CHAPTER ELEVEN
MATTEO
It was almost two in the morning, and I found it difficult to sleep.
Every time I started to slip into unconsciousness, a cough started up and my sinuses were packed with snot, making me miserable.
My eyes were pinchy, but that was more from the alcohol than wanting to sleep.
My mind wouldn’t shut off. The occasional firework exploding as people celebrated didn’t help, either.
I laid on the couch, watching the shadows play across the ceiling.
In the past, a new year hadn’t particularly meant a whole lot except more of the same.
When I was seventeen, the holiday started to represent something different–the prospect of freedom from my suffocating circumstances and overbearing parents.
I recalled new year's day of my seventeenth year and the afternoon tradition I took part in.
As with every day, we started with a group prayer then shared breakfast. Before meeting at noon, we put on our best clothes, because we represent God with everything that we do, as my father always said.
Sometimes, I wondered if he actually read the bible, but he was good at twisting narratives. Then we gathered in the study.
First my father came to stand in front of the brass cross and droned on about what he would be doing this year to serve the Lord.
His speech usually took upwards of an hour and was the same every year–strict adherence to the bible and its teachings while doing his best to uplift those of our church into power so they could spread the word.
What he’d really meant to say was: buy politicians to enact laws benefiting the pious while stuffing our church’s coffers so those at the top of the chain could buy another jet. And my father was at the top of the chain because my family came from money.
My mother was next and like all the years past echoed her obedience to her husband and of course, God in a monotone voice that led me to believe she’d given up on life a long time ago.
My speech that year had stood out. I’d always been obedient and put a lot of effort into my study to placate my father, but that year was different.
I’d been in and out of conversion camps disguised as religious retreats, and talked to priests pretending to be psychologists in order to get back on the right path.
I came to realize that I had no love for my parents, because they didn’t love me.
No matter how much I tried to share my thoughts and emotions, my father shot me down and told me to pray harder.
Nothing mattered except complete obedience to God.
What I wanted or needed wasn’t important.
But that year, I’d rebelled against everything he stood for in the subtlest of ways.
I’d snuck little nuggets into my speech that acted as preludes to abandoning the life he wanted for me.
Standing in front of that giant cross, I’d said things like: This year I pray the Lord gives me the strength to live my authentic life.
I knew my father had taken it as a sign I wanted to turn straight, but I meant it as coming out of sorts.
And when I announced: I will devote everything that I am to my true calling, I’d meant it as: You can’t kill the music inside of me.
It will survive and I will go on to live my dream of playing in front of thousands of people in one of the most beautiful concert halls in the world.
Another firework went off, the boom making me jump and I pushed the thoughts from my mind.
Drinking champagne and watching the celebrations on television had been fun for me, whereas for anyone else, it was another slightly boring evening.
I wouldn’t tell Sean, but I was thankful to him for giving me a modicum of fun in the same way he had on Christmas.
He had no idea how much the small things meant to me.
Running my hand over the sleeve of the plaid he’d gifted me, my thoughts turned to him. It was weird to simultaneously like and dislike someone, but the more I thought about it, I came up with a single question: What exactly did I dislike about him?
He’d thrown me out of the club multiple times and confiscated my fake I.Ds but I’d never been much of a party-boy. I preferred a relaxing evening with some music, dinner, and maybe a movie. All the sweaty bodies and loud techno beats wasn’t my style. So, that wasn’t a reason.
He was hot and helped me understand I had a type. Big and burly, lots of hair with arms that could snap your spine if he locked them around your body. Eyes that burned like emeralds and a smirk that made it obvious he knew I was more bark than bite. Oh, and two.
If I thought about it some more, I could come up with a million reasons to like him.
Then there was the fact that he had one huge thing going for him–he’d practically saved my life.
If he hadn’t walked by, I was sure I would have died in that alley.
If the cold hadn’t gotten me, the pneumonia would have. So, it was hard trying to hate him.
It was funny how one minute I hated his guts and the next I wanted to rearrange them.
I heard him moving around in his bedroom.
A moment later, he stumbled past me on the way to the bathroom, naked.
His tight butt dusted with red hairs, flexing as he walked, perked me up and I smiled stupidly.
I’d seen several asses in the last few years, mostly in a magazine or on the television, but seeing one in person and this close did something to me.
Maybe I had fallen asleep after all and was caught in a nice dream.
He hissed as he stubbed his toe on something and disappeared into the bathroom. I listened to him pissing followed by the trickle of the bathroom sink. And when he mosied into the kitchen for something to drink, I found myself drawn to him.
The awkward-sexy moment we’d shared earlier raced to the front of my mind.
He’d touched me so easily as if it were no big deal, as if he wanted to.
And I’d found myself wanting him to touch me.
I was going to be a big boy and admit I was as attracted to him as much as I found him irritating.
Perhaps, I was so irritated because I was attracted to him.
