First class pain in the ass

[Julio de la Rosa]

He'd said too much; it was too much and he had overwhelmed poor Angel into silence. Julio shouldn't have told him he'd give him a key so he could come anytime. That was awfully bold of him to even presume that Angel wanted it. And... and saying he liked him... was that too much? It was all too much. He could tell.

So he left out the words. A picture was supposed to be worth a thousand, right? But it was embarrassing. So many attempts to get it right and even this one made him feel an abashed heat up his neck and his ears. Showing a real artist his amateur attempts was... well, unnerving. Would he like it? Or think it was bad? Or even worse... presumptuous? Julio was really starting to second guess himself now.

The fact that Angel asked if it was him only made Julio heat up all the more. He nodded. Was it so bad that it didn't bear a likeness to him? But he'd painstakingly taken care with his features as he saw them. But no, he seemed more... confused than anything. It was hard to really read his expression in the darkness, but in the flash of lights as they passed streetlamps, he thought Angel's eyes looked soft.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

He knew it was him but he didn't know why he asked. Why he doubted Julio's sincerity, his feelings. There were feelings; Julio was baring his own heart to Angel, he could tell. How could he miss it? The signs were there and Julio even put it into words, black and white and plain as day. No one would come this far for him, offer to give him a key, tell him that they would always come for him, solely out of friendship.

But again, there was pressure to reciprocate and Angel wasn't ready for it. Julio wasn't pushing for anything, he knew that, but still, the knowledge weighed on him. It was just a picture though. It wasn't a marriage proposal or anything. It said a lot about Julio's sensitivity, really, and about his bravery. Putting himself out there, showing him this, it couldn't have been easy. Angel didn't show him any of the sketches or paintings or sculptures he did, after all—he wasn't brave.

The more he looked at it, the heavier his heart felt. There was joy and happiness mixed in with his pain and sadness. Angel's eyes were misty as he sat there taking it all in, not only the picture but Julio's feelings too, his heroic effort, his kindness and his heart. "I love it." He didn't just like it. Like wasn't a strong enough word for how he felt about it, and how much he needed something like this to take away that horrible voice inside, at the back of his mind, telling him to fly. To jump.

Angel didn't let go of the phone as he turned and slid his arms around Julio's shoulders, hugging him tight. "I love it," he whispered into Julio's shoulder. "Thank you."

[Julio de la Rosa]

The more he watched Angel, the more he fretted. He hated it. He was trying to find words to gently put things right. Not just about the picture but everything. Why... why did he think it was a good idea to show him the picture? It was too much, too. All of it, too much. Right after all that overwhelming torture back at the party. Why didn't he think before he--

What? The sign was an automatic response rendered out of shock. He loved it? Angel didn't hate it? He loved it? Finally, he could breathe again and he smiled with relief. Good. He hadn't made things irreparably awkward between them. That was one of the last things he wanted. To be awkward when he felt so comfortable... to make Angel anything but comfortable, too.

He might have moved his hand to sign again--but it was useless in the dark, anyway--and besides that, Angel was suddenly embracing him. Hugging him. Julio blinked, then slowly--in case it was also too much--slid his arms gently around Angel. So then he liked it? Loved it, even? Julio briefly closed his eyes.

After their conversation about sidekicks and being useless and cowardly, Julio felt a deep need to change that. Angel, to him, was not useless or cowardly, nor was he weak. But Julio knew those feelings very well. He had grown up feeling that way. Useless and weak. Perhaps not cowardly. Julio still had a temper and when he was pushed hard enough, he pushed back. But he had dealt with the same issues of feeling like he wasn't enough.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

He would probably never meet someone like Julio again. Somehow this level of understanding, their unexpected connection, happened like a miracle. At his lowest point Julio found him, picked him up, rescued him. And now he was saving Angel from his own tortured thoughts, the way superheroes did. They never did what they did to be praised or rewarded—not the good ones, anyway. The good ones saved people out of the kindness and goodness of their hearts. And Julio, his heart was kind and good.

Angel didn't say anything more, he didn't move. He just hugged Julio and let his thoughts wander away into the ether. It was nice to be held, not too tight, not too loosely. Julio had a knack for knowing what he needed to feel comfortable. Did he ever need someone to do this for him? Was that how he knew? Because Angel still felt jittery and skittish, buzzing from the nasty shock of the party, and silence, a soft touch, was helping him calm down. He didn't need someone asking him a million questions or pushing him for answers.

