#anyway. washing my shoes is why theyre wet

[iicraft505]

i had a very autistic moment about the plastic bag i use to carry my work shoes in today

[fedtothenight]

East of Eden

This is the fourth and last (for now) instalment of paper stories, set, chronologically, before the events of the other stories.

#1 Paper Bodies #2 King of Hearts #3 The bumblebee doesn’t know #4 East of Eden

If you’d like support me, this is my ko-fi page. 

Warnings for this are homophobia, shitty parents, mention of past abuse, and mentions of (future) character death.

Summary: When his parents walk in on him and Leonardo, Dario doesn’t know that this is only the first domino to fall, in a long chain of events that will last years.

EAST OF EDEN

Prologue

The first time lost you, betrayal had the taste of cherries and the colour of blood and the warmth of the sun at the end of June and the endless hours of the longest day of the year. It was 2009. I could not know that yet, but these hours would become weeks, then months and finally years, in an endless solstice. Even now, now that you're gone again, you linger on me, like smudged make-up on cheeks and sand on skin, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to wash you away forever.

*

When Ciccio opens the door to his house, he is only wearing Legea black shorts and a sleepy, confused expression. He makes room for him, keeping the door open, and gestures to come inside.

Almost five minutes ago, he called him and waited for three rings before he answered the phone. "Mate, it's two o'clock," he began, whiny, "what is it?"

He told him to open the door, because he was just outside. He also asked him for a towel and some ice, and Ciccio repeated to him, more worried now, "What’s going on?" He replied that he would tell him later, while his temple throbbed and the headache seemed to be splitting his skull in two, and Ciccio cursed, there was a rustle of sheets, and the line falling. His next message only said: "Don’t make any noise".

Now, he gestures to be quiet, his forefinger against his lips, and to take off his shoes. His eyes widen, focused on the encrusted blood that colours the left side of his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He goes to the kitchen and takes out a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapping it in a kitchen towel taken from a drawer and being careful to close the drawer and the door gently, to make as little noise as possible.

Dario takes his Nike shoes off, and, pressing the bag to his temple, follows him up the stairs and then into his room at the end of the corridor. Ciccio yawns and, after closing the door slowly, lets himself fall onto the bed. "Then? What is that? What did you do to your face?"

Dario counts up to three, then to ten, until Ciccio repeats, "Mate, what the fuck happened?", in dialect, and he is staring at him worriedly, his bare forearms resting on his crossed legs.

Don’t throw up. "I can’t go home," Dario manages to say in spite of himself, and only halfway through the sentence he realises that his eyes are wet. That his throat is constricted, that it’s hard to swallow. He presses the frozen peas against the temple.

"Shit, mate, what the fuck did you get yourself into?" asks Ciccio.

While the weight on his chest becomes heavier, more oppressive, Dario manages to say: "Giulia's boyfriend." He breathes in and out, open-mouthed, quickly, shifting his gaze to the crumpled sheet at the foot of the bed, and adds: "I messed up. I hooked up with Leonardo.”

The first time was feverish, fast, with no opportunity for remorse and second thoughts. The second time, it was impulsive, a coincidence made possible by a missed appointment. The third time, however, was wanted, searched, studied, and so were the fourth, the fifth, and all the others, up to this. Until the last one.

Giulia remained motionless in front of them, her hand still clutching the door handle, for an indefinite number of seconds, victim and witness together. Even before he heard his father ask if he was in his room, or heard his steps nearing, the realisation came, with a clarity that comes only in hindsight, that they should have stopped after the first time, when it could still be one mistake and not the umpteenth. Or, anyway, that they should have paid more attention, as to hear the noise of the car parking outside, the keys in the lock, and the first steps into the house.

And soon after, his father was at the door, and he looked at them, and he said nothing, nothing, nothing. He looked at him, at Leonardo, at their clothes discarded on the ground - the socks, the t-shirts, the shorts, the pairs of jeans - and then up to their naked bodies. A part of him knew he should begin to feel the panic grow, swallow him down. He knew he was supposed to say, "It’s not what it looks like," and find an excuse, and ask for forgiveness. But it was exactly as it seemed.

