Wake Up

[Patrick]

Thursday. October 26, 2017

I'm forced to deal with what I feel
There is no distraction to mask what is real


If the scene in the glen had been a test of strength, it was one Patrick had tried valiantly to best but ultimately failed. Admitting defeat wouldn't have been such a hard pill to swallow if Penny hadn't been with him, but she was. It made everything all the more humiliating because his only options were to ditch her, fake an illness, or to tell her what was wrong. His sense of pride wouldn't allow for the first two, which left him with only one choice, but Trick was positive he'd never be able to look her in the eye again after admitting to weakness.

Having been caught unaware, Penny was stricken with her own vicious inner monologue where she was likely berating herself for not paying previous attention to the tight coil of tension that was currently walking itself around disguised as Trick. Leaving the festivities behind them, she busied herself with more carefully wrapping the pair of donuts she had grabbed in a napkin. The task wasn't a long one, but it held her attention as they walked and Trick pulled out an assumingly comforting smoke.

He struggled to keep his emotions under lock and key as they made their way away from the festivities, fingers fumbling to light a desperately needed cigarette before he lost it altogether. Once the nicotine-laced smoke filled his lungs, Trick heaved a relieved sigh and shoved a hand through his hair, wondering all the while how he was going to explain things without sounding like a child.

She looked over at the sound of the sigh, brown eyes curious, but not particularly cautious. She wasn't walking on eggshells beside him, but didn't press for the details as to what was going on. Instead, the donuts were lifted to his line of sight and a half smile was given, the silent gesture to show him they wouldn't miss out on the dessert.

"I'm sorry," Trick said. A heavy exhale brought with it a cloud of smoke that he directed away from Penny. "This is completely mortifying. I just can't--" Couldn't even say it, is what. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and attempt to ward off the throbbing pressure building behind his eyes. "I wanted us to have a good time. It was fun," he clarified. He even smiled at her, a sad but genuine thing. He reached up to take one of the donuts being offered. "But I'm apparently incapable of letting go of the past." A brief pause. "Or something," he added, muttering. "I haven't really told anyone this yet, and I'd honestly really appreciate it if it stayed between us." It wasn't that he thought she would go blabbing it around the city, but privacy was paramount to him.

Penny didn't interject or interrupt while he fought to find the words and let them spill out. His sad smile was met with one of her own, though the only hint that it could have been sad was in the way her eyes softened. With only one donut in hand now, Penny nodded as she dared to take a bite of the donut (which was delicious she found out) in agreement that she'd not be repeating what was bothering him.

It was only sheer force of will that kept his display of emotion to the gentle quavering hum of noise that happened when he tried to start the story. He had to clear his throat, and this time the tenor was steady. "I think you know my ex." His jaw tightened, not in anger but in an attempt to repress emotional response. "Ed. He, um... he cheated on me." His attention was everywhere but on Penny. Tension gathered along his shoulders, winding him up like a toy soldier who just kept marching forward. "It's humiliating to admit, which is why I don't tell people. It ended really, really badly." A long drag from the cigarette gave him pause and a chance to collect himself. "Bad like.. I-caught-them-in-the-act bad."

Penny’s brows rose together as he started off the story until realization hit and several background puzzle pieces began to fit together and imagined stories intertwined. As the tale settled in her ears, there was a visible wince on her face for the last detail, aware that it was something that could sting. Finishing that bite of the donut in her mouth, she considered the questions she could ask, but eventually decided on, "How long ago?" Though she was uncertain how much more he'd be willing to share, or talk about.

"Mmm." Patrick hummed a thoughtful noise. "Six months ago. I don't know how long it went on, exactly, but I suspect it was at least a month if not more, where I was That Guy who was completely oblivious."

Thoughtfully she took his answer and tucked it away, while a glance down at the donut in hand was given. For a few steps she was silent, and could have been deciding whether or not to take a second bite or say something further. "And he's still with," trailing off and not saying his name though it was very probable she struggled to remember it. The sentence wasn't filled in or finished off, and instead Penny started with a new thought. "Seeing an ex with someone else is hard."

Patrick turned his head in the opposite direction to make sure she couldn't see any part of his facial expression whatsoever. What she'd said struck a chord and made it difficult to keep everything he was feeling inside himself on lock down. "Yeah." It wasn't much of an answer. Truth be told, he wanted to stop there. Call it his own stupid hangups over an ex and never talk about it again. But there was more, so much more to it than just that. But boys were supposed to be strong. They weren't supposed to show emotion, they weren't supposed to be weak. Admitting it aloud -- to Penny, no less -- was embarrassing. He'd lose any ground he gained with her, he was certain. But what did he want more? The chance to have another date? Or a friend who knew his story and his pain? Patrick figured if he couldn't talk to her as a friend, then he had no right trying to date her anyway, so he threw caution to the wind.

