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Alejandro grew up in shadows. Anything he had won had already been won, every person already swayed before he, every outfit already worn, and every chance swept away with the wind.
There was not a world where he could co-exist with José and be a person of importance. Every medal he had sat in the neglect of darkness, much like he, put behind those with brighter shine. Certificates tucked out of sight and crumpled with carelessness.
In a world full of perfect people, overshadowed by those impossibly better, he sat nowhere in the ranks. Alejandro would gather dust in the shameful cages of woe.
And he would rot there, thrashing his teeth like some beast. Begging for a scrap of the glory delivered to others effortlessly, simultaneously both beneath and above him.
He would choke on his ambition one day, Carlos had told him, holding a shoulder after losing an easy play in football. He had seen a better, harder play and had wiped out in hopes of obtaining it. An embarrassing fumble yet his oldest brother spoke none of it.
It had seemed like his destiny would revolve around that very moment until he eventually died, great but never the greatest. Someone incredible until he simply wasn’t, forgotten in the throes of it all. A name amongst many.
Until the letter had stared him back in the face, his future scrawled across the many, many possibilities. Giddy with the idea of victory, of facing against a fair opponent.
And thus Alejandro knew he would become a lasting name in the world, every opportunity overflowing in his palms.
He would make his way to the top.
—
Bridgette gaped at him, cheeks flushed and eyes alight with tender trust. Her emotions were splayed across her face. She had melted so easily, eagerly throwing herself at him. Desperate for his attention, willing to grovel for it.
The feeling was new, although he had been in this situation so many times before.
It was bitterly cold, his breath coming out in short, harsh puffs. She was ignorant, or perhaps hopeful, enough to ignore the mottling of his skin due to the cold. He was in no form warm enough to maintain heat in freezing temperatures, yet he had pretended he was to please her.
Perhaps he should have worried less about his competition if they were all to be as moronic as she. He would knock all of them out of the ring. They could kiss that one million goodbye.
The pun nearly made him laugh as her lips met the pole desperately, as if a thirsty man depraved of water. Her stupidity was almost as endearing to him as it was nauseating. How could she have been so foolish to have trusted him?
”Josè, let me out? Certainly Carlos has found you already!” His voice was echoing in the desolate area of the hallway closet, surrounded by their coats and hats. The fabric itched uncomfortably against his skin.
He did not like the way that the darkness seemed to swallow him. He felt out of place inside the forgotten winter wear in the middle of summer. A perfect place for hid-and-seek. A winning spot—he was sure that he’d already collected the victory—but the door was locked.
José had been the one to show it to him, telling him of its many advantages and how he was certain that was the place to be if he wanted to win. Of course Alejandro had wanted to win, so he’d joyously agreed.
The closet was cramped, its space used completely with coats, hats, boots, scarves, and their sled that Mamá and Padre had bought Carlos for the holidays the last winter.
His face was hot and his eyes were watery, something that Padre would not approve of greatly, but the stream had begun to flow and there was no stopping it. Hot, salty tears stained his cheeks.
“José? José!” His fists hit the door rapidly, begging for help. «You can’t trap me in here, José! Somebody will find me!»
His cries had turned frantic, so intense in his worry of being trapped or forgotten that the closet door had shaken with his tremendous effort. Eventually, the door swung inward and he’d stumbled out, teary-eyed.
In the doorway had been his eight-year-old brother laughing like nothing was wrong. His brown eyes had gleamed with nothing but glee, pure and simple. It hadn’t been born out of detest or malice. He’d slunk back after he’d noticed the tracks cutting lines in his face and his runny nose.
«It was only a prank, Al,» he’d protested. The grin had slid off of his face, replaced by a small amount of guilt. “I wouldn’t have left you in there, obviously. And I wasn’t lying about it being a winner’s spot; you did win! Carlos is still searching for you downstairs.”
Slowly, Alejandro’s sniffling had come to a halt and José’s attitude had lightened back up, his replaced smile showing the teeth he had lost. Papà had said it was the early signs of growing up, where José had “ought to be.”
His older brother had hugged him and ruffled his hair like Carlos did and told him all about how Carlos had found him in the pantry. Alejandro had listened patiently and even added his own remarks, wiping the tears and sucking back his sobs until he felt better.
And, although José had seen it nothing more than a harmless prank, Alejandro had not trusted José past that without a second party’s opinion.
He’d been foolish to trust him at the time, and he’d certainly be foolish to ever trust him again.
He’d ignored the questioning glances of his team as he’d settled onto the sleigh. It was cramped and terribly uncomfortable, but it would matter little when his face was plastered to every billboard. When he’d won.
Deep, brown eyes bored into his head, pretending they were not of importance anytime Alejandro looked back.
But he should’ve known better.
—-—
Harold sat beside him, pride filling his face as he dreamed aloud of his “noble sacrifice.” If it weren’t so crucial that he lost Alejandro would have laughed at the utter nonsense he continued to spew. Honor, nobility, and benevolence, like he was the angel on someone’s shoulder.
“My lady Leshawna is due the most fair apology a man can give: his own sacrifice. As we are both noble men, you must understand. Yes, I have wronged them plenty, but I shall prove my worth.”
Alejandro forced himself not to sneer at his misplaced pride. He was no “noble man.” Harold would not ever be a noble man. The idea was laughable at best. The disgust at the ginger having such an out-of-touch fantasy nearly made him irrationally annoyed. He schooled his face away from a leer.
To lose a man’s image is humiliating.
“Yes,” he agreed, placing a hand over the other’s. “I truly wish to be as educated on the art of”—the word appropriation nearly slipped—“appreciation.” Alejandro watched him broaden, swelling at the idea that he would be a hero to his team.
“Of course,” Harold agreed.
“Of course, amigo,” he echoed. “Show them just what a gentleman you are.”
And what a moron.
”Alejandro, what are you holding exactly?” Carlos was gentle in his prodding, prying his hands open to find the symbol of the Burromuertos. The necklace had snapped, chain dangling loosely from his small hand.
Carlos’s green eyes met his, trying to communicate a level of soothing that could not ease the situation to come. They both knew it. He took the necklace out of his hands. “It’s… okay. We can fix it. I have a friend who’s really good at welding.”
Alejandro bit his lip harder, shaking all over as his older brother pulled him into a firm, long hug. The heavy burden of the broken jewelry—broken promise, broken trust, broken safety—no longer laid in his hands, contained safely in his eldest brother’s pockets.
