Javi's sitting in the house alone. The sun set early, and it's cloudy out now. He suspects a storm's coming through. The only light is from the reading lamp hanging over the armchair he's curled into. Colleen had packed a decent amount of his books, most of them new, so he's reading Fredrik Backman.

     It's not late when he hears a car outside, suspects its Tate dropping his father off. He's quiet as he listens to the wheels roll to a stop. Against his better judgement, he leans over the arm of the chair and pushes the thin, lace curtain back, peaking out the window.

     Tate has the window open, his arm resting on it, and he's saying something to Oscar as his dad gets out and walks around the car. If they were still friends, Javi would tell Tate that he looks good, that he likes how long his hair is now, and he just, he looks good. He means that but not in a flirty way. In a just is way. He can recognize Tate being handsome without it meaning anything.

     Tate looks over at the window and Javi lets the curtain fall, sitting back, sinking into the chair. His hearts racing and he feels like he was caught doing something more than looking. He counts his breath, slowing down till he's holding it for three seconds at a time.

     He doesn't stop until Oscar's pushing the screen door open and walking in. His head darts toward Javi. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

     Javi breathes. "Better, yeah."

     "Have you eaten?" he asks next.

     "Not since breakfast," he admits.

     "Javi," Oscar reprimands. "You have to eat."

     "I was waiting for you," Javi says quickly. "Dinners ready."

     Oscar tilts his head questioningly. "Dinners ready?"

     "Yeah, I stopped by the grocery store. It's something different. See if you like it."

     Javi had made the infamous feta pasta. He'd spiced it up with some peppers, too, and lots of garlic. His father said garlic was a salve for the blood. He put it on everything.

     The table's set and the dish is in the oven keeping warm. Oscar makes off to the bathroom, cleans himself up, and returns to Javi pouring them glasses of water. "I tried to make sweet tea," he say. "But I botched it."

     "Tate makes good sweet tea," Oscar says. "Makes it like his mother."

     "Is that so?" Javi asks, keeping his tone uninterested.

     He'd wondered how Marg had made that tea in the fridge with her limited mobility. It makes more and less sense that Tate had actually made it. He can't remember Tate doing anything in a kitchen other than eating what was readily available to him as a kid.

     Oscar snickers, says mockingly, "Yes, that's so."

     "Why'd you say it like that?" Javi asks.

     "Like what?" Oscar asks innocently, ringing a napkin out and draping it over his lap. Javi takes the dish out of the oven and places it on the table under an oven mitt to keep it from scorching the table.

     "Like that!" Javi says not being able to explain it just knowing he did say it weirdly, suggestively. Suggesting what, though.

     "Nothing, Javi, nothing," Oscar says and then reaches for the spoon in the pasta, scooping some into his bowl. "What is this? White people food?"

     "It's pasta, dad," Javi says.

     "Where's the red sauce?"

     "The sauce is cheese-based. Feta cheese."

     "Fetar cheese?"

     "Feta. Just try it."

     Oscar tentatively dips his fork into the pasta, stabbing some bow ties, before he blows on his food. Javi watches him take a bite, watches him chew, waiting for a reaction. Oscar frowns, lifting his eyebrows, surprised. A whirlwind of emotions crosses his face.

     "You can cook, boy," he says finally.

     Javi laughs, smiling, feeling relieved. "You like it?"

     "It's good," he says and then adds, "For white people food."

     Javi shakes his head. Oscar points his fork at him. "You eat now, too."

     Admittedly, he's afraid to eat. Afraid he's going to be sick again. That that's how it's going to be now. Where he eats and throws up after every meal. He hates how helpless throwing up makes him feel.

     Javi eats anyway, knowing Oscar isn't going to let him leave the table until he does. When they're finished, they work together putting the food away, hand washing the dishes, and setting them out to dry. It's a return to simplicity that Javi didn't know he'd enjoy.

❂

     When Tate gets home, Pepper's there with his mom. She's sitting on the couch, Murder She Wrote on the TV and they're watching it together in silence. By now, his moms eaten and Pepper will be getting her ready for bed soon.

     He greets his mom with a kiss on the cheek. She smiles warmly at him. He's surprised. She's in a good mood. "How was your day?" he asks and she just nods.

     "Hi Pepper," Tate says next taking a seat in the lone armchair. When he looks at Pepper seated on the couch, he's reminded of Javi lying there.

     Like his thoughts summoned the topic, Pepper goes, "Who was that on the couch the other day?"

     Tate's surprised she's asking. Margie looks at Tate expectantly. He swallows and says casually, "Old friend."

     "He was here earlier," Pepper says next. Margie's head snaps towards her, glaring.

     "He was here?" Tate asks surprised and then immediately inflamed. He looks at his mom. "He came to see you?"

