Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Song of the chapter: Trouble by Coldplay

A tire screech, followed by a soft thud and a crash, startles them all. It might have happened just in front of their porch, and that’s weird, since no one ever drives too fast in this secluded area of the city, a residential borough of the suburbs. Those who live here are mindful of kids playing and biking freely around, or of elderly people walking dogs. That’s why Maryse stops working at her presentation, even if she’s supposed to send it to her boss by tonight, and throws a curious glance out of the window: someone might have slammed on the brake, maybe just to avoid one of those small, super lively dogs her neighbors love, and who knows, the driver could have hit the sidewalk or the edge of a flowerbed. From that point of view she can’t see much, though, and she could/should come back to her job, yet her gut and an unsettling, anxious feeling drags her down the stairs. While she’s climbing the last steps, a scream comes from outside, and she would recognize that voice everywhere, because it’s Isabelle’s… Maryse runs towards the door – it’s ajar – and it’s a view she will never forget in this life, because, in the soft light of the sunset, Isabelle’s shape is curled on something – someone – lying in the middle of the road, while there’s a white car aside, bumped against the flower bed just like Maryse figured out, and there’s a sobbing woman sitting on the raw asphalt, her back against the car shacked side.

Isabelle is sobbing too, crying out and calling a name, again and again.

“Max!”

Maryse’s world suddenly becomes blurred when she catches a glimpse of red slowly spreading on the road, thick and dark.

**

There’s a black rose on the dashboard. It’s a fake rose, of course, no living one could survive his long days of travelling, or the heat spread through the windshield glass, despite the powerful air conditioning. Also, a fake rose is eternal and in some creepy way it reminds him of how inevitably eternal death is, as well. It has thorns, though, and black as it is, it’s a constant memory of what he’s lost and what he’ll never have, all just because of himself. It’s like it’s constantly blaming him – remember, remember – guilty wrapped around his gut and his heart, while he’s trying to run away, miles upon miles through cities and forests and deserts, in the scorching summer heat or in the freezing winter air, restlessly, in an endless getaway, the devils on his back constantly torturing him. The black rose is there, and never lets him forget.

He's tried to throw it away, of course. But every time he is on the verge of picking it up and squeezing it in his strong hands, to let it fall out of the window, he hears a childish voice deep in his ear, coming from his brain, or his own throat, sounding so sad and reprimanding him – why, Alec? How could you do that to me? And now you want to forget… Again sometimes it’s a male voice, suspiciously akin to his father’s – it’s on you, Alexander, he was your responsibility, and you didn’t care – or a woman’s (his mother?) – I can’t survive this, I can’t!...

When this happens, he grabs the rose and tightens it in his hand until the thorns pierce his palm and blood starts seeping through his fingers. The pain is grounding. Yet, it’s not enough, so he starts to speed up, pushing his beast of a truck to its limits, until his breath evens – or until the truck will crash against some pole or fall down a bridge, his brains suggests, letting him disappear in a soft, comforting nothing, no matter the pain he could experience, on the contrary, it would be welcome, a way to repay for the pain he caused.

He loves this job. Like, a lot. He would die tied to a desk, one day after another, facing only a wall, or even a window, if he were lucky enough. A computer as his only companion. Okay, he was supposed to become a doctor, maybe just slightly less soul-destroying? Yet, after what happened to his family, he is no longer able to emotionally connect with other human beings, all his feelings sucked out of his soul, leaving just raw scars behind. So painfully raw that he doesn’t want to touch them, not even to try to soothe his grief, on the contrary, nurturing it as a punishment that is not going to end.

Every now and then he dreams of dying on the road, no one finding out what happened to him, simply vanishing from the face of earth. It would be better for everyone, mostly for himself. He doesn't want to think about his parents, he made them suffer too much and he's sure they hate him. Sometimes, though, he reminds of his siblings, the last, tenuous thread linking him to his past. Two or three times a year he buys a postcard in a place and sends it to them from a different one, so as they can never follow his movements, saying that he’s alive. Maybe they show it to their parents too – Alec can’t stand the idea of talking to any of them. His siblings will settle for this tiny gift, glad – glad? - he’s not dead yet. More also, if there are no phone calls, they can’t try to talk him into coming back home, given that they would ask him, Alec isn’t sure. It would be useless, anyway, but painful, and it would require explanations and excuses. Is he being unfair to them? Maybe. They loved him, so maybe they forgave him a long time ago. The fact is that he didn’t.