And then Giulia asked, her voice just a peep, "What does this mean?"

And that's how Dario, instead of asking for forgiveness, or crying, or finding an excuse, began to laugh, and said, in perfect Italian, “It means that your boyfriend is a fag."

When he opens his eyes, the sun filters through the curtains and Ciccio is still asleep beside him. For a long second, he watches him sleep and wonders, confused, still sleepy, why he is here and not at home, not in his bed, not with...

And the memories resurface. Not like ancient shipwrecks, not like treasures: they resurface like corpses pushed to the shore by the waves. The cut on his eyebrow hasn’t bled for hours, the bag of frozen peas is back in its place in the freezer and the towel is in the dirty laundry, but when he touches his temple it feels swollen, still painful.

He remembers stumbling as he ran down the stairs, cutting his right eyebrow open, and, before that, that his father had begun to scream, but that he had not been able to take his eyes off Giulia's betrayed expression, from her gaze following Leonardo's movements as he got dressed, with her hands clasped on her mouth; he remembers the pleasure that followed, for a short, intense moment, and remembers Leonardo, his fear-stricken face, as if he had been caught committing a crime, as if, unmoving at the door, there wasn’t his girlfriend - the girl he had cheated on, over and over again, with her own brother - but something far more terrifying, as if she were the executioner and not the victim.

He checks the phone. There are thirteen missed calls and five unread messages.

One and forty-three minutes, Leonardo: I'm sorry

One and forty-three minutes, Leonardo: I 'm home

One and forty-seven minutes, Leonardo: I can’t go inside

One and forty-seven minutes, Leonardo: theyre gonna kill me

One and fifty-eight minutes, Leonardo: I'm going in, I'll call you back

The calls were from his parents and one from his neighbours, up until three in the morning. Only one from Leonardo, at one thirty-seven, and then nothing else. And only then does Dario go to the bathroom to throw up.

The retching has just hinted to stop when Ciccio knocks and, without waiting for an answer, enters the bathroom to crouch beside him and offer him a glass of cold water. "My mom made coffee and we have a piece of ice cream cake, if you’d like."

Dario pulls the toilet cover down once more, then drags himself back, until he can lean his bare back against the wall. He accepts the water, nodding, and takes a sip. "I'm not hungry."

"You also need to get your head checked. We'll take you to the hospital if you want."

"I'm fine," says Dario.

"Sure doesn’t look like that, mate."

"I don’t even need stitches," insists Dario. He places the glass on the floor, his back bare cooling  down against the wall. He stretches his legs. "I'm fine. I'm just a little nauseous."

Against all his hope, Ciccio doesn’t leave the bathroom. He flops down, crossing his legs, and, for an indefinite number of seconds, keeps opening his mouth and then closing it again.

At one point, Dario begins to count, managing to get to seventy-first before Ciccio finally says, "So..."

Here we go. "So," he echoes.

"When you say you hooked up with Leonardo," the other says slowly, "what do you mean exactly?"

Dario turns his gaze from the corner of the floor behind Ciccio’s head, which he was staring intensely at since the beginning of the conversation, and turns to stare at his friend in the eye, without batting an eyelid. "What do you think I mean?"

Ciccio is absently scratching his arm, like he always does when he is nervous, before an oral test, or when Juventus is playing. Like that time, during the first year of high school, they were discovered skipping classes, seen by an old friend of his father's, a council employee enjoying his nth break at a cafe. Out of the blue, it comes back to mind now. The employee had seen him by chance in the town square, directed to the park, he had said, to himself, is that Tano’s son? He had called his father to tell him Tano, listen to his, your son his not in school, I saw him at the square.