“No, they will know,” he managed, feeling his throat catch. His voice warbled as he forced himself to not cry. Crying was not only immature but unnecessary and unfit of a Burromuerto. Carlos only held him tighter, skin warm from hours in the sun and exertion.
“Al.” He paused, clearly trying to wrap his head around the situation and a solution. His silence was unnerving for such a loud man, even though it was more of his presence than his words. Mamà said that it was truly Padre’s blood in him. Carlos had always been so very different from Padre, though. Kind, patient Carlos instead of the distant, harsh words of their father.
“Al,” he repeated, clearly fumbling. “I will deal with this, understand? For now, we can practice together.” He was deflecting from later, focusing on the now as he always said. Alejandro immediately shook his head in protest even as his teeth released his battered lip.
“Not fair!” He crossed his arms, failing to muster a real glare at his laughing brother. “You’re five years older than me. I can’t possibly beat you.” Carlos held up his hands in a show for quiet.
“Ah-ah, not with that attitude you can’t.”
Alejandro glared harder and turned his head away. The sun beat down on his face when he turned his head away, but that was the least of his worries.
Carlos laughed. “Okay, okay, you and José versus me!”
Alejandro didn’t turn back around until the ball hit him gently on the shoulder. He did not tell Carlos that he did not really want to work with José because he’d only been getting meaner when Carlos turned his back, but he knew it wasn’t worth a fight.
Carlos saw the good in both of them and the bad in their parents, and their parents’ rules, and anything that he deemed unfair. He only saw when José tried to take a little of the blame and when he helped with homework and not when José embarrassed him in front of his friends and laughed about what he liked.
Alejandro didn’t talk to José about dinosaurs anymore. He learned very quickly that only Carlos would listen, even if bored.
“Fine, but you go easy on us.”
“What?” He shot back, eyebrows raised. “You two are definitely enough to beat me. Viscous little pre-teens if I’ve ever seen them.”
“You’re barely a teen!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go get José.”
And if when he sat down he was poked and questioned by a nutcase of a ginger with all of her bouncy, over-the-top energy that was the least of his concerns. And if he was met with her friend’s piercing, prying eyes then he did not pour any attention into it.
—-—
Leshawna blushed, her confident smirk melting into something resembling bashfulness. Malleable and overconfident, so very different yet so very similar to her admirer who had taken an unfortunate plunge. But she was much more capable, a more urgent matter than her fool-hardy, perverted on-and-off boyfriend.
Her dark eyes fluttered at him as she smiled, so ambitious but so tired. He could imagine what three seasons of Chris McLean could do to a person. The sad truth was that he couldn’t care less about what it did, even if he had the means to know. Simply win the first time and then the rest was done.
“My dearest lady,” he started, leaning down to kiss her knuckles. He wondered if she even knew it was a recycled line, or if she even cared at all. If she didn’t notice that it was from her loser, then she truly may have already been done for. He repressed a laugh at Harold trying to swoon her like this.
“Your performance today was exquisite and I must applaud it, especially with your numbers disadvantage. I do not know if I would’ve been able to pull it off the way you all did,” he complimented, watching as all three of them blushed and thanked him.
Hook, line, sinker.
They all listen to him talk like a god, hanging on to his every word and wait for the next with bated breath. It was pathetic to be seen around such simple beings, but alas there were sacrifices to be made. If it took a few idiots to spring himself toward the million, then he has few qualms.
Their conversation came in excited, determined bursts. They were still remarkably determined, even after their many losses. Alejandro was still trying to deal with his own team’s loss. Unfortunately, he may have been the only gifted one on the shoddy excuse of the plane, forget his teammates.
They all idolized him, asking and begging for a scrap of his undivided attention. If this was what José had learned to become used to, he understood exactly what happened to him. Perhaps he would’ve become so self-absorbed and narcissistic if these people were only around to fuel his ego.
Don’t they know never to idolize real people?
Carlos slammed the door, seething. It echoed throughout their house. José sat next to him, braiding his hair in intricate patterns that rivaled a seamstress and her works. Smooth and deft, he would part Alejandro’s hair and twist it into many patterns that he saw fit.
It was a nice reprieve from Mamà and Padre and Carlos, who spent their time at each other’s necks. The latest one had been because of something related to both of them, but José had told him that it wasn’t important, so he’d warily listened.
He didn’t know what to think of his brother, either of them truthfully. José had been getting meaner and Carlos more distant, but then they came back to the way that they used to be. It was unsettling. His brother tugged at a knot and he winced but stay silent.
Pain is weakness, Alejandro his father had told him when he came to him with his bloody knee a few months ago. He hadn’t told his father about anything since.
«Carlos!» His father’s voice floats through the house. «Do not slam your door on your parents. Your disrespect for our way of living and your temperament has been trite and distasteful. »
His voice was nothing but fear-inducing, so quiet and clear yet louder than most. He and Mamà were both silent in their stewing, bubbling anger toward Carlos that only seemed to double as the days continued.
«I am not having this discussion again, Father,» his brother yelled back. “The way you are pinning them against each other is cruel and inhumane. And your disgusting, control-freak habits and inability to live through anyone but—“
“Carlos,” he heard his mother say from downstairs, cordial. “We do not speak like that in our house. I thought that I had taught you better manners than that. Do not yell like that again.”
“Mamà, you can’t seriously be this ignorant to his ways? Have you not seen them?” There’s a stomp downstairs and his hair is pulled more forcefully. It seemed like an accident, and José bore no menacing sneer, so he let it go.
The rain splattered against the window, heavy. José sniffled once and Alejandro pretended not to notice as their yelling became louder but more incomprehensible, paradoxically enough.
“You both are sadists and expect too much from an 11-year-old and a 13-year-old!”
“Carlos, apologize.”
“I am not going to apologize for—“
“Then leave.”
José’s hands paused in his hair and Alejandro knew he froze, too. Carefully, his brother continued on like he hadn’t stopped, but Alejandro didn’t have it in himself to pretend that he hadn’t. For once, José didn’t comment on it.
The silence was deafening in between the heavy thumps of rain. José showed him the intricate braid, face indecipherable. Alejandro only nodded, throat tight. If he said anything, he knew his voice would break. His older brother made some strangled noise and yanked his hair in some attempt to loosen the braid.
The lack of response was weighing on both of them. Alejandro clenched the fabric of his pants and dug his teeth into his lip to prevent the uncomfortable feelings stirring. Behind him, having finally given up on his hair altogether, José let out another odd sound.
“Fine. Fine!” Carlos’s stomps got louder, either nearing them or gaining in intensity. Alejandro couldn’t be sure of which. His face felt funny in a way he couldn’t explain and his chest began to hurt.
