by Aiden Bates
“What?” he’d asked again, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “What were you going to say?”
I’d shaken my head, but I think he had some sort of an inkling.
“What?” he’d repeated, this time with a smile threatening to form. “Go on, say it.” He’d playfully tossed a cushion at me. “Say it! What are you going to fall into?”
“Okay! Okay! Stop hitting me! God!” I’d thrown the cushion back at him. “A food coma!” I’d admitted over both of our stupid, childish giggles. “Are you happy now?”
“That’s offensive,” Pedro had said, but he’d been grinning.
And so, little by little, we fell into a routine over the course of the week. But we both seemed to appreciate the ability to set our own habits, and it was such a custom-fit routine for both of us that, about halfway through the week, it felt less like we were falling into a pattern and more like we’d always done things this way.
Pedro went to physical therapy on Wednesday, visited with Marcos on Thursday, and was talking about finding a part time job on Friday. I’d kept in contact with my parents, but what I was enjoying was the ability to work. I started answering work e-mails in a more organized way, I started looking into different projects, and midway through the week, I even found myself recommissioned for the “Valor Under Fire” sequel.
True, “Valor Under Fire” hadn’t been my favorite thing to work on, but I found myself blazing through its, as of yet, unnamed sequel at a pace I hadn’t been able to find for the original. Maybe it was because I now had my own space. It essentially felt like I was beginning a new chapter in my life, one separated from the past. Maybe that was what I’d been missing, and now I had it, it gave me the ability to work with a much clearer mind.
I actually got so much work done on “VUF 2” as I’d started calling it in my head for lack of a better title, that I started looking forward to when Pedro was out of the house. That’s when my thoughts started turning on making the final push to finish my own project.
Probably one of the most important things I had in terms of my personal project was also the same thing that was giving me the worst writer’s block. Or, more accurately, artist’s block. I had reached the part of “Sirocco” where the story arc needed the introduction of a new love interest. If the entire story was loosely autobiographical, then that was the part that felt a little awkward to fully wrap my head around. Nevertheless, with a new kind of energy and new horizons opening in my life, it seemed only fair to give Rig, my omega protagonist, the same kind of new beginning.
So, determined to get over this particular hurdle once and for all, I sat down with my tablet and started developing something of a character study, which didn’t just involve still designs. The studies were littered with sketches of the gestures the character would use, the expressions they’d make, the ways their clothes fit them individually and what that suggested about them as people.
I had to breathe life into my characters, then they carried the script forward, inhabited the panels I drew them into, and sometimes suggested their own dialogue and yanked the story in a completely direction. I had to work at them on the page until I believed in them, until I felt them as a presence in the story. Then, the rest usually followed afterward.
That had been sort of my problem. I knew Rig needed an alpha to bring the story to a satisfying ending, but I had no idea what type of person this alpha might be. I couldn’t draw him if I didn’t know who I wanted him to be, and I had trouble visualizing who I wanted him to be without the ability to draw him. Catch 22.
In the different mindset I was in, though, I could sort of start to see Rig’s alpha. I could start making out the contours of his body, the lines of his face, the tone he’d use, and the type of lines he’d deliver. I had vague ideas that shimmered just on the edges of my vision and tempted me onward to chase them. So, I drew. I drew, and then wiped my tablet clean when I wasn’t satisfied. But it was, all in all, a different kind of dissatisfaction. It didn’t feel like I was running out of good ideas. It was a productive kind of dissatisfaction because it was the kind of restlessness I got when I knew there is a right answer, a kernel of a good idea somewhere in me. I just had to tease it out.
“Holy shit, what are you working on?” Pedro asked. I looked up to see him standing in the kitchen with bags in his hands and a sort of taken-aback look on his face.