When they went to Ciccio’s house for lunch, his mother Lella was waiting for them; she asked him, How was school today?, and Ciccio knew immediately that they were in trouble, or at least suspected, because he started to scratch himself exactly as he is doing now, his short and strong nails ruthless on his dry skin. That time, Lella then added, Dario, go back home, I already talked to your mother, and he and Ciccio, stupid and melodramatic, exchanged the look of two old soldiers called to two different fronts, ready to never see each other again. They did see each other again, obviously. With two swollen cheeks, and their dignity a bit chipped, after the slaps - and, for Dario, a dose of wooden spoon - from their mothers, but they saw each other.

He never thought that one day he would be the cause of this tic; he always believed that he would be there to give him a light slap on his arm, telling him, Stop scratching yourself.

Ciccio shrugs. "Mate, what the fuck should I know."

"I received the membership card just a few weeks ago,” Dario answers, after a moment. “The bureaucracy is long, but they finally accepted my request to join the party."

Ciccio hides his face in his hands. For a long, terrible second, he’s afraid that he’s finally made him lose patience - he fears that he has finally turned him away, that he is about to tell him, I don’t feel comfortable, mate, to tell him to leave because he is not friends with fags. Then, however, he sees Ciccio’s shoulders jerk one, two, three times, and realises, with amazement, that Ciccio is barely holding back a laugh. He seems to give up, because it turns loud, vaguely hysterical, as he runs his hands through his hair and finally joins them as if in prayer and, rolling his eyes, says, "Mate, that’s the issue," and shakes his head, "’s not that you’re gay, it’s that you’re an asshole."

Later, sitting at the table, Ciccio asks him, So? and Dario finally decides to answer him seriously. Still with a little nausea, he takes in a deep breath, and explains: I also like girls. It seems such an abstruse concept, to Ciccio, who frowns, rubs his fingers on his forehead, seems to focus on the question as he would with an equation he cannot solve. He is trying to adapt, Dario realises, as do people and animals in adverse conditions, to reconcile the friend he has known for a lifetime, who used to draw Dragon Ball characters during history class, with whom he plays table football at the bar, with this new person; the life he knows and the one he is discovering, imagining now: who knows if he is thinking about their childhoods, when they used the common showers after the swimming lessons, if he is trying to focus on the memory to find some furtive glances going a bit too low, some misplaced looks. Who knows if he's analysing all his movements, the way his wrist bends when he sips his coffee, or the nonchalant gesture when he fixes his hair, if he's considering his choices in fashion, to find something, a clue, a nod, that he, the friend he believed to know deep down, is a person who is new to him. “But is it possible to like boys and girls?”

“It is.”

“But then you’re not gay-gay. Like, you’re 50% bent. A flexible contract gay. Wait, can I say bent? Queer? How do you call it then? Bisexual?”

In his mind, Dario repeats the word: bi, bisex, bisexual. Bisexual. He savours it slowly, tests its consistency, its quality, its cut, as he would with a mouthful of tender meat, bites it, lets it melt on his tongue. What do they call it, he wonders, when you like girls, but you also hook up with your sister's boyfriend? Faggot? Bent? Bisexual? Traitor? Judas?

Ciccio clears his voice. “Isn’t it weird that he’s also hooked up with your sister, though?"

"He hasn’t," Dario replies. "He doesn’t like women at all. He said to her that he wanted to ‘be serious’, so they have never done anything. "

"Ah, so he's gay-gay, 100% it,” considers the other. Then, he grimaces. "But why him, honestly?"

How to explain it to him that it couldn’t have been anyone else but him? That it was never a choice? So, unable to do anything else, he just nods. Ciccio shakes his head, comments, with a half-laugh, "Fuck, mate, you Cain," but, at least, he has stopped scratching his arm.

The day he and Ciccio skipped classes, when his cheek still burned with pain and humiliation, he was in the dining room, his fists clenched at his sides, and his mother was still screaming, "How is it possible that you don’t even go to school, on top of not studying?! Why do we even bother to buy your books? Why do we bother to pay for private tutoring?” until she finally shouted, “Can you not be at least a little bit like your sister?!”