**

They call 911 and in a few minutes the paramedics are on the spot, rudely moving away the two women and trying to assess Max’s condition. Maryse can’t utter a single word, paralyzed from the shock, and this is so unusual from her, always put together and strong. But this is too much, seeing your youngest child laying in a pool of blood while the paramedics try to resuscitate him. Isabelle is still crying and squeezes Maryse’s hand searching for reassurance, but that hand remains limp and unresponsive. At that moment, Jace comes back from his biweekly workout; he drops his bike on the roadside and hastens to reach his family, a hand on his mouth to stifle a cry when he realizes what he’s looking at.

“What…what happened?” he whispers, “Will he be okay?”

“I…don’t know…” Isabelle slowly answers, while Maryse is still silent and rigid.

The paramedics keep on performing CPR, and it’s been half an hour, they tried to shock Max too, and now they’re sweaty and panting. One of them is animatedly talking at his radio, and Jace infers they’re debating about moving the kid without aggravating his injuries. They check on Max again, then they stare at each other with a resigned look, and they all understand there’s nothing left to do to save Max’s life. This seems to shake Maryse out of her enchantment.

“No…no, there must be something else you can do! You…you must take him to the hospital, they will know better!” she yells.

“Ma’am…” one of them says, “I’m so sorry...”

They stand up and start collecting their items, their movements sluggish and slow while they’re moving towards the ambulance. There’s no hurry anymore.

Maryse pants, mouth open in a silent scream, then she drops on her knees and touches Max’s pale face, moving some (bloody) curls from his forehead, and it’s such a painful, motherly gesture that Isabelle turns her head and sinks on her brother’s chest, her tears wetting his shirt. Jace hugs her tight and a soft whimper comes out of his throat, until his own tears start running down his cheeks.

Meanwhile, the woman from the white car has come closer, afraid to crash into that family’s grief she’s responsible for. She swallows repeatedly, she’s trembling.

“I’m…oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t drive fast, he…he jumped in the middle of the road, I…I think he was trying to get his ball back…” she looks like she’s on the verge of fainting. “I swear, I didn’t see him…I was paying attention, I know there are kids all around here, and…”

She loses her voice and seems to be going to have a panic attack. The paramedics come back and take her to the ambulance for a checkup and maybe sedate her a bit.

One of them addresses Jace. “I’m calling the police, sir. Sir?”

Jace nods, distracted. “My condolences to you and your family, sir,” the paramedic goes on. Jace nods again, he doesn’t really have any strength left for whatever bullshit.

“I’m going to call dad…” he whispers, sniffling.

“And Alec,” Izzy adds.

“Yes, Alec too…”

“Mom…” Izzy whispers, tears running down her face, scared by Maryse’s stillness, “mom…”

Hearing the name of her eldest, Maryse seems to awake and lifts her gaze from Max’s body – God, he’s already getting cold.

“Alec…” she wheezes, “Alec…yes, where’s Alec?”

Alec shakes his head trying to get rid of the ghosts haunting him when memories come back, leaving him bleeding and hurting. It’s been years and sometimes looks like minutes have passed since the day in which he lost everything. He takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to focus on the road, mindful of the monster he’s on. He has already a lost life weighing on his soul, no need to get more through careless driving. He throws a glance to the black rose on the dashboard, a harsh memento of what he caused, and swallows hard. He needs a break, some coffee and a bite, and luckily only a few miles separate him from that in the shape of a welcoming, familiar diner. Yes, he’s approaching the next city on his journey, but he’s always felt more comfortable hanging in the small diners along his way. Few customers, many of them being truck drivers like him, nice girls as waitresses, he’s well-known almost everywhere, even if he usually keeps to himself, but he’s so tall and handsome he sticks as a sore thumb among this crowd of bulky – sometimes frankly fat – men. Also, he almost always wears total black against the usual jeans and lumberjack shirts of his colleagues, and he has never been seen to join the loud groups of customers in joking or teasing or however harassing the waitresses with sexist comments, when it’s not touching them without consent.

All this makes of him the girls’ forbidden dream. They look at him with heart eyes, but, despite him being totally kind and polite, he’s always seemed somehow detached and totally uninterested in deepening their knowledge. There’s a reason for this, he’s gay. But in this work environment being in the closet is not a choice, it’s imperative. He suspects that at least a couple of his colleagues share the same feelings but pretend not to, and hang hot, naked girls’ pictures inside their trucks, no way that faggots can be reliable drivers. So, he doesn’t dare to talk them into this, and his sex life is virtually nonexistent, if you don’t count random blowjobs he sometimes leans in, when he has enough time and strength left to crash into some gay bar, in a city big enough to not risk meeting someone he knows.

