex hears it click at this, he hopes nothing's dislocated) and again at his eye. Each time a punch lands, his head's knocked sideways with the force of it, his hair tugging sharply in Pace's grip. Then, his foster father stands up and begins to kick him again, this is his favourite and most commonly used method of torture. Alex thinks he'll have stomach issues in the future, he'll blame Pace. That is unless Pace kills tonight.
Then, as if his thoughts decide at that moment to manifest themselves in reality, Pace sends a particularly hard kick into his belly and he feels stomach acid rise in his throat, scorching his mouth and insides. He's sick across the floor, coughing and spluttering as he heaves up the contents of his stomach with a sickening rattle. It really is just acid he throws up, he's not eaten much today. There's a granola bar Rob gave him in semi-digested chunks on the floor, but mostly, it's sharp, acidic liquid that stings the cut on his lip.
Pace stops kicking him then, Alex doesn't look up, he's lying across the floor, vomit in his hair. His foster father mutters something under his breath, something along the lines of 'dirty f**got', but he's not sure. He's barely conscious, his eyes flutter shut, he's desperate to escape this pain, this horrible thrumming throb.
Then, a last kick between his legs sends him spiralling into unconsciousness.
He comes round in a pool of his own blood and vomit. It's in his hair, on his clothes, cracked and dried around his mouth. The room is dark, it smells like a slaughterhouse. Acid and the unmistakable, metallic stench of blood.
He can't move. He can barely see out of one eye, it's swollen nearly shut, and his stomach and ribs feel like they've been ploughed into by a tractor. His groin throbs too, where he was kicked twice, a pain that seems to sing louder than all the others.
He slips back under again, into the welcome numbness.
When he wakes up again, it's still dark. He groans in pain (that action in itself hurts) and rolls onto his back, breathing heavily. He's not dead, that's something. He's sticky and in pain, he feels disgusting, filthy. He knows he is. He reckons his ribs are broken and reaches gingerly up to press down on each one, feeling gently for a break. When he gets to his third and fourth false rib on his left side, he feels it.
The bone moves under his finger and he hisses sharply, the same sound a pierced balloon gives out when deflating. He hopes the break's a clean one, that he's not punctured a lung, because there's no way he's going to the ER for all of this.
It hurts to breathe. Each inhale sends an absolute stab of pain throughout his body and he whimpers as he sits up, pushing sticky hair from his face and trying to breathe in a way that doesn't trigger a spiral of pain across his chest. He stumbles to the kitchen, how he moves there is beyond him, and wets a rag. He throws this down onto the mix of blood and vomit on the floor and cleans it sloppily, kneeling on the wood, his eyes watering at the smell.
When he's finished, he walks to the bathroom. He hasn't even made it halfway down the hall when his foot catches on something large and heavy and he trips, crashing towards the floor with an ear-splitting yell and landing on his front, his ribcage slammed into the floor from the force of the impact.
He yells again and then, the door at the end of the hallway opens. Pace. Alex tries to scramble away, his breathing shallow, but Pace is beside him before he can even move into a defensive position. He kicks Alex hard in the thigh, the nearest limb to his foot, and crouches down beside him, seizing his chin and pressing down on the bruises battered into it.
"It'd do you good to keep your fucking mouth shut for once."
Alexander grins, spits blood, "not much chance of that."
Pace drops his face, his head is limp and falls straight to the floor. Another kick is aimed directly at his stomach. Alexander rolls away, whimpering at the blaze of pain inside him. He somehow manages to stand up and there it is. The door, right in front of him. He could run out, it's his only option, he could open it and run.
This is just what he does. Alex slams the door behind him and doesn't wait to be called back, or dragged back. He stumbles down the corridor of the apartment building and has reached the elevators in seconds, the prospect of Pace catching up with him enough incentive to sprint despite the pain.
He takes the elevator to the ground floor, swallows a mouthful of blood and collapses on the sofa in the lobby. No one's down here, it's past midnight, so he allows himself time to breathe, control his shivering and devise a plan.
Staying here is out of the question. People will start moving in and out of their apartments from four or five onwards, this is New York, the city that never sleeps. He can't go back up to Pace's apartment, because there's a good chance he'll break even more of his ribs up there, and he can't go to the ER. Pace would kill him, Alex hates having to give a fake name to avoid paying the bill and the nurses are always suspicious of how he gets all these injuries.
Alex would go to the Gordons or another previous, kind foster family, but he's in The Bronx now, he doesn't know anyone around here. Almost all his foster families have lived in Manhattan, a full subway ride away.
He only really has one place to go. He doesn't much like it, he doesn't want to go back, but it's the only place around here he knows, with some certainty, will help him.
He hobbles out of the apartment building and looks up and down the street. It's empty, the stores are closed except for a twenty-four-hour seven eleven. Marco's store closes late, around eleven, but he can't compete with the big businesses that can afford to employ desperate college students to keep their stores open constantly.
Cars drive by but no one gives him a second glance as he crosses the road and makes his way towards the store. Marco lives in the apartment above the store, he's described it as small but comfortable but has talked briefly about plans to move out once more money comes in, or get it done up a little nicer. He knows the entrance is off the side of the shop, if you walk down the alleyway there's a door they come in and out of. Alex doesn't know for sure, but he guesses that leads to where they live.
He walks around the side of the store and finds their door. It could easily have been shabby and dirty looking, it leads off onto an alley and no one really sees it anyway, but it's been painted a bright, sky blue colour and someone, Alex thinks Santi, has stuck dinosaur stickers onto the window set into it. There isn't a doorbell, but Alex thinks a good, loud knock will do it. God, he's not thinking straight. He must be concussed or something, because in any other situation, he'd rather sleep on the street than wake up a family for help in the middle of the night.
The knock rings out for a second or two through the house and Alex waits, shivering in the alleyway. Inside is silent, no lights are on, no baby cries.
No one's home. No one'll answer. You'll have to sleep in a public bathroom or a bus station. Why did you leave? Oh God, you should never have left. Fuck, you could have taken another kick or two, oh God—
The door opens and Alex starts, shying away and looking up fearfully at the figure in the doorway. Marco's in pyjamas, sweatpants and a white vest, a thin gold chain with a crucifix on it hangs around his neck and he wears Adidas slippers. He's muscled, stronger and taller than Pace in a way Alex didn't notice when he'd been sat behind the counter, dressed properly in jackets and tracksuits.
"Alejandro?"
Alex nods, isn't sure what to say in response, just hopes his appearance speaks for itself. Marco frowns, squints at him through the dim lighting. Alex knows the exact second he registers what the marks on his face are, the blood in his hair, dripping from his mouth. His eyes go wide and he steps back instinctively, pale as the lime streetlights that don't permeate this back alley well enough to see clearly.
He beckons for Alex to come in and the teenager takes a step forwards. That's when his legs buckle. He falls towards the floor with a yelp and is only saved by Marco's remarkable reflexes. He lands in strong, grounding arms and is prevented from falling heavily to the ground, instead supported gently by the man in front of him.
"Mierda, mierda ¿Que pasó? ¡Puta!"
Shit, shit. What happened? Holy shit!
Alex groans in pain, it's not a response, and allows Marco to help him inside. The apartment's small but tidy, like they take pride in the place. It smells just like his mom's cooking, like that gallo pinto Marco offered him a few days ago. He wouldn't say no to that now. He's not actually allergic to cilantro.
He's led to a small living room, furnished with a TV, a couch and loads of personal touches they must have accumulated over the years. Those colourful candles his mom owned, the ones in jars embossed with serene photos of Jesus and Mary, sit on the shelves above the television and he nearly trips over a single chancla in the doorway. This place really is like home.
He falls backwards onto the couch and hears Marco rushing around the room and the hallway, cursing in Spanish. There's a yell from a room upstairs.