Giulia stood at the doorframe, as she often did when their mother scolded him. He always wondered, if only to himself, if she did so because she was afraid that she’d eventually be asked to join the tirade, like it happens in school, when the teacher has already called another classmate to the blackboard and, yet, all others remain alert, on guard, worried that the teacher could ask them a question and catch them unprepared. Or if she did because, subconsciously, somewhere inside her, she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that she would never be at the receiving end of the scolding: she was the mature child, the smart one, polite and respectful, who went to sleep at the right time and didn’t talk back at her parents or teachers, who brought home only grades like: good distinguished and excellent. If she did it because she enjoyed it a little to see the proof that, between the two, she was, and had always been, the best twin.

The day he did càlia con Ciccio, and skipped school, Dario eventually screamed back to his mother, "Maybe it would have been better if only she had been born, right?" He continued, "You're a shitty mother, because you've always preferred her and we all know that," and she remained, for a long minute, too stunned to answer, as he turned to his sister and, against her, he finally shouted, "At least admit that you're here because enjoy to see her mad at me!”

Only then did his mother give it to him with a wooden spoon, wherever she could catch him, while he tried to wriggle away. A blow for every time he did not apologise to Giulia: one on the back of the right thigh, "How can you say such a thing about your sister?!" then on the ass, "Tell her you’re sorry!", one on the side of his legs, "You’re a disgrace!”, two blows behind the knees.

Now, he is sitting next to Leonardo on a bench in the farthest corner of the town's park – the gardens, away from indiscreet looks, from the families in the playground, and Leonardo has a bad bruise on his left cheek which Dario tries not to let his gaze linger on.

(He left Ciccio's house only after receiving a text message from Leonardo. It only said, Let's meet at the gardens in half an hour. After some hesitation, he also texted his mother, warning her that he will return home in the afternoon. She hasn’t replied yet. )

“Your neighbour, Accountant Salemi, knew that my father would react badly," Leonardo is telling him. "He knows him. He remembered that my father was not exactly open-minded, you know. So, he brought me and demanded to come inside with me. Your mother had already called them. I didn’t even want to go in – took a lot of convincing."

Dario swallows. "What will you do with your parents now?"

"Another year," answers Leonardo. "Another year, and I'll leave this town. They told me that they will let me finish high school.” He looks down at his clasped hands. "I have written to Giulia that I am sorry,” he adds, “that it’s not her fault, and that I will disappear from your lives. That I won’t even see you again, if not at school.” His voice shakes, and his eyes are red, and Dario thinks, Tell him, give him a culprit, but the words get stuck in his throat, and Leonardo is saying, “It’s going to get better,” he’s saying, “I will move abroad, and it will get better,” and he holds back the tears, looks at him, asks him, “Right?”

Tell him, Dario thinks. Tell him the truth. Instead, he replies, "It will. It will be better.”

"We couldn’t know that they’d be back early," Leonardo says. "It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault."

Dario inhales, exhales, thinks, We could. I could. Thinks, Tell him.

"No," he says instead faintly, "It's nobody's fault."

Despite everything, Leonardo smiles at him, sniffling, and intertwines his fingers with his. With his thumb, he draws invisible lines on the palm of his hand. Presses gently. It almost seems like the park - the flashes of green divided by small pathways, the slides, the swings, no more than old chains left to rust - the sky, the burning sun, the sultry, suffocating air, the whole town with its corners and construction sites and post-war schools, do not disappear, exactly, but flow into that gesture, that the matter and the universe are shrinking, contracting there where the palms of their hands touch, that it all finds space inbetween their fingers, that this, only this, has meaning, that only this exists. If only we could stay like this, Dario thinks, if only this moment could be prolonged for days, months, years, or remain still, immortalised in an indefinite point in time, like a picture or a portrait. He thinks that if this is the end, if tomorrow there will be two strangers inhabiting two bodies that of each other know smell, taste, edges and weaknesses, then, as long as he is allowed, he might as well hold his hand for some more time, and then some more, and then some more. Until, from their fingers, the matter expands again, returns to being grass and oxygen and the concrete of the walls, creating a universe in which they are two different and new people. Like two set of rails intersecting before they branch off again in two different directions. He allows himself to have this, before tomorrow comes, before Leonardo stops knowing him as the boy who’s loved him, at least somehow, at least somewhat, who has given him his body, in some way, and recognises him as the one who’s ruined his life.

