by Aiden Bates
“I know, and that’s part of it. That’s definitely part of it. It feels like every day I find out how much everyone has moved on without me. But it’s not what was wrong with me while I was getting ready. Or at least not the whole reason. I feel…”
“You feel like I’m still his,” Charlie said, finishing for me.
I sighed, both horrified and relieved he could tell what I’d been secretly fearing the whole time.
“I feel like such a bastard, dude. I mean, thinking you were still his didn’t stop me, and I’m not even sorry it didn’t stop me. But I feel that, wherever we are, whenever I’m with you, I’m going to turn around and he’s going to be standing there. Disappointed in me or shocked that he caught us together. To me, you were only with him six months ago.”
I hoped he understood. Not just what I was feeling but why I was feeling it. I definitely didn’t think Charlie was cheating, it wasn’t that, but I was just having a hard time thinking of him as not…taken.
“Well,” Charlie said, sounding very, very careful. “You’re not the first person to feel like that. I got engaged to him when I was eighteen. Understandably, most people who know me are going to know me in the context of Jason. After he died, no one showed any interest in me, and at the time I was grateful for it. But now, four years later, there is still no one showing any interest in me, no one asking me out, no one willing to take a hint whenever I’ve felt brave enough to drop one. Nothing. No one seems to think of me as not being Jason’s, which is kind of scary after so long.” Charlie dropped his gaze and shook his head slightly, as if coming to terms with that knowledge. It must have been hard for him, to not be acknowledged as a person in his own right. That he might always be Jason’s in people’s minds.
Charlie looked back up at me, his eyes a little sad. “So no, you’re definitely not the only one to feel like that, but in your case, you have a legitimate reason. In your viewpoint it’s not been long at all, so even if you haven’t moved on yet, that’s okay. You’re actually doing better than most in that regard.”
“Have you?” I asked. “Moved on, I mean.”
“Not entirely, but most of the way,” he said, nodding now. “But you know, I’ve had four years. You’ll have four years, eventually. Bit by bit, the slow way. The usual way. I imagine there will be ups and downs, but in the end you’ll wake up and realize that something which used to make it too painful to breathe has loosened its grip on you. Even if it’s just a little. It’ll be like having a scar instead of an open wound. You’ll get there. You have to. We all have to,” Charlie said, definitively.
He sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Like, he was speaking from experience. He was, obviously. But more than that, he sounded like he was speaking with a kind of authority. I listened and believed him. I couldn’t do anything else.
“And no. I don’t think you’re a bastard. How could I? You’re the first person to ask if I’m over it instead of just assuming I couldn’t be. And I guess, because of that, I like to think he wouldn’t think you were a bastard, either. If that helps.”
“It does,” I said, sounding more sure than I’d thought possible.
“Good. So, a little while ago when you caught me working on a comic, I didn’t want to say too much about it because you said it’s glorifying war and stuff. But that comic was actually mine. It’s silly and it’ll probably never get published or anything. Too artsy and too depressing for the mainstream. But in a way it’s helped me work through stuff. Through Jason.”
For the first time all night, Charlie hesitated.
“Maybe it would help you, too?”
I knew what he was asking, and I immediately knew my response. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I’d love to look at it.”
“Great,” Charlie said with a smile.
Two desserts later and I was ready to see, or do, or say, or be anything Charlie wanted.
17
Charlie
I parked the car, and then we slowly strolled up to our apartment building. I didn’t really want the date to end. I was a little nervous about showing “Sirocco” to Pedro. It was more than just a comic. It was… Well, it was me. It was, in many ways, my story. And I supposed once I showed it to him, the date would be over.
The last few weeks had proved how much I enjoyed Pedro’s company, but tonight was different. I think tonight was about officially moving past two guys who happened to share an apartment and were fucking each other on every surface, to becoming something else. I liked that idea, and I think Pedro did too. When dinner turned to talking about Jason, it had allowed us to clear the air and the lines that may have been a little murky. It wasn’t…easy talking about Jason, and it probably never would be, but it had to happen. If Pedro and I were ever going to have a future with each other we were going to have to come to some sort of peace with our shared past. I wasn’t naive. It was going to take more than one conversation for us to be able to do that, but it was a start.
“So, how was that?” Pedro asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I laughed a little. “Well, it was dinner, mainly.” It was fun to watch Pedro get flustered.
“Well, yeah. But, like…as a date. Was it good?” His voice was just a little strained, just a little anxious.
“Mmm, bit hard to gauge considering we eat dinner together pretty much every night. But it was fun. Relaxing. And it was really good to get out of the house and just breathe a little.”
It was nice to get out from under all the news reports and pregnancy concerns, and just “be” for a few hours. It didn’t ultimately matter whether I was pregnant or not. It was just the two of us going on a date, seeing if we were compatible. Just like anybody else.
“Okay, but let’s say we were just meeting. Mitch had told you about this really wonderful alpha, and Marcos and Bennet told me they knew about this really cute omega—”
“You think I’m a really cute omega?” I asked.
“No, you’re absolutely the ugliest omega I’ve ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. But let’s pretend for a second I didn’t know that about you yet.”
“Rude,” I said.