It wasn't until the cab slowed to a stop in front of Julio's apartment that Angel pulled back, realizing that he was still holding Julio's phone. He smiled at the picture again before handing the phone back. "I want the real thing," he said as he reached back into his pocket for his credit card, to pay the expectant driver. "It'll look nice beside the other one you drew."

[Julio de la Rosa]

There were no complaints from Julio. As long as Angel wanted to be held, Julio was content to do just that. Comfort came from being close to somebody, physically, emotionally, mentally. It was rare to connect on such a base level with somebody. Julio wasn't even sure he could say that he ever had in the past. Friends came and went through life, most the fair weather variety. As for lovers... It wasn't easy to find anybody who wanted more than sex when it came to Julio. His line of work didn't help his reputation and he knew that but it paid the bills.

And yet, he dreamed sometimes of doing something else with his life. He didn't see himself as the artist type like Angel. Sharing art with him was sort of their thing, that was what it had become, unbeknownst to him. An alternative way to connect and communicate in ways that were new and... oddly, more accurate than any hand sign or typed out word.

Julio sighed when they finally parted, not out of sorrow but just a feeling of letting go of that awful ball of tension that had settled in his stomach from the moment he learned of the job at Angel's address. Honestly, it had only grown worse during the ride there and his time there, especially when it culminated in that moment where he thought Angel was really going to do it. Fly. But the problem was, he could only fly temporarily and then he would be gone forever, before Julio ever had time to properly know him.

He smiled slightly when Angel moved back and looked down at the photo on Julio's phone. His smile when he looked down at his work. It made his heart do a little flip inside his chest. Taking his phone back, he glanced at it, wishing he could see it the way Angel did. But then... he thought maybe it was the same as people. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't see himself the way Angel might. He knew instinctively that what he saw in Angel was a far cry from whatever Angel saw when he looked at himself. Angel's self esteem was so low, somehow.

Nodding, he slid out of the car and stretched his arms over his head. The ride had been almost an hour long! Slipping his phone into his pocket, he traded it for his keys. Once Angel was done with the payment--Julio felt guilty for not contributing--he led Angel to the familiar building and his apartment. At least this time, it was under... well, less traumatizing reasons. Less. But they were still there, the points of trauma.

Inside, he set his keys and phone on the counter before turning toward Angel and signing hungry?

[Angel Miguel Albares]

"...no... I'm not hungry."

Angel stood slightly inside the doorway for a minute hugging himself before he worked up enough courage to fully enter the apartment. The setting was familiar—even if he'd only been here once—because Julio was here and his presence was soothing, but being back in Hazleton again brought with it a prickle of discomfort. He was running out of places to run to; Portland wasn't safe and Hazleton had traumatic memories of its own.

But Julio... He was a comfort. Angel made a beeline for him and hugged Julio tightly. He buried his face into Julio's shoulder for a moment and closed his eyes. Silence. Except for street noises and the hum of appliances, there was finally blessed silence.

"Can we go to bed? Please?" He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and feel safe, to shed that jittery sensation that had taken over and refused to let go.

[Julio de la Rosa]

He seemed so small in the doorway. It didn't matter if he was physically tall; there was something small about Angel. Like he was trying to be small, to be left unnoticed. So strange, when he had that bright blue hair and he dressed the way he did. But Julio understood. The desire to be noticed but also to be left alone. Waiting for the right person to see him. Not the thugs, not the friends that used him.

Slowly, Julio nodded, although he didn't immediately move. Angel really seemed to need a hug. A thousand hugs. A million. Julio understood that, too. Sometimes, it was all a person really wanted and it was the one thing they couldn't have.

Julio gently slid a hand over Angel's, taking it in his before he moved down the hall to the bedroom. Shoes came off and he switched on the small side table lamp, rather than the overhead light. He didn't know about Angel but he didn't want the light to flood over them but he also didn't want to be left in the total darkness, either.