This toxic masculinity makes him sick, but he can’t afford to be harassed in his job, when his life depends on it. He has no plan B and has to pay the monthly installments of the loan he got to buy his truck.

The diner he’s heading to is called Rock-It diner and offers home cooking and air conditioning – and heating, of course, not that it’s something needed right now, here in New Mexico. It sports this Fifties-like décor, both in exterior and interior design, and promises to be home of the famous “rocket dog”. Alec hasn’t known what rocket dogs were for a while – where he comes from it’s a derogatory term for…well, that thing he doesn’t want to name, especially coupled with the word “receiver” – but now that he knows better, he often enjoys one rocket dog, especially dressed with some sauce and sided with fries and salad.

All things considered, it’s a homey place, offering showers and a few small rooms to refresh and change clothes or even take a nap, although the truckers usually prefer to sleep on their own vehicles, comfortable in their large berths. But sometimes it’s nice to rest under a roof and pretend to be at home.

Alec is an affectionate customer here: he generously tips the waitress, and, when social conventions might require it, he sports a gentle smile on his lips, even if, looking more carefully, this smile never reaches his eyes. It’s more like an item he wears to conceal his true nature, the essence of which remains unknown. Most of the times, though, he maintains a serious demeanor, staring at the void in front of him and lost in his thoughts, while eating or nursing a soda – nothing alcoholic, the law is hard on truckers’ sobriety, even if his colleagues never say no to a beer or two. Again, sobriety is a firm point for Alec, after that infamous day.

He never starts conversations, not even small talk, and minds his own business despite his obvious politeness. When he talks, his language is accurate, polished, and people realize he must come from an educated environment. His slight accent doesn’t give anything away but a kind of East-coast mannerism; he was asked where he comes from in the past, but he’s always evaded the topic and, so far, no one knows anything about his origin or if he has a family somewhere.

The diner is in sight at last, and Alec sighs in relief. He’s exhausted and driving in such conditions is not safe. He slows down and carefully pulls over, parking his beast near to a fiery red monster he recognizes as Jordan Kyle’s. He’s not very cheerful at the idea of meeting him, he’s nosy and loud and there’s rumors he’s escaping justice for assaulting his ex-girlfriend, but oh well, Alec is going to hide in his usual corner and have his dinner in peace. After a shower, though, he’s in dire need of one, after a whole day of driving.

Chapter Text

Song for the chapter: I want to break free by the Queen

Magnus is pacing back and forth in the living room of their luxury villa in Santa Monica, belonging to his family for a couple of decades. While the city slowly grew and became more and more populated, their neighborhood has remained mostly untouched by the wild suburban development. Magnus’ father widened their property buying some land around the villa to keep it free from the builders’ appetite, so now, still being on the top of a modestly high hill, they enjoy a 360-degrees view of the landscape and of a large portion of the ocean. The villa is surrounded by a luscious park which hosts an Olympic-size swimming pool and a tennis court.

The interior is no less luxurious, thanks to the recent renovations Asmodeus paid for: an equipped fitness room, a cinema hall with thirty seats, a library, besides large rooms and suites, marble bathrooms, everything anyone could dream for. A small army of service staff is in charge of keeping the house clean and the owners fed and taken care of, their frequent guests included.

Magnus is used to this lavishness. You may say he enjoys it, with his easy, comfortable life, his hundreds of outfits filling his walk-in closets, his refined meals, his daily training. He attended the most renowned private high schools, hardly falling within their strong rules about dress code – or about makeup, because what the hell? No real man uses makeup. His parents were really pissed off when the principal called them to underline that Magnus’ behavior was unacceptable. No matter his high grades, the school could not allow him to disrespect the rules and he was going to be kicked out unless he changed his demeanor. Asmodeus had been very threatening – not that he cared for Magnus’ education, he was a self-made man after all – but he couldn’t stand to look bad in the eyes of his business partners and Magnus, his only child and heir, was compelled to obey.

Magnus swallowed his pride: he had been tempted to tell his dad to fuck off and to leave, but he had not enough money of his own or anywhere to go. He was a stupid teen. And also, maybe, he needed to admit to himself that he loved that luxurious life a bit too much to give it up.