One last drag from the cigarette brought it up to the filter. He made sure it was completely extinguished before flicking the butt into the grass at their feet as they moved further and further away from the lake. "I would like nothing more than to be over everything. But I got no answers. He didn't tell me why, or what I did wrong to make him do that."

The frown that formed was hidden behind the second bite, bigger than the first so she would busy with chewing or listening as opposed to mentioning the obvious and pressing on a sensitive subject. "Would answers help? Or just give you a perceived excuse, a vague non-issue of a trait that maybe doesn't even need fixing." The emphasis on the word stemming from a conversation earlier that week. "Whoa, wait. No no no." Stopping in her tracks and reaching out with her empty hand to catch the sleeve of his jacket to bring him to a halt. "Why do you think you did something wrong?"

Patrick's cheeks flushed, embarrassed and unable to meet her gaze. "Because," he replied lamely. He could feel the tidal wave of emotion threatening to explode, but he worked with all his might to keep it at bay. Arms folded tightly across his chest, an act that was simultaneously defensive and self-comforting. Slate blue eyes slanted down to meet hers for a brief second. "I don't know." He shrugged, looking away. "If I had been enough of whatever it was he was looking for... Or maybe I scared him off with my talk of wanting a family someday. I don't know," he repeated, sounding tired. "It's stupid. I know it's stupid. I shouldn't be so hung up on an asshole who clearly never gave a **** about me."

If it helped any, she didn't meet his own gaze for more than a spare second either, a soul gaze at this exact moment was likely to feel like a massive gut wrenching stab in the heart to the both of them. The hand on his jacket didn't linger either, especially when he took up a defensive posture and the flash of concern that she'd crossed the line swept across her face as well. For lack of a better place, the rest of the donut and napkin were shoved into the a pocket of the oversized hoodie to allow both hands to be free. They were free, palms out but she noticeably wasn't touching again yet either. She could feel the heat of her own cheeks warming her, but suspected that they both would pretend to not notice it. "Hey, though I know we only met a couple of months ago, you are enough for someone."

A fresh wave of humiliation turned his face beet red as a tear rolled down his cheek. He rolled his eyes in frustration, forcing a laugh as he wiped it furiously away. "You don't need this." He turned to look at her with an apology written all over his face. "I just wanted to... explain why I had to leave. I like you; I didn't want to leave you hanging back there." By the time he finished speaking, Patrick was still flushed but he'd managed to quash the rising flood.

Penny would have said more, but the flare of frustration and the sudden laugh as he turned away caused her to pause and look back the way they had come. "I understand," her right hand, the bruising along her knuckles a faint green mixed with yellow to disappear into her skin tone now, lifted up to rub at the back of her neck as she looked down to their feet and then off in the direction they had been mindlessly walking towards town. For too long she was either uncertain on what to say, or was struggling to admit something. Finally, there was a bit of a sigh as her hand dropped to her side. "It's okay to grieve a loss. Don't apologize for that."

Trick's arms unwound from their tightly pinned position to be shaken out at his sides, releasing the building tension that was starting to make his muscles ache. He then laced his fingers together behind his neck and took a deep breath. "I am grieving a loss, you're right. But it's not the one most people would think." The boy swallowed audibly, gathering the courage to admit something he'd kept a secret for a long time. "I don't want him. Not after what he did. But when I look at Ed, I see everything that could have been. Everything I thought was going to happen. I thought naïvely that we would be happy and I... I would get a family. You never hear guys talk about wanting that kind of thing, but I guess I'm not most guys." He shrugged again, pushing past the awkward feeling of saying that out loud.

At his mild declaration that most guys didn't talk about wanting families, Penny fought back the expression in a knot of her brows and shrugged along with him. Various chords were being struck on her own heart strings and she wasn't certain she could bare to listen to the tune right now. Turning slightly, more so with her feet and legs first in an effort to slowly and slyly encourage him to mimic her own body language. He did so, and together they resumed their trek away from the lake. "Do you think your only chance was with him?"

"When I see him, I see that he's happy. They're happy. And today they've got... someone's kid. I don't know. It just completely set me off. I wish there was a button I could push that would get me the **** over it, because it's exhausting to feel like this."

She chuckled in response to mention of a magic button. "When you bottle it up so tightly, trying not to feel it, you're bound to become exhausted from hiding it for so long." A sad smile was lifted over to him, and Penny dared to ask another question, "You said you hadn't told anyone this, why not your sister? Or Spencer?"

"No. No, I did tell them. Mal... she's great, you know? Sometimes she's more like a mom than a sister. She said all the right things. But I know she's still friends with Ed and his family." And Patrick very selfishly wanted Ed to be shunned. "Spencer only managed to make me feel like **** for feeling like it was my fault. And you know, I did tell Mist, too. But it really doesn't help that all I ever saw was everyone rallying around Ed after we broke up. Maybe that's my fault, too, for not announcing to the world that he cheated; I doubt he ever admitted to it. But he's got that personality that just draws people in, I suppose. I... am the opposite." He exhaled a short laugh.

