In the Blaze of His Hungers (7 page)

“Literally or metaphorically?”

“Literally, if I had anything to say about it.”

“Gentle reminder that my dad’s in the next room. Tone it down a bit?”

Javier grumbles inaudibly. “Fine. I can’t get that damn system you installed to load
the old invoices. I was just trying to print a receipt when it stalled and crashed.”

“Were you trying to save multiple copies of the same file again? You can’t have
that many pointers to the same block of data.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“I was wrong,” says Ryan. “You
are
a Neanderthal.”

“You weren’t complaining when I was tossing you over my shoulder and ravishing you in my cave.”

“Javier – ”

Just then, Dad hobbles into the kitchen on his crutches, and Ryan wishes Javier a prompt and businesslike
farewell.

“Was that your boss again?” Dad asks.

“Um,” says Ryan. “Yeah.” He
is
planning to tell his dad about Javier, but later, when Ryan’s totally independent and living on his own. Or with Javier. That’s a nice thought.

“He sure calls a lot. You’re a valuable employee, huh?”

“An annoying employee, that’s what. I’ve set up this software system for him to organize his customer database, and it’s
supposed
to be making his life easier, but it only seems to be driving him up the wall.”

“Hey, you could teach me how to use an iMac. I bet you’ll have him using the system in no time.”

Ryan snorts. “We’ll see.”

“Hey,” Ryan yells down the stairs, “did you see the box with the comics in it? Because if you didn’t, I’m not moving out. Just saying.”

“It’s down here,” Dad hollers back. “Mr.
Ferrera’s carrying it to his car.”

Ryan grabs the last carton
filled with his favorite games and clambers down to the lounge. Sure enough, Javier’s on his way out, balancing more boxes than Ryan can count on each of his gargantuan shoulders. Ryan spends a worthwhile second ogling those biceps, before realizing his dad’s standing in the doorway, too. Whoops.

“Very decent of him, to help you move,” Dad says. “Your car’s too small to
take everything, and I’m still not cleared to drive
my
car, so
…
if it wasn’t for him, it’d take you more than one round trip to get all your stuff to Branston.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Ryan, ironically. “He’s the epitome of decency.”

When both Javier’s car and his own are crammed with C++ textbooks and Star Wars bedsheets and every existing edition of
Grand Theft Auto
, Ryan’s all set to leave. He almost can’t believe it, that he’s going to college, that he’ll have his own apartment, that he’ll have weeks full of programming and weekends full of Javier. Well. Partly full of Javier. Ryan’s still continuing his job at the repair shop; he’ll drive home every Friday night and return to college every Sunday evening, staying with Dad and working (or, uh, ‘working’) at the garage.

He hugs Dad as tightly as he can, saying, “I’ll be back this weekend. You won’t even miss me.”

“Get the hell outta here,” Dad says gruffly, but hugs him right back. “Thanks for all this,” he says to Javier, who’s watching them with an odd look on his face.

It occurs to Ryan that Javier has never hugged Pete like this, not since Pete was five, and the chances of him ever hugging Pete like that are now close to nil. Not unless Ryan and Pete can re
concile, but that’s going to be more difficult with Ryan at Branston and Pete at Stanford. They’ve never been so far away from each other before – physically or emotionally. Ryan still has Pete’s number, though, and he absolutely intends to call.

“It’s no trouble,” Javier says. “Your son’s helped me out a lot.”

“Still. We appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” Javier turns to Ryan and jerks his chin
at the driveway. “Ready to go?”

“Ready as I’m ever gonna be.”

“Don’t count on that,” Javier mutters as he passes Ryan, low enough that only Ryan can hear. “I’ll see how ready I can get you in that tiny college room of yours.”

Ryan goes red and stutters a final goodbye to his dad
.

* * *

College is both more and less interesting than Ryan had thought – more interesting because of the people he meets and his ability to self-determine his study schedule (a.k.a. procrastinate as much as humanly possible), and less interesting because… because Javier isn’t there. Neither is Pete, and to be without his best friend in a new habitat makes Ryan feel oddly adrift, unable to share the fun and not-so-fun things he comes across with the person he’d always shared them with.