"¿Qué mierda? ¡Estoy intentando dormir!"
What the fuck? I'm trying to sleep!
Alexander supposes it's Eva, or it could be Marco's wife, though he's never seen her before.
"¡Léxico, Mija!"
Language!
Alexander groans and closes his eyes, the yelling is making his head hurt. He hears footsteps patter down the stairs and the light switch is flipped on, making him wince and throw a hand up to his face. Eva stands in the doorway in pyjama shorts and some school sports t-shirt, her hair braided back off her face and her expression cross.
"¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?"
What are you doing here?
He lifts his hand from his face, her jaw drops.
Marco rushes back into the room then, moving Eva out of his way in a manner that isn't gentle exactly, but isn't violent either. He places his hands on her shoulders and leads her past him, so he can move in and out of the room hastily. He shoots her a warning look, as if telling her to behave herself and turns back to Alex. He looks frantic, he holds something wrapped in a t-shirt in his hand, Alexander hopes it's ice, and some water in a glass.
He hands Alex the ice-pack, who instantly presses it to his face, wincing and taking a deep, painful breath. He clutches his ribs and tilts his head back, whimpering in pain, trying not to cry.
"¿Qué te ha pasado?"
What happened to you?
He says nothing, sighs as his face starts to go numb with the cold. He knows he looks absolutely awful, he has vomit and blood in his hair, on his clothes for God's sake.
"Gracias, lo siento, lo siento mucho."
Thank you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.
Marco throws Eva a glance, Alexander doesn't catch what it is. Whether it's disgust or fear or revulsion, he's not sure.
"What do you need? ¿Analgésicos? ¿Vendas? Más hielo? ¿Comida?"
Painkillers? Bandages? More ice? Food?
Alex doesn't know what the first thing on that list, sometimes his Spanish vocabulary is a little lacking. He hopes he was offering Tylenol or painkillers or something, because Alex could do with taking a couple of those right now.
"¿Tienes... Painkillers?"
Do you have painkillers?
Marco nods, flicks his head in the direction of the stairs. Eva grumbles slightly under her breath but moves hastily from the room, her slippered footsteps patter up the stairs.
"¿Te golpeó?"
He beat you?
Alex doesn't respond, pretends like he doesn't hear Marco. He's just realised how horrible he must smell, like blood and vomit. He sniffs his hair, it's caked in both. He gags.
"Tu cabello... What's in it?"
Your hair...
Alex winces, closes his eyes, takes shallow breaths.
"Yo vomite."
I got sick.
Marco groans, pinches his nose bridge and watches Alex in horror.
"¿Estás enfermo o te golpeó demasiado duro?"
Are you ill or did he hit you too hard?
Alex shrugs, a non-answer. Neither is good, but he doesn't want to admit he was just kicked hard enough he puked everywhere.
"We have a shower, do you want to use it?"
Alex shrugs. He doesn't like the idea of getting undressed in somebody else's house. It makes him feel vulnerable. To be fair, he hates the feeling of having own vomit and blood caked into his hair more. Then again, his ribs are broken. He won't be able to undress on his own. Fuck, he hadn't thought about that. How's he going to look after himself with broken ribs?
"My ribs are broken, I think."
Marco presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and crosses himself. Despite himself, Alexander smiles. He's reminded irrevocably of his mother.
"Escucha, tomaré estos... Painkillers, then... Regresaré."
Listen, let me take these painkillers, then I'll go back.
Marco looks up then, his eyes wide, and shakes his head furiously.
"No vas a volver. Llamaré a la policía."
Don't go back. I'm calling the cops.
Alex stands up, drops the ice pack and instantly regrets it. He doesn't falter, just stands his ground.
"You... No! I'm- I'm going. I don't know why I came here in the first place."
He moves towards the door but Marco takes hold of his wrist and stops him, it's not gentle, but it certainly isn't violent. Alex tries to pull away, his heart hammering, but Marco shakes his head.
"Don't go back there, don't. I-I... I won't call the cops, just don't go back."
Eva comes down the stairs then, a bottle of Tylenol in her hand. She pauses upon seeing them in the hallway, frowns.
"You still need this?"
Alex nods and she hands it to him. He has to stretch forward to reach it and he can't stop the grunt of pain that rips from his throat at the movement. He opens the bottle, pours three pills into his hand and swallows them down. He feels weak, he's probably slightly concussed. He needs to sit down, he needs to sleep.
"No llames a la policía."
Don't call the cops.
Marco nods, looks at him beseechingly, he's breathing heavily, his body radiates uncertainty.
"I won't. We'll help you."
Eva nods quickly, eyeing his injuries with fear and a morbid sort of curiosity.
"Do you have shit for my face?"
Marco nods, he turns towards where Alex thinks the kitchen might be and mutters léxico as he goes. Alexander tries to smile, but he can only really manage a small grimace and stumble back towards the couch. They help him clean away the blood around his mouth and give him some sort of alovera-vaporub hybrid for the swelling around his eye.
Then comes the problem of his hair. He needs to wash it, submerge it under something properly, no cloth will work on this. But his broken ribs have rendered him incapable of raising his hands past a sixty-degree angle to his body. He's also barely conscious and hardly able to stand. In a shower, he'd probably collapse and hurt himself.
So they decide he can wash the blood and sick out of his hair over the sink in the bathroom. He sits on a chair, tilts his head forward over the basin and lets the water run over his head, warm and cleansing. Eva helps him wash his hair, her hands are no-nonsense and gentle. He's reminded of the nebulous memories of his very early childhood, having his mother wash his hair for him. Working in the shampoo methodically, humming along to the music that seemed to perpetually play in his house. He remembers Papa coming home from work and not yelling at his mom, just chatting to her while she rinsed away the bubbles in his hair. He'd have been about three, it's probably his earliest memory.
He hears her give a gasp when the water runs red. He has blood in his hair from his mouth and from where some's been ripped out, but it wasn't visible before. His hair's as dark as theirs.
He dries off his hair when she's done and she finds him a new shirt to wear, since his other one's covered in vomit. Marco waits downstairs for them, he's put out a blanket and pillow on the sofa for Alex and some tea sits steaming on the coffee table.
Alexander comes down the stairs with Eva, sees all this and promptly bursts into tears. It's just too much. He came here at one in the morning, bleeding, battered, collapsed on Marco, woke Eva up and asked for them to help. And then they treat his face, wash his hair, give him tea and somewhere to sleep.
He's a little overwhelmed.
Marco helps him sit down and comforts him as he simultaneously apologies and thanks them, wiping away his tears, embarrassed, and taking a deep breath. Marco, with Alex's permission, feels for his broken ribs and brings more ice packs them and his swollen face. His stomach is a collage of bruises and they give him some vaporub for that too. Alex has to smile at that. It seems it's a universal Latino thing, the idea that vaporub will cure anything.
There's not much more they can do for him after that. Marco offers him something to eat, which he refuses, and asks if he wants to just go to sleep. Alex can think of nothing he wants more, he's desperately tired.
"Call me if you need anything or if something's wrong ¿sí?"
"Sí. Y gracias... Has hecho demasiado."
Yeah, and, thanks. You've done too much.
Marco waves his hand dismissively and Eva smiles at him tiredly, sympathetically. He's forgiven her for asking him if he was homeless. She's more than made up for it.
He falls asleep on the couch the very minute they've left the room, one ice-pack clutched to his ribs, the other to his face. The pain his dimmed substantially, those Tylenols have kicked in and the ice is doing a good job numbing his injuries. His sleep is almost peaceful.
He wakes up late. He knows this for a myriad of reasons. The light, firstly, shocks his eyes as he opens them, like a flashlight being turned on suddenly in a dark room. The smell of breakfast cooking elsewhere in the house reaches him even through the closed living room door. He can't quite identify what the smell is, it's coffee and something else. Something good, almost definitely with that Goya sazón stuff his mom bought in bulk all the time.