“Gather your things and do not come back. You are no son of mine, and you are certainly not a Burromuerto. Do not enter this house again.” His Padre’s voice strongly resonated.
There wasn’t a word after that. Or if there was Alejandro did not ever hear it. Thunder boomed and echoed outside, grating. José’s weird, bordering on animal-like noises had not ceased, and Alejandro realized with a start that he was choking back sobs.
Carlos was their favorite brother. Had been. He was not their brother anymore, and that was understood grimly. It was not allowed to question their parents’ decisions.
Wordlessly Alejandro leaned back into his brother’s touch, feeling the warmth of him seep into his shoulders. They were hugging, weird and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to shift. Not even as tears slipped out and José started crying into the back of his neck, forehead pressed flush as he attempted to hide.
The drops hit Alejandro’s neck and slid down the back of his shirt yet he made no move to shove his elder brother off. Hesitantly they adjusted and held onto each other properly.
He could only hope the rain’s volume drowned out any sound their parents could find. He doubted it could fully, but they could pretend, never let the name Carlos slip past his lips again.
That was the last time he ever saw José cry and the last time he heard Carlos’s voice and the last time he had heard his parents so directly bare their teeth at someone.
It was a day of lasts.
Skeptical, intelligent eyes met his, deep with questions. If Alejandro were to look at them and smile, past Lindsay’s queries and DJ’s worries and Leshawna’s confidence, then that would be no one’s business but his own.
—-—
The look of shock and disbelief and anger and disgust and betrayal lingered in Alejandro’s mind, soothing the terrible bruising of his ego and the looks that have only intensified, burning in their greed for knowledge. Leshawna had been terribly easy.
Around them Lindsay and Tyler happily conversed and DJ worriedly stared at the ground and Izzy and Owen engaged in antics unknown. Yet he stared, leer soaked with a curiosity that could not be faked.
With the beautiful, terrible glint in his inky eyes, he conveyed the very depths of his awareness and the disgust that followed. Alejandro merely smiled, enraptured by the way the other flinched and ducked his head back into his book.
Alejandro would have to take care of him and soon. He contemplated everything as his peers chattered, unaware of their fates. It was pitiful that they could bumble about with no idea about anything, even though it made his mission so very easy.
Heather knew, and so what? She was another obstacle among many. He could take care of that. He had everything where it needed to be.
He forced himself to relax—his plan had worked and he could focus on his next target when the time arose. The conversations around him seemed to filter in clearer, bright with joy and humor.
“Tyler, Tyler,” Lindsay said joyously as the jock flipped and tumbled. She did not even register his bruising or his poor form, only cheering for him as she clapped.
His cheeks mottled with pink and he beamed. He did another trick, failing and stumbling over himself in idiocy, hitting the ground with a thud that made everyone gape in sympathy.
Lindsay rushed over to him, crouching and helping him up while fixing his clothing. “You did great anyway, Ty!” She patted his collar once more before standing. “I’m so proud of you.”
The blush spread deeper and down his neck. He coughed and then amped up his demeanor significantly. “Thank you, Linds. You guys did great, too!”
He grew jagged with their endless praise, bitterly wondering, How could they stay like that? Why does he trust her so much after she forgot him, betrayed his trust so easily?
Perhaps God had truly suited the dumbest for what they deserve, endless betrayal.
“An eighty-eight? Alejandro, you can’t be serious.” His padre’s voice cut deep, resisting the urge to cower deeper into himself at the blatant disappointment.
“I got the highest on the exam, papà—“
“And that was a B? Alejandro, do not dare to call me papà after such a pitiful display. José got a ninety-nine on his chemistry test; you have no excuse.” His father stared icily, worse than any anger on the earth.
“Yes, sir.”
The dents in the paper became more prominent when he dug his thumbs in deeper, creases deepening. He didn’t speak back about it, feeling his anger bubble. It was always José, always. Why was it always José?
He grit his teeth while the image of José in his mind made his blood boil. Alejandro would do better than him one day. All he needed was time. Maybe lots of it but time nonetheless. He could feel his skin flushing with anger that he hid, shirt suffocating him and hair itching his neck.
“I’ll study more. I’ll do better.”
“You better,” was all he got in response. “No son of mine shall do that terribly again.”
He nodded, watching him turn on his heel and exit swiftly. He acted as if every second of time spent with Alejandro was a second wasted. His legs forcefully took him away from his father’s scorn and the lingering resentment of the number scrawled in red.
The pictures on the stairs were all of his parents and José, him on the occasion. He didn’t put any thought toward it. He had more pressing matters, like studying until he couldn’t think straight. He would never do so terribly on a test again, he swore to himself that day.
Not if it ever would cause such a reaction from his parents.
Not if it meant José got to beat him.
Not if he was a Burromuerto.
The carpet muffled his steps but did little to hide the near-slam of his door. His room was no more personal than the living room but it was much more isolated. Better for thinking and time away from his tyrant of a brother.
José suddenly thought he ran the place since…
Since nothing.
He had one brother; nothing ever happened.
It was clearer than his father’s stern demands that he had two sons, even if it had never been explicitly said that his name was against the rules.
Alejandro didn’t want him back anyway. He betrayed the family by leaving with such disgrace.
Nor had he even bothered to tell them goodbye.
Not that it was truly important.
His walls were blank, his bed made, and his desk bare. He had never bothered to put his few accessories back up after their move to Canada, and after seeing the pride in his mamá’s eyes at their disappearance—“you have truly matured greatly, Alejandro”—he knew he would not ever put them back up.
He crumpled the paper between his fingers, the hot rush of embarrassment overwhelming him. He should know better than to have done so terribly on a test. He was almost a teenager. He should’ve known better than that.
He trudged over to his desk and dragged his books out. The words were muddled. He tried not to focus on that. He stayed at the desk until the natural light filtering through the window dimmed and voices became apparent.
A knock at his door resounded loudly, his brother’s voice on the other side, haughty. «Dinner’s ready, Al. You best get downstairs before they get irritated. Tardiness is not excusable. »
He clenched his hands into fists, the urge to yell resurfacing faster than it should’ve been. José got…
What didn’t José get?
He practically stomped over to the door while he fumed, swinging it open and not surprised to find his older brother had fled back to the dining room. He wasn’t even hungry, but Papá— Padre would not take that as an excuse.
The stairs creaked faintly under him on the walk there, the smell of food wafting gently from their dining room. José and their parents were already seated, his mamá sending him a disapproving glance when he appeared later than everyone else.