In third grade, it was already clear that Giulia was much brighter than him. Or that, at least, she was much more gifted that he was and would ever be. What was simple calculations for her, for him meant long, pointless afternoons spent, after school, doing and redoing the same maths exercises. When she had already learned all the multiplication tables, he still had difficulty learning the six table, struggling to remember six by eight?, six by nine?. One evening, his mother spent three hours trying to get him to learn a paragraph of history on the Etruscans; at the end of the day, her sister was busy reading the first book she’s been given, Harry Potter and The Philosopher's Stone.

While she was building case and school diary walls not to let her desk mate snoop and encouraged the competitiveness with another girl named Silvia, the second best in the class, who for five years would wear mustard-coloured hair and a pair of blue-framed glasses and, for five years, would be the only one to suffer the academic excellence of her sister more than him, he was sitting at the teacher’s desk, punished because he would stand and talked without permission with his best mate, Ciccio.

One day, when he was eight, he found a white board attached to the fridge. He would remember for years that he kept watching the words next to his name and his sister's: in her row, a series of  distinguished distinguished distinguished very good, and below, in his row, his sufficient scarce not very good, his failures lined up next to each other. The board would remain hanging for years, taunting him, a constant reminder of his lacking.

He would also remember another time, a few weeks later. Their teacher Carlotta - who knew of her mother's efforts to improve his grades - had sighed looking at his math exercises and had told him that she wouldn’t grade him, this time, provided that he’d try and redo the exercises. During the break, he had copied an excellent from the notebook of his desk mate, being careful to the curve of the o, to the straight lines of the t. Once home, he left the notebook open on the kitchen table and went to wash his hands before lunch, expecting, upon his return, to find his mother ready to congratulate him. Once back from the bathroom, he heard his sister say: Mum, Dario cheated! He wrote the grade himself. That evening, he wrote: Who acts like a spy is not child of a Mary’s, not a child of Jesus, and when they die they go down there, in Giulia's school diary, and his mother spanked him for that as well.

At home, he thinks, Scream. Shout that you hate me. That you do not want me at home anymore. Shout that I am a shame, a shit son, a disgrace. Tell me to go away. But they don’t scream; they say: "The heart wants what it wants,” and his mother puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, "We don’t love you any less, okay?", but she doesn’t look at him in the eyes at all, her eyes pinned on the doily under the vase of fake flowers.

Matter doesn't retract: matter remains motionless, like a still life painting. It doesn’t change anything, they tell him, we don’t love you any less, but he knows it's not true: he knows that it's another crack in an already chipped, worthless vase. He is laid bare, yet, opposed to how it felt in front of Leonardo and in front of Ciccio, he doesn’t feel anything, not shame nor fear nor anger. Within himself, this awareness creeps in: the reason his parents are not screaming, are not cataloguing this  one as another of his failures, it is that they know it is not his fault. This is not him not studying. They are educated, open minded enough to think: he was born that way, and then, if it’s not the result of a wrong education, of a lesson imparted badly, or not imparted at all, it’s not their fault, either. And, suddenly, they are redeemed. But he sees it all the same, this day lined up on the board next to his bad grades.

They encourage him and his sister to talk, in her bedroom. Sitting next to each other on her bed, on the Harry Potter duvet cover their parents bought her for Christmas, her with her arms folded, curled forward as if she had a stomachache, his legs slightly apart, his shoulders slumped.

Just like his mother didn’t look at him, he doesn’t look at his sister, his twin. He does not look up from the floor, even when Giulia asks him, "How many times?"

"I don’t know," he answers honestly. "Many. For quite some time."