“Huh?” I hurriedly took off my glasses and blinked quickly to refocus my eyes. “Nothing… Just the comic. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, man, you just looked like you were like…punching in nuclear codes into that thing,” Pedro said, moving to the kitchen counter to start putting away the food he’d no doubt brought back from his mami’s house. He put something in the microwave to heat, and then pulled down plates from the cabinets. As he worked, he threw a couple of concerned glances over at me, not bothering to hide his worry.
“I’m okay, really. Just working,” I said, trying to dispel any concern. For some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I felt like I’d gotten caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. Like when I was a teenager and Papa inadvertently walked into my room while I was starting to practice my more…grown-up sketches. For whatever reason, I felt a hot flush threaten to heat my neck and cheeks, and I quickly put away my laptop before any questions about what I was drawing could come up.
“What’s that?” I asked, shifting the conversation to the rustling bags Pedro was unpacking.
“Yeah, so… Mami’s really been leaning into teaching Mitch and Oliver how to cook, right? I mean, apparently Oliver already kinda knew how to cook because that’s the kind of fancy hobby he’d have, but with Juan around now, they want to make sure he grows up surrounded by his culture.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed, peering over at what Pedro had brought home. The microwave beeped to let us know it was ready, and whatever it was smelled great. I sprang to my feet to help bring back both of our plates as Pedro struggled to balance everything.
“Right, so, they’re working on all these complicated-ass recipes that require assembly lines to make and can only be made in bigger portions. So, Mami said they’ll always be looking for an extra pair of hands and will reward anyone who helps.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, still feeling jittery without fully being able to explain to myself why.
“Yeah, I helped Papi keep the fire low on the meat because that’s a job you can do sitting. So, as a result, I got us plenty of carnitas. But, in reality, they weren’t even that into me coming. Mami was more extending the invitation to you… Dude? Really, are you okay?”
He was asking because I had nibbled at a tiny piece of the pork, tasted the juicy, marbled, tender piece, and had about fallen onto the rest of it as quickly as I could without even waiting for him to finish unwrapping the tortillas. It tasted like greasy, rich, salted, sizzling heaven.
It was hot. It was steaming. I was hot. I might as well have been steaming.
“Mmm!” I said as Pedro sat down on the couch, staring at me. “Mmm, this is really delicious, it’s—” That’s when I realized what this really was. I put down my plate and swallowed. “Oh my god!”
Pedro blinked, terrified at the crazy person he’d decided to room with. But the scent must have reached his nose over the top of the savory pork and the floury tortillas because, almost as soon as I’d realized why I was suddenly ravenous, he realized it, too.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m early!” I yelled as I ran to the bathroom for my pill. “I’m sorry! My heat’s not usually like this! I’m sorry.”
“N-n-n-no! No! I’m okay!” Pedro yelled while I pawed through my bag in the bathroom and found my pill. Not daring to go back to the living room without taking it first, I popped the pill into my mouth, and then stuck my head under the faucet and drank from that. I waited a few moments, and then cautiously returned.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“No, it’s fine, but I can leave if you’d like me to
. I totally get it. But, honestly, I’m not going to…rip your clothes off or anything. I promise,” Pedro said in a calm, soothing tone of voice.
He was sitting with his knees spread, holding his plate between his legs. He’d come home in fatigue shorts and a tank top, and was perfectly still, staring up at me as I stood in the middle of the room. It was suddenly easy to appreciate how much his physical therapy was definitely working in getting some of his muscle tone back.
No, he didn’t need to leave, the reptilian part of my brain supplied. He needed to stay.
What the hell? My heat was always disruptive, but why was it so…so…much this time?
I shook my head. “No, it’s okay,” I said, lying. I glanced at my tablet, which I’d left on the couch next to Pedro.
“I’m okay,” I said, lying again.
Pedro slowly nodded, as if he didn’t quite believe me. “Finish your dinner,” he said, pointing to my plate.
“No, it’s okay. I’m not hungry, anyway,” I said, lying for the third time. I couldn’t stay. If Pedro stayed, then I couldn’t. “I’m just going to go to my room and wait it out until the pill kicks in.”
