quick warning, there's some strong language in the intro for this chapter that can be triggering/offensive to some people

but tbh it was one of my favorite chapters to write

i hope you enjoy it

xoxo

21

Are you A God, Signor?

There is a boy sitting in an office.

He is hugging his knees to his chest, sitting on an armchair, staring outside of the window. His eyes are red and puffy from the tears that he's been crying, but he lacks the energy to keep weeping. At least for right now. He wants to see his brother. He wants to see Nonno. He wants to see his family in Sicily. He doesn't want to be in Granada anymore. He is sixteen. He's been here for three years already—he feels he should be accustomed. But every day brings a new wave of grief, a new wave of purposelessness, of being kept awake because the scars on his back are aching and reminding him of the redness of his childhood.

There is a woman sitting on an armchair across from him. She has short hair and a pretty smile and is scribbling on a notepad. He has been in her office for two hours now. Today he doesn't have an appointment, but he wasn't sure where else to go. When he showed up at her door, struggling to breathe through his tears, she welcomed him and told him he was welcome to sit in her office if he'd like. So now he finds himself there, because this is one of the few places he feels some semblance of comfort. He likes to hear stories about her life in Belgium, because her voice is nice and perhaps it reminds him of his mother's. Usually they meet twice a week. Today is the third time this week, though. An exception that she is kind enough to make because she has no other appointments.

Now that there is silence, she asks him why he was crying. He tells her that he's past the point of needing a reason to cry. Sometimes it just happens, he says. The tears rush forward in a wave of despair and he is incapable of restraining himself, even if he knows there is no reason.

"If you tell me what's wrong, I won't tell anybody else. I promise," the Belgian therapist says. He blinks and looks at her. The expression on her face is warm and believable and suddenly he wants to tell her. But he pauses. She doesn't deserve to be subjected to his troubles. And he doesn't deserve to deflect his burdens onto someone else's shoulders. He turns his face away and leans his cheek on his knees, though he says nothing. She does not pester him, and he likes that about her. Previous therapists have pestered him, becoming frustrated with the fact that they can't cure him. But she is patient and kind and she lets him be silent when he wants to be silent. She continues to work and he continues to stare vacantly at nothing in particular.

But soon the burdens become too much and he decides to tell her.

He tells her that it's getting to be very frustrating, finding himself alone so much. He tells her that it's hard jumping from friend to friend either because they distance themselves, or because he distances himself before they get the chance. He tells her that he wishes he had inherited some of the sociability of his brother, who has never had a problem making friends. He complains that he is so grumpy and antisocial and it hurts, but he's not sure what to do. Now he's rambling and he cannot stop and everything he has been feeling is spilling from his trembling lips. He tells her that he can't sleep at night because he is afraid that his father will appear in his dreams to smack him senseless again. He tells her that he asks other boys at the school to fuck him, very hard, gives them the power to dominate, and still he cannot stand it when people make sudden movements around him because it scares him so much.

He tells her that he's sure he's fucked up in the head. He's a faggot. Just like they all say—maricón maricón maricón. Would it be better if I just killed myself to get rid of all this fear?

"No," she replies with a somber smile.

He asks her why, because he can't think of a good reason except for his crippling lack of courage.

"You deserve as much as anybody to be here in this world. I know it's hard to believe it right now, but there are people who love and care about you."

Nobody loves me. Nobody cares about me. Who would bother with someone like me? I'm worthless, dirty. My own family thinks so.

"What about your brother?"

My brother has probably forgotten about me. It's been three years. If I were him, I would forget about me, too. Why would I want to remember the person who made my childhood so hard? Made it impossible for me to be proud of myself, take pleasure in the hobbies and skills that made me happy? My brother doesn't love me. How could he?

The Belgian therapist gets up and gives the boy a notebook and a pen, because she knows that he likes to write. He's told her before. She puts her hand on his head and says, "I want you to make a list of everything you would miss if you weren't alive anymore. Can you do that for me?"

He nods, feeling a bit more comfortable with the pen in his fingers, and he writes the list for her.

My Sicily

Spanish tomatoes

Learning new languages

Gangster movies

Writing poetry

Rain storms

The Belgian therapist

Reading Latin American literature

Pasta

Fratellino

Cheek pressed to the window, fingertips carving painful patterns into the floor just to feel the splinters digging beneath his nails. He was staring out, at the empty green, grey backyard, but he wasn't really looking at anything. He could see his reflection in the window, could stare into the glazed look of the person there. He kept carving until the sting was numb, no longer enough to drown out the voices. He hugged himself more tightly, curled further and further inwards, trying to disappear. He hated the sight of the silent tears on his cheeks but he didn't have the energy or the will to wipe them away. He didn't know why they were there, and yet he couldn't imagine the feeling of their absence. Alone in this house, the echoes of the closing door still ringing in its wooden caverns. He had at least been able to see Toni's back disappearing.

I'm driving him away.

Just like I drive everybody away.

