This Place We Called Home

#3 gear

Made a little whoopsy-daisy because I didn't realize that Chapter #3 was short enough to be a full chapter. But now we're back on track!

Quick warning for two instances of a homophobic slur, one right at the beginning and one right at the end.

~

Was this the time when Three was seven years old and his father had thrown away his favorite stuffed animal? Was it when he was eleven and someone had stolen his sketchbook and the whole class had laughed at him? Or was it when he was fifteen and someone had knocked him to the floor and called him a fag? Whatever the cause, the result was always the same: Three sprinting up the stairs, bursting into his room, and slamming the door behind him. Then he sank to the floor and sat with his back against the door, sobbing silently into his knees, alone.

But then he felt arms encircle him from behind, and he heard his mother's voice, telling him, "I'm sorry, Ry... but it'll be okay, mijo. It'll be okay."

Wait—no, this was all wrong. This wasn't how the memory went. His mother was never there, nor was his father. He'd always had to deal with it all alone. But he still felt those comforting arms wrapped tightly around him. Then whose were they? When Three turned around to look, the person he saw holding him had morphed into—

Eight.

"GYAH!" Three launched himself away from Eight, slipping off the bed and crashing to the ground. "Dioso, Eight, don't tempt me like that..." he muttered.

Awakened by the noise, Eight was just opening his eyes.

His hands patted the mattress uncomprehendingly as he blinked against the bright light shining through the window. He seemed to panic for a moment, as if he didn't know where he was, and just about fell off the bed, too.

Three scrambled to remember what had happened last night, how he and Eight had ended up in a bed together. First, the conflict with Four came back, then Three's demanding for Eight to come live with him, and then... he had slept on the floor, hadn't he?

After a moment, the memory resurfaced: late at night, half asleep, and Eight's pale face appearing in the dark beside him, because Eight just wanted to be near him...

He hated himself for giving in—Eight didn't understand the significance of these things. He couldn't give consent.

But Three also might have hated himself just as much if he had refused.

Enough of that.

"Okay... now we're both awake," Three said awkwardly, trying to break the silence and effectively diverting his thoughts away from his emotions.

"Why on the floor, again?" Eight asked, poking his head out over the edge of the bed.

"You tell me. Why—" Then Three realized: Eight probably didn't even know he had wrapped his arms around Three. He'd been doing it in his sleep. Maybe he'd also been dreaming about his mom—or, would it be about being a mom?

Where was he going with this?

He stood up and brushed himself off. "...never mind."

"What?"
"It means forget about what I just said because I changed my mind."
"Oh. Thank you, Three."
"For what?"

"No other person is so much... patient."

"About what?"

Eight seemed confused that Three was confused. "About... my language."

"What? No! That doesn't bother me at all! You're the one who's being forced to learn a whole new language and can't understand half of what anyone around you says. I have no right to complain, nor does anyone else."