Lately, though, coming – and going beyond - of age for college, he started to feel the hollowness of the life he’s living, a sudden need to understand what’s going on outside the golden cage he’s in, and, his words, to know what the world really looks like. Asmodeus laughed loudly at these words. He started from humble jobs and has always been pushed by an unstoppable ambition and a remarkable sharpness. He possesses the peculiar ability of catching what people in high positions like to hear or need, and above all, of finding out their weaknesses, which he took large advantage of, to bribe them: this way he has become the top dog he’s now. Yes, he left a few victims behind, maybe a little more than a few, but who cares? He definitely doesn’t. They were weak and didn’t deserve to survive.

Magnus is not aware of his father’s dark past, despite being wary. What he sees, though, is a rich man who needs to become richer and more powerful every day, who loves to show the world what he got, in a display of luxury and in a quest for control. This means that Asmodeus acts in his private life like in his public one, he’s in charge and his word is law. This doesn’t suit Magnus, of course, and he has always struggled against restraint since when he can’t even remember. But those struggles always ended in nothing, Asmodeus’ will too prevailing.

What Magnus can’t stand, though, is his mother’s attitude. He loves her, but maybe also despises her a little. She’s always keen to please her husband, no matter what he asks from her or what he doesn’t give her. He repeatedly cheated on her, fucking young women, sometimes younger than Magnus himself, but she doesn’t seem to care too much. Those women don’t last, she does. Asmodeus likes to diversify, and his interactions usually end with a mutual agreement.

She justifies him because he’s “full of life” and how could an alpha man like him ever settle for a single woman? Also, she says she’s not so attractive enough anymore, despite taking accurate care of herself, because she can’t make him look bad, even if he turns elsewhere to fulfil his needs. The world knows, but it doesn’t matter, because all the men they associate with – and their wives – act accordingly. Magnus’ mother is nice and cute and a bit…hollow? Detached. After having sired Magnus and having ensured an heir – a male heir – Asmodeus decided he had no need or pleasure whatsoever to share his wife’s bed, so Magnus has remained a single child. Not that she cared much, pregnancies are a nuisance, and she doesn’t have much maternal instinct.

Asmodeus has recently declared he regretted that, though, after having witnessed the kind of disgusting pervert his heir has turned out to be, but again, it doesn’t matter. He has a few bastards here and there, born after his affairs, for whom he generously provides, also to ensure that their mothers keep their mouths shut. After all, he could still secretly test these unaware children about their ability in business and, should anyone come to be worthy – Asmodeus likely means cruel and heartless enough – he could disown Magnus and leave his empire to someone else.

All in all, Asmodeus is an unfaithful husband and an abuser, even if he never beat Magnus’ mom, but she’s okay with this life, and Magnus can’t understand why.

So, this morning she and Magnus are having a fight, or better, he’s yelling at her trying to shake her from her mental dullness, and she looks at him almost pitying him for being so upset and restless. He stops pacing for a moment and stares at her, but there’s nothing in that empty gaze but some annoyance and eagerness to end the conversation as soon as possible. That’s when Magnus understands that this is a lost battle.

“I think it’s time for you to take a break, my dear,” she says softly, “you look displeased, maybe you’re tired…”

“Tired of what…?” he replies, throwing his hands up, “Tired of…wasting my life, yes, I don’t even know which path I should choose. Everything looks hollow to me, I feel like I have a thousand choices bared in front of me, and yet no one looks palatable. After what happened with you know who – he can’t even pronounce her name anymore - Dad can’t stand me just like I can’t stand him, I know I’m being a disappointment for you both, but believe me, you both are a disappointment to me as well,” he's almost screaming now. He sounds like a raging river, free to break the dams, much more since mom seems to be barely scratched by his outburst, that is a cry for help, even if none of them understands that.

She looks at him and doesn’t reply. He swallows a couple of times.

“Sorry for yelling at you,” he croaks, “But, when I said I wanted to know what there’s outside this house and this shortsighted world of ours, I meant that. After all, I have no commitments, no one I care about, I’m…just a useless brat who doesn’t know what to do with his own existence. So, a trip on my own sounds amazing, to clear my mind and maybe find out what I’m capable of…or if I’m worth something at all. I don’t care if dad laughs at me, he can fuck off and he can’t stop me. I’m leaving, mom, I have some savings, I need a…a gap year, until I know better about what to do with my life.”