A touch of relief that she wasn't the only one guarding this secret, believing the comfort provided by -- well at least Mallory (sorry Spencer) had been originally given at the time of crisis, so she nodded and bypassed her recent mistake. Looking over to catch his laugh, a small smile formed but she was looking in front of them once she spoke, "You drew me in," quiet admittance as her hands found the hoodie's pockets.

"Of course," Patrick replied, affecting showy bravado that accompanied a charming, flirtatious smile. "Who isn't intrigued by the quiet, brooding boy in the dark corner?" The smile softened, its teasing edge made apparent when he met her eyes. Just for a second.

"I was more drawn to the sweaty, athletic one who brought me a cold drink after a run, then showed me the way to food afterwards." Correcting with a near laugh.

A playful shrug preceded his picking up a more serious thread in their conversation. "I don't think he was my only chance for a family, by the way. Logically I know someday in the future, my chances of finding someone whose dreams match up with mine are probable. It doesn't help me with right now, though. Not that right now matters anyway -- I'm clearly not in any shape to have a relationship." Patrick sniffed, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. He stole a glance toward Penny, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. "I hope... you won't think I was toying with you or anything. I do actually like you. You're refreshingly sweet and kind. And also a badass who punches stupid people."

Satisfied that Trick hadn't been holding all of his future family dreams on a relationship that would never be, there was a hint of a smile from Penny for the string of compliments. "No, I don't think that. It was one date Trick, and I enjoyed myself back there. Certainly have had much worse first dates." A sudden cut glance his way for the punching comment, "I didn't end up punching that guy at the bar, he managed to get his act together a little. Or did Mallory and Eri tell you about...?" Her right hand pulled from her pocket and there was a pantomimed punch to the empty air. "Yeah, I punched that guy."

"Zan... well. I don't particularly like the guy, so we'll just leave it at that." Because Trick wasn't the sort to badmouth other people. Unless they're awful adults who say unspeakable things to children and trip people for no good reason at all. "But Mal didn't tell me anything. I just assumed when you said you weren't in the mood to break a second jaw…”

"Oh, right." An excessive exhale and short raspberry of her lips before she glanced his way with a mildly embarrassed look.

“I'm curious. What did he do? Whoever he is."

"His name is Benjamin Kafouri, we call him Benny generally. I work with him, sort of. I've never gone out officially on a gig with him yet, and I don't know that we'll be paired up to work together for a while now. But a few of us went to that drive-in, Thunder Road?" Checking to see if he had heard of it and continuing when he indicated he was following along. "Big grand opening event this past Saturday. Benny tried to get me behind one of the snack bars and wanted to get handsy. I told him no, warned him. He embarrassed me," the tone she used suggested that was his greatest offense, "so I punched him in the same place he had broken his jaw two years ago. According to his file." Lifting her chin slightly. Maybe a little proud.

"Good!" Patrick exclaimed. "Serves him right. Hopefully he learned his lesson."

"If he hasn't it'll be because his skull is full of more sand than brain cells." But she's guessing he'll never forget how hard she punched when backed up into a corner.

After a few moments worth of silence, he admitted, "I punched Goshen. The night I found them. Tackled him right to the ground and wailed on him. It was like I was possessed." He sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment and shaking his head. "He did something to make me break my arm. I don't know what, 'cause I wasn't hitting him that hard. I was in a cast for six weeks." Right hand pulled from his pocket, arm held up and out to indicate which. "I slapped Ed, too. It still makes me sick to think that I did that."

"Blind rage?" Mild curiosity before she was distracted with trying to figure out what could have led to his arm breaking. "Ah, we're righties. We should practice more with our left maybe. Or you know, stop getting into fights." Winking then to show her tease, considering neither one of them had really entered either situation with planning on using their fists. The amusement of her tease faded however, to a sympathetic frown, but she had nothing to add regarding slapping.

Patrick was grateful that Penny didn't attempt to excuse his behavior; he knew in his heart of hearts that it had been wrong. It was an act for which he would atone for a long time to come. "Actually, I'm ambidextrous." The other hand made an appearance. He waggled the fingers on both hands comically.

"Oh well that's convenient," chuckling quietly for the wiggling of fingers.

"So I wasn't too put out while I was stuck in the cast. I could still sign my autograph and beat random strangers at darts when I got bored and needed something to do." A quiet snicker at that. "But I fully support this No Fighting suggestion. Seems like a good stance to take.”

"Mhmm, aren't you getting ready to go off to basic training though?" Leaving that question as rhetorical, she continued on with, "I think you're doing fine with avoiding situations that could lead to trouble.” She didn't glance behind them, but she was certain he'd pick up on her real meaning. Soon arriving at the beginnings of the city, her steps stalled out and she gave him a long look, though not meeting his eyes for long either. "So what next Patrick?" Going with his full first name if only to formalize it slightly.