And Giulia mumbles, "We haven’t had sex.” I know, Dario thinks. He told me. But then she adds, quoting her mother with bitterness. “The heart wants what it wants, right? Maybe I should have understood that. And I accept it. I thought about it and I accept it, you know, because I know you can’t do anything about it. I forgive you."

Anger builds and is blinding. He sees what his sister is doing: if she can forgive him, then she too is redeemed. The heart wants what it wants. But his heart is not the part of the body that made him fuck Leonardo. If it has to be his heart, though, and not of his brain or his hormones, it’s not the piece of it that belongs to Leonardo, but the one that overflows with everything he feels towards her.

And that's how he says it, with a perverse twinge of pleasure when it takes her breath away. “I don’t love him," he says, turning to look at her. "I lied to him, when I told him that I did, because I do feel something for him, yeah, but it's not love. I did because of you."

Giulia's light olive skin has turned so pale that it looks yellowish, sick. "What do you mean?”

So, finally, he says it. After years, he release the resentment gathered at bottom of his stomach, twisted around his guts like a snake.

“One year, we were on holiday at the seaside, in Calabria,” he begins, "the hotel entertainer made us compete – who would build the best sand castle. We were probably around six. I had even forgotten all about it, until last year, while I was looking for a photo of me and Ciccio in primary school, and I saw a picture of you smiling next to your sand castle and.  I remembered that you told me to get closer to the waves, to use the wettest, most malleable sand. This way, you don’t have to go back and forth, you said to me. Then, a stronger wave hit my castle full on, and you won."

Giulia exhales, "I’m not following you."

Her slender legs, half-covered by a pair of shorts, are shaking. For anger, frustration or sadness, he cannot figure it out. And, not surprisingly, he doesn’t care. He opens himself up, sinking the knife as deep as possible. It’s not enough for him to be bare: after years of silence, he feels the need to eviscerate himself, like hunters do with their prey. He is one and the same.

“I asked myself, ten years later, if you had said that on purpose. In the end, I had nothing, but you had won. Mom barely had time to take that picture before I destroyed your castle out of spite. And it has always been this way, all this time. You've always been,” he concludes, taking a deep breath, driving the knife in, in, in, "the best child. If there was one thing that I could finally take away from you, that I could take, I would do it. I wanted him, and I wanted you to see, sooner or later, he was mine, that in spite of all your victories, him I won easily. "

Giulia's sobs are the only thing that fills the silence of the room. She shudders, and it is an ugly cry, not like the ones in the movies, and he only feels even more frustration, listening to her whining. Here they are, next to each other, twins so similar in appearance and yet totally different, in character, interests, choices.

It’s as if they are not siblings at all, albeit tied by the same genes, by the same blood. They are dust twins, already swept away; ash twins, nothing but what remains of something that has gone up in smoke; sand twins, because sand is fine, crumbly, weak, and nothing made it of it survives for long. Footprints don’t last, castles don’t hold up.

Like sand, he imagines her crumbling down, grain after grain. And he doesn’t feel anything. If we are made of sand, a part of him thinks, if we are weak by nature, crumbly, almost insubstantial, maybe it's more bearable to know that you have destroyed a person. Or, the contrary, that you have let someone destroy you.

When Giulia finally speaks, her words are slurry for the tears. "I did it on purpose, the castle thing,” she says. “And I liked when Mum screamed at you. Not get out."

The first time was impulsive, and, at the same time, it was not at all. Maybe that's how a murderer feels, before committing his first crime: the last moments of hesitation before sinking the knife into the flesh, or wrapping his hands around a neck, or pulling the trigger.

He was alone at home, on a Saturday night Giulia had gone out with their parents and he had refused to go out with them and their relatives and be bored for an entire night (a decision that had, however, caused a long quarrel). Leonardo rang the doorbell, apologising for the time. "I have to leave Giulia’s Latin notebook here," he explained, "she needs it for Monday."

He opened the gate, then the door of the house, he let him in and went back to the sofa, vaguely pointing to his sister's room. "Go ahead," he told him, getting comfortable again.