She smiles. “It’s an excellent idea, this will do you good. Also, putting some distance between you and your father might be of help for you both.” She grimaces. “And from that whore too. I’ll ask your father’s secretary to plan your trip as soon as you tell me where you’re headed…”

“No!” Magnus exclaims, then snorts. “Yeah, his secretary…you mean that one who was his mistress until a few months ago? Anyway…” he lifts a hand when he sees she’s on the verge of replying with some bullshit. “Anyway I want to plan my own journey. Better, I don’t want to plan anything, I want to go and see where my feet lead me. You don’t worry about me, thank you very much.”

She looks unsure for the first time during this conversation.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

Magnus stares at her for a few moments. “When the fuck did you ever care if I was okay?” he replies bitterly, and then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

**

He seeks refuge in his bedroom, his large, elegant, furnished bedroom. This last conversation with his mother has left him drained and he lets himself sit heavily on the armchair beside his bed, putting his elbows on his knees, head slouching, his gaze stuck onto the precious terracotta tiles covering the floor, his eyes following the complicated cream-colored weaves that draw an endless path on the surface. The decoration reminds him of Escher’s art, it’s like being stuck in a maze, the same one Magnus is in, with no exit in sight.

He's a black sheep in his so heavily conservative environment, he knows that. His parents have never approved of his shenanigans, but they have been lenient, in a way, so far, his father frowning more and more every day, his mother with a sort of unmistakable aloofness, both thinking that his cheerful and nonchalant approach to life would change with time. But it doesn’t.

Their first big fight happens when Magnus tries makeup for the first time. Barely fifteen years old, he has been fascinated by his high school female fellows’ ability and after lurking at them from afar for a while, he mustered all his courage and asked for some advice. While the girls have been mostly nice and collaborative, the boys have mostly mocked him cruelly. Maybe some of them would like to try makeup too, but dare not to ask and face the mockery and the blunt disgust. On the contrary, Magnus feels challenged and reacts accordingly, his ability in using makeup growing with time until there isn’t a day when he doesn’t sport it at school, adding, after a while, hair styling, colored locks included.

Now the principal has warned his parents, of course, hence the fight. His mother has lamely tried to shield him from Asmodeus’ fury, uselessly, though, and Magnus has tasted his father's belt for the first time, while he was calling him slurs. So, beating children doesn’t happen just in low-class families, Magnus is bitterly thinking while trying to soothe the red marks – a few of them slowly bleeding – that the belt has left on him.

“You shouldn’t challenge your father, Magnus,” his mother tells him afterwards, “Try to be compliant, it’s not that hard.”

This event, far from convincing him to give up, has reinforced his decision, yet he must call for a truce now. He wants to get his hard-earned degree, so he’s going to stop being defiant until that; he’ll come back to be his true self later, Asmodeus and his meanness be damned. Funny that his mother’s indifference hurts more than his father’s cruelty.

This journey he’s planning might be his only way to escape from the maze, at least for a while. He could find some job on the road. Meet different people. Maybe without even coming back home, it’s not like someone would miss him. His father has other sons to harass or nurture so as they are good enough – well, bad enough - to inherit his business, his mother has her charities to manage and her friends to keep her entertained. As long as he calls them every now and then, remembering them he's alive, and still ready to give up his inheritance, it’s okay. He might even send them some written remise. More also, after Camille’s affair, Asmodeus clearly thinks even less of him, and barely talks to him, usually mocking his naivety – a further proof Magnus has no head for business.

He should start to pack now. He picks up a couple of suitcases, elegant and branded like everything he possesses. He stares at his walk-in closet, wondering why the hell he bought so much stuff along the years. He has a refined taste in fashion and loves all his outfits and his silk underwear and his hundred pairs of shoes…and everything looks so dull now, and useless. He shakes his head in disbelief and starts digging into the closet, trying to find a backpack he’s sure is inside, the suitcases already forgotten.

**

The night before his departure he meets his lifelong friends, Catarina, a nurse, her husband Ragnor, a lawyer, and Raphael, owner of the small club where they’re gathering now, sitting in a secluded booth, a few drinks in front of them.

“So, you’re determined to leave?” Cat asks, her usual mother-hen attitude warming Magnus’ heart.

“I am. I can’t stand my parents anymore, guys, and this useless life I’m living. You all have fulfilling jobs, and I’m just a spoiled brat, and I do believe I need to do better. I need something new, something true…And after what happened, I need a change too,” he answers.

“Are you sure you can find in this journey what you’re looking for, my friend?” says Ragnor, the reasonable one.

Magnus shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? At least, I can say I tried, and also, I hope I can figure out what to do next. Sure as hell, I don’t want to be involved in my dad’s sordid business, not that he hopes to, so I’m going to choose a different path.”