But he won't eat, he'll just get his things and go, they've done too much for him. He's not even that hungry, he's not desperate or starving like he's been the other times they've fed him. He's fine.
He sits up with a groan and presses a hand to his face, feeling the swollenness of his eye and lip. He reckons he looks like he's had some sort of bad allergic reaction. Man, if only allergies were the worst of his problems. His ribs are sore and his stomach is bruised, but between his legs, the pain is all but gone. That was low of Pace, a cheap shot, then again, isn't everything he does exactly that?
He rakes his hair out of his face. It smells of, well, hair. Just that natural, human sort of smell. A little sweet, a little musky. Not at all bad. He hadn't used shampoo or anything last night, it wasn't a hair salon. Priority had been getting the blood and vomit out of his hair, not giving him a makeover.
He doesn't stretch, despite the stiff ache in his every limb. His ribs make every moment spent not in pain precarious, he has to move delicately, otherwise a sharp stab sears across his left side.
He toes his shoes on and walks out through the house, into the store out front. He reckons Eva's at school, but Marco is, as usual, sat behind the counter with little Santi on his knee. He looks up at Alex as he enters and smiles, albeit with a look of concern evident on his face. Alex knows he's not a pretty picture, he thanks God the store is empty.
"Sleep alright?"
Alex shrugs, lets his fingertips slide over the packets of rice and pasta stacked on the shelves by the wall.
"Actually, yeah. Pretty okay."
Marco nods, his knee rocks up and down as Santi sucks on his thumb, half asleep. He's not a particularly loud baby, he didn't even wake up when Alex came in last night, but Alex, he's mentioned this before, as a rule, doesn't like babies.
"Go back in and get some more vaporub. Your face will hurt less once the swelling goes down."
Alex shrugs and folds his arms, leans against the shelf of dry foods.
"Tal vez no. Regresaré de todos modos, hay cosas para mi cara allí."
Marco frowns, his expression is weary and defeated. He knows he can't stop Alex from going back to his legal home, his legal guardian, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
"Eat something before you go, at least. Doesn't seem like they feed you much wherever you live."
The corner of Alex's mouth twists down and he scans the shelves longingly, wishing he could accept.
"No. It's fine. They don't give me food as a punishment, I think I've been punished enough for their standards. I'll be allowed eat."
He says this matter-of-factly, it's true. Pace couldn't care less what he eats after he's lain into him like he did last night. If he starved Alex even then, he'd never heal, he'd probably be in much worse shape than he is now. Pace doesn't care about his well-being, he just has to keep Alex hovering on the cusp of 'okay' for the majority of the time.
Marco looks a little sick at his proclamation. His arms around Santi seem to tighten marginally and he glances down Alexander's appearance, probably mentally converting the skinniness of his frame to the number of times Alex has been punished in this way.
"You won't be in trouble for coming here?"
Alex thinks of Pace beating him for coming to this place, asking him what he was doing for the food they give him, whether he was earning it 'just like his mother.'
"It'll be okay, it's not like I never eat. Most of the time, I can," this isn't exactly the truth, it's only near it, "don't worry. Okay."
Marco stares at him for a moment, thoughtful, then nods.
"Come back sometime soon, so we know you're okay."
Alex's gut tightens, in a way that isn't exactly born of pain or fear. It's warm, almost. He feels cared about. Like someone of the face wretched planet cares whether he's okay or not.
"Okay."
"And, come here if you need anything, whenever."
He nods again, that warmth tugs for a second time inside him and he manages a smile. Wider than before, a little, he thinks, friendly. Marco smiles back and he hobbles from the store.
Pace is still asleep when he gets back. He cleans the beer cans and ashtrays from the sitting room and opens a window to let the smell out. It's mostly alcohol, that thick, sweet, mulchy smell that settles in clothes and hair like dust. But underneath it, well, that's the gorier stuff. There are hints of sick, acidic and invasive, with traces of blood too. The spot on the floor where he puked is all clean, he did that last night, but Alex can only look at that spot and recall the smell of a slaughterhouse. The feeling of dried vomit cracking around his mouth when he spoke, of it sticking clumpy in his hair.
The poets, the romanticists, they all write pretty, flowery things about bruises and sadness and being hurt by people you're supposed to trust. None of them ever mention all the nastier stuff. They can go on for hours about veins unfurling across eyelids like forks of lightning or bruises like violets in bloom, but they never mention the smell of hour old vomit that you haven't washed from your clothes yet or the feeling of blood sticking your skin to cold wood floor.
Alex shouldn't have to clarify this, but pain is never as pretty as people like to make out.
He goes to Rob's house one Thursday after school. It's a hot day, far too hot to be comfortable. Alex is used to the fresh, breezy heat you get in Nevis from the sea. When it's warm out, but the cool ocean is never far away and the breeze carries the fresh, salty air straight to your doorstep. New York isn't like this, it's dusty and hot, the blocks sit stagnant and half obscured in a smoggy haze.
He and Rob walk along the streets, hands brushing, fingers occasionally catching and intertwining as they stroll. They chat, crack jokes and scuff their shoes in the dust. They're going to do some revision at Rob's, his place has air conditioning. Pace's, unfortunately, doesn't. Alex has to throw open his windows at night and hope for the best.
"My parents won't be home, by the way, both at work."
Alex raises an eyebrow, three of his fingers catch around Rob's and they link for just a moment, a brief touch of warm skin. They reach his place, a shabby sort of block at the corner of a busy intersection, and Rob leads him up the stairwell to their flat.
It's around the same size as Pace's, so two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen and a bathroom. It's infinitely nicer, though. Decorated and kept a million times better than Pace ever could his. It's not exactly fashionable or chic, but it's cool and breezy, lacy curtains flutter in the wind and the leather couch is cold when Alexander collapses down onto it.
"Do you want a drink? Mom made sun tea."
"Sun tea?"
Rob laughs as he jogs over to the balcony door. He's wearing shorts today. Alex catches a glimpse of pink-beige heel as he runs, sees the muscle in the back of his legs pulling taut, feels something stir in the pit of his stomach.
"It's like a southern thing. Sweet tea, but you like brew it in the sun. Georgian parents, ya know?"
"Americans are so fucking weird. Just make tea like a normal person, why don't you?"
Rob grins and comes back from the balcony holding a large jug of tea. His footsteps echo towards the kitchen and Alex stretches out as he hears cupboards opening and the clink of ice and glasses.
Rob comes back a minute or so with two tall glasses of tea, ice in both, condensation forming appealingly on the glass. He passes a glass to Alex, who takes a sip appreciatively. It's cold, sweet and spreads a cooling, icy sensation down his throat, all the way to his stomach. It's nice, but it really just tastes like normal sweet tea. He doesn't know why it has to be brewed in the sun.
They get out their textbook and pencil cases, quickly starting on some Geography work. It's a project they're doing together, a hypothetical plan of Brownsville if its space was optimised and money wasn't a problem. Basically, they're gentrifying it, doing what every city council planning and architecture agent is trying to do to their neighbourhood anyway.
They finish this over the course of an hour or so, heads bumping as they write in such close proximity. Rob's legs sprawl out behind them, he's on his front, supporting himself by this elbows. Alex is in the same position, his legs tangle up with Rob's, calves pressed together. Finally, Alex drops his pen, lets his head thunk onto their map of Brownsville and rolls over onto his back, yawning.
"Well, glad that's done."
Rob watches him fondly, reaches out to boop his nose playfully. Alex grins and tilts his chin up so that the finger brushes from his cupid's bow to his lips. He bites it playfully, maintaining eye-contact with his friend. Then he closes his eyes, speaking through the finger on his lips.
"Did you invite me over so we could do this homework or is there another, more disingenuous reason I should know about?"