"I think..." He drew in a deep breath to calm his nerves. A large part of him wanted to say eff it and throw himself into the pursuit of Penny. A connection existed between them, there was no doubt about that. He wanted to request a second date; to hold her hand as they headed back to her castle, and imagined leaning in at the gate to say goodbye with an invited kiss...sliding his fingers through her hair. The part of him that wanted to do that was almost so loud he couldn't hear the rest. "I think it would be incredibly selfish of me to ask you out on another date when I'm obviously still... working through stuff." He'd drawn to a stop when she did, only realizing now that his proximity was just a touch over the line he usually observed between them. Patrick looked down at Penny. Plain and simple, he was attracted to her. But for all of his issues that screamed 'youth!', he was attempting to exercise a maturity beyond his eighteen years.

"I think..." Trailing off similarly to how he head, looking up the sparse two inch difference in height between them briefly before her eyes trained in on the spot between his eyes in an effort to at least strongly appear as though she was meeting his gaze, though truly not. "that is true." Agreeing with him before she cut a glance towards the city proper and then back to him. "Still want me to come out to your last race of the season?" Then not wasting much time in making at least her own intentions clear, "I'd like to go if you'll have me. Set aside the dating stuff," a slight wave of her hands, low as if she was miming putting something away.

Patrick swayed, swinging an arm out to tap his fingers lightly against her arm. The small smile he'd been wearing until now grew in size when she said she'd still like to attend. "Yeah, of course. My lucky Penny for the last race." He winked at her. "It'll be nice to have a friend there cheering me on." Now it was his turn to get them moving again, turning and slowly heading in the direction that would take them further into the city. "Besides, there are still some desserts out there we haven't tried. I'm not about to ghost on you since things didn't work out like I meant them to. Patrick Warren Richie has far too much class for stunts like that."

The day had been one step forward, but had not resulted in two steps back, and for that Penny looked grateful. Laughing quietly as they turned to start moving again, "With tons of fans there eager to cheer you on too," several of them there to try to grab his butt in meet and greets so she'd been told that week. At the mention of desserts, she pulled out that half eaten cider donut from her pocket, still looking amused as they headed on their way.


((Many thanks to Penny's writer for this wonderful scene!))

[Patrick]

Friday. October 27, 2017 - Just past midnight

I was told when I get older all my fears would shrink
But now I'm insecure and I care what people think

Patrick was wrested from sleep by a violent shiver that coursed through his body and he found himself regretting wakefulness almost immediately. His limbs, numb with cold, moved sluggishly as he worked to position himself upright from his makeshift bed atop the cool, sprawling lawn over his parents graves. It was too soon yet for a hangover, but the nearly empty bottle of cheap vodka laying on its side nearby reminded him that it would come with time. Another full-body shiver drew Trick’s attention away from the liquor to his wadded up jacket. He pulled it on in silence, searching for cigarettes in each of the pockets but coming up empty handed.

“What are you looking for?” asked a voice from out of freaking nowhere, right behind him. Patrick was sure he literally jumped out of his skin when he whirled around to get a good look at the creepy son of a bitch who was brazen enough to be sitting atop his parents tombstone. No. Not quite sitting. Crouching, like some psychotic man-shaped gargoyle. The moonlight reflected eerily in the person’s eyes. In the dark, it was the only clue, aside from the brusque, dull voice, that helped Patrick identify him.

Fright melted into annoyance, shoulders sagging and dark eyebrows furrowing in a severe frown. “Cigarettes. My mind. The meaning of life. Take your pick.” He cupped his fingers around his mouth and blew into the hollow of his palms to warm them.

For the length of an eternal minute, Sal stared at him. The man was maddeningly slow in his response, as if coming to a conclusion on the matter had been the most difficult thing for him to accomplish. It was startling the way he then blurted, “I can help you with one of those things.” Then suddenly he broke his character as a statue and moved, sliding down from his grave stone perch. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, withdrew it, and held, clutched between two fingers, a single menthol cigarette extended toward Patrick, filter first.

He didn’t immediately reach for it, distrust coloring his expression for all of a few seconds before Trick caved to desire. “Thanks,” he muttered while plucking the cigarette out of Sal’s grasp.

“De nada.” That time, Sal’s answer was immediate, preprogrammed. The moment the cigarette left his clutches, the man took three carefully placed steps away, circling back to behind the grave marker and giving Patrick space again.

“Do you always hang out in cemeteries in the middle of the night?” His tone was equal parts honest curiosity and snide interrogation. Sal wasn’t wholly forgiven yet for scaring the *** out of him. Patrick managed to find his lighter and puffed the cigarette to life. The cooling, minty taste and odor reminded him obnoxiously of Ed.

“No.” Sal stubbornly refused to rise to the bait of Patrick’s tone. The man kept his back to him, arms crossed and leaned against the tombstone in a way that was not quite sitting.