He was sipping a beer as he watched the game, and when Leonardo returned to the living room, he also offered one to him. Leonardo raised his eyebrows. "Are your parents okay with this?"

"My parents don’t have to know, do they?" he replied.

Leonardo accepted the beer with a nod and sat next to him, his legs apart enough that their knees would touch, from time to time, and seemingly focused on the game. He moved them imperceptibly, close and open again; after long minutes spent commenting on the match under his breath, Leonardo's right knee stopped, pressed against his.

Suddenly, it became all Dario was able to focus on. The alcohol had made him pleasantly relaxed. Nevertheless, that touch, the almost non-existent rubbing of such a tiny part of their bodies now become a constant and present pressure, seemed to burn every vein and capillary, like fire spreads along gas lines.

He had noticed, and for quite some time, that Leonardo was attractive. Even before that, he had realised, albeit with reluctance and resignation, that he could find beauty in men. He could not understand, however, if the other was unaware of what was raging inside him, or if he was just polite enough to ignore it – to ignore the way his breathing faltered a bit in feeling his leg against his.

Dario recalled all those times they had spent time together because of Giulia: it’d seem, sometimes, that he could catch Leonardo looking at him intently, his gaze roaming down his body. He recalled that time he complimented his drawings, the way he squeezed his shoulder and let his hand slip down his shoulders before he pulled back. He catalogued the the curses and sighs he sometimes caught in school, in response to homophobic jokes, wondering for the first time if were angry rather than resigned.

Is it possible? Dario suddenly wondered. He pushed his knee against his, and Leonardo did not pull back: he swallowed, leaning forward to leave his beer on the table, and then bent his elbows back, letting them rest on the back of the couch. The game was just a background noise now, and Dario, both for the alcohol and the thrill triggered by the uninterrupted, burning physical contact, leaned forward and rested a hand on Leonardo’s thigh. Leonardo jerked, his hand flew to cover his, as if to stop him. He didn’t stop him, though. The long, electric seconds before he leant forward and kissed him were like a glass trinket dangling back and forth for a long moment before shattering on the floor. They kissed. Then they fumbled with their jeans and did more than that.

Did he have a choice? Could it be someone else, if not him? If he had not been his sister's boyfriend, would he have acted the same? Since Leonardo was cheating on his sister in the first place, would that erase Dario’s guilt? He would never love him, he knew that, because to love him would mean giving away the last piece of him that he had left for himself. The one not saved for his parents, his sister, Ciccio and the rest of his friends, for all those people who seemed to demand even more pieces of him, to store away like religious relics or to chew and spit out.

In the end, he decided to lie, to say I love you to Leonardo. He convinced himself that, perhaps, it’s easier to accept that someone has has hurt us, if they did so by mistake, by loving us imperfectly. Then, perhaps, Leonardo would have forgiven him.

He sleeps for long hours, and when he wakes up, the sun is finally setting. It is a mistake to head down to the kitchen for a glass of water. He stops behind the wall, hearing his parents whisper. His mother is saying, "Maybe this is the cause of his uneasiness, as a child," and the nausea comes back, ruthless. He fights the urge to retch as he retracts in his room like a wounded animal and sits on the bed. Discomfort. Cheater. Bisexual. Brother. Twin. Ciccio’s words, his sarcastic tone, you're a Cain, mate, echo in his mind, and he grabs the laptop. With the laptop fan as background noise, he opens a Google tab.

It was just Giulia that was supposed to come back early yesterday. Just her, accompanied  by a family friend’s daughter. This is what her text said. Just her. She would see with her own eyes that her boyfriend wanted him, that at least one thing, only one, was his, and his alone, and he would have his payback, and Leonardo, the cheater, would be a victim and an accomplice together, and perhaps he would feel the guilt, sure, but not forever, not for long, not enough to make his breath stutter. Their parents would be left out of the equation. Giulia would have been too ashamed to ever say anything

Dario couldn’t know, then, that his mother had had food poisoning. He couldn’t know that his parents and Giulia would come back together early, that they would walk up the stairs, that they would open the door and find them together, that his mother would call Leonardo’s parents and tell them the truth, convinced of doing the right thing.