He looked down in shame, acknowledgement enough for her, and sat at the table. The food would’ve been good under any other circumstance, but the thought of his failure—how had he let himself make such a terrible grade?—rid him of any appetite.
Dinner was awkward at best, José recounting his football practice to their padre, then explaining his studies while everyone else was enraptured. He gripped his fork harder, watching his veins bulge with the effort and feeling the smooth metal press into his hand.
His mother looked across the table, addressing him with her gaze before she’d even opened her mouth. “Alejandro, how have your studies gone?” Her tone was smooth and soft, unlike when she’d reprimand them for poor manners.
“Well enough, I suppose,” he answered, feeling relief spike as she dropped it. She already knew but it was customary to ask. Unfortunately, she may have dropped it, but José had not.
“Well enough?” He queried, feigning ignorance. Alejandro let the fork dig into his palm.
“Yes, well enough.”
“That’s very vague, Al,” he chided. There was an undertone of mocking in his voice, sugary sweet, that no doubt he wanted Alejandro to explode at. “No way to respond to anyone. Unless you have something you’re hiding?”
He speared his food maybe a bit too hard, watching his brother out of his peripheral vision. What did he ever get out of tormenting him? He saw the intrigue in his padre’s gaze while he observed José.
Right, approval. He got approval out of this.
“I’d say it’s hard to properly describe something like that in detail, unless you want—“
“Alejandro,” his mother scolded. He grit his teeth. He wanted nothing more than to throw something and storm off. But that would be ungentlemanly of him, which would be unlike a Burromuerto.
“I apologize for my attitude, Mamá.”
“Perhaps you should go back to studying if it’s only going well enough,” José fired back, meeting the same steely gaze from their mother. Alejandro nearly threw his fork at him. It seemed like the best idea in the world.
“You both may excuse yourselves. Squabbling is not permitted at dinner time.” It was not a question, so Alejandro left the table without another word and tuned out José’s prodding. He was worried what would happen if he did not.
But he kept persisting.
“Al, there was no need to be passive-aggressive—“
José got..
“Well enough?”
The red eighty-eight on his paper seared itself into his head, and the torrent of anger spilled over like a crashing wave. “No need to be passive-aggressive?” He parroted, biting each word out. “I must be the only person who’s like that; I apologize.” He sneered, relishing in the shock on José’s face.
“I was simply inquiring—“
“No, you weren’t!” Alejandro snapped. He dug his nails into his fists. “You’re never just “simply” doing anything! You never are! Do you ever get tired of being a trite, smug—“
“Al.” His brother’s tone was cool, resembling their mother in her rare bouts of rage. “Take it back.” His gaze was neutral, but the tension in his neck screamed everything he did not.
Alejandro squared his shoulders, baring his best scowl. “Don’t call me Al. That’s Carlos’s nickname for me, not yours. And I won’t take back the clear damn truth,” he spat, watching his brother wind himself up further.
“Carlos doesn’t have a nickname for you,” he quietly responded, barely above a whisper. “Carlos has nickname for no one, do you understand?” He was yanked forward by his front, José’s seething gaze threatening to kill him with nothing but a look.
“Carlos. Isn’t. Here. And he never will be! Get over yourself, you petulant, pathetic child!” He hit him on his chin and Alejandro let out a yelp, smacking his hand off and dropping to the floor.
“He’s not here because he wasn’t a goddamn, no-good suck-up and actually—“
A foot slammed into his side, winding him. José towered over him with an expression murderous enough to take him out right then and there. He clutched at it immediately, gaping at the open show of anger. José, more than anything, loved when Alejandro played the fool, made him look the part of stable.
It was always backhanded remarks and subtle quips and offensive gestures that no one else ever picked up on, making Alejandro look fucking crazy. But there he stood after plunging his foot into his ribs, evidence in the aching of his side.
“¡Que te den por culo!” He nearly yelled back, gasping as he cradled his side. “No good, nasty jerk!” He shakily stood up. “The only reason you thrive in Mamá’s and Papá’s eyes is because you’re a no-good, cheating, narcissistic asshole who thinks he hung the fucking moon because he does better than me!”
Slowly, José stepped back, not out of fear but exercising his restraint. “If that’s what you truly think, Al then that’s what I’ll give you, you worthless brat.” He turned on his heel and stormed off, spitting over his shoulder, “And don’t forget that you brought this upon yourself.”
Above his book, Noah gave him a curious look. Quick, fleeting, and utterly unimportant, but Alejandro returned it with a smile. The other snapped right back down into his story, although he hadn’t turned a page in minutes.
Alejandro didn’t know whether to be impressed or worried that someone had figured him out with such little trouble.
Despite everything, he found himself staring with a mix of impressed worry and skeptical awe.
—-—
“Thank you for taking watch,” Noah muttered into his side, using him as support as he scratched his battered leg. Where did Chris find mutant worms? He didn’t even want to know.
“Ah, no problem, I assure you. Mi amigo, I am more than happy to take watch over our team if it means that everyone else is—“
“You can just say you’re welcome, Jesus,” he snipped, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want a spiel every time I talk to you.” He rubbed at the prominent bags under his eyes and cursed about the heat.
“I apologize. I wasn’t…” he found himself fumbling for words, a rare occasion. What was he supposed to say to that? If he responded how he usually did, it would tick him off further, but if he responded in the way Noah wanted, it would make him seem suspicious.
If he already knew… what’s the harm? Or what if Noah didn’t, and was simply staring because of his looks and Alejandro gave himself away because of his carelessness?
No, the calculating glint in his eye had not been something Alejandro made up. He was certainly smart enough to know, if his few comments and quips were anything to go by. He picked up things quicker than needed or wanted. Especially wanted in Alejandro’s case.
“Dude, it’s whatever.” He pushed himself off gently. But no, there was no mistaking the sheen of intellect in his stare. Perhaps he was even as smart as Alejandro. The thought made him relieved—god, he couldn’t stand the morons he was surrounded with—then scared at the implications.
“I wasn’t aware you were not the optimistic type,” he impulsively spewed and immediately regretted it. There was no way to excuse the idiocy in the statement and certainly no way to explain away the bland tone. He smiled brighter, hoping the other took the bait.
He didn’t.
“Right, because I look like Owen,” he jabbed. “I’d hoped that you had more brain than Tyler over there, but I guess I’m out of luck.” He sighed, shaking his mess of hair around and brushing the twigs out.
Alejandro laughed, quickly trying to stifle it to no avail. Noah grinned. Oh, he was good. Alejandro faked a wince and looked over at the sleeping jock, who was mumbling about aliens and worms. “Maybe it’s just because his girlfriend is contagious.”