I sped-walk to grab my tablet, utterly refusing to look at a very quiet, very concerned Pedro. I grabbed my things, headed for my room, and shut the door behind me.
Once inside, I tried to shake off the wooziness of my heat coming on so suddenly, and forced myself to sit down to work, to pick up where I’d been before Pedro and carnitas and heat interrupted me.
This is fine, I told myself as I penciled in a sketch, finished it, and then went back for another, more detailed pass. This is fine, I kept repeating, trying to force my thoughts away from how my body was feeling and onto my work.
I worked mindlessly but determinedly, ignoring my hunger, the fact that the room felt like it was sweltering, the way by body was sweating, and the very certain feeling I was definitely going to pass out before this stupid pill kicked in.
It was dark in my room when I finally pulled back from my tablet, when I finally felt under control enough to stop. My eyes hurt from squinting, and the only light in my room was the glow of my screen. I leaned back in my chair, rubbed my eyes, and breathed until I felt like I had enough distance to appreciate and appraise the results of my labor.
So, I leaned forward and gazed into my tablet to assess my character sketches… And almost groaned aloud.
I stared at my depiction of Rig’s love interest, and Rig’s love interest stared at me.
This wouldn’t do. This almost had to be all redone. Rig’s final alpha was going to have to be completely redrawn because all the detail I’d put into his fatigues, the expressions I’d filled in, the coloring, shading, posturing… Wasn’t just based on him. It was absolutely, completely, certifiably, recognizably him.
It was Pedro.
8
Pedro
I was out in the desert again, with the squad.
No, I wasn’t. I was home. Right?
No, I was out in the desert again with the squad. We were driving through nothing but desert scrub and sand.
No, I was lying in bed.
No, I wasn’t. It was hot as hell, and I was being thrown around in the Humvee as Carpenter tried to navigate potholes and deep ruts. I couldn’t see much of anything because my glasses were smeared in something. No, I couldn’t see because everything was hazy and blurry. Almost, like when trying to picture something.
There was something I had to do. I couldn’t tell what. It’s like I couldn’t remember what, but there was definitely something really important I had to do or tell the other guys. I wanted to tell the guys to shut up. I wanted to tell the guys to quit razzing O’Rourke about… About what?
Charlie.
He was talking about going home to Charlie when we spotted the abandoned vehicle and everyone got quiet.
We weren’t supposed to go near it, I was sure.
We got out of the Humvee and started forming a perimeter around the SUV that was partially covered by a tattered tarp. Garret Long brushed past me to approach the SUV alongside O’Rourke.
I had to stop Jason. That was what I was supposed to do. I had to call out to Jason or signal or something.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Roman came up beside me and my feet felt like they were being forced forward. Like I was a little green toy soldier and a gigantic kid was moving me along.
Stop. Stop it, Carpenter. Don’t go any further.
Why?
Because half of you gets burned when you get thrown back. Not all of you comes home, either, Long.
Jason? Jesus. Jason, you don’t come home at all. You don’t get to see Charlie. You were just talking about him, for god’s sake, and now you won’t ever get to say anything to him ever again.
My brother was up ahead, and I could see him move his mouth like he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him. Carpenter had moved ahead of me just as Jason reached the front of the SUV. Jason immediately turned around and dove into both Long and Carpenter.
I could finally hear what my brother was trying to say.
“Pedro? Wake up. Come on, dude. Please wake up.”
And with that, my eyes opened.
I was in bed. I was alone, and staring up at the ceiling.
I wasn’t in the desert.
Shit. I rolled over to check what time it was. Nine o’clock. Shit.
Old habits die hard, I guessed, and seeing the clock read nine still sent a wave of panic through me before I remembered I hadn’t had to wake up at five o’clock in a while, technically, in four years.