Rob grins, removes his finger and leans further in, one arm bracing himself over Alex. Alex grins, props himself up on his elbow and presses his lips to Rob's. It's soft at first, Alex letting Rob take the lead, reaching up one hand to touch his jaw.
In moments like these, where there might be a danger of him having a flashback, or being reminded of Mr. Elliot, Alex just closes his eyes. He pretends that the past and the future don't exist, that they never have and that he only lives in the very pleasant now.
Rob backs him up against the sofa so that their heads are level with the armrest, keeling on the rug. His palms press firmly into Alex's cheeks, they're warm and strong and everything Alex has wanted all day. Rob kisses hard, for half a second he's knocked sideways, but the hands on his face, now his shoulders, his waist, are enough to keep him steady.
Their lips haven't left each other's for a single moment. Rob reaches up behind Alex's head and pulls out his hair wildly. His tight ponytail falls out with a small amount of pain, but Alex doesn't care. Rob's fingers curl into the stands and they continue kissing like a wildfire.
Rob breaks away then, just for a moment, to watch Alex. He's panting slightly, a pinkish tinge spread across his cheeks and his hair falling messily around his face. Rob lets out a shuddering laugh, he's slightly breathless too.
"If my parents came home, you could be my girlfriend!"
Alex scowls and thumps Rob angrily on the back, "Fuck off! I do not look like a girl!"
Rob shrugs exaggeratedly and Alex launches himself at him, pushing them both backwards onto the rug. Alex lands on top, his hair hangs down into Rob's face, swaying in the breeze from the open windows.
"Apologise," he smirks, looking down at him with a cocky smile, eyebrow raised to let Rob know he's won. Rob strains uselessly to get up, but Alex holds firm, grinning.
"Unless you want me to go home? We've finished the homework, haven't we? Maybe you don't want these again," he runs a finger over his lower lip and smiles playfully. Rob rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sort of sigh.
"I'm sorry, you don't look like a girl," he grins, "you're a very handsome boy."
It's Alex's turn to roll his eyes, but Rob doesn't see the action, because he's already propped himself up to press his lips to Alex's again. Alex's legs come to be stretched either side of Rob, so he's straddling him as they kiss. Rob's lips stray from his mouth and glide over his jaw, Alex feels tongue against his skin and closes his eyes, letting Rob push him further backwards, so he's nearly lying down.
Rob's mouth latches onto the pulse point directly beneath Alex's jaw bone and his breath stutters, like a candle. His arms wrap around Rob's back to pull him closer, there's no room in the space between their bodies for morality or foresight. Alex wraps his arms around Rob's waist and tilts back his head as Rob goes about sucking a bruise into Alex's throat. Alex's mind, the small section that isn't lost in the sensation of Rob's lips, repeats a frantic mantra.
Don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home, don't let his parents come home.
Rob may say he could be his girlfriend, yet Alex isn't so sure that would work.
These brief, barely formed thoughts are dispelled when Rob's hands slip under his shirt to his waist, they're warm and soft, holding tight but not restrainingly so. He feels, instantly, as though struck suddenly by lightning, that prickling, stinging sensation across his body he knows to associate with Mr. Elliot. He desperately pushes back this memory, it stumbles into the gutter of his mind, wiping blood from its face, preparing to swing again.
And then, Rob's hand slips under his waistband and into his boxers for a split second. Alex's skin suddenly feels too tight for his body and the hairs on his arms seem to stand on end. Alex scrambles back the very moment he comes to himself, pushing Rob away. His hair is wild and heavy, quivering breaths rack his entire body. He scrambles for his books and gathers all his things, stationary, papers, books and his bag into his arms. Rob is still on the floor, leant against the couch. His eyes are like saucers, his lips are swollen. He looks like a startled animal, not a deer in headlights, nothing so specific, just an animal, wide-eyed and vulnerable.
All this flashes through Alex's mind in a quarter of a second. He sprints from the room, out the door and down the staircase with such speed that he almost wishes he'd done that at track, coach'd be proud of him. He finally stops at the corner of Saratoga, his things spilling from his arms as he falls to his knees, unable to breathe, winded by the memories.
He ignores the passers-by, staring at him as he counts under his breath, palms pressed to his eye-sockets. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq. Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinqo. He's not thinking about how Mr. Elliot touched there too, he's not thinking about those dark eyes, he's not thinking about heavy hands on his thigh, pulling at his shirt-
Fuck! He has to get out of here. He scrambles to shoves his things into his bag and scrapes his hair from his face. Double-fuck, his hairband is somewhere on the floor at Rob's place. He sticks a pen in the bun, twists and hopes for the best. Then, he straightens up, shoulders his bag and sprints the next three blocks back to Pace's. He wishes he'd done this at track; he beats his record time by four and a half seconds.
Pace isn't in when he jerks the broken old door open - one of the hinges has fallen off, where the glass pane once was is now cardboard - and steps into the apartment. He drops his bag by the couch and collapses backwards into the old leather, breathing heavily. He doesn't know why he decided to sprint home. Rob wasn't going to run after him, but he just had to get away. Get the fuck away from all those memories, from those hands. Also, well, he's a little bit melodramatic.
He goes to the bathroom, glares at his reflection in the mirror. Why can't he just be normal? Why can't he be okay with sex like everyone else in his goddamn grade? Christ, it's all they talk about. Who has done it, who hasn't, who with and when. Alex is mature, he's intelligent and able to look after himself. Why is this simple act so difficult for him? Why did he have to disappoint Rob? He must have been really scared to do that, to take things up a notch. He must have trusted in Alex enough to think that he wouldn't reject him. God, he's fucked everything they had up.
There's a hickey on the left side of his throat, a fuzzy circle blooming dark pink against his tan. He reaches instinctively, like someone reaches for their phone in the morning, for the bottle of foundation and the sponge beside the sink. He squeezes out some and begins the process of patting in the makeup, layering it on until there's only the very slightest discrepancy in his skin tone there. The shade is a little too light, he'd bought it when he was paler in the spring.
He can't have Pace seeing he's got a hickey, he'd probably beat him until he told him who'd given it to him. Alex brushes his hair, it's a mess, and reorganises his school bag. He's ruined some of his things, papers all scrunched up in his haste.
He eats dinner then, a microwavable mac and cheese. He used to eat these loads when he lived with Katherine. They're sort of his comfort food, remind him of better times. He could use that reminder right about now.
The next day is exceedingly awkward. Alex waits outside his block for Rob to come by and walk him to school for a good ten minutes, but he doesn't show. Alex is forced to accept that he isn't coming. He gets to class early nevertheless and when he pokes his head around the door frame of homeroom, Rob is the only one there. Alex sucks in a sharp breath through gritted teeth but sidles into the room anyway, taking his usual place beside the boy. Neither of them speak at first.
"Rob?"
"You're such an asshole, you know that?"
Alex shuts his mouth, looks down at the graffiti on his desk. He scratched an A + R there as a joke one time, he looks at it now.
"I was- fuck- I was scared as hell, I trusted you not to make me feel like shit but you did! You couldn't even let me down nice!"
Alex feels guilt knot in his stomach, it's physically painful, like a lump that sits in your throat when you swallow something too big whole.
"I'm sorry... It's complicated."
Rob stands up, sits heavily down on Alex's desk and glares at him.
"You didn't even give me any warning! So you're fine with making out with me, fine with me giving you a hickey, but not the fucking normal next step?"
Alex shrugs and Rob scowls at him, then catches sight of his throat.
"And you fucking covered it up!"
He reaches out a thumb and aggressively wipes it over the spot where Alex covered the hickey. Some makeup is rubbed off and the bruise is suddenly visible against his tanned skin.
"Ashamed of me? Is that it?"
Alex presses a hand to his throat and takes a deep breath.