There was an impressed look from the other, inky eyes sparkling under the rays of the sun. If his throat suddenly ran dry it was from the humidity. He skirted the topic of conversation before it could delve further into unexplored territory.
Friends were a no on this show. He wanted a million dollars and a claim to fame, not a cheap, unfashionable, scrawny, sharp-witted, funny, handsome, stubborn…
Back on track; he had a challenge to win. “Go wake everyone up. We don’t have time for headcounts if we want to win this challenge!”
The other complied, setting them off on their trek minutes later.
Maybe Alejandro had overestimated his intelligence if he hadn’t noticed his friend was missing, the donkey.
Like he said, this was a competition he meant to win, and he would knock everyone else off of the board.
Victory was only for the ruthless.
He watched his opponent’s face crumple as the votes were uncovered, feeling pride swell inside. He’d won the election, obviously, although it took a little bit of. . . Meddling, to say. But a win that was his was his, no matter the steps it took to get there.
He earned his wins, not fairly but he certainly had to work for them. It didn’t matter what it took to be a moral winner as long as he was the literal winner. And he’d upped his game extremely.
It was a lot of work going toe-to-toe with José, regrettably. And he certainly was nothing but as cutthroat as he, willing to toss people aside, manipulate, and seduce as he felt needed.
His victory felt hollow, though, as if a requirement. Alejandro was required to keep up, on his toes no matter what because any fail was one José could dangle above his head and flaunt until it lost significance.
An endless, stupid dance that he had no choice but to participate in until he collapsed from exhaustion. And then once that happened, he was out of the running.
He tried not to think about all it entailed as he dodged puddles and wiped the sweat accumulated from the humidity off of his brow. Rain was never pleasant, not because of its gloomy state in itself but simply because of its lingering effects. Like the water that soaked his pant leg.
It’d dry anyway, he was sure.
He’d made the deliberate choice of not going with his brother home, dreading the intense, endless jeers and taunts that would no doubt hold the shaky foundation of their conversation. He was very tired of it, yet every time he came home to something José had already done, it lit a bigger flame.
How could he do it so easily? How did he please their parents and have so many friends and flaunt and win so much?
He dried his shoes off on the doorstep and took them off as he went inside, hearing nothing but the endless chatter of the TV. Their family was not huge on TV, but his mamá sometimes would watch her interviews once they aired. He didn’t ever know if it was to criticize them or to gloat at herself on television.
He never dared ask.
But, surprisingly enough, the living room was dim and empty with only the television on. His mother was nowhere in sight, José was still on his way home most likely, and Padre had been out of the house for almost a week.
The TV blared into the silence, a woman’s voice asking rapid-fire questions that he quickly deduced to be an ad, and then followed by the cheery tone of a construction worker advertising tools.
Gingerly he walked over to their couch while it blared commercials. He expected someone to scold him for laziness or for something to go unexpectedly wrong, but nothing happened.
Just him, alone in silence. It would be comforting if it wasn’t what he’d grown to dread as much as the criticism and mockery.
He resettled his attention onto the TV as it showed the ending parts of his mother’s interview, her voice steady and calm. Alejandro liked when she was like that, especially at home. Sometimes she would let him help choose an outfit or her hairstyle when she was in a good mood, and that was always an indicator.
He fairly enjoyed her good moods. Missed them sometimes when she was in no mood at all, unfeeling and distant. She got like that sometimes, too, and then she was not likely to talk to him at all.
The ending segment of her interview was followed by a news coverage of a tornado that had happened abroad, then of something on medical research. It was simultaneously mind-numbing and mind-boggling that he could see things from around the world.
He did not know how long he sat in the dim lighting watching the news. Then sports came up, a myriad of people and places and numbers spinning into a blur. Someone beat a different team, and someone else has a new record—
His brother— Carlos appeared on screen, only a snippet of him holding a ball and his hair shorter than it had last been, smiling at the camera—
He clicked the TV off, afraid of what he would hear. He didn’t want anything to do with him, anyway. He best finish up his homework before anyone got home.
He spent an hour on math, the picture etched into the back of his eyelids anytime he closed his eyes.
He wasn’t Carlos’s problem anymore, and Carlos certainly wasn’t his.
“Team Victory wins for once!”
Tyler patted him on the back and nodded, like they were in some form of solidarity. “We can’t win them all, but we’ve got this next one, bro.”
Alejandro resisted the urge to punch him.
—-—
Noah was perched upon his shoulders while juggling pieces of statues, Tyler shouting fictional directions. Owen and Izzy, per usual at that point, were of no help whatsoever. Noah swore and nearly dropped the piece, sweating.
“Uh,” Tyler said eloquently. “Over-under?”
He flipped the photo and perplexedly stared. Noah let out another slew in what he assumed to be a different language. German, maybe?
“That’s not even a real direction, you moron!”
At least they weren’t the only ones struggling. DJ was lost somewhere and the Amazons were working together as wonderfully as they usually did (read: not at all.)
God, he was pretty sure that he could hear Sierra’s sobs from across the damn building until her weird solo. As long as it saved him from having to sing, though.
And, finally, as the last piece was put into its spot, Chris’s announcement booms, “Team Victory lost again, no longer ironic.”
And they were still 2nd place. How was it that he got stuck with the least competent of the bunch? Good for nothing, brainless, incompetent, and utter fucking morons. Over-under?
Alejandro was probably going to spend thirty minutes in the confessional to even try to articulate the pure fury in him. Over-goddamn-under? He was sick and tired of this competition and its sadistic, narcissistic host and stupid excuses of competitors.
“Hey, man,” Noah called out from atop his shoulders, fingers digging into his hair for balance, “could you put me down?”
He felt some of the anger dissolve at the bored, mildly irritated look on the other’s face. Chris went on in the background, but he could find himself caring little. “Not enjoying the view?”
The other smiled. “I am, but I imagine Chris wants me on the ground for the fashion-show event thing that’s happening with Team Victory. Man, he seriously doesn’t want to let DJ leave.”
His words uncurl a new idea in his mind, blinking softly as he put the sardonic boy down.
Thank you, Noah.
His mind reiterated the thought under a completely different context as the fluorescents shone down on him. He nearly stared. It was that bad, leaving him hot in the face and dry in the mouth.
He remembered his parents’ stories of their love and dedication—for the little he knew about them, he was sure those were real. The looks shared everywhere did convey what they said. Not that he was thinking about that.