He was standing by the refrigerator, drinking straight from a bottle of juice, the light creating a halo around him as if he were an angel sent to guide me.
Only, I didn’t think angels looked this damned good.
His back was muscular, less hairy than other parts and he had some sort of slinking tattoo going on.
And his ass… Lord have mercy, but my blood turned molten.
I wanted to reach out and give it a good squeeze to see how firm it was.
Maybe slap it to test the bounce. I was turning into a harlot.
“Fuck!” he snapped and nearly dropped the bottle of juice. “Jesus…you scared me. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to lurk around in the dark?”
“Sorry,” I rasped, not actually apologetic.
Because now he was facing me and I got a good look at his body casted in blue from the low light.
Okay, so I was definitely into love handles.
It took everything I had not to drop my attention to his cock.
Instead, I blinked at him wide-eyed, my heart sending vibrations through my veins.
He cleared his throat. “What’s up?”
I was, judging by the tightness in my pants. Biting my lip I fought the urge to look down and managed, “You’re naked.”
He glanced down at his body, agape. “Oh, shit, I…”
I inched closer, noting how inviting his lips looked slightly shiny from the juice he’d been gulping down.
His eyes flared, the green like jade in the dark.
My heart hammered as I touched his beard, the whiskers soft and smooth letting me know he took good care of it.
I wanted to kiss him, but I couldn’t find the strength to close the inches separating us.
I was sure he wanted me to because his gaze dropped to my lips and lingered there as if he were thinking about it.
“Brat…” he whispered, his tone turning dark, the confusion gone. “Did you need something?”
I nodded, unsure of what I was asking for. Please, just kiss me. We stood in front of each other for an eternity, hoovering on the edge of insanity. A stretch of warm skin brushed against my body. He was waiting for me to make the first move and I wanted to, but I froze.
He held up a finger, hesitated for a moment and said, “See? Alcohol makes you do stupid things. I normally walk around naked when I don’t have guests and I wasn’t thinking through the haze of that champagne. I should…put some pants on.”
Then he was gone, leaving me standing in the kitchen feeling like an idiot. Why couldn’t I have just kissed him? I might never get the opportunity to again.
He returned wearing a pair of joggers that did nothing to hide his assets.
A beam of light from a streetlamp reached through the window and highlighted every beautiful inch of him.
I’d been brave when I’d left home, and I was determined to be brave now.
I moved without thinking, pressing my lips to his.
He jerked back and pulled at his hair. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
My blood turned cold, and I shivered, feeling lost in a too big world. Had I misread everything? His rejection stung because I thought of him as a pseudo-friend, and he was the first guy I truly wanted to be with.
I squeezed around him and plopped my butt on the couch. I pushed my hands into my hair and sighed. “Tell me to leave and I will.”
“You misunderstood me,” he said softly, taking a seat next to me. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, but if we do that, I want to do it with a clear head, amirite?”
I frowned, not considering that. It was just champagne, but we’d downed the entire bottle. I’d yet to experience drunkenness and accepted that we might be a bit tipsy. “I don’t want to make a nuisance of myself.”
“Really? You’re worried about annoying me now?” He slapped my knee. “I really enjoy having you around, brat. There is something particularly entertaining about being insulted by a cute twink.”
I tried not to smile. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing. Sometimes I feel like I’m moving in ten different directions at the same time.”
He rubbed my back, squeezed my shoulder, his touch relaxing me. I leaned into him, not sure how far to take this, but he seemed to understand what I needed.
“How about this?” he said, laying on the couch and holding his arms out. “Give your Pooh Bear a big cuddle.”
I sputtered a laugh and collapsed against him. He wrapped a big arm around me, and I settled my head against his chest, the little hairs tickling my nose and lips. He was warm and soft and hard at the same time.
He stroked my arm gently with his thumb, the night finally silent.
No one besides my grandmother had ever comforted me like this and when she’d died, I’d lost that.
I had no one to hold me and make me feel better, to let me cry if I needed to, tell me things will be okay.
You have to be strong, Miho. Other than my music, Nana had been the only good thing in my life.
I couldn’t hold the tears back as they quaked through me.
I longed for the scent of her perfume, the softness of her sweater, the gentle words as she told me everything was going to be okay.
The world was a dark and difficult place sometimes, but there was also light and beauty and love.
Keep your heart open and you will find it, she’d said.
Her voice was so clear in my mind now, her words a mix of English and Spanish.
If it hadn't been for her, I wasn’t sure I’d survive. The music and beauty inside me would have been ripped out courtesy of my parents, leaving an empty shell, a reflection of my father and his loveless nature.
Instead of Nana’s perfume, I got spicy soap and a virile man. Instead of her soft cashmere sweater, coarse red hairs tickled my skin. He didn’t tell me everything would be okay despite all the shit that had happened. He just held me and kissed the top of my head as if he truly cared.
Strangely, that was all I wanted, just to know someone cared about me enough to understand I needed a hug.