"I'm sorry. I wanted to do all that, you just took me by surprise. I- I would have stayed if I hadn't freaked out, we could have continued."
He doesn't know if this is necessarily true, because if he hadn't freaked out with Rob's hand down his jeans, he would certainly have with whatever might have happened next.
Rob takes his face in his hands and groans, "I just keep thinking everyone sees me as gross and you running didn't help that."
Alex reaches out a hand to touch Rob's chest, he doesn't move away.
"You're not gross. Neither of us are. I can come over again sometime..."
The implication is obvious, Rob looks up, gives a small smile and shrugs, puts a hand over Alex's where it rests on his chest.
"I- I might like that."
Alex goes over to the bodega that afternoon, just so they know he's okay. To thank Eva too, because she'd left before he'd had a chance to talk to her. He walks into the shop, the bell tinkles softly and Marco looks up, Santiago sucking a pacifier on his knee.
"Alejandro ¿Todo está bien?"
All good?
Alex nods, sits in his usual spot on top of the crates of orange juice and grins at the man.
"Wanted to say thanks, again. Nos todos los días me ayudan los extraños."
It's not every day that strangers help me out.
Marco smiles, "it's chill. You're a good kid. You still getting hit?"
Alex shrugs, "no es tan malo."
Not too bad.
Marco watches him for a few moments, "where are you from again? You said Caribbean, I'm sort of getting a Boricua vibe?"
Alex nods, "sí. My parents were from Puerto Rico. I grew up in the British Virgin isles though."
"You grow up speaking English?"
Alex scowls, his English is better than some people who have it as a first language, "yeah, and I speak it well."
Marco laughs, "yeah, that was why I asked. You're too defensive."
Alex shrugs, a little embarrassed. He stands up and crosses to where Santi sits, looks fondly at the kid, boops his nose.
"¿Donde esta su mama?"
Where's his mama?
Marco's smile fades a little, he picks Santi up, rocks him back and forth and speaks quietly to the child, to Alex too.
"Ella está con los ángeles, ¿Eh, Santi?"
She's with the angels, eh, Santi?
Alex groans internally, he's made the same mistake people always do when they ask about his parents. No wonder he's never seen Marco's wife around, because she's not around.
"Ella murió justo después de que nació Santi. Nos mudamos aquí juntos, ella era la mujer de carrera. Pero nos las arreglamos."
She died just after Santi was born. We came here together, she was the career girl. But we get by.
Alex looks at his feet, feels obligated to say something about how sorry he is, or how he understands. He does get it, he's lost enough people in his life to know what that feels like, he's just not good with talking about it.
"I- I get it. Mi madre murió cuando yo tenía doce años. Yo ... también me acerco, pero la extraño."
Marco nods, Santi breaks the awkwardness, pulling out his pacifier and saying a string of nearly unintelligible Spanish. Among them, Alex hears 'Papa' and 'tengo hambre'. Alex grins. Babies, well, toddlers, are fun to listen too when they're first learning to speak. He doesn't like how messy they are, their hands are always inexplicably sticky, but Santiago's sort of cute.
Marco bustles around then, Santi walking happily around his ankles as his father brings out some snacks. Alex watches, not feeling quite as unwelcome as he has before. He feels almost at home, maybe this was how James felt watching Alex when he was this young. Though, Alex refuses to believe he was ever as messy and loud as Santi. He takes some school work from his bag and spreads it out over his lap, beginning an essay. Almost like this place is home, or something.
Rob invites him back to his place just over a week later, this time not for revision or homework, but to 'hang out', as he put it. Alex, well, Alex is nervous. He knows that kissing and making out is going to turn into more, but to be totally honest, he's not sure he's ready for that. Christ, that feels so dumb to him. He's fifteen, God, half the people in his grade say they've gotten past third base already, and he knows he has too, but not in a normal, consensual situation. He just wants to be okay with this stuff, to not be a freak.
Rob walks him back to his place one Friday, when his parents won't be home till the late evening. They chat as they walk, fingers brushing as their arms swing casually between them. Alex has been wanting to kiss Rob all day, he's not been able to take his eyes off Rob's chest, his hair, his jaw. He just wants him. Maybe not as far as Rob does, he's still not sure how much he's willing to do, but he knows he wants something.
There's no homework to be done or ice tea to be drank when they arrive at Rob's place. The very instant Rob has closed the door, he's grabbed Alexander's waist and has pushed him up against the wall. Their lips meet magnetically and Rob brings up his hands to clutch either side of Alex's face. He kisses hard, like it's more than a prelude to everything else. Then there's tongue in Alex's mouth and the faintest scrape of teeth against his lip, the taste of candy they'd bought coming here and hot breath mingling with his.
When Rob starts to unbutton his shirt, fingers trembling slightly, with either fear or the rush of adrenaline Alex feels burning inside him too. Alex leans back from Rob's lips, watching Rob's hands as they pop his buttons with something like nervousness in his eyes.
"You're not bailing out again?" His tone is sharper than a moment ago, his hands pause.
Alex shakes his head quickly and leans forward again so their foreheads are touching, not so much kissing as sharing breath. Rob speaks again, but his voice is a little softer.
"You sure you're okay?"
Alex nods, presses his lips back to Rob's and tugs at the ends of his sweater, shrugging off his flannel now that Rob's fully unbuttoned it.
Later, when Rob's parents come home, Alex and Rob have set out some school work on the coffee table to make it look like they've been working. It's nearing six o'clock but it's still boiling outside, the windows have been open all day and the first thing Rob's mom does when she gets in is slam them shut and berate Rob about it.
"Hello, Alexander, it's great to see you. ROBERT! I told you, only keep these open for an hour! I don't want dust all over these curtains!"
Alex stifles a laugh in his hand, prompting a glare from Rob, and starts clearing up their things on the coffee table as Rob's parent clatter around the kitchen, starting dinner.
"Alex, stay for dinner?"
Rob grins at Alex, slides a hand down his side and picks up his textbooks from the table. Alex glances around the living room, they're completely alone, and presses a kiss to his lips.
"Can I use your phone? See what Pace says."
Rob nods, chucks him his phone from where he's plugged it in to charge and sidles from the room, towards the kitchen. Alex watches him go, he's wearing shorts again, it's sort of hard for Alex to keep his eyes above his waist.
Pace picks up on the second try, Alex is digging his fingernails into his palms. Pace shouldn't care too much about him staying, as long as Alex keeps out of his way.
"Who's this?"
"It's Alex, I'm calling from a friend's phone."
"Oh. Make this quick. What do you want?"
"Can I have dinner at Rob's tonight?"
There's silence for a moment or two and Alex rolls his eyes, "think of it this way, I won't be back until you're too wasted to care."
"Fucking bastard, you should learn some respect."
"Whatever. Can I stay?"
"Yeah, spend the night too if you can. I don't want to see you around here anytime soon."
Alex hangs up. Staying the night here doesn't seem to appeal to him. As much as he likes Rob, and he really, really likes Rob, he's sort of tired. He's still not sure how feels about what went down earlier. He... He sort of dissociated as it happened, not that they went the whole way or anything, they're fifteen. But he just, well, it wasn't what he'd expected. He wasn't ready for it, despite the fact that they didn't even really have sex or anything, and he's pretty sure Rob was nervous too.
He sort of forced himself into it, he thought it would make him more mature or whatever. He feels guilty for making Rob upset, thought that reassuring him that he did like him in this way was the best course of action. Now, he thinks a conversation and the truth might have worked better.
Alex pushes some hair from his face, puts the phone back down on the sideboard and turns towards the kitchen. He should really help out, if he's staying. He's not looking forward to going back to Pace's apartment tonight. His best hope is to wait until Pace has fallen asleep, sneak into his room and leave for school before he wakes up.