This isn't different.

Romano suddenly thought about the cross that he used to wear around his neck when he was younger. Feliciano had worn one, too. But they had both left them behind. Romano brought his hand to his chest, grabbing the phantom cross. He had worn it every day, every night, even as he slept, until his grandfather had died. Then it had begun to feel awfully heavy and he hadn't believed its right place to be there on his hollow chest. So he had discarded it. He still hadn't asked Feliciano why he had stopped wearing his. Sitting, lost in the voices, Romano did something very out of character and appealed to God. He closed his eyes and he tried to pray. There was no method to his prayer—it was more of a plea, a desperate cry to the god that had left him behind so long ago. He wasn't even sure what he was praying for. But he prayed. He could remember so vividly the last time that he'd prayed.

He had been in a similar position. At the window leading out to the balcony in his room. The room in Rome that he and Feliciano used to share. He had been so awfully young. Too young, he mused, to have lost faith in God. He had been curled up just like this, bruised cheek against the glass, tiny trembling hand grasping the cross, staring out into the endless sky and saying, Help me, please, I don't know what to do. Only to be met with silence and a fresh bruise the next day. So he had stopped praying. And he couldn't believe that he was doing it now. There was nobody around for him to impress. Nobody for him to convince. Nobody but the voices.

Hating himself for driving Toni away and for not being able to find any use in the divine words of prayer to a god he didn't believe in, Romano dragged himself to his feet and immediately felt cold and heavy. His hair was curling in every direction since he had left it to dry on its own, and even though the room was chilled and the clouds outside left the cottage shaded and dank, he took off the t-shirt he was wearing and threw it to the couch. There was nobody around to see his scars, after all.

I wonder how people find solace in prayer.

Who do they pray to?

How the fuck does He help?

As he conversed with the cynical, atheist voices, he moved to the coat rack where his jacket was and pulled out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he had in the pocket. The tears had stopped. He put a cigarette into his mouth, walked back to the kitchen, cracked open a window, and lit up. The toxins filling his lungs felt so terribly good. He closed his eyes and breathed, breathed, breathed. Until he felt the stinging in his nose and the heavy taste, like charcoal, on his tongue. Then he let the smoke out. He opened his eyes. He leaned his palms against the counter and let his head drop, let his gaze fixate to the tips of his toes. Another drag. He thought about the words that he'd read in Toni's notebook.

"My Romano, he looks like an angel surprised to find himself on earth in the morning, buried in the blankets of sunlight and showered by my astonished gaze."

What bullshit.

"My Romano, I like to watch him drink coffee. His lips curl over the rim and his eyes shimmer and the color rises in his cheeks, and I can see the tip of his pink tongue—the same tongue whose curves and edges painted portraits on my skin."

Give me a break.

"My Romano, he is beautiful like a storm. The kind of storm that helps you fall asleep at night when you are tossing and turning and absolutely dreading the sun."

Romano grit his teeth and pressed the heels of his palms harder against the edge of the counter. Then he took another drag. He put one of his hands to his head because it was hurting like hell. And he couldn't figure out why the Spanish writer wanted to write a novel about him.

"A little boy, with red lips and brown skin hailing from the island of Sicily, sent to live with a general in Spain so that he may be protected."

It was so obvious what the story was actually about.

I am a child, though, aren't I?

He's like my soldier, I guess.

Why did he leave again?

Oh, that's right, I told him to.

Romano finished his first cigarette, crushed it in the sink, and lit up the second. Then, feeling the gaping hole in his chest growing only wider, he went to the corner of the kitchen and grabbed the unfinished bottle of wine that he and Toni had opened last night for dinner. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he poured it into the nearest glass and took a sip. How awful it tasted, he mused, mixed with the smoky tobacco. But he drank it anyway. After he had finished half the cup, though, he couldn't drink it anymore, and he poured the rest down the sink. His head was hurting. He looked back at the bottle, standing on the counter like some sort of king. He imagined Toni in some fancy winery asking the woman, "Which would you recommend for a romantic night in?" It made him sick to his stomach. The bottle must have been expensive. He grabbed it by the neck and he poured the rest of it down the sink. Watched the blood red liquid swirl around and disappear. He knew Toni wouldn't care—Toni would be understanding. Toni would be upset, but he wouldn't let Romano know that he was upset, and Romano hated that. He wished that there was more expensive wine for him to pour down the fucking drain in this fucking cottage. He suddenly felt a terrible shiver. He dropped the empty bottle into the sink and sat down on the floor, leaned back against the cabinets with their knobs and their edges cutting into his back. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until he was lightheaded and coughing. He turned on the lighter just to watch the flame and, at one point, he put his thumb against it just to feel the burn. It left a blister.