He shrugs. “Unfortunately, I don’t know which one yet. A gap year will help me to better understand what I want. Or what I’m able to do. Also…”

Raphael purses his lips. Coming from a very modest family, he’s a self-made man just like Asmodeus, but he’s never tricked or exploited vulnerable people, everything he has he fought tooth and nail to get it, but with unyielding, steadfast honesty and he’s always abhorred Asmodeus’ “convincing” ways.

He stares at Magnus and seems to think long before sharing his opinion.

“Also, you’ll put some distance from the bitch. You’re choosing wisely,” he says plainly, pointing his forefinger towards Magnus. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you’re a good man, Magnus, and no matter your wealth, I also think you’d deserve better than this crappy family. You’d deserve more than that, and I wish you to get what you need. If this trip is going to help you, I can’t say, but I hope so.”

With that, he comes back to his drink, but, being Raphael a man of few, weighted words, they all acknowledge the importance of his speaking. Magnus nods briefly, somehow astonished.

“Wow, Rafa, I must have impressed you this time, I can’t remember such a long and flattering speech from you!”

Rafael glares at him but there’s no heat in his look, more a wisdom achieved through years of hard work.

“Anyway, thank you, guys,” Magnus continues, “and if I no longer come back, I’ll let you know.”

Cat takes his hand in hers. “Take care of yourself, Mags. Be careful. Make sure we know you’re alive and well, and remember we will always reach for you if you call for help. You know, we’ll miss you.”

“Have you got any idea where you’re headed first?” Ragnor asks, his voice slightly broken in the end.

Magnus pretends he didn’t notice, and smiles. He’s moved too, and he will sorely miss his friends, the only ones who offered him some love.

“I bought a bus ticket from here to Barstow, then I’ll take the 66, hitchhiking. It’s not that I’ve never done that, and it’s a must go, right? Traditional for hobos.”

Everyone rolls their eyes. “You’re not a hobo, pendejo!” Raphael exclaims.

“Well, I will be,” Magnus replies, “at least for the time being. Guys, I don’t want to travel like I used to with my parents, first class and stuff. I want to see the true country, meet true people. I’ll be fine, and happy, trust me. Even if I’ll miss you too”

They look at each other and sigh. Magnus is not changing his mind, and maybe this is his way to grow.

Chapter Text

Song for the chapter: Perfect by Alanis Morissette

TW: some domestic violence and underage drinking

The diner is crowded, no more than usual, still too much for Alec’s taste. The waitress, Kaelie, waves at him with a smile and nods towards the corner table, that’s empty and far enough from the counter, where a group of truckers, Jordan included, like Alec was expecting, are loudly bantering and commenting about the last football games. They’re already tipsy on a few beers, the night is oncoming and they’re enjoying their time before rest, having no urgent loads to deliver. The roads are less trafficked at night, but tiredness and sleepiness take their toll. All in all, driving in daylight is safer, unless you’re forced to be quick. Alec falls heavily on the chair, dropping his duffle bag on the floor, while Kaelie is approaching.

“Hey, handsome,” she greets him.

“Hey, love,” he answers.

It’s an old joke between the two of them. She tried to hit on him when they met, and he soon made clear he wasn’t interested. The true reason for it was never spoken loud, Alec might have a wife and a family of his own somewhere. Not that this holds many others from cheating on their wives on the road, but still. Yet, he never mentioned a partner and maybe Kaelie has figured out the truth, but she’s kind and respectful, and never pried.

“What are you up to tonight?” she asks. Alec leans his head back in exhaustion.

“I need a shower first, then a burger with a salad. Also, a room, if you have one available. I don’t feel like sleeping in the truck tonight, I need a real bed.” He scoffs. “Not that your beds are that comfortable…”

She smirks. “Mine is, handsome. The offer stands.” They laugh together.

“I’ll keep your table,” she goes on, “go shower, your dinner will be ready when you come back. Coffee?” and she gestures at the carafe she’s holding, coffee freshly brewed because Alec earned some privilege along the years.

He tiredly nods. ”Thank you,” he whispers, and offers his cup, relishing in the soft hot steam and the pleasant smell coming from the liquid she pours him. She winks at him while he smiles into the cup, then she hastens to serve other customers, and Alec throws a glance around, trying to find enough strength to stand up and head the showers.