Rob's parents are nice. Pretty religious, though. They say grace before they start eating, all hold hands around the table. Alex opens one eye as they pray, makes eye-contact with Rob across the table and winks at him. He winks back, rolls the one eye he has open and then closes it again, dutifully saying the words of the 'our father'. Alex only knows it properly in Spanish, so he keeps quiet until they get to the bits he has memorised in English. His mom taught it to him, they'd all say it before dinner every night.
There's a chorus of 'Amen' and Alex opens his eyes, feeling a little awkward. Rob's mother spoons salad onto his plate, lips pursed slightly.
"You're not religious, Alex?"
He's not, but if he wants to stay friends with Rob, maybe become something more official, he should get on their good side.
"I am, I just only know it in Spanish. It's how I was taught."
She smiles, suddenly looks far more relaxed and spoons him out a sizeable portion of mac and cheese, homemade, not any of that instant stuff. It even has breadcrumbs on top. Rob grins at him, pours himself some water from the pitcher on the table. He's got this look in his eye that Alex doesn't like. Like he's up to something.
"Alex goes to the 'friends of Jesus' club after school every Friday, you know?"
This is a complete lie. 'Friends of Jesus' is this stupid social group their school set up last term as an effort to accommodate more religions in their school. There are similar groups for Muslim and Jewish kids too. In 'friends of Jesus', all you do is sit around, drink watered down kool-aid and talk about God. They have like three regular members, some kids go sporadically just for kicks.
Alex would honestly rather gouge his eyes out than attend, he's heard the pastor that comes into do it brings his guitar. He's not going to some religious club to sing kumbaya and talk about a faith he abandoned years ago.
He sends a pointed look at Rob and turns his gaze back to Rob's parents, who are both smiling broadly.
"Yeah, and Rob told me he was planning to join the school choir next term, when they hold auditions. It's a Protestant one."
He takes a mouthful of mac and cheese and smiles at Rob innocently. The teenager looks as though he'd like to slit his throat.
"Maybe, I might not, it might clash with soccer so..."
He glares at Alex, who shrugs and smiles politely at Rob's dad, who's cutting the meatloaf Mrs. Troup put down beside the mac and cheese. The rest of dinner goes by smoothly, Alex tries to keep slipping in little lies about Rob to his very eager parents, in which Rob responds with even larger stories, going so far as to suggest that Alex wants to study theology at college. Alexander kicks him under the table at this, but smiles and shrugs when Mr. Troup congratulates him on this.
He helps Rob wash up afterwards and leaves at around half seven. As he's getting on his coat, Rob pushes him outside their door and into the hallway. He presses a long kiss to Alex's lips then pulls away, grinning.
"You should come around more often, when my parents aren't home."
Alex forces smile. Maybe in a year, he thinks. Maybe in a year he'll be more ready, willing to do that again, go further. But right now, he's not over what happened to him not even a year ago. He's not ready.
But he values what he has with Rob far too much to allow this to stop because of his immaturity. So he presses another kiss to his lips and nods, feeling nauseous.
"Yeah, I should."
His initial opinion of Eva has changed slightly over the last few weeks. He's still a little mad that she called him homeless, but she did wash blood and vomit from his hair, so evidently she's pretty cool. She hangs out in the bodega after school often, as he now tends to do, and they do school work together. He doesn't have any other Hispanic friends, so it's sort of nice to speak Spanish around her and Marco and not feel as out of place as he does around all the Americans he knows. They don't laugh at him when he translates Spanish expressions literally or hums along to Enrique Iglesias.
Pace doesn't know about all the time he spends down here, or that he sometimes crashes on their couch in the evenings instead of going back up to his apartment. He just thinks Alex spends the night with friends, or else stays out all night. Alex does that later one too, sometimes he'll go on walks at night in the better-lit parts of town. It's hot these days, he can wear shorts and a t-shirt, just borrow Marco's bike and cycle around the neighbourhood or else climb the roof of his apartment and chill there.
Alex isn't what he'd call happy these days, not continuously or even the majority of the time, but he does find happiness often enough to keep himself from taking more than his usual amount of sleeping pills every evening. Pace still beats him up often enough, but he has ways of dealing with it, he no longer has to pray his ribs set properly or don't puncture a lung, he can get amateur, yet decent help.
The summer holidays are rapidly approaching, with just a month left in the semester. Alex will turn sixteen in the new year, which seems so much closer than it was a month ago. Sixteen means responsibility, even more of it, and college.
It means figuring out what his relationship with Rob is, it means possibly getting free from Pace.
On the subject of Rob, things are a little uncertain. Alex allows Rob to take things further between them, though both of them know Alex is only partially willing at best. Alexander comforts himself with the thought that Mr. Elliot's no longer his only experience, that he's done consensual, normal teenage stuff too. It makes him feel normal, despite the fact that he doesn't actually like it very much.
He much prefers kissing Rob than getting to third base with him, he'd much rather hold him, hug him, than do even more. He wonders if Rob knows this, Alex has a sneaking suspicion he does. There's a sort of unspoken, untouched tension between them, like they're hovering on the cusp of an argument they might never even have.
Final exams come and Alex is suddenly far too busy with revision than to think about Rob, or Pace or Marco. Pace still beats him up that week, while he's trying to study for exams and get the best possible sleep he can. Alex wastes valuable time in the morning covering bruises, or in the evenings, tending to cracked ribs. He doesn't know why he's surprised Pace's violence didn't go on hold for his exams.
When his results do come in, a week before they break up for the summer, Alex makes a rather rash decision. It's third period, the envelopes are being given out at the end of the lesson, as they leave the classroom.
Alex drums his fingers impatiently against his desk, watching the minute hand tick closer and closer to twelve o'clock. He's got a horrible, nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, he's sure he'll open the results sheet to see a row of F's.
The bell goes and everyone scrambles to their feet, shoving textbooks into their bags and forming a line at the front of the classroom. Alex feels Rob's hand come up to squeeze his arm comfortingly, he gets into line behind his friend and they wait in silence.
When Alex takes the envelope out of his teacher's hand, he doesn't open it immediately. He and Rob step outside the classroom, lean against the wall of the corridor and make terrified eye-contact. Rob's parent's expectations are riding on these results, Alex's own ambitions and self-set standards are at stake here.
Alex opens his at the same time as Rob, he pulls out the sheet of paper with trembling hands, unfolds it and looks down at the letter grades printed there.
English: A+
Biology: A
Chemistry: A
Physics: A
Geography: A
Art: B
Shop: B
Speech and debate: A+
Social studies: A+
Phys Ed: A
History: A+
Government and Politics: A+
French: A+
Spanish: A+
Mathematics: A
GPA: 3.98
He looks up, his own expression of elated shock is mirrored in Rob's eyes. The teenager's mouth is slightly open, his eyes are shining, he looks overjoyed. Alex doesn't think, he grabs his face and kisses him hard, in the middle of the corridor, the entirety of his class less than twenty feet from the two of them.
It lasts only about five seconds before Alex realises what he just did. He pulls back and instantly notices that the noise in the corridor has dimmed to all but silence. Rob is breathing heavily, his eyes still shine and he's not- he doesn't look angry. He grabs Alex's arm, eyes perform a quick glance around at the shocked faces of their classmates, and jerks his head towards the doors at the end of the corridor.
Rob pulls a still grinning Alex down the corridor, past the shocked students, out into the courtyard.
"Holy fuck, 3.9!"
Alex laughs breathily, his stomach tight, too elated to be terrified their whole class saw them kiss.
"F-fuck! I got an A in phys!"
Rob pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and they jump and down like that, laughing, over-joyed. The reality of their actions has yet to sink in.