Pedro arched his eyebrow. “Yeah, man. Incredibly.”
I tried and failed to hide a smirk.
“Can I finish?”
“Alright, alright, go on then.”
“So, like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. What if this was the first time we were meeting, and we didn’t have any of this other stuff hanging between us and we didn’t already live together—”
“Goodness, that’s a lot of things,” I said.
“You’re impossible. What I’m trying to ask is would that Charlie Zimmerman want to kiss that Pedro Acosta right about now?”
“You know, we have kissed before. Done a lot else besides.”
“Come on, Charlie. Humor me.”
It was endearing. He was looking at me with so much hope, so much uncertainty about my answer. I mock considered for a moment before giving him a warm smile.
“Sure. I think that really cute Charlie Zimmerman would be okay with that really wonderful Pedro Acosta kissing him good night. Might even be a little disappointed if he didn’t, honestly.”
Pedro came closer, cupping the back of my head as he pressed his mouth to mine. His mouth was soft, gentle in a way I hadn’t realized Pedro could be. It was a little chaste for what I was used to with Pedro, but I realized he was being a little literal. He was giving me a first date kiss, one so sweet, that when it ended it made a few butterflies flutter in my stomach.
It was perfect.
Pedro pulled away, but only just. His forehead was resting against mine, his eyes still shut.
“Do you want to come up to my place?” I quietly asked.
Pedro opened his eyes, saw my grin, and played along.
“That depends. Do you want to come up to mine?”
I grabbed Pedro’s hand and we went up together.
When we got in, I threw my keys in t
he bowl, and then quickly stripped off my jacket. I expected Pedro to be on me immediately, and I was more than okay with that plan. Instead, he surprised me.
“So, where’s this comic?”
“Oh, right,” I said, blushing.
The nervousness from earlier crept back in as I led him to my room.
Pedro made himself at home, sprawling out across my tiny bed, and I cued up the finished panels on my tablet.
“Sirocco?” Pedro asked.
“It’s a hot dry wind that comes up from Northern Africa and the area around the Middle East. Brings dust storms, but sometimes rain storms, too.”
I hoped I didn’t have to explain it any further, and Pedro seemed to understand. It had felt like that in the beginning. This massive monster that had come and invaded my life. I had no control. I couldn’t escape it. It had destroyed my life, but also rebuilt it in ways I wasn’t prepared for.
It was a strange thing, watching someone else read your story right there in front of you. Pedro took a breath and started reading. I didn’t want to lurk over his shoulder while he was flipping through the first few pages. I sat on the edge of the bed and decided the best thing for me to do was to keep my mouth shut and let my work speak for itself. At first, he swiped through the pages quickly, and then he stopped. Completely stopped. I knew what panel would illicit that response. I would never forget Logan O’Rourke coming to my house and telling me that Jason was gone. That he was never coming back. I’d poured all that grief into those panels. After a while, Pedro sat up and continued to read.
I don’t know exactly how long we stayed like that. Me trying to be quiet and not wonder what Pedro was thinking as he got deeper and deeper into it, and Pedro sitting there beside me reading all of my deepest secrets, the pain I didn’t let anyone see.
Pedro gasped, and I looked up to see him holding the tablet up to me. There it was. Well, more appropriately there he was. Javier, Rig’s alpha. But really, Pedro.
I choked on my tongue, stumbling through my words. “It’s, uh, well, you know… Look, as an artist I pull inspiration and stuff from everywhere. Do you remember your Mami’s tamales? We’d just had those and…you and I were… So I just kind of—”
“Th-th-that’s me, right? In the panel? That’s me, isn’t it?”
Jesus, what was I going to say? There wasn’t really anything for it but the truth.
“There’s definitely a resemblance.”
Pedro snorted, and then continued to swipe through the rest of the pages, reading until he was into the sketches that weren’t done yet.
Everything was ruined. I was absolutely sure of it. I couldn’t read the look on his face as he sat the tablet carefully on my bedside table. He looked stunned, shocked. I thought, more than anything, he was going to stand up and walk out.
He stood up. I braced myself for it. I wondered if Papa would be too upset if I started sleeping in their new sunroom. Instead of leaving, I felt Pedro’s hand take my own and tug me to my feet. Confused, I let him.
“Pedro, I—” I what? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it?
However I was going to finish that sentence was lost as Pedro pulled me to his chest and kissed me. It started out just as gentle, just as soft as the one outside, but it built and built, tempestuous, emotional, almost uncontrolled, like a storm.
Then the storm broke.
Tears streamed down Pedro’s cheeks and he sobbed.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered. Not knowing what else I was supposed to do, I tenderly drew him into my arms and held him.
18
Pedro
Had I ever thought badly about Marcos for listening to Mitch and Oliver as if what they said was the word of god? Absolutely not. Despite what many an alpha thought, omegas and women ruled the houses they lived in, and us alphas had better watch out. My mami had taught me that.
Did I ever snicker at Marcos whenever it was obvious Mitch or Oliver had him wrapped around their little fingers? Maybe, if for no other reason than to annoy Marcos.