“Then why are you here?” He thought about getting up, but the effort required to do so was too great a task. Instead, Patrick leaned to retrieve the bottle of vodka and gave it a shake. The contents sloshed around at the bottom, no more than a couple swallows worth.

Sal’s head tipped, chin to shoulder as if honing in on the sound of what remained of the vodka. He did not look back or turn around, seeming for a moment more animal than human in the dark. Again he took his dear sweet time answering. “Not always,” he said. “Sometimes.” He paused to scratch his jaw, looking back forward, and added, “I like the quiet.”

While he listened, the teenager scooted backwards until his back hit a nearby tombstone to lean against. Another drag from the cigarette hollowed his cheeks, chest expanding as the smoke filled his lungs. Trick plucked the cig from his mouth with a short-lived grimace, then burned the taste from off his tongue with a swig of alcohol.

“Me too,” Trick said. “I used to come here to talk, but why talk when you don’t get an answer? Now I come here for the silence.”

When Patrick spoke, the man tipped his head again to listen. There was weight in the length of his own silence. He took great care mulling over a response. “There’s always an answer,” Sal mused distantly. Shifting out of his stance, he uncrossed his arms and turned, settling a few fingers atop the gravestone. “You might not hear it. You might not have to. What’s important is someone’s listening.” His forefinger tapped twice on the stone.

“They’re dead,” Trick replied. He stabbed his cigarette in the direction of the tombstone, pointing at his parents names carved into the polished marble.

“Tch. That doesn’t matter.” Lifting his hand away from the stone, Sal turned and stepped over it to face the boy again. He sat, disrespectfully, right on top, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward against his thighs. “You’re not,” he said pointedly.

“I’m well aware.” Blue eyes closed and his head tipped back, thudding dully against the stone.

“I wasn’t so sure, which is why I’m here. I found you. I thought I’d make sure you weren’t.”

Trick didn’t say anything, but his grip on the neck of the bottle tightened and the muscles in his jaw jumped. The gifted cigarette burned idly in his other hand, resting in the grass. A cool night breeze rolled over the cemetery. Silence reigned supreme. Another uncontrollable shiver forced him to readjust. He tucked himself into a tight ball, knees pulled up to his chest. The last of the vodka was poured irritably down his throat while the cigarette remained neglected.

Time went on. In the cold and the quiet, Patrick might have fallen asleep again. He didn’t dream, so he wasn’t sure. There came a moment when he jerked to full awareness again, startled by the too comfortable sensation of numbed near-sleep paralysis. When he opened his eye, there was only his parent’s tombstone in front of him and no sign of the man who had been sitting on it. How long ago before? He had never even heard Sal move.

His gaze slid down to the cigarette. He could still feel the filter nestled between his fingers, but the embers had long since extinguished from disuse. The remnants of ash lay spilled across the grass. Patrick grit his teeth and flung the filter away from himself, then let his hand fall back to the ground unceremoniously. After double checking that the vodka bottle was indeed empty, he pushed that away too and let his head fall forward to rest against his knees. The tears fell silently, too exhausted to sob properly. If it weren’t for the occasional sniffle, it would have been impossible to tell he was crying.

Somewhere to his left, dead leaves rustled in a decidedly foot-shuffling pattern. With an embarrassingly sodden sniff, Patrick lifted his head to look sharply that direction, scrubbing the back of his arm across his eyes. Three plots down, a shadowy man shape swayed. Squinting through a wet haze, he could tell that the man was putting more distance between them. The noise had been deliberate, to let him know that even though he hadn’t been able to see him, Sal had not completely gone away. And he was politely giving him his space to cry as needed.

Humiliated for the second time that day, Patrick tipped sideways onto his hands and knees and got to his feet with a little help from the tombstone. It was disappointing to discover he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he would’ve like to have been. The world did not spin around him. But at least it was a problem that could be fixed, unlike so many others in his life. Angry with himself, he stalked away in the direction opposite the one Salvador had chosen in pursuit of booze and cigarettes that didn’t taste like Ed.

[Patrick]

Thursday. November 2, 2017 - Just past midnight

Fight it,
Take the pain, ignite it,
Tie a noose around your mind
Loose enough to breathe fine and tie it
To a tree. Tell it, "You belong to me.
This ain't a noose, this is a leash.
And I have news for you: you must obey me."

Salvador lead the way from the Inn to the Marketplace without ever once checking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He knew the boy would catch up to him eventually. He also knew the path was clear of criminal activity, which allowed him to check off at least one box of concern from his mental inventory. The Spaniard came upon Teas’n Tomes first and entered the establishment without hesitation, with a sense that he practically owned the place, and prowled directly to the counter. The girl startled from a nap she’d been having, but smiled at him and immediately bustled off to fetch a mug of plain black coffee for him. When he caught her eye, he held up two fingers. She nodded and prepared a second one as well.

