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Ethan
“Come and get it! Comeon!” Victor runs back and forth across the park, waving a scrap of chicken we bought from the restaurant across the street. Rio just sits in the grass, staring at him, his stubby tail thumping the ground, until Victor collapses on his back with a groan. “You lazy little shit.”
He throws the chicken away, and Rio dives on it happily. “You know you’re just reinforcing his behavior,” I comment from my position in the shade, looking up from the sequel to Peyton’s favorite book, which I’ll never tell her I bought.
“Stop being right; it doesn’t suit your face.” Victor hops to his feet and swoops in on me, grabbing my bag of chips and popping a handful in his mouth.
“Hey!”
He holds it out of my reach as I lean across him, until I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him, licking the salt and vinegar from his lips. “You know,” he mumbles, his voice hitching when my hand slides down the back of his shorts, “You’re just reinforcing my behavior.”
When I pull back indignantly, he sticks his tongue out with a grin and escapes with my snack. He slumps down in the grass next to Rio, and I watch his eyes drift shut as the puppy gnaws on his fingers and tries to climb over his chest.
In the week since Victor’s deposition video leaked, he’s been avoiding the news while Gray works on collecting Alek’s testimony and analyzing the video recordings he’s been hiding for six long years, in case he ever found the courage to use them. When it’s Victor’s turn to testify, his words won’t be buried again. Gray says they might even implicate the other men who were involved in Clint’s abuse.
It’s a hard, winding road with a happy ending out there somewhere, but it’s too steep for him to walk every day without resting. He’s been sleeping a lot, almost every time he sits down, and he won’t leave my side.
He told me countless times that he’s glad the videos leaked, but I catch him so often just staring at the floor or out the window, arms wrapped protectively around himself. He keeps his back to the wall and jumps at sudden noises. In bed at night, or when we fuck, it’s like he’s trying to climb inside me and never come back out.
Sometimes, when you open the door of a cage after so many years, the wild thing inside is more afraid to be free than it was to be caged. All I can do is sit next to the door and wait.
“Come on.” I stand up, groaning, and nudge Victor with my toe. “You can sleep at the apartment while I cook you dinner.”
“Can we bring Rio?” he asks for the millionth time without opening his eyes.
“We talked about this. He probably has fleas and all kinds of shit we don’t want in our bed.”
“Then I’m gonna stay here and eat chicken scraps with my boy.”
Despite his words, he lets me pull him to his feet. The sun filters pale green through the trees, sending flecks of gold over his skin as he looks around with that constant, nervous reflex, like Coach might be standing right behind us.
“Shh.” I pull his head into my shoulder. “I’m watching your back.” Our fingers tangle together as we head home through the quiet, late-afternoon streets.
When we found out we would be staying in Naples for a couple more weeks to deal with the aftermath of the leaks and help Gray arrange his legal plan, he put us up in a short-term apartment rental in the heart of the city. He had to pay from his own pocket, since he parted ways with Werner, who has already flown back to the States to find another lawyer.
Back at the tiny apartment, I try to channel my mother’s skills into making chicken parmesan. Victor sits on the counter next to the stove and watches me, stealing essential ingredients at the exact moment I need them. Hepercheseverywhere he goes—on counters, chairs, stools, tables, even the floor, and I’m constantly tripping over him or leaning around him to get something I need. I wouldn’t have it any other way, because when I turn around and meet his wide, curious eyes, they’re tinted the warm, earthy color of home.
I stand between his legs at the counter and he circles his arms around my neck and kisses me sloppy and deep, arching his back under my hands, until I smell the chicken burning to the bottom of the pan.
The dinner turns out passable at best, and we eat on the couch with paper plates and plastic utensils.
He tips his head, a fork hanging out of his mouth. “I’d rate it the two-hundred and sixty-sixth best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Wow. I’d like to see you do better.”
“I’ve never so much as boiled water in my life.”
“It’s honestly disturbing. The power imbalance in this relationship is—”
He glances up at me as I trail off. We’ve talked about a lot of things in the last two weeks. His past, the nightmares, the upcoming legal battle, Rio, anything and everything exceptthis—and for the first time, the kind of talking that involves my dick up his ass hasn't helped us find the words.
His nostrils flare, and he looks down at his lap, fidgeting with the tie on his board shorts.
“We’re going back to Seattle in a couple of days,” I say, setting my plate on the coffee table and scooting toward him. “Last time we talked, we said this couldn’t work in the real world. But I want to ask again.” I hunt for the right words, my heart clenching. “We can find a new name for it, if you want. Our own thing that no one else has.”
His eyes find mine; he’s chewing on his lip, his eyebrows pulled together. His voice sounds soft, hungry in a way that drives me crazy. “Hey, listen. You can have me any way you want, every way we’ve tried, any name in the world. I don’t give a fuck anymore because I just need you. That’s it. I can't live any other way.” He smiles, but behind the light in his eyes I can see a primal fear, the story of a man who taught him that love means nothing but torture.
I slide onto my knees on the floor and prop my elbows in his lap, looking up at him. “I just want you to know, I don’t hate you.”