He broke down and he sobbed for twenty minutes, unable to even finish the current cigarette. Then he was dry and empty again and couldn't even feel what he was feeling. He was just floating in this vast ocean of nothingness, and when he tried to move, to swim up or down or left or right or forward or backward or anywhere, he found himself stuck. He couldn't pick himself up from his spot on the kitchen floor, not even to close the window when it began to rain. He tired himself out with who-knows-what and just sat there. When he was done crying he finished the packet of cigarettes. He closed his eyes. He saw a vision of his father approaching him from the other side of the room, hand raised, and he cringed and could've sworn he felt the sting of Papá's hand on his cheek.

Don't hit me anymore, please.

Romano stood up and walked into the bedroom, swaying as he moved, unable to maintain a straight line. He collapsed onto the bed and grabbed Toni's notebook from the nightstand. He opened it, but he didn't read anything. He turned to the first blank page and grabbed the nearest writing utensil and began to scrawl giant words across the pages. Completely random words that made no sense—just a marker that he had been there.

I'm going to call Feli.

He picked up his phone, but he didn't call Feli. He just sat in silence with his ghosts in this bed, listening to the voices, hating himself more and more for pushing one of the rare people who dared love him away.

Why didn't you stay?

Why did you listen to me?

Why did you leave me here?

An hour and a half passed and then he heard the door open and he buried his face in the pillow so that Toni wouldn't hear his crippling sobs. He forced himself to calm down, listening to the sound of footsteps, jackets, shoes being taken off, keys clanging, familiar breaths. A confused, irritated click of the tongue as he moved into the kitchen and probably saw the cigarettes and empty wine bottle in the sink. Quietly, desperate and cold, Romano dragged himself from the bed and peeked into the living room. Toni was standing in the kitchen, hands on his hips, staring into the sink. Without a word, Romano moved behind him and put his arms around Toni's waist. He leaned his forehead against his back and he squeezed. Breathed in his scent and cried into his shirt.

"Roma..."

"Why did you come back so soon?"

"Because I knew you would want me to."

"I'm sorry. I didn't actually want you to leave."

"I know. Mi pobrecito Roma."

"I'm so sorry."

Toni turned around and brought Romano's head to his chest and kissed his forehead, stroked his back.

"I poured your wine down the drain," Romano said. "I'm sorry."

"No pasa nada, mi amor."

"Do you still love me?"

"Of course. I love you so much."

"Can we go to that pub you were talking about?"

"If you want to."

"I want to."

"Then we'll go."

"Okay."

"Just don't cry anymore, vale?"

"Sorry..."

When Toni spoke to him in hushed tones like that, Romano didn't hear the voices. He didn't feel the same pain in his chest. It was a different pain. One bred from his heart being too full rather than being too empty. He thought that maybe, if he wasn't praying to God, he was praying to Toni.

Are you a god, Toni?

¿Eres un dios, Toni?

"Where did you even come from?" Romano murmured.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Come help me choose an outfit to wear."

"Vale."

At the pub, loud and rowdy and full of smiles and pints and English and Welsh words that Romano had never heard and couldn't understand, he felt somehow at peace. They sat at the bar, drinking pints. Toni was making conversation with the bartender and the people around them, while Romano drank and occasionally made the offhand sarcastic comment. The Welsh, as it turned out, enjoyed his sense of humor and took a strong liking to him.

"Oi, Spaniard, yer kid's a cutie!"

"Yeah? Then why don't you suck my dick."

"Shh, Romano, don't be rude!"

He never would have admitted it to any of them, but he was happy. Absolutely astonished, awestruck, that he could look up from his beer and see the love of his life sitting beside him, laughing, clinking cups with the people around him and letting his green eyes shine.

I can't tell if I'm really lucky, or really unlucky.

You're a blessing and a curse.

Please don't ever leave.

They stopped at the beach on the way home and they sat in the sand and they stared at the ocean. Toni squeezed Romano's hand and sang to him softly, fingers in his hair, gaze lost in the constellations.

"Te quiero, Romano."

"Oh yeah? And what if you're lying?"

"I'm not lying."

"You can't just say that and expect me to believe you. Like, when scientists try to tell you that those stars up there are just...what are they? Just gas? Why do we believe them?"

"They have evidence to back them up."

"What about saying that the world isn't flat. How do we know? Just because some fucking scientists tell us?"

"What should I do to make you believe me, querido?"

"Um...I don't know. Don't ask me that."

"How about if I keep singing to you?"

"Maybe."

"If I keep kissing you, just like this," he murmured, putting a kiss to Romano's temple. "If I hold you like this for the rest of your life, will you believe me?"

He wrapped his arms around Romano and pulled him into his lap, and they sank together into the sand. They were shivering, but they were shivering together.

"...Maybe."

"Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero."

"There you go again."

"What, you're not going to return the favor?"

"That's not how this works, idiot."

Toni laughed and blew against Romano's neck, making him chuckle and push him away. Then they stood up and went back to the cottage, bidding the beach and the pub and the streets of Holyhead farewell. And Romano was dizzy with a combination of unbelievable happiness and crushing, devastating loneliness.

Translations:

maricón=faggot