Trick was grateful for the distance between them as they walked; it gave him time to mentally prepare for a conversation he desperately wanted to have with someone but didn’t know how to start. It had felt good to get things off this chest to Penny, but even that moment had been overshadowed by the belief that he was ruining something good between them. There was nothing to ruin with Sal.

The tiny bell above the door was herald to his arrival. In stepping across the threshold, it was as though he was stepping past a wall of awkward tension of his own creation. He didn’t know what he was doing, but anything had to be better than being perpetually trapped in the mire of misery called heartache. Ignoring the sense of discomfort that pulled him back in the direction of the door, Trick joined Sal at the counter in time to be given his own mug of coffee.

“Thanks.” Without looking up at the man beside him. Too busy upending the sugar shaker into his drink. By the time he was finished, it was probably more sugar than a person needed in a day. A week. Possibly a month.

“Mm.” With an additional slight incline of his chin, that was how Sal said ‘you’re welcome.’ He was a quiet man capable of expressing whole volumes of thought with as little as a hum or a grunt. He gave Trick’s mug a sideways look that turned into a half roll of the eyes away. Picking up his own mug of plain old undoctored black coffee, he moved away from the counter and over to the sofa, out of habit.

Trick followed silently, choosing one of the wingback chairs this time instead of a beanbag so it wouldn’t feel like Sal was looking down at him.

Setting his mug down on the coffee table, Sal angled himself to sit on the left end of the couch, elbow to armrest and spine set to where it joined with the back cushions. He slouched low, lifting one boot to prop on the edge of the coffee table. Interlocking the fingers of both his hands, he settled them on his stomach. In the light of the little tea shop, the sickly pallor and sheen of his skin was a lot more apparent. The vibrant rust color of his eyes was a more dull orange than usual. Yet he seemed relaxed and attentive, even if fatigued.

Though he was not overt in his study of Salvador, Trick was no doubt giving him a great deal of consideration from over the rim of his mug. He’d slouched in his chair much like the other man, one leg kicked over the arm so that he was tilted at an angle against one of the wings. He had the mug resting high on his chest, the rising steam obscuring his face from clear view. It was too hot to drink, but he breathed deeply its sickly sweet scent.

“Exactly how rude would it be to ask what you are?”

Salvador’s lips pressed together but curled into an amused twist of a smile. A low chuckle escaped him before words did, but he said, “I wouldn’t call it rude at all. Smart, actually.” That answered the question Trick had directly asked. It took another minute of thorough processing for the man to formulate the response the boy wanted.

“I’m human,” Sal said, “by half. The other half of me is fae. Something…” Dangerous. Different. “...that shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.” Trick took the answer in stride. He may only be human himself, but he’d grown up in a city full of monsters. This news, in and of itself, was nothing to bat an eyelash at.

“Yes.” One finger lifted to tap against his knuckle, punctuating the pause before Sal added, “I am.”

“Plain old human here.” It was only polite to provide the information in return.

“I know.” A strange, slow sliver of light slid through Sal’s irises just before he expressed an equally slow, catlike blink. He swallowed and took a deep breath, as if on the verge of drifting to sleep.

“Mm.” He could speak in hums and grunts, too. Maybe it was stupid of him, but Trick read into the blink. There was something terribly feline about Sal, and he knew that when cats blink at their humans, it’s supposed to mean that they’re aware of your presence and pose no threat. Faeries were no joke, so he hoped the ‘no threat’ part was accurate.

At present, Trick’s assessment was accurate. Little did the boy know how much of a threat the Spaniard could be, especially this time of year. Salvador preferred to keep it that way. It was his secret, his cross to bear. He didn’t want to scare the boy off with too much truth. Nor did he want to pressure him to talk until he was ready. So he waited with the utmost patience for Trick to ask or say more.

Normally Trick didn’t mind silence. In fact, he often preferred it to all the unnecessary noise people made. But this quiet was uncomfortable, if only because he knew Sal was waiting for him to speak. Fingers fidgeted, gliding back and forth against the smooth surface of the mug cupped between his hands. Hands too weathered to belong to someone as young as him.

“My ex,” he blurted abruptly, softly. Slate blue eyes were directed at the surface of the untouched coffee in his cup. “You asked who I was avoiding. My ex.”

Though he wasn’t looking, Trick could feel the weight of the other man’s gaze on him by then. He certainly had Salvador’s attention. “Your disaster,” the man said after a moment. “Your…” Pulling his hands apart, he settled his right on his left hip and his left on his right forearm, drumming his fingers pointedly. “Story.” Sal was observant and had a long memory.

“Yeah.” In similar fashion, Patrick dropped his left hand away from the cup to touch his right forearm. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he was doing, quickly yanked his fingers away. The coffee was still scalding, but he took a drink anyway. “But it’s more like I’m the disaster. He’s the one who *** up, but I’m the one who’s a mess.”