He pointed to top of his bureau where a small scattered stack of images were. The picture was on top of a few half-finished sketches he had given up on. Dropping onto his bed, he rolled over onto the other side to give Angel ample space.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

Shoes, coat, wallet, keys—things that weren't important left a trail from the living room to the bedroom. It wasn't a long walk because Julio's apartment was so much smaller than his own, but he was glad for that. He didn't have to feel like he needed to run a half-marathon just to get from the kitchen to the bed.

Inside the bedroom again he paused at the door, swallowing hard. Angel was guarded; he knew it must have shown on his face and he couldn't help it. This wasn't his bedroom. Everything was in a different place and the newness and strangeness of his surroundings made his anxiety ramp up. Eventually, though, curiosity took over—after Julio pointed out the stack of papers. Drawings.

He ventured inside and took the topmost drawing, the one Julio showed him earlier on his phone. Angel couldn't help but smile. His drawing. There was something appealing in its roughness. There were others too, that he glanced through—some good, some... less so. Some mere outlines, others in advanced stages. One scratched out.

And all the time he looked through them he was aware that Julio was on the bed, waiting. The room was dimly lit—as though he knew that Angel hated to be in the dark. He knew. Or he felt things. Julio was sensitive like that. Angel glanced over his shoulder at him for a long moment; there was a lot of room on the bed for him.

He walked over and slid onto the mattress, holding the drawing close. "...about what happened at the party..." It was kind of a relief to say the words, and it was terrifying. Though he asked to go to bed, he sat there at the edge of it, holding the drawing to his chest like a shield.

"I'm sorry. I must have scared you."

[Julio de la Rosa]

Julio sat up, one foot tucked beneath a knee, since it felt strange to be lying down while Angel was sitting up. He was suddenly self conscious; the last time that Angel stayed with him, he slept in the living room. If he slept at all. But this was the first time Angel had been in his room. It was small, hence why the bed was crushed against a wall. Since it was just him, the bed was mostly made, but the blankets were folded back where Angel was sitting, for quick sliding into bed most nights.

The bureau with the drawings set on it was an old one, with a couple of marks and scuffs on it. He bought it from a thrift store for a steal. On the side table next to the bed was the small lamp and a handful of items, a bottle of sleeping pills, a couple of library books, his phone charger, a handful of plain printer pages for drawing, along with some pencils.

For a beat, Julio considered shaking his head but after a moment, he nodded. Yes. Angel scared him. He looked up at him, waiting. It felt like Angel wanted to share with him. He said that he wanted to but maybe he was afraid. No, not afraid. Angel wouldn't be in his room with him right now if he was scared. But what he had to say was... unpleasant and sometimes, it was hard to share those things.

[Angel Miguel Albares]

Angel was silent for far too long, holding the picture and staring off at the edge of the dresser. When he spoke, he spoke to the dresser and with his head turned. It had been years since he revisited those memories; honestly he wished he didn't have to but Julio deserved an explanation after saving his life. Twice.

He spoke haltingly, stopping and starting at odd moments. But once he started, it felt like he couldn't stop, as if he had been waiting all this time for this very moment, to be able to tell someone. "When I was fifteen, my family moved to Barcelona and my father enrolled me in a private school. The person who threw the party tonight is someone I knew from back then.

There was another party... back when I first joined the school. He invited me and I was curious about it, so I went. Alone. I didn't know anyone. There were a lot of older kids there. University students. One of them came up to talk to me and I thought...

He was nice. He had a nice smile. And he said all the right things and I don't know... I thought he liked me. I liked him. So when he suggested that we go upstairs, I... I thought maybe he just wanted to talk where it was quiet. But...

He said it was my fault. He said... I led him on. So I didn't tell anyone and... parties like that, with all the noise and the music, it all just... I only wanted to get away, Julio. I didn't mean to scare you but I couldn't stay there."

[Julio de la Rosa]

The silence gave way to a confession. A story. Angel's truth. Angel couldn't even look at him but Julio was watching him, although it hurt his heart to hear his truth. It was the same as his own and yet different. Statistically speaking, they were both abuse victims. But their stories were still their own and so personal.

Hearing it made Julio... angry, though. If he had been there...

But he wasn't. He didn't even know Angel then. But if he had...

After the words were out, the silence hung in the air, so heavy that it was nearly palpable. Julio agreed. Parties like that made him feel... unsafe as well. For a while afterward, Julio refused to even work anywhere other than the club itself. The club had bouncers and security measures in place for them. There were laws and cameras and a safety net. He still felt safe there.