Apart from the noisy Jordan and company next to the counter, there are few people sitting at the tables, quietly having dinner and making small talk. Suddenly, Alec’s attention is drawn by someone sitting alone, a forgotten cup in front of him while he’s thoughtfully watching out of the large window, towards the orange-red of the sunset, an elbow on the table, his chin on his hand, the other one absentmindedly playing with a napkin. He’s a young man, with raven hair which, in Alec’s opinion, would use a cut, gelled to the back, so his face, hidden to Alec, is probably bare. He wears simple clothes, but so different, more stylish than the usual attire people are used to wearing in this part of the country, so he likely comes from some city. His shoulders are hunched like surrendering under an invisible weight – or maybe it’s just exhaustion – but look broad and strong, and also his arms, squeezed in rather tight long sleeves, show bulging muscles. Yet, Alec somehow knows he’s not a manual worker, he must be one of those lazy deadbeats, regular visitors to the gym, some city fop fakely underdressed pretending to mingle with common people. Just like he used to be, Alec thinks bitterly. Before the storm hit, making of him a completely different man.

All these thoughts flood Alec’s mind in a wave; he realizes he’s been staring for a while and quickly diverts his eyes, in the event that someone caught him looking at a man for far too long and guesses where his interest lies. He knows he’s overthinking but can’t get rid of his fears, despite how exhausting living like that can be.

He fishes out of his bag his toiletries, a towel and a change of clothes, and stands up to finally have his long-awaited shower. But the shower stalls are on the opposite side of the room and he’s forcibly compelled to walk through the diner, passing by the table of the stranger. And when it happens, the man lifts his gaze towards Alec, following his steps. Their eyes meet.

Angels above!

Alec feels the earth shatter under his feet and shudders. He swallows hard and tries, with all he has, to tamper the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat, because the man is beautiful, and he’s not supposed to look at him agape like he’s doing now, and blushing. The man is around Alec’s age or a little younger – but Asian men often look younger than their real age - with delicate features, bronze skin and the most incredible eyes Alec has ever seen, honey and golden brown in the warm light of the sunset. His shirt is partly open on his chest, and he doesn’t wear anything under it, which corroborates Alec’s opinion about him being a cityman, this is not usual among Alec’s peers. Although he knows that he shouldn’t let his gaze linger, he can’t avert it from that man, who’s looking at him in turn with the same interest, while the corners of his mouth – plump, rosy, undoubtedly soft – rise slightly up. Alec clears his throat and grips his stuff like a life-saving item, fastening his walk to reach the shower as soon as possible. He throws himself in the nearest one and leans against the wall, panting. He’s scared. What if someone realized he was looking at that man in awe? He must be more careful. When his breath evens, he slowly starts to undress, reminding of the dinner waiting for him, and despite the food being much less attractive than before, his stomach, oblivious of his untimely thoughts, grumbles. Alec scoffs, but when he’s dropped all his clothes and is on the verge of hopping under the spray, he finds out he’s hard. He awkwardly touches himself and just a rub on his sensitive glans is enough to make him moan, a flash of honeyed eyes and rosy lips blinding him. No, he can’t jerk off here, he denies himself even this small pleasure out of his lonely, almost sexless life. He grips the base of his cock to stop the arousal and with some effort he makes it soften.

He takes a deep breath and starts showering. He can’t have what he wants, he knows already, and he’s resigned to that, emptiness becoming a hole into his heart and soul.

**

“Yes…where’s Alec? Where is he?”

Maryse slowly turns her head towards Izzy, who sports a questioning look.

“I…don’t know?” she whispers and realizes that her mother’s eyes are glazed. With her blood-stained hands, pale as a ghost, she reminds Izzy of the Fury, ready to unleash the powers of the very hell on Earth.  What’s happening? Is Maryse going to get mad from grief? Izzy swallows repeatedly and blindly searches for Jace’s hand. But Jace is already on the phone, calling for Robert, having brought on himself the hard task of telling him that his youngest one is gone.

Maryse’s lips are almost white and pursed like she’s holding back from exploding. Since she couldn’t hold Jace’s hand, Izzy lifts hers to touch her mother’s cheek, but Maryse stands back, gesturing to her to stop.

“I don’t know either,” she says, her voice broken and strained, “but I do know where he should have been. Taking care of his brother…”

And suddenly Izzy remembers that they had an agreement. With Maryse working, Jace still at the gym and Izzy on her books, Alec had been put in charge of checking on Max. Which he clearly didn’t.