The last week of the semester should have been fun, but the day after they got their results, there are identical notes taped to both Rob and Alexander's lockers, reading 'die fag scum'. They get looks everywhere they go, people whispering about them in class and the corridors, throwing things at the backs of their heads at lunch and stealing their things from their bags when they leave them in homeroom
Rob takes all this well. When someone comes up them and asks who's the top and who's the bottom, Rob grins widely, flashes them the middle finger and pushes roughly past them, one hand enclosed around Alex's bicep, leading him away down the corridor. He doesn't return the violence they get, nor does he throw things back, but he's witty, good at acting like all this doesn't bother him.
Alex can stand up for himself too, but in a different sort of way. On Tuesday, when someone trips him up in the corridor with a yell of 'faggot', instead of laughing at them and walking on like Rob might, he feels rage swell inside him and flies at the boy. It's this kid in his year, he doesn't even know their name, just that they threw a pen at Rob yesterday and flushed his chemistry work down the toilet.
Alex's fist connects with their face hard, he feels a body underneath his, his knuckles raw and aching, colliding again and again with nauseating cracks against flesh. Someone is yelling, it takes him a moment to realise that it's him.
"How fucking dare you! I outta fucking rip your tongue out your mouth, you ASSHOLE!"
There's yelling around him, he can hear a teacher's voice and feet pounding towards him across linoleum. Strong arms seize him from beneath his armpits and he's dragged off the other boy, still yelling, kicking and clawing to be let go.
A crowd has gathered around the lockers where the fight happened now, Alex pushes some hair from his face, wipes his eyes (which are streaming with furious tears) and angrily shrugs off his track coach, who'd intercepted the fight.
The teenager Alex had beaten up pulls himself to his feet. His nose is bleeding, his hair is a mess and Alex's fingernails have cut three long marks into the side of his neck. He looks dumbstruck, like he expected to get away with doing that to Alex. He feels the sudden urge to fly at him again.
"Alexander, come with me. Desby, take that kid to the nurse's office. What are you all looking at? Get to class!"
Alex is pulled, not exactly roughly, down the corridor by his coach, his eyes watering, the gravity of what he's done sinking in. His coach stops in the middle of the corridor then, it's empty now, everyone has gone to class, looking furious.
"What the hell was that?"
Alex shrugs.
"It looked an awful lot like you were just beating on some unsuspecting guy!"
Alex scowls, "he tripped me up and called me a faggot! Just because I fucking- because I kissed a boy, this whole week, the entire year's giving me shit for it."
His coach's expression seems to soften, "I heard about you and Troup."
"All week, people are throwing stuff at me, stealing my things, calling me a fag! I'm sick of it!"
"That doesn't mean you can beat up everyone that calls you that, Alex."
He says nothing, looks at his knuckles. They're bruised and bloody, he thinks he missed the boy a few times and got the floor instead.
"I'm taking you to the Principal, Alex. I have too, I'm sorry."
Alex says nothing, just allows himself to be led to the Principal's office, his hands in his pockets, his hair in his eyes. He wonders if Rob's heard about this yet, it's certainly possible.
Over the next hour, the Principle listens to both Alex and the boy who called him a fag, evidently at a complete loss of what to do. Eventually, Pace is called.
Alex is fucked.
He watches his step-father's face as the Principal explains that Alex has been subject to homophobic bullying because he kissed a boy, yet attacked another student that morning.
Pace hides the disgust in his eyes well enough so that only Alex is privy to it. He nods tersely along to the standard anti-homophobic, anti-bullying platitudes the man spouts and agrees when it's decided that Alex will be suspended from now until the end of the semester in three days, but welcome to attend school again in September.
It's only when they're walking out the school office, in the direction of their neighbourhood, that Pace lets his real opinions show through.
"I always knew you were a faggot, Alexander. A whore, just like your mother, I bet that's how everyone knows you in school. How much do you charge, ten bucks? Five?"
Alex says nothing, kicks up the dust on the street and wipes sweat from his forehead. It's boiling.
"I asked you a question. How much do you charge?"
Alex glares up at him, "not a price you'd be able to afford."
Pace's jaw twitches dangerously, he looks up and down the street. Empty enough. He reaches out and punches Alex hard across the face, sending him stumbling off the curb, clutching his face. He spits blood.
"Just you fucking wait, you've made a mistake, Hamilton."
Pace can beat him up as badly as he likes now. Alex doesn't have school for over a month yet, if Pace broke all his ribs, or beat his face until he was unrecognisable, no one would know. All he has to do is keep Alex locked in his room until he heals.
So he takes advantage of this. Alex is only conscious for about a third of it all, that's the small mercy he's afforded. He feels the first kick, straight to the stomach, and the next, right between his legs. He feels each punch land like a lead weight, slamming into his face, coughs out blood and spit and vomit. He doesn't really feel the rest of it, just spirals into welcome darkness.
When he comes to, he's still on the floor, face still submerged in a pool of blood, among other things. He lies there for a while, feeling his ribs, counting the breaks. Three? Four? So much for that A in math.
When he's finally able to stand, it's all he can do to not cry out in pain. He limits himself to short, sharp gasps and the occasional curse word as he stumbles towards the kitchen. He cleans himself up as best he can and holds an ice pack to his face and ribs for the entire rest of the day. He takes five Tylenols and some melatonin, falls asleep on the couch only really half lucid.
The next few days are spent solely inside. Pace leaves him alone, lets him eat and take all the meds he wants. Alex is almost always a little drugged up these days, he exceeds the safe dosage of Tylenol and Melatonin and when they run out one Monday, he does something pretty stupid.
Pace is at work, so he pulls on a coat, ties up his hair, steals some money from the spare change ar in his bedroom and goes across the street to the bodega.
Marco doesn't recognise him instantly, he's distracted with Santi, who's making a mess with a tupperware of rice.
Alex picks up a box of Tylenol, a box of melatonin and places them on the counter, keeping his eyes down
"Alejandro!"
Alex looks up, shrugs and tries a smile, "hey, Marco."
The man's face falls a little when he takes in Alex's bruises. His face is no longer swollen beyond recognition, but it is black and blue.
"Are you okay? Did he..."
"I got suspended from school, he didn't like the reason why."
Marco gapes at him, comes around the front of the counter and goes to the candy section. He forces a Hershey's bar into Alex's hand and motions at the pallet.
"Tell me everything."
How is Marco going to react when he finds out that Alex likes boys? He's religious, he might think Alex is disgusting, unnatural, freakish, wrong.
"I-I... There's this boy, Rob. I kissed him at school. People saw, and started stealing my stuff, throwing things at me. This guy tripped me up, called me a fag. I beat him up and got suspended for three days. My foster father's homophobic."
Marco's quiet for a long moment, "you're gay?"
Alex shrugs, "well, bi."
Marco sighs, "Cuando vivía en Nicaragua, mi mejor amiga era gay. Fue golpeado por algunos muchachos de otra ciudad. Él era mi mejor amigo. Él no hizo nada malo. No soy homofóbico."
When I lived in Nicaragua, my best friend was gay. He was beaten up by some guys from another town. He was my best friend. He didn't do anything wrong. I'm not homophobic.
Alex nods silently, takes a bite of the chocolate and looks at his hands. He ought to leave, get back up to the apartment and take some of those pills.
"I should... I should get back, he doesn't know I'm gone. He's at work right now, but..."
Marco nods and stands up, walks around the counter again and holds out his arms. What is he doing?
"¿Puedo?"
Can I?
Alex nods and lets Marco embrace him tightly. His arms are warm and gentle, Alex doesn't feel restricted or trapped, he feels loved. Maybe for the first time in over a year, he feels really loved. Marco lets go after a few seconds and hands Alex the boxes of pills.
"¿Necesitas comida o algo? ¿Eres bueno?"
You need food or anything? You good?
Alex shakes his head and flashes Marco a smile, pulling open the door.
"Nos vemos más tarde, Jefe."
See you later, boss.