Would I have ever outright laughed at seeing Marcos cry because something either Mitch or Oliver did was so profound it moved Marcos to tears. Probably. No, make that definitely.
Man, if only he could see me now.
“Come on. Over here. Come on,” ordered Charlie.
I was too emotionally wrung out to put up much of a fight or to disobey him, even if I had wanted to, which I didn’t and never would. So, when Charlie held me for a little bit and then started gently pulling and pushing me toward the living room with soft, little words of encouragement, I went willingly.
Mostly willingly.
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m okay,” I said, wiping at my eyes and nose, desperate to stop from embarrassing myself even further.
“I’m not saying you’re not,” Charlie said as he guided me to sit down on our couch in the living room. He then retreated into the kitchen and started clinking around with cups and spoons. I waited patiently, still sniffling despite my absolute best efforts.
What the fuck, Acosta?
Why the fuck was I crying? Why was I crying in front of Charlie? It was because of the alpha, right? Because of Rig’s alpha? Because he looked like… Oh god, I was about to start crying again. Yep. I was definitely crying, at least in part because those last few panels felt like an admission from Charlie. An admission I’d been trying to both make and not make ever since Camden dismissed everything that was happening as “purely chemical.”
Okay, good. That was one reason why I was crying.
The other reason was what Charlie had been talking about at dinner. He’d mentioned open wounds scarring, and time eventually helping to heal the hurt of losing those lost years, and that’s what “Sirocco” was. In being loosely—or not so loosely—based around Charlie’s experience of the past four years, “Sirocco” had been the first glimpse of what those years might really have been like for someone who had lived it all in the flesh.
I mean, naturally everyone had wanted to catch me up on things after I woke up. Marcos had introduced me to Mitch, to Oliver, to Juan. Garret had told me about him and Silas. Bennet had told me about Teddy and Carpenter. Silas had told me about Bennet and Sarge, and so on. Mami and Papi had tried to catch me up on the world at large, but it wasn’t the same. How could it be the same? How could I ever really get back the experience of having lived through those years? I couldn’t, not ever.
Or at least I thought I couldn’t until just now, until “Sirocco.” It felt like I had been catapulted through all of it. From the moment that Roman—Armstrong, in the story, but it was obviously good-natured Carpenter if it was anyone—had brought Sean’s things home to his family, to the last panel with the new alpha, it felt like living in fast-forward, allowing me to both grasp what those years were like, and have a little taste of what to expect when time began to mend my pain, like Charlie had said.
And then, another reason why my tears wouldn’t stop was it was just good. It was a good fucking story. It didn’t romanticize anything. It was raw. It was real. It was Charlie all over. You hurt when he hurt, you laughed when he laughed. It was soft, and it was sweet, and it was painful. It was life.
“Okay, drink this,” Charlie said bringing two mugs to the coffee table, and then sitting down before pressing one of the mugs into my hands. It was tea, Charlie’s second favorite drink after his too-creamy, too-sweet coffee.
“Thanks,” I said, sniffing before I sipped.
“Hey,” Charlie said, softly, leaning over to look up into my face even while I was trying to hide it in my mug. “What’s wrong, huh? What is it? Was it upsetting? Was it too much? Should I not have—”
“It’s-s-s-s…” I shook my head and wiped at my face again, swallowing tea and swallowing the lump in my throat in an effort to be able to answer him. “It’s-s-s-s…”
“Okay,” Charlie said, reaching over to pat my knee. “It’s okay. Take your time. Don’t stress yourself.”
“Fucking fuck,” I said, frust
rated I couldn’t get it out. “It’s good! It’s good, Charlie. It’s good,” I said at last.
“What?” Charlie asked, a little laugh hidden somewhere in the question. “Is that why you’re crying?”
I couldn’t bring myself to explain the full extent of all the ways in which it was good, both personally and just as a comic, so I just nodded.
“Why do you think it wouldn’t get published? It’s beautiful. The art, the words, the way you find out about Rig and Sean’s past whenever something in the present reminds Rig of it. And the way you feel when Rig tries to keep living? And, the way that…that…oh my god, yes. It’s good. Really, really good. Why do you think it won’t get published?”
“Oh,” Charlie said simply, leaning away from me a little, just long enough to sip his own tea. It felt like he was buying time before he had to explain, just like I had used the tea to hide in just now.
“Oh, I don’t know, Pedro. It’s not really… I don’t really.”
“Other people should be able to see it. The world ought to see it. I mean, I know the whole world isn’t going to read it, but—”
“I just usually get commissioned for art, you know? I know you said you liked the dialogue, but I don’t usually write the comic, I just draw. And even then, I’m only just now getting commissions. I, like, barely count as a professional, you know? Nobody is going out and buying anything because Zimmerman is on the artwork, right?” Charlie asked, a little sarcastically.
“Besides…” Charlie retreated a little more. “It’s depressing. There’s no poetic afterlife where Rig and Sean can meet up again, there’s no…miracle cure somewhere that regrows anyone’s arms or skin or anything. It’s not depressing in the kind of way people want comics to be. It’s just…regular, real-life depressing. Things don’t mean anything or have a reason, necessarily, they just happen because that’s how I felt when it happened to me. Who really wants to read about all that?”