Sure,
Ryan makes friends pretty quickly, especially when he visits the LGBTQ Student Center and offers to build them a website, but he still can’t stop himself from wishing Pete were here to groan about the horrid campus coffee with and commiserate about the hangovers and deadlines with. Ryan tells himself it’s healthy that he’s finally making friends
other
than Pete; their friendship had been so strong and had lasted for so long that neither of them had bothered making other friends. They’d sort of been each other’s default setting in social contexts, somehow drifting toward each and talking together, even at parties they were invited to separately. That… was weird, wasn’t it? It was codependent as hell. They acted more like twins than pals.

Spea
king of codependency – erotic codependency, this time – Javier mostly manages to drop by on those weekends when Ryan can’t, for whatever reason, go back home. Ryan’s sure the guy in the room opposite his knows what he and Javier get up to, since Ryan isn’t good at keeping quiet (unless Javier shuts him up with a kiss or gags Ryan with a wadded-up T-shirt or, on a few memorable occasions, a leather belt – Ryan’s discovered that he
loves
the taste of leather), but other than the “I don’t wanna know” expression on his neighbor’s face whenever they run into each other on the way to or from the shared bathroom, Ryan doesn’t get any complaints. He supposes he’s lucky. Especially when he’s freshly-fucked and sweaty and glowing and slips his fingers into his ass in the shower, stretching himself to feel the pleasant ache of where Javier’s been inside him; then, he feels
incredibly
lucky. Lucky enough to grin giddily and think up ways to sext Javier during the week so that Javier breaks and visits him the next weekend, too.

And so it goes,
till Thanksgiving, when Ryan does manage to go home, after having finished the biggest programming assignment of the year. (He’s got a pounding headache and his eyeballs are dried out after hours of staring at a computer screen, but he’s developed a truly kickass program, even if he does say so himself.) Ryan ends up spending most of the holiday with Dad, itching to celebrate Thanksgiving with Javier, as well, but knowing that he can’t. Anyway, Ryan doesn’t get to be with his dad that often, and Dad’s eyes get suspiciously bright when he sets a customary place for Mom at the dinner table, so Ryan can’t bring himself to go anywhere else.

That is, until Dad starts talking about Pete
, halfway through carving their small turkey.

“It’s a pity,” Dad says, “about Pete.”

“What?” Ryan blinks, sitting up. Has something happened to Pete?

“He doesn’t get to be with his father on Thanksgiving.”

“Oh.” Ryan gulps, not daring to take his eyes off his plate as Dad slides slices of turkey onto it. “Um.”

“But he’s an okay guy
, that Ferrera, as I’ve been finding out. Better than he used to be.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean,
I wouldn’t know. Since I didn’t, um, know him before.”

“I doubted him, when he came back here, but he’s been living respectably.”

Respectably. Right. Ryan’s grateful for his full-sleeved sweater, concealing the still-fading rope burns on his wrists.

“And now you and Pete are having problems, too.
Or should I say, still having problems?”

“You… you picked up on that?”

“Ryan,” Dad says drily, “you and Pete used to be joined at the hip. Now, it’s like you’re living in mutually exclusive zones.”

“We go to different colleges, is all.
”

“No, it’s not all. Clearly.”
Dad shakes his head. “Pete’s back in town, too. He’s with his Mom today, but you haven’t visited them, have you?”

“That’s not – ”

“Pete isn’t seeing his father
or
his best buddy on Thanksgiving. That’s gotta hurt.”

Great. Just the guilt-trip
he was looking for. “It’s not like I haven’t tried calling him,” Ryan snaps, but immediately gentles his tone, because Dad doesn’t deserve his thorniness. None of this is Dad’s fault. “I can’t… I dunno how to get through to him.”

“Hm.” Dad
considers him carefully. “Ryan… maybe…” He fiddles with his fork. “Does Pete feel like you’ve stolen his father?”

Ryan stares.
He can feel his jaw hanging open.

Dad seems embarrassed.
“I mean – Ferrera’s been gone for years, never paid any attention to his son, but the first thing he does when he comes back is take you under his wing, like you’re his kid, instead.”

Ryan chokes. Actually, literally
chokes
on his own incredulous laughter. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and he wipes at them, wheezing.

“It’s not that funny,” Dad
says, almost pouting. “I thought it was a fine theory. Very psychoanalytical.”