Knox calls him later that day, while Alex sits on the small, shabby balcony of the apartment, reading. The phone inside rings and Alex hastens to answer it, dragging himself to his feet and jogging to the kitchen.
"Hello?"
"Alex?"
"Knox?"
"Yeah, it's Knox."
What's he calling for? Shit, did he find out Alex got suspended?
"What's this I hear about you being from suspended from school?"
Alex groans, takes his face in his hands and heaves a sigh.
"Yeah, I beat up a guy that tripped me up and called me a fag. Save me the lecture. Is that all you're calling for?"
Knox sighs, "no. It's not. But Christ, Alex, beating someone up for just being a stupid teenager. It didn't mean anything."
"It did mean something. I'm bisexual, I kissed a boy."
There's silence for a few moments and Alex rolls his eyes. God, It's 2017. These people need to grow up.
"Yeah, I like boys, cut to the chase, Knox."
"I was going to ask whether you were happy at Mr. Pace's."
Alex furrows his eyebrows, Knox doesn't know he gets beaten here, he's not done a house call yet.
"Why?"
"I just thought... Well, a really well-respected family, very kind, a good reputation with foster kids, are looking to foster a teenager. I know Pace isn't very well off and I don't get the impression you're very close. I was wondering what you'd think of being moved."
Alex lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Leave Pace? Three months ago, he'd have jumped at the chance to get away, he'd have begged on his knees for Knox to move him. Now though, there's Rob, there's Marco and Eva and Santi. Rob.
"Where do they live?"
A small sigh, "Virginia."
Alex closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, "I-I don't know. Can I think about it? I don't- I don't know."
Knox gives a sigh of his own, "yeah, but don't keep me waiting for too long. I don't want Stevens forcing me to choose someone else."
"Thanks, Knox."
"No problem, stay out of trouble, okay, Alex?"
"Okay. Talk to you later."
"Talk to you later."
The next time Alex sees Rob is accidental. It's around six o'clock in the evening, Alex has borrowed Marco's bike and is cycling around the neighbourhood. It helps him keep cool, especially since it's about 108 degrees today. He's just wearing a vest and some shorts, still thinking about that offer Knox gave him. The sky is a dark, clear blue directly above him, but to the west, it's on fire, deep red and orange, dying over the horizon.
He swerves into a park and down a gentle slope, the warm breeze pushes his hair off his face and he leans forward on his handlebars, urging the bike to go faster. That's when he catches sight of a figure up ahead.
He pulls the breaks just in time and screeches to a halt behind... Rob. It's Rob. Alex stands up, lets his bicycle fall to the ground, and rushes towards him, feeling an elated grin spread across his face.
"Rob! Rob!"
The teenager turns around, his hands are stuffed in his pockets and he's had his haircut, it's shorter now, buzzed almost to the scalp.
"Alex."
Alexander throws his arms around his friend, but is quickly shoved backwards. Rob's eyes are cold, his arms are folded defensively across his chest and he looks at Alex like Mr. Elliot would look at homeless people that asked for spare change on the street.
"R-Rob?"
"My parents are sending me to conversion therapy this summer, in Georgia."
Alex freezes. This can't happen, this can't happen. Not to Rob, not to Rob. This only happens in films, this only happens to the tragic gay character on those trashy TV shows.
"What?"
Rob's chin wobbles and he looks away, "we're not rich and they're paying so fucking much. Alex, it's not going to work, that shit doesn't work! I've tried to tell them they're just throwing away thousands, but they won't listen. They won't- fuck, it's so much money!"
Alex tries to reach out a hand, he wants to hold his face, kiss him tenderly, tell him it'll be okay. He wants to tell him that they can run away, they can leave Brownsville, they'll work all this out. But Rob smacks his hand away.
"This is your fucking fault. You had to go ape-shit, beat up that guy. Guess what, my parents were called too! You had to kiss me in the middle of the corridor, you had to be a fucking idiot!"
Alex goes cold, he steps forward, his own rage bubbling inside him now.
"Don't you dare blame me. You think I got off fine?"
He jabs a finger at his face, pulls up his shirt so that Rob can see the bruises Pace punched into his stomach last night, while calling him a fag, while saying he was just like his whore of a mother. Oh yeah, Rob's the only one who got hurt.
"He broke three of my ribs when he found out I kissed you, don't think you're the only one that's suffering!"
Rob snarls at Alex, his fist clenches, "you brought that on yourself when you beat that guy up, I didn't. I hope you fucking remember me when my family get evicted, or just when I'm dead. You know people there are nine times more likely to kill themselves? Tell me, you're so smart, what are my odds?"
"Fuck off, your parents send you to some camp to shock you out of being gay, my foster dad breaks my ribs once a week. Don't play the pity card with me."
"At least you're bi! You can like girls, you can pretend you're not like me!"
Alex feels the urge to slap him, or grab his hair, or kick him in the shin, "I don't like girls, I like you! I don't fucking control who I like! I can't help it!"
Rob closes his eyes, shakes his head slowly and turns away from Alex, walking back down the path.
"I'll see you in the fall. Maybe."
"Hugh Knox?"
Alex fiddles with the cable of the phone, takes a deep breath.
"It's Alex. I- Tell me more about this family."
He tells Marco the day before he's set to leave. He can barely walk. Pace beat him up last night, slammed his head into the wall, kicked him until he'd puked, left him with so many bruises, he has to wear a hoodie on this 103 degree day.
He goes into the bodega, the bell tinkles, the breeze from the fan hits him. Eva sits on the pallet, her hair down, in jeans and a t-shirt.
"Hey, Alejandro. ¿Eres bueno?"
"I'm moving. My social worker's putting me in a home in Virginia."
Marco's mouth falls open, Eva looks up at him with wide eyes, thumb frozen over her phone.
"I thought I'd tell you. I leave tomorrow."
Marco stands up and moves around the counter towards Alex, he pulls him into a tight hug and cups his face, much like an affectionate father or uncle.
"Well this is good! Ya no te golpearán más. Te extrañaremos ... Pero tal vez esto sea mejor, ¿verdad?"
You won't get beaten up anymore. Well miss you, but maybe this is better, right?
Alex nods silently, turns to look at Eva, she's stood up, her phone sits forgotten on the pallet. Marco lets go of him and he walks towards her, pulls her into a tight, hug, the kind you give people you might not ever see again. Like you're trying to remember how they smell, how they feel. Eva smells like this place. Clean, like Nicaraguan cooking, spices and air freshener.
"Thanks for washing my hair that night. Fue especie de asqueroso."
It was sorta gross.
Eva shrugs and moves over on the pallet, making room for Alex. He sits down and Marco brings out his CD player from underneath the counter. He manages, this time, to get it working and he gives Alex and Eva a bottle of coke each while they listen to music and joke around.
Alex will miss them. It was no mistake, calling Marco 'Jefe', was pretty intentional. He knows all the things it can mean, he knows that it's a lot like calling him 'Dad', but it just feels right. It fits.
Pace leaves him alone that last night, he lets Alex pack his things in peace and only calls him a faggot once, when he's in the way of the bathroom door and is trying to get through it.
Alex covers his face with foundation the next morning in preparation for seeing Knox and hides the other bruises under his old, trustworthy hoodie. He knows the car journey will be long, so he's got books and things packed at the top of his bag in preparation. Maybe he'll be able to get through a few.
As for this family, The Washingtons, they're supposed to be kind. Knox wouldn't drive him halfway down the east coast if they were going to beat him, nevertheless, Knox has been a pretty poor judge of character so far. He doesn't know whether or not he can rely on his opinion of which potential foster carers are the best for Alex. Afterall, he'd liked Mr. Elliot.
All he can do is hope for the best. Marco had said something yesterday about praying for him, which was sweet, but Alex doesn't believe in God. He's really just flying by the seat of his pants, trying to make the best of his situation. Maybe in this place, things will work out.