     Margie shrugs her shoulders innocently.

     "Well what did he want?" Tate asks and Margie makes a face that says don't take that tone with me. He hears it crisply in his head because she said it all the time growing up.

     "He was leaving when I came up," Pepper says unhelpfully.

     "Why was he here?" he asks but Margie just stares at him, giving away nothing. "He is not welcome here."

     Margie tilts her head away as a response, a repose that says Tate doesn't make the decision.s Except it's his house and he definitely does.

     Pepper, feeling the tension, stands and says, "Let me get you cleaned up for bed."

     Frustrated, Tate gets up and leaves the room. He's moving angrily around the kitchen, pulling out a steak he was marinating in the fridge that he promptly drops. The bag bursts, spilling liquid all over the floor. He cleans it up even more aggravated, his movements frantic.

     The nerve of Javi. The absolute gall. He has no right to come to Tate's house, especially when he's not here. What is he even looking for? He's so distracted by his thoughts, his anger, he overcooks his steak. Conversely, he undercooks his microwave mashed potatoes.

     Tate sits at the kitchen table, still fuming, eating alone and in silence, the way it's been for years.

     Later that night, after Pepper's left and his mom's long gone to sleep, he finds that he can't rest. He tries lying down but he feels sick and props himself up to watch some TV. At first he thinks it's just indigestion. He'd made a marinade with a lot of fresh garlic.

     But the longer he remains there in bed, the more he realizes he's just really fucking angry. Too angry to sit still. Too angry not to do anything about it.

     How dare Javi come to his house and cohort with his mom behind his back. He thinks he's made it clear that he's not welcome in this house. In his life. Anywhere near anything that is rightfully his, like his mom.

     Tate gets up, grabbing a teeshirt and slipping it on as he tucks his feet into his work boots, going sock-less. He hasn't decided what he's going to do until he's sitting in his truck and turning the ignition. His thoughts are repeating a highly effective mantra, confront Javi.

     He drives down to Oscar's house, flipping his headlights off as he comes up the driveway so he doesn't wake the old man. He doesn't need to announce that Javi's got him so messed up he can't sleep unless he speaks to him tonight.

     The crazy thing about this whole thing is how easy it is to execute, like falling into old patterns, practically stepping into his past selves shoes. He walks around the house in the dark, following the same beaten path between Lena's rose garden. Just like he remembers, there's Javi's bedroom window.

     It's a small ranch house with only two bedrooms and Oscar's is on the other side. He knows Javi's in there, can feel it like he has a sixth sense for him, one that reignites when Javi's near. When he left, the thing was snuffed like a wane candle.

     Now that Tate's there, standing outside his window, he's not exactly sure what he's meant to do. He'd crawled into Javi's room before. It's not high and there's slots in the brick foundation that you can fit your toes in.

     He's a grown ass adult now though, he's not climbing through anyone's window, and definitely not Javi's. Instead, he cups his hands around his mouth and calls, "Javi. Javi."

     The windows wide open, the blinds drawn up to let the draft in. It's a nice night, not too muggy out. It looked like it was going to rain earlier but that had passed.

     Tate calls Javi's name again. His anger's dissipated and now he's thinking this was kind of stupid.

     He turns to go the same time Javi lifts the screen and pokes his head out. His hairs messy, and looks damp, wavy tendrils falling across his forehead. His cheeks and nose are rosy, sunburnt. And his eyes are bright, wide awake. Tate knows he didn't wake him from any type of sleep.

     Javi looks concerned, eyes darting over Tate. "Did something happen?" His voice is low, whispering.

     Tate's is distinctly not a whisper. "Yeah, something did. You showing up at my house."

     He's surprised when Javi shrinks back, remorsefully. "Yeah that's right," Tate continues. "I know all about you coming to my house."

     Tate is clinging madly to his anger, wondering where it's gone and how it can just leave him in a moment like this. Javi glances back over his shoulder and then moves away from the window. Tate's confused until a leg comes out and then another. Javi hops down out of the window like it's nothing but then he's done it at least a hundred times before.

     Tate knows the before well. Before he left, before they fought, before everything started falling apart.

     When he looks at Javi standing before him, he regrets coming here. Javi's in salmon pink boxers with little flamingos on it and a plain sleeveless undershirt. There's the sharp cap of his shoulders and the little tattoo, unchanged, having weathered all the storms, embedded in the gap over his left collar bone. TJ. 

     "You came all the way here to tell me that?" Javi asks quietly. "Could've sent a text."

     "Oh fuck you, Javi," Tate says, trying to inflate his rage. His force of will is absolutely depleted. He wants to curl into a ball in his bed and not feel this way. Not feel so devastatingly destroyed by the one person you thought could never hurt you. "Stay away from my mom."