“C’mon, Alejandro, Chris doesn’t wait on anyone.” He gestured languidly and started on.
It was only on the walk there that he realized Noah hadn’t called him Al.
. . . Would having a friend be so terrible?
He thought of the soft, large eyes and a sharp tongue and angled limbs. Of piercing wit and long, soft hair.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps he could use a friend.
—-—
“Yeah, I’ve reread this book so many times that I could recite the script backwards in French,” he said with a sigh. It was a huge book, no doubt, but Noah was always reading, and a fast reader at that, so he’d made quick work of it.
“And I don’t even like rereading books! What’s the point if you already know the plot to something? Also why I can’t watch cheesy TV shows with my sisters.” His complaints were oddly endearing, though loud in the night while the others in first class slept.
“I understand completely, mi amigo.” For once those words did not feel false on his tongue. It was refreshing to be able to say what he thought. “Cliché plot points do not interest me, although I spend little time with technology.”
“Right because you run a million clubs and the government,” he snarked.
“Do you mean the actual government or the student government?”
“Honestly, which ever way you choose to interpret it. It’s ambiguous now.”
Alejandro guffawed and the others snickered. “That’s not how that works. You can’t choose that after you say it.”
“I just did.” He turned his head to face Alejandro, face poorly lit by the starlight filtering in and the faint glow of the lights from the bar. He smirked confidently, as in a manner of mocking, yet he felt no true offense. “What are you gonna do about it?”
He hoped the heat in his face could be explained away by his warm nature that he’d played up. He held a hand to his chin as if thinking, then said after a while, “I’m not sure. I’m afraid you’ve stumped me, mi vida.”
In a show of boldness, the other poked his forehead with a smile bordering on childish. “Well, put that brain to use. I know you know how to use it.”
He didn’t know how to use it for anything else. His head was stuck on the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and the shallow dip of his smile.
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. Hell, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
He must’ve been gaping like an idiot because a gentle tap met his shoulder, spurring him back to the present. “I’m afraid that my brain is filled to the brim.”
“With scheming?” He joked.
“Much worse,” he said, unsure of whether it was a joke. Was the idea of kissing someone much worse than planning the future of the game?
Alejandro felt that he would either choke on his awe at that minute or kiss him stupid, so he chose to redirect his gaze back at that ceiling, thoughts not ceasing.
“Well, I suppose we all have our fantasies.”
Alejandro nearly choked on his spit. Between looks of bewilderment and pure embarrassment, he stumbled for an answer that didn’t make him seem like a total loser.
Noah laughed right the minute he started, eyes crinkling in amusement paired with tiny, ugly snorts that nearly made him short-circuit. He laughed until his cheeks flushed and someone stirred nearby.
“I don’t— I didn’t mean literally, oh my god, dude.”
“No, no, I’m sorry. I was just caught off guard by your joke. I just hadn’t been expecting it!”
A hand fell on his shoulder and he fell silent, met with the stifled humor and Alejandro swore he fell further, beyond a point of no return. The idea of Noah having fantasies alarmed him, but the other did not seem to care.
“Just a joke. But, if I must, I’ll let you go and dream of Heather without my interceptions.”
Alejandro panicked, scrambling. “No, I, ah, do not dream of Heather. I am a loyal man.”
The other’s happiness seemed to melt away, replaced by skepticism. “Loyal to whom? You’ve been playing like this with a girlfriend—“
“No, no, I’m afraid you misunderstood. I am not with them, per se, just simply loyal to the idea, you see?”
He relaxed visibly, although the small furrow of his brow did not smooth itself out. “Man, you must be loyal to think of them across the world. Well, maybe across the world. Wherever the hell we’re at currently.”
He studied the way the other’s hair fanned across the chair and his tired eyes. Slowly, carefully, he responded, “I don’t believe they are across the world. In fact, I’d say they’re the opposite.”
“So it’s someone on the plane, unless you know where we’re landing.”
He watched as Noah sorted out his people and started stringing up theories, the process of his mind moving clearly in his eyes.
“So—“
“I do not know where we are landing at.”
The sardonic teen looked at him curiously and said, “So they’re on the plane, then. Okay.”
Maybe it was because of the way that Alejandro was looking at him, or because of hope in itself, or maybe it had just been a selfish guess, but he responded shakily, “Do they happen to be awake right now?”
Alejandro only smiled.
He coughed and turned away, like the mere idea made him so uncomfortable he couldn’t bear it anymore. He muffled a soft laugh in response, watching as the other turned to look at him completely.
“You’re serious? Me?”
“Of course.” It would always be him.
He blushed brightly, even the dim lighting doing nothing to hide it. He soaked in that version of him, with messy hair and pajamas, blushing to the roots of his hair.
“Is it..?”
“Yeah,” Noah answered in response, looking breathless.
And for the first time in his life, he tasted him in his entirety, sweet and arid.
—
This challenge was, in short, maddening. They were down numbers, not one but two, Tyler couldn’t do anything right, and Noah suddenly had no will to play after his friends got stuck in a plane crash. Saddening, yes, but Noah dwelling over Owen and Izzy of all people never failed to intrigue him.
What had he seen in those imbeciles? What possibly could’ve led to the care that he wasn’t even focused on a million dollars? It would’ve been understandable had it been someone important, but them?
He took the correct approach to it, though, placing a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. the other startled slightly but didn’t complain, letting out a remark with too much bite about personal space and Sierra’s latest influence.
Alejandro skipped past it, wincing at the display of the track they were going to ride.
I need my teammates at their best, that way I can focus on DJ. He mentally prepared himself for the hell that was sure to come judging by the life-threatening roller coaster in front of him.
“We’ve got this,” he reassured Noah, who was still too focused on Owen. Owen! Ridiculous, fat, disgusting, childish Owen. And Izzy was no better. How could someone as intelligent as he be so focused on a weird girl and her gross boyfriend?
Noah’s body seemed to lose its tenseness, shoulder slackening, until Alejandro continued, “Victory is still on the horizon. Now is not the time to quit.”
He tensed right back up, which he had no time to fix as Chris jumped himself straight into his next explanation. He’d deal with that in a second. Noah would understand; he always did. The beauty of loving someone so intelligent was that they would always understand.
His humorous, witty Noah.
—-—
“…An eel dipped in grease, swimming in motor oil.”
He stared at the monitor blankly, forcing his body not to react. He didn’t even know if his poor exercise of restraint was working.
It probably wasn’t judging by how his nails dug their evidence into his palms until they stung. The screen warbled faintly in front of him through the thin sheen of tears. He had the urge to slam his fist into it.