Still, I had never been one for laying around much, and after spending so much time lying in bed, it felt especially wasteful to not be up and around whenever I possibly could. I tried to swing my legs out of bed, but my left leg cramped and completely refused to cooperate. Instead, it lay there, seizing in pain like it did after a long physical therapy session.
Camden said that whenever I woke up with my leg like this or whenever my jaw hurt all day for no reason, it was an indication I’d been having nightmares and had been clenching my muscles in my sleep. When he had first told me that, I had asked him if that was good. You know, maybe it was a good thing that I was getting some of that dynamic tension stuff in my sleep? But Camden said it wasn’t good because it impeded muscle recovery, and that it was just more evidence of the connection between mind and body in recovery, and then he said a lot of other stuff I didn’t fully pay attention to. So, whenever I had nightmares I woke up with, at best, stiffness, and at worst with shooting pains up through my leg and to my hip.
I figured I should probably try to get up and get around. Maybe I could work off some of the soreness before I had to go to PT later that day and make myself sore all over again.
I half-dragged myself to the bathroom and took my muscle relaxants, pain pills, vitamins, fiber, and all of the other things Camden and the doctors had me on. Well, they had also written me anti-anxiety and anti-depressants to help me sleep, but I wasn’t happy about those. So I guess I didn’t take all the pills I was supposed to, but, you know, enough of them to get me going for the day.
After I could finally breathe through the pain and when it looked like my leg might be ready to cooperate, I cautiously stretched, and then let myself out of the bathroom. My body was online, now it was time for the rest of me to come back online.
What I needed was coffee. Strong, hot, sweet.
Thankfully, coffee was already made. I could smell it brewing in the kitchen, which meant Charlie was up. I think I made it too strong for Charlie’s taste, but I wasn’t sure. He hadn’t said anything, but I just noticed I kept getting beaten to the coffee maker every morning.
I knocked on his door as I walked past it on my way to the kitchen. “Morning, dude!”
“Morning!” Charlie sounded strangled, almost panicked.
I stopped in my tracks, and then walked back a little to return to his door.
“Charlie?” I asked
, rapping the door with my knuckles. “Are you okay in there?”
“Absolutely!” Charlie said, trying to sound cheerful, but it came across as too forced, so he ended up sounding hysterical.
“Okay… Well, do you want coffee? I see you started brewing some.”
“Nope!” he said, again with that forced brightness. “All good! I can get some in a bit. Th-Thank you! Bye!”
Huh? Despite that sounding like Charlie was ending the conversation, I didn’t move away from the door. I mean, he obviously did want coffee, right? That’s why he got up to make it. Maybe he was weird. Maybe this was part of how Charlie worked through his heat? I mean, I’d been around omegas before, of course. And from the amount of time I’d spent at Marcos’s place since I’d woken up I’d developed a lot more experience with omegas in heat recently. Oliver and Mitch were usually on suppressants and were a little over-the-top and melodramatic during their heats, but they didn’t seem the type to lock themselves in their rooms over it. However, I wasn’t some strange alpha to them, and I guessed, as comfortable as I’d gotten during the little routine Charlie and I were developing over the week, I was still kind of a stranger to him.
Just another effect of my remembering seeing him at a party with Jason in what was to me a little over a year ago, whereas Charlie had basically gone a whole four years without seeing me. Maybe he had been serious when his heat had started last night. Maybe it was a serious concern whether he could trust me to just act normal while he rode it out.
Well, I didn’t want to interrupt whatever he was doing in there, but at the same time I didn’t want him to feel like he had to spend the entire heat in his room for fear of my being awkward around him. Or worse.
I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee while I thought of the best way to tell him I wasn’t going to try anything, so he could come out. He needed to see I really could just ignore his heat and mind my own business as usual. But maybe that’s exactly the kind of thing a creepy roommate who was trying to pull something might tell an omega, so I could understand why Charlie might not necessarily be convinced.