“Ah.” An epic ****ton of understanding infiltrated that one dull, slow syllable. Salvador shifted out of his slouch and dropped his foot off the edge of the coffee table. His boot thumped to the floor. Leaning forward, he adjusted the placement of his mug by nudging the handle to turn it an inch. “Yes,” he said. “I know how that feels.”

Trick watched Salvador peripherally, shrugging one shoulder. “No one ever said life would be fair, did they.” Statement, not question. “I’m used to that. But I could do without the regret.”

That word, regret, did not compute well in Salvador’s mind, evidenced by the furrow of his brows. Before withdrawing his hand, he ticked his nail twice against the ceramic edge of the mug. He clasped his hands together between his knees, resting his elbows on them and hunched forward. “What do you regret?”

It was a question that required some thought. Trick chewed on the inside of his cheek, brows lightly furrowed in concentration. “Everything,” he finally said. But that wasn’t a reason answer. Trick huffed a soft sigh, minutely frustrated, though mostly with himself. Eloquence was not his strong suit. “That I allowed myself to be compromised by someone who… who didn’t even think I was worth the truth. That I was stupid enough to give all of myself to a guy I didn’t really know, and now--” He shrugged again, letting the thought dissolve into nothingness. He didn’t know how else to explain it.

Lifting one hand, Sal scratched his temple and leaned back against the couch again, though not the same position as before. Sinking once more into a slouch, knees apart, he turned that same hand over, palm up, slowly settling his knuckles down on his thigh. There was a lot to touch upon there and the man struggled to put his own words together. One thing he did know was this: “Truth is relative.” Not the most reassuring statement, perhaps, but he didn’t leave it at that. Taking a deep breath, he dropped his head back against the cushions behind him and focused on a spot between himself and the ceiling.

“It hurts because it was real,” the Spaniard said. They weren’t his own words. Somehow the fact that they were a citation of some other man’s wisdom seemed clear.

“Guess that explains why he’s completely fine.” Dryly. Patrick’s jaw tightened, then relaxed. He brought the mug up for another sip to hide the bitter line of his mouth.

Tipping his head just enough to look back at the boy, Sal asked, “Does it matter how he is?” There was enough pause for Trick to respond, weighted to make the words sink in, but Salvador went on to say, “You can only fix you. It hurts. Let it hurt.”

“I’ve been letting it hurt,” Trick interrupted, gritting his teeth.

“Have you?” Salvador tipped his head in that animal, curious way.

“Yes,” he snapped. “I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of crying. I want to stop feeling like this because he doesn’t deserve a ****ing second of my time.”

“That’s good.” The man lifted his hand from his thigh, pointing at him. “Anger. Use that. Don’t keep it in, though. You need to let it out on something.” He scratched the side of his head again, though, remembering that Trick was not a fan of violence.

“No. The last time I did that, I turned into someone I didn’t recognize and did something I’ll regret forever.” And as he’d already mentioned, he could do without regret.

Making a dismissive gesture, Sal said, “Your outlet was all wrong. You need something…” And then the man started searching through his coat pockets. From one he withdrew a small, curved knife with a handle much bigger than the blade. From another he retrieved a small block of shaved wood, the shape of which was presently indeterminate. Rolling these objects in the palm of either hand, he presented them and finished his statement. “Constructive.”

“I joined the military,” he reminded the other man.

“And how much longer must you sit on your rage before you leave for that?”

“I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to be anything.” Trick shut his eyes, lifting a hand to rub at the spot of tension growing just above the scar along his eyebrow.

“No one wants to be angry, bonito. But if you ignore it, it festers.” A click and a shuffle of leather indicated him returning the objects to his coat pockets. “If you don’t deal with it, it’ll eat at you. Keep eating at you like it is now.”

Patrick kept his eyes closed until the wave of tears receded, the flood of emotion beaten back down into submission. “I’m doing what I can. Avoiding disaster.” This time he meant Ed.

“You can’t avoid him forever.” When Patrick looked again, he found Sal’s eyes closed and his head tipped back as if he’d been looking at the ceiling before cutting off his view.

“Maybe not, but what’s that saying? Move or move on… I can avoid him long enough to get the hell over him.”

“That’s true enough.” Salvador was not telling him he should not continue on with his plan to join the military, and in fact seemed to approve of his choice to run away for a little while. Though he likely doubted Trick would completely get over him.

“It’s like I can’t go anywhere without running into their stupid faces.” It’s quite possible he was trying to strangle his mug.

“Do you think their stupid faces won’t be here when you get back?” The Spaniard cracked open an eye and tipped his head just a little to peer at him.

“I won’t care anymore by the time I come back.”

Opening his other eye, Salvador lifted his head off the back of the couch to look at the boy more levelly. There was so much hope there, he was reluctant to crush it. Instead, he actually attempted to lighten the mood. “I could make them disappear for you, if you wanted.” He was dead serious, but his grin suggested otherwise.

“Unnecessary,” Trick replied. He was not moved to smile, but he did find humor in Sal’s apparent joke.