Izzy knows that this is a hard time for her brother. Just yesterday he and their parents had a big fight, with much yelling from both parties, and exchanging harsh words. Alec feels this life, this city, is too tight for him. He came out as gay a few weeks ago, and that was already a bitter pill to swallow for his parents: they always thought they were able to move on with time, despite their disappointment coming from their eldest. On top of that, Alec had also been adamant in not wanting to pursue the medical career they wished for him. Well, maybe a bit more than ‘wish’. In a burst of anger, they had declared they weren’t going to pay for his college tuition, unless he applied for the kind of school they deemed right for him. The tension had been thick, even if the siblings had tried to calm the waters and was still unresolved. So, when Maryse had ordered Alec to take care of Max, she had barely received a begrudging nod.

**

Alec loves little Max, who, for his part, worships his big brother, but Alec is an angry teen and Max a noisy child who’s just begging Alec to play with him. When Alec refuses and tells him, not too kindly, to leave him alone, Max shrugs.

“Go get play on your own, okay?” he blurts. “Okay”, Max answers, and runs away. Alec thinks Max is going to his bedroom, to entertain himself with the comics he loves so much, and, in the silence of a deserted house, he sneaks into the living room to steal some whiskey. Spirits are locked, but Alec discovered the secret place where dad keeps the key and every now and then he snitches a shot. Now he wants to forget: the fight with his parents, their astonished faces when he came out, again followed by another angry exchange of harsh words, his dull life and his uncertain perspectives. He doesn’t want to be a doctor, he wants to study literature, wants to be a writer, wants to play guitar and write songs...everything but being compelled to a career he doesn’t feel he can pursue. He’d accept whatever job, as long as it allows him to leave, to make distance from this family that suffocates him. He loves them all, but he needs to be free from any ties. His father says it’s a phase, whatever that means. A phase his rebellious mood, a phase his attraction towards boys – he doesn’t dare to speak the word ‘homosexuality’ out loud. Alec knows it’s not. Despite being so young, he’s not confused, both about his future and his sexuality. But he’s stuck here. Well, he could leave, he’s an adult - barely, but still - in the eyes of the law, but he doesn’t, and his own hesitation in dropping this unfulfilling yet somehow comfortable life upsets him further. He hates himself for not being able to choose. So, a single shot of whiskey becomes two, then three, and when Alec comes back to his bedroom, he’s pleasantly tipsy and frankly sleepy. He can have some rest, right? He lies down on his bed, and closes his eyes, just to follow his random thoughts, lost in the haze of the liquor, and smiles while slowly slipping into a dreamy sleep. Without realizing that Max is going downstairs, a ball in his hands, hoping to find someone to play with, since Alec is unavailable, and there’s no one else home. But he accidentally drops the ball that starts bouncing down the stairs and rolls outside through the door that someone left open.

** 

Maryse stands up on wobbling legs, fists clenched at her sides and a wild look in her eyes, and she heads their door, entering the hall and calling Alec out loud, her voice unrecognizable, harsh, almost growling.

No one answers.

Gripping the rail, she painstakingly starts climbing the stairs up to the second floor where the bedrooms are located, one step after the other, driven by her grief and her wrath, still calling for her son, until a door opens and a disheveled, dizzy Alec appears on the threshold, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey…what’s all this fuss about?”

When he looks at her, though, he swallows, suddenly wide awake, sensing that something happened that’s going to change their lives forever. He’s never seen her face so twisted, almost disfigured, his mother is unrecognizable, and Alec feels cold dread spreading in his chest.

“Where were you…?” she hisses.

Alec can’t find a word to answer because he doesn’t understand her question.

“Where…what? I was…here…what’s happening, mom..?”

Her chest heaving, she raises a hand and slaps him with a strength no one thought she possessed, so hard that Alec stumbles back, agape and still unable to understand why she looks like a devil straight from hell. Then she starts hitting him on his chest, his shoulders, his head, with her fists, whining and screaming like a creature from his worst nightmares, and Alec tries to shield himself from that fury, so astonished that he can’t even talk or ask why, his mind completely fuzzed. Anyway, he would never hurt his mother, so he takes the blows, backing away until he trips over the rug and falls, painfully hitting his back. She towers over him, now that he’s on the floor, then kicks him in the ribs once.

“You killed your brother!” she spits. “You had one task, one. Take care of him. And you let him die. Get out of my sight and never come back!”

Alec is suddenly sober. And with sobriety comes awareness. Maryse pants, staring at him with disgust, then stumbles back and leans against the door. Quickly, though, she regains some composure and disappears, while Alec, his heart cracking for something he can’t even fathom yet, realizes he lost track of Max.