He blinked mechanically until the heat behind his eyes was submerged again, yet the heat in his head and the urge to yell and scream and throw a tantrum was nowhere near gone. Forced the panicky feeling down.
Why now?
He’d known. Why now? Hadn’t he..?
At that very moment, he told himself that Noah’s name would not leave his mouth again. Carlos could up and leave, and so could Noah.
You’re here for a million dollars, not for some faulty excuse of a friend, he thought, forcing it into the forefront of his mind until he didn’t feel the betrayal nor the faint hurt. He’d known since Germany, had been suspicious before then. Why did he choose then?
He stomped the thought down. Didn’t matter. Noah would be gone soon. Alejandro would make sure of that. It didn’t matter that numbers were tied; he could convince that oaf one way or another.
He’d delayed enough on getting rid of anyone. He should’ve been gone in New York, anyway. Dead weight. He couldn’t even bear his own weight with his intelligence, so fucking weak and pathetic.
There was a pathetic, dying urge to yank it from the wall and toss against the wall and stomp on it, like its mere existence had caused the blatant insult to spill from his teammate’s—ally’s? Friend’s?—lips.
He wanted to throw a tantrum. That was what he wanted. He wanted to stop and yell and scream like a spoiled child that had not gotten their way.
He dug his nails into his skin deep enough to draw blood as he watched them catch the Ripper, hearing their entrance into the plane, the grating voices of everyone skinning him of his remaining patience.
He wanted to spit and punch on the other the minute his stupid, disloyal, hypocritical face had appeared before his. The only thing that satisfied the feelings brewing under his skin was the fantasy of the cunt’s face under his fist, nose cracking.
But he couldn’t. He wasn’t allowed. Never was. He was forced to bite his tongue and play nice because that was what gentlemen did. Gentlemen did not trust back-handed skanks, either. Gentlemen did not—
“Like an eel dipped in grease, swimming in motor oil,” he spat, watching him sputter to save face. Flushed a deep crimson, muttering excuses and rubbing his neck. Alejandro wished, once again, to slam his knuckles into the face of his offender once again.
He could imagine feeling the crack of bone under skin, of watching—
Cody tapped his shoulder gently, then scampered off behind Sierra like he was under threat. Looking around Team Amazon, he clearly was the designated loser to tap him back into reality, in a literal sense.
He couldn’t care about Duncan or Ezekiel or weird bullshit and loopholes. Sure, winning would have been nice, but the idea of shoving him out of a plane was better.
—
He almost would’ve pitied the look in poor, shameful Noah’s eyes if it wasn’t so amusing to see him deflate. All out of options because he didn’t know when to stop running his goddamn mouth.
Typical of assholes.
The confessional lights beat down on them, casting harsh angles and shadows into the cuts of his face.
Cuts where Alejandro wanted to break. Watch them crumble under his hands and bleed. God, he wanted to see his poor Noah curled up on the floor clutching his face with—
“Don’t act like you’re not an asshole. You deserved what was coming.” His words were curt and dry, like he wanted to minimize having to do anything to talk to Alejandro. The look on his was vague, something he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint without consideration.
“You’re as much an actor as me, if how you’re acting now says anything,” he responded coolly, thinking of how long it would take for anyone to get to the pathetic loser after bloodying him.
He wouldn’t even be able to fight back, and Alejandro would fix him once he was done. He would wipe the blood off and brush his hands gently across the bruises until he apologized. Then it would all be okay.
His face twisted into disgust, accented by the arch in his brow. “You and I are not remotely similar on any level. I don’t seduce people and then throw them off planes. I drop an occasional annoying remark.”
If the door were to slam and lock, would anyone be able to reach the sardonic teen before he was on the ground? He was lucky that Alejandro had so much tolerance for idiocy, something Total Drama had been helpful in teaching him: patience.
Noah had done something stupid, so he had to be patient. And if he wasn’t, what would it matter? He would be hurtling out of a plane in less than a few hours.
He forced his hands to unwind from their clenched fists and counted until he lost the idea of slamming his head into the floor.
“You knew since Germany.” He deflected the subject altogether. “Why did you choose then, and in such an unforgiving manner?”
He only crossed his arms. “What does it matter? I’m going home soon. I don’t have to humor you, especially since nothing will change the outcome now.”
His fist met Noah’s nose with an awful—awfully satisfying—crack that sent the other toward the back wall in a matter of seconds, cussing a torrent and holding his nose as the blood hit the ground with a steady rhythm.
“Go on. Answer me.”
He wondered if he could still cradle the other’s face and apologize, beg for forgiveness as he plead it had been a mistake and he’d been unreasonably furious. He doubted it, but his thoughts filled the empty void of touch he craved.
“You know what?” He was met with nothing but a sarcastic smile, brighter than the genuine ones. Stubborn and resilient. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You aren’t serious. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Noah,” he begged, desperate. He had to know. Had to know why he’d been betrayed.
“No.”
He took a step closer, wondering if he could intimidate it out of him. The other braced his shoulders like he could even hold two punches against him. Pathetic.
The fear, only a flicker which he managed to disguise almost immediately, spread beautifully over his face in its brief residence. He put a hand on the other’s shoulder, watching as he pressed himself flush against the wall of the confessional.
“Go on. I don’t bite.”
“But you punch,” he snapped back. “Crazy asshole—“
»Alejandro. I want to hear nothing of it,« his mother said irritably. A rare, rare bout of anger from her. She was better than Papá at concealing her emotions. »I will not have an uncontrollable lunatic as my son. I suggest you fix yourself, you animal.«
He did not respond with anything but a nod, staring at his bruised fist and the ground he stood upon. His knuckles were discolored, bruising faintly even though it had been nothing more than an hour ago.
“Is that why your brother left?”
He recalled the feeling of his fist meeting their face with an ugly, awkward smash. People’s gasps. The immediate fear and regret. The anger from everyone surrounding him. A joke, it had been.
Certainly hadn’t felt like one.
“Give me a verbal answer, Alejandro,” she demanded, rage pouring through her leering gaze. Shame seemed to choke him. And fear. If Mamá was that bad, he dreaded to see how terribly his father would react.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The living room felt too large for two people.
“You are lucky we aren’t sending you off to therapy because you are certainly acting like those crazies,” she snapped, and he almost cowered backward. “You punched another kid. How does that look for us?”
She slammed a hand on the table when he didn’t listen. “Are you planning to tear this family’s reputations to shreds? Are you, Alejandro?”