“All right.” The man nodded and left it at that.

“I wouldn’t mind if karma helped a guy out.”

There again was that strange sliver of light passing through Salvador’s irises. His grin grew a little more feral, still wickedly amused. “Whatever you do,” he warned, “don’t wish for anything.”

That gave Trick pause, his expression waning. “No, see… this is what I hate.” He frowned, shutting his eyes and mashing his fingers against the lids so hard he could see stars in the darkness.

Salvador went quiet, giving the boy time to recover without comment. He looked down at his neglected mug of coffee, long having run out of steam, cold now.

“I don’t like this bitter, vindictive, hateful, angry person I’m turning into. I liked who I was before he ever touched me.” Sorrow tainted the wistful words.

“And who were you before? Are you sure that person wasn’t always there? That part of you.” The Spaniard scratched his jaw in pause. “There’s much I don’t like about myself either.” When he dropped his hand, it slapped against his thigh. “I think everyone has pieces of themselves they hate.”

“But I didn’t hate myself before. I do now.” Trick sighed, finally pulling his fingers away from red-ringed eyes to push them through his hair instead.

Thoughts churned in the silence that followed. In this Sal could not entirely relate. Was there a time he hadn’t hated himself before? It was hard to remember. But now. Now. Subconsciously he was tracing the letters inked into his skin, but the sleeve of his jacket was in the way. “You won’t always,” he finally said.

“Then I just have to survive until then.” Trick gulped down the rest of his coffee all at once.

“And you will.” Especially if Sal had anything to do about it. He sounded so certain, like Patrick’s very own monstrous guardian angel.

“Yeah…” He was glad for Sal’s certainty; Trick had none of his own. He thought about his last trip to the cemetery and the stupidity of compromising himself that way, but couldn’t truthfully tell himself it had been entirely unconscious. He leaned forward to set the empty mug on the table, not sure what else he could say without having to admit to himself that he was beyond ****ed up over something that shouldn’t have ever been given any power over him.

They both seemed to have reached the same conclusion that tonight’s session was at an end. Salvador kept silent for a time, still as the furniture he was lounging on. Then he turned over his hand and said, “Give me your phone.”

“Why?” he asked cautiously, even while digging the device out of his pocket. It was a stupid question. It wasn’t like Sal was going to run off with it, or smash it on the coffee table.

Honestly, that’s exactly what Sal’s level stare seemed to convey. Don’t be an idiot, just give me the damn phone. He held his hand out expectantly, palm up, waiting what seemed an eternity for Patrick to place the device right there. And when he did, Sal turned the phone over and on, bypassing the lock screen with a little help from the boy himself. He went straight to the contacts section to add himself, inputting simply ‘Sal,’ and then handed the phone back over.

“Should I be creeped out that you could do that?” Trick poked at the screen, making sure the 4 digit passcode was still necessary. It was. How in the world had Sal been able to get past it? Faeries.

“I’m good with numbers,” Sal lied. Well, sort of. That was true, but it wasn’t how he’d managed to figure out the boy’s password.

Trick snorted. “Okay.” To the tune of ‘I don’t believe you, but whatever.’

With a chuckle, the Spaniard decided to throw him a bone. “You might notice that I don’t touch things if I can avoid it.” He lifted his hands and flared his fingers. “I can…” Even after all his years he had the damnedest time explaining it. “I see history.” Did that make sense?

“Ah,” Trick said. Understanding flooded the hum of noise. “Psychometry. Cool. That’s handy.” Yes, he made a punny joke. It was all the more hilarious because he kept a straight face.

The twist of Sal’s quarter smile was equal parts amused by the terrible pun and pleased that Trick was knowledgeable about the particular subject. “It’s a pain in the ass most of the time,” he argued lightly. “But useful.”

“We’ll just get you some nifty gloves. You can be That Guy. People will think you’re a germaphobe.”

Chuckling, Sal shook his head and said, “I tried gloves. It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is.” Trick pulled his hat on, then considered his phone for a long moment with indecision. There was another stupid question on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated to ask it. Lucky for him Sal had the patience of a mountain. “What do you want me to do with this?” he finally asked, looking up.

“Nothing.” Salvador expected nothing of him whatsoever. Note that he didn’t even ask for the boy’s number in exchange. “But if you feel a need for someone to listen, use it. If you want.” The ball was in Trick’s court now. The Spaniard shrugged. He wasn’t a tombstone, but at least he talked back. A little.

“Thank you.” Trick slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. Those words had cost him. They were more than just gratitude; in his mind they were an expression of weakness, an admission of need.

“Any time.” The reply, an offer, came easier than even Salvador expected. Thoughtlessly stated before he even remembered his go-to and reflexive de nada. This was not ‘nothing,’ and this response also implied the literal. Trick could call him any time.


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((This post and the one above it were written with the wonderful Salvador, of course. Thank you!))