“
More psycho than psychoanalytical,” Ryan manages to say when he can breathe again, although he wonders for a split second if it isn’t the other way around, if Pete doesn’t hate his father even more for stealing
Ryan
away from him. But that can’t be right, can it? Pete must have other friends, too, now that he’s at college. It isn’t like Ryan abandoned him. Abandoned him like Javier had abandoned him, like – like –

“If it’s that psycho,
” Dad says, “then why’ve you got that look on your face?”

“What look?”

“The ‘oh, shit’ look.”

“
Wow, Dad, you’re so perceptive,” Ryan drawls.

“Sure am. It’s why your mother married me.”

“I distinctly recall her saying she married you for your mullet. Mom sure had a weird type.”

“Hey!”

Ryan takes a deep breath. “I think… I think I need to go and see Pete. Tonight. Before he goes back to Stanford.”

Dad reaches across their narrow table to clap Ryan on the shoulder. “Good. It’s about time.”

* * *

Talking to Pete
is easier said than done. Ryan’s spent the last five minutes bobbing nervously on his feet on Pete’s front porch, unable to bring himself to make the final move and knock on the goddamn door. He just stands there, air fogging in front of his nose, hands jammed into his pockets, imagining the endless permutations of “get the fuck off my turf” that Pete might come up with. The thing is, it used to be Ryan’s turf, too, as much as his own home was; he has so many childhood memories of playing with Pete on this very porch, pulling stupid pranks that got them scolded and firing bubble-guns at each other and trying to hide a stray kitten they found in the gap under the stairs. It makes Ryan feel sad and embittered, reflecting on all that, and he’s about to turn around and leave when the door opens.

“
Get inside, already,” Pete says, scowling at him. “I could see you hovering from the kitchen window.”

“Still creepily spying on the people that approach your house?”

“Still creepily stalking people and haunting their porches?”

“
I wasn’t stalking you, I was only – er. Trying to sneak up on you without your knowledge.”

“Get. Inside,” Pete repeats. “Mom’s worried you’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Are
you
worried I’m gonna catch a cold?”

“Not when you’re dressed like
the Michelin Man, no.”

“
Sure, this sweater’s a little lumpy, but don’t insult my fashion sense, dude.”

“If it’s anything like your
Spidey-sense – ”

“You mean, in excellent working order?”

“ – I mean,
a figment of your imagination
, then there’s nothing to insult.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re sleeping with my father.”

Ryan gapes
, and Pete coughs uncomfortably.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” Pete
says, not quite apologetic. “It kind of… we were snarking, like usual, and it… slipped out.”

“If I was still twelve years old,
I’d make a bad pornographic joke about ‘slipping out’.”

“If you were still twelve years old, my dad would be in jail.”

“This conversation’s getting disturbing.”

“
Jesus. Just get the fuck in.”

Ryan gets
the fuck in. It seems like he and Pete still have that tendency to mindlessly run their mouths in each other’s presence. Maybe their friendship’s salvageable. People don’t enjoy snarking with people they hate, do they? Even Beatrice and Benedick fancied each other in that snarkfest of a Shakespearean play Ryan vaguely remembers from high school English. Not that he and Pete fancy each other. But there’s an inescapable fondness, anyway. Even though Pete’s still pissed off at him. Or is it
for
him?

That’s
something else Ryan has to clear up.

“Ryan!” Fiona exclaims
, enfolding him in a bear hug that feels much bigger than her slight frame should be capable of. It’s one of Fiona’s many superpowers. “Oh, honey, it’s been ages! How are you?”

“He’
s fine,” Pete interjects, dragging Ryan away from her and toward the staircase with its familiar cracked banister.

“At least let me talk to him!”

“Um, I’ll come down later, I promise,” Ryan says. “But Pete and I sort of – we have, uh, matters to discuss.”

Fiona sighs. T
here’s an insight in her eyes that reminds Ryan of how Dad was, earlier. So Fiona’s sensed the tension between Pete and Ryan, too. It figures. “Go on,” she says, shooing them. “Make up so I can start having Ryan over for dinner, again.”

“You
like feeding him more than feeding your own son,” Pete says, and Fiona huffs.