“No,” he responded, not daring to meet her gaze. The unjustness bored into him. “Mamá, they blamed me for—“
“Carlos’s departure?” She finished, walls back up. Her ironic smile nearly made him run to his room. “Perhaps, if you acted that badly, it was the guilt speaking.”
His heart nearly stopped in his chest.
“What? Mamá, you can’t—“
“I can, Alejandro. Do not tell me what I can and can’t do. You will discuss this with your father later.”
She stood up abruptly and stormed off. He didn’t know whether the worst part was even over.
…
They moved a month later.
Alejandro relished the sound as Noah cradled his bruising cheek with trepidation, knowing that he had absolutely no chance of surviving a fight. Not with the already-poor shape he was in and being against someone with almost equal intellect.
Seeing his head snap to the side had been truly a show.
Alejandro forced his hand down off the bruising side of his cheek as the other squirmed and threw meaningless insults like his life depended on it. It could, technically, although Alejandro had no intention of murdering him.
He wasn’t crazy.
Although his family had gone out of their way to make him seem like it, he hadn’t ever been crazy. He’d simply been, at the time, ill-tempered. A bad joke at the wrong time.
He let his hand linger on the battered cheek of the utterly perfect man in front of him, who regarded him anxiously. He knew he had no chance of escape when it was just the two of them.
A lovely idea, just the two of them.
Lovingly, he placed his hand over the spot where his fist had connected. Noah hissed in pain, and Alejandro saw the moment he planned to act on the primal instinct to escape, slamming his wrist back into the unforgiving wall.
Fine, if only Alejandro wanted to cooperate that was okay.
He thought of the beauty of the man under the sun in Jamaica, his wit in France, the leadership he had taken in London earlier that day.
“Alejandro, stop. I’m already taking a nosedive out of here. What more do you want out of me?” He snapped as Alejandro brushed the crooked part of his nose. Harsh. Maybe it was on instinct.
His breath felt short and fast, like it was through a tube. He was getting light in the head from being so close to him. “I’m sorry you cannot stick around longer. I’m not sorry that you took those measures upon yourself. If you had not been so bold and impulsive—“
A hand slammed into his cheek, shock enough for Noah to trip out from underneath him and make a quick bolt for the door. Alejandro felt panic surge like nothing before, nearly springing the two steps between them and latching onto his hair.
If word got out, things would be bad.
He pulled Noah back by his hair as harshly as possible, hearing his cry of pain which he quickly muffled with a hand to his mouth. He hit the floor with a nasty thud, enough it would’ve sent anyone running in their direction.
Mierda.
He quickly clamped it tighter over the other’s mouth, who bit at him in some desperate attempt at fighting back. It didn’t work, mostly because his mouth was full of blood, spilling over Alejandro’s hand in a disgusting mess.
After a while no one came, so he let go of the traitor who wheezed on the floor and spat blood and hacked pathetically. Alejandro grabbed for the paper towels on the counter and dabbed at his mouth, where his teeth had cut his lip during the fall and the tooth that had been knocked loose nearly fell out.
He didn’t struggle, smart enough to give up when he knew he lost. Not even when Alejandro deliberately dug the paper towel into the cut on the inside of his lip, locked in something akin to shock.
“You know, Noah,” he said softly, “you’re very stubborn. I was simply trying to hold a conversation with you.”
He blinked twice, a weird mix of anger and fear plastered on his face. He slurred his words over the damp paper towel pressed to his lip. “I d’nt think you were doin’ simply anythin’!”
He stroked his cheek, feeling everything ease. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten so mad at Noah. What was he to do once he was gone? When had the competition swerved from winning the million to winning the injured boy in front of him?
The Hispanic placidly placed a kiss to the temple of his head, feeling the quiver underneath him. He wondered if Noah’s nose would heal incorrectly, that he would forever be a part of him. The thought was tempting enough that he considered shattering his nose, just to make sure it did.
That would’ve been a bit far, though.
He observed him once again, changed by only Alejandro. His, in a form. The bruising that was sure only to get worse across his jaw and cheek, the stain of blood on his teeth, and the seething in his eyes.
For once, Alejandro forced himself to pause and look at the pure hatred radiating off of him. But that couldn’t be the case, not when Noah was his and he was Noah’s.
“You have to understand—“
“I d’nt understan’ shi’, you sick fuck!”
“I thought…” he felt the cloying, ugly anger rear its head once again, and the thought came back. Break him, shatter him; prove he belongs to me. Make it so he can’t exist without remembering me and my love.
“I thought you were smart enough to understand, Noah. I should’ve known that you couldn’t.”
He brushed a stray piece of hair away from his face, his fingertips coming back sticky with sweat and the blood from his mouth. It would’ve been gross had it been anyone but him.
He got a glare in response.
Report to the elimination ceremony for tonight’s elimination!
He gently helped the other up, who wanted absolutely no help and brushed his hand off immediately. Alejandro forced him to stay back and clean himself all the way up, leaving only blotchy spots across his cheek, a crooked nose, and faint bruises.
He looked just as monumental as the day Alejandro truly saw him for the first time, the suns rays dancing off of his face.
“And with three votes against him—Noah! Time to say pip-pip! Tally-ho—“
“If I go will you stop?”
Alejandro could only watch as he hugged Owen goodbye and walked toward the door, slinging the parachute over his shoulder.
His eyes darted across the room before leveling ahead, the words, “Beware of eels,” tumbling from his damaged mouth, hatred seeping into his every moment. The wind blew his hair sideways, obstructing his face partially.
But, as he turned and shot him one more glance, he glowered. Like he and Alejandro weren’t meant for each other, like he hadn’t fallen so deeply in love.
He jumped quickly after, not sparing another glance back, and Chris finished off with the dramatic exit. Everyone filed out after him, even Owen, who lingered a bit after. He stared and watched the sealed door until he couldn’t take it anymore, going right back to his natural habitat: the confessional.
It was surprisingly easier than he thought it would be, going back to right where they’d been before. He saw small droplets of blood on the ground, already dry. He could remember his muddled gaze in perfect detail.
“I—“ he cut himself off. Did the confessional camera see everything? Did the world see how crazy he was? The idea almost sickened him. “Do not shoot that, Chris. I gave you performance enough already.”
He didn’t speak after that, staring at the camera with its recording light until he couldn’t do that and stared at his fingers, filthy.
As he turned his hand, he saw the sticky blood and sweat coating his fingers. Carefully, tentatively, he lifted his fingers to his mouth, letting it pool on his tongue.
And, for the last time in his life, he tasted Noah in his entirety, metallic and unforgiving.