     He clings to his anger because underneath it is nothing but pain, sadness, the lingering trauma of abandonment. He'll lie to everyone else but not himself. He knows how much he loved Javi, how much it hurt when he left, how that hurt never stopped he just found ways to quiet it.

     "Your mom wants to see me," Javi says simply. "I'm not really in the business of denying her that."

      Tate rolls his eyes. "And what about your mom, Javi? You had no problem denying her."

     "You're going to keep bringing her up, huh? Anything to hurt me."

     Tate scoffs. Javi's not going to get away with playing victim on his watch. "I keep bringing her up because someone has to. Someone has to hold you accountable for what you did."

     "And what did I do?"

     "You abandoned her!" Tate screams. Javi flinches. "You left her when she needed you most. "

     Javi is quiet, meeting and holding Tate's gaze. He's suddenly glad he came because this has reignited his anger like a bomb detonating on his soul.

     "Her or you?" Javi asks finally.

❂

     "Fuck. You," Tate spits out.

     Javi takes it, absorbs it like a blow. Inside his mind, he's practically orgasming, it's so good. For all the work his father's trying to do, his mind clings to the darkness and Tate ignites it like a god damn tripwire.

     "You can remind me everyday if you want," Javi says simply. "I haven't forgotten what I've done and I haven't forgiven myself. I never will. But if it makes you feel better, go right ahead."

     "Nothing makes me feel better, Javi," Tate snaps. "I'm not going to feel better until you leave. You're like the fucking harbinger of pain."

     Javi thinks okay that's a bit dramatic.

     "Do you want to yell at me some more?" Javi asks finally. "Maybe that'll help."

     Tate shakes his head, shooting Javi a vicious glare. "Stop mocking me."

     Javi holds ups his hands, nonthreatening. "I'm not. I'm serious. I can take it if that's what you need."

     "I need you leave, Javi," Tate says neutrally. "That's what I need. For you to leave town again and never come back."

     Javi swallows, his eyes burning. But he's not going to cry in front of Tate. "I'm not going to stay away from your mom," he says instead.

     Tate nods, rolling his eyes up at the sky. "Honestly didn't even think you would. You've only ever done what you want so why change now?"

     "I'm sorry I'm living up to your expectations of me," Javi says crisply.

     "You think you're better than me because you left?" Tate asks. "Cause you're not. And you're right back where you started anyway."

     "I don't think that Tate," Javi says quietly, earnest. "I don't think that at all."

     Tate starts to walk away but stops, turning back towards Javi. "Why are you back? Really?"

     Javi shrugs casually. "I had some vacation days to burn. Wanted to make sure Oscar was okay."

     "So that's it?" Tate asks.

     "That's it."

     Tate nods then and walks away. Javi doesn't stop him. He watches him go, waits till his car's disappeared down the driveway before he turns and vomits. Hot acidic liquid shoots out of his nose and mouth. It ends as quickly as it started.

     Javi doesn't know where he's going when he starts running. Knows he shouldn't go very far since he's barefoot and in his boxers. He finds himself doing laps up and down the yard. The gross is damp and cool against the pads of his feet.

     It isn't until some time later that he's sitting on the back steps catching his breath that he thinks about ticks. He scans both his legs but they're clear save for the shards of grass caught between his toes.

     He's exhausted. He should move but he can't, scooting up the step and then curling up on the porch, falling asleep under the moon like some vicious animal. He wishes someone would find him, would put him down, keep him from hurting anyone else.

     He wakes with a shock of water, dumped directly onto his head. He gasps, lifting his head off his forearm, blinking as the water drips into his eyes. When he looks up, the sun nearly blinds him and there's his mother, Lena, standing in a linen dress, a floral apron tied around her waist. Her short, pin-curled hair is clipped away for her face and she looks sternly down at Javi.

     "Why are you so thick?" Oscar asks staring at his son.

     Javi blinks and his mother's gone, replaced by his father who doesn't look very pleased. Javi mumbles something indecipherable. He's not sure what he's even trying to say. His body aches all over and he's so tired he could probably fall back asleep right there in the puddle of water.

     "What are you doing out here?" Oscar asks. "Beds are for sleeping, floors are not! You're determined to be ill, Javi."

     "I'm sorry," Javi mumbles.

    "I know Tate was here last night," his father says next.

     Javi makes a noise and goes, "How do you know that?"

     "Because I know everything. Is that why you slept outside? What is this, penance?"

     "If it is, you think it's enough?"

    "I can't grant you the absolution you're looking for, Javi." Oscar squats down so he's eye level with Javi. He chooses his next words very carefully, "What you want you can only get from Tate."

     Javi is sure then, sure his farther knows, wonders if his father knew all along.

     "But first you two need to figure out how to talk to each other again."