But when it came to private parties, off the premises... It took a while for Julio to go back. And he most certainly never went alone. Except for Angel.

Taking in a breath, he gently reached out and touched Angel's cheek. Without a voice, Julio couldn't say anything. It was his way of gaining attention. Lowering his hand, he shook his head, then signed "I didn't want to stay either."

[Angel Miguel Albares]

It stayed with him because he couldn't tell anyone about what happened. All the memories stayed with no outlet, no closure; he was trapped in his truth and bound by his shame to silence. If the kids at the school found out, he would have been bullied. He saw what they did, what people like Jaime and Jen did. To them, finding out a story like his would have been 'entertaining.'

And Angel might have learned how to fly far earlier than tonight if they had gotten wind of what happened at the party that night.

He sat in silence until Julio touched his cheek, and almost robotically turned to look at him. "You shouldn't have come. You don't even know me, Julio. Or anything about me. This." Angel lowered the picture into his lap and stared at it again. "This isn't me. You should never have gotten involved with me."

[Julio de la Rosa]

His gaze remained fixed on Angel until he caught the sight of the picture being lowered out of his peripheral vision. Then he was looking at the picture, the one that Angel insisted wasn't him. Julio's heart felt heavy. It felt a lot like a rejection, somehow. But it was a rejection of anything good that somebody might see in Angel, like he denied that he could ever be Julio had depicted him.

He wasn't wrong, though. Julio knew he wasn't wrong. Again he touched Angel's face. "It is," he signed. But the rest, it was too complicated for Angel's loose grasp on sign language. His hand went for his pocket instinctively, but no phone. And when he looked at the bureau, the side table, it wasn't there either. He'd left it out on the kitchen counter.

Taking the only thing he had left, he scooted closer so that he could take one of the library books, the paper, and a pencil. And he wrote, in slightly slanted, blocky letters.

I don't regret knowing you. What do you want me to know? How much does a person need to know about another person before they really know them? You can know somebody for many years and know nothing that matters. And you can know somebody for a day and know everything... that matters. Do you understand? You matter so I went. And if I didn't go, where would that leave you? And if you don't care about that, where would that leave me?

[Angel Miguel Albares]

He could only shake his head in silence. Julio thought he knew him. He had an impression of him that translated into the heroic figure on paper but... that was it. An impression. Maybe a hopeful vision of what he thought Angel was capable of being, an equal and a partner.

Even while Julio was writing, Angel was looking at the picture. He wished this could be him. He wished that he could prove Julio right and make him proud, but it was just as he said: Julio didn't know him. And reading what he wrote affirmed that. Slowly Angel shook his head again, closing his eyes to block out the desperation he could almost see in the words and the writing itself. He didn't want to see it in Julio's eyes too.

"Did you know that my father is the Spanish ambassador, Julio? That our family is so rich, he bought his way into the government? If he knew we were even friends, he would have you removed before you could even blink. And."

Angel slipped a hand into his pants pocket, where he always kept a little container of assorted pills, mixed in together. "These. These are more dangerous than my father. I had myself tested... But I went too late. Years later, I went. And these are the reason you need to cut your losses while you can. Because you don't know me. Do you see? You don't know Julio... You don't know how much I... don't want to be..." Alive.

[Julio de la Rosa]

Then by your own words, I'm not a hero either. No Senor Milagros.

Is knowing who your father is and your diagnoses knowing you? Because I don't even know my own father. Does that mean I don't know myself? Does somebody who does known my father somehow known me more than you or me?

I am not a hero either Angel.

He emphatically shook his head and signed the word no. Then turned over his arm. In the soft light of the small lamp, it was barely even visible. But he made it visible by tracing the line of the old scar down his arm. Once it was a bleeding gash, down his entire innermost forearm. It bled fast underwater. In the bath. Five years ago now.

You know who found me? Not family. I don't have family anymore. Not friends. I had none. It was a boy. He helps the old landlady here. I forgot I even reported the leaky faucet with my last rent check. I figured nobody was going to fix it anyway. He is a hero. But if you tell him that then he won't believe you. And he won't accept it. But if he was not here then I would not be. And maybe you would not be. And somebody else would not be.