Dario couldn’t know that the Accountant would have to drive Leonardo home and protect him from his own father, and that the Accountant’s wife, that old gossip, would spread the details of the fight, of the family fight, of the seemingly perfect son with only one fatal flaw, poor thing, to an entire town.

Years later, Dario would smoke a cigarette outside the church of their town and think, It was me. I pushed the first domino. He would sit cross-legged in front of a grave - a grave with no epitaph, just with a name, a date of birth and one of death - and he would whisper, crying, You promised me that I would never see you again, and then, lying on this same bed, staring at the ceiling, he would imagine to go back to years and years prior, to fix everything.

Years later, Dario would imagine to read Giulia’s text, the one that said I’m coming back home tonight, not tomorrow, and warn Leonardo, tell him they would meet another time, no problem, instead of leaving his phone in the hall and pretend, for the years that followed, that he had never read that text.

Years later, Dario would imagine to make a different choice, to give Leonardo a future, to give him a better chance at life. Perhaps, had he not let his bittern win, if that afternoon, a lifetime ago, he had cancelled their plans, perhaps Leonardo wouldn’t have fought his father. Perhaps he would have not moved abroad.

Maybe, Dario would think on July 1st, 2015, Leonardo would have been alive, happy, and with him. Perhaps, then, their hands could have been joined for some more time, and some more, and some more, fingers intertwined in a different universe.

He would wonder how many people he had hit with one decision.

He would think that it would have been enough to save one.

But he can’t know that now. At the end of the longest of the year, in 2009, Dario recalls Ciccio’s words and looks up Cain on Google.

Gently touching his sore eyebrow, he reads, for the first time, about the story of the two brothers from Genesis, of Cain, who killed Abel for envy, and was condemned by God to wander, a restless wanderer on the earth, with a mark on the forehead, until he settled in the land of Nod, east of Eden.

[eggroll-sushi]

1-150 ask mem

first of all, fuc k yoou

1. Who was the last person you held hands with?

my mom??

2. Are you outgoing or shy?

outgoing around friends

3. Who are you looking forward to seeing?

u

4. Are you easy to get along with?

i dont know, ive heard that no one really hates me but like i find it difficult to find someone who i actually enjoy talking to

5. If you were drunk would the person you like take care of you?

i dont really have any interest in anyone rn so... yes? id take care of myself

6. What kind of people are you attracted to?

so far everyone that ive liked is a either a nerd or a pretty shitty person so like ,

7. Do you think you’ll be in a relationship two months from now?

no

8. Who from the opposite gender is on your mind?

in what way?? idk im still thinking of this oe guy he had his pants pulled up pretty high with a tight belt on and a big nose. im not thinking in a romantic way or anything i just... it was a weird combination. . ..his hair was ok i guess

9. Does talking about sex make you uncomfortable?

uh yeah if its not in the brash or crude humor way

10. Who was the last person you had a deep conversation with?

you

11. What does the most recent text that you sent say?

“probably”

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now?

killer - bastille, yeah i dont have any others that stand out particularly

13. Do you like it when people play with your hair?

i have curly hair so we just both suffer if they try running their hands through... but if i had a romantic s/o i probably wouldnt mind bein petted

14. Do you believe in luck and miracles?

yes? i think so

15. What good thing happened this summer?

i hung out with friends a lot.. .i think i dont remember

16. Would you kiss the last person you kissed again?

yeah i lovemy mom

17. Do you think there is life on other planets?

scary either way.. but the universe is pretty big so i guess

18. Do you still talk to your first crush?

not really theyre an asshole mostly

19. Do you like bubble baths?

i havent taken a bath in like 4 years.. but yes

20. Do you like your neighbors?

we do not talk

21. What are you bad habits?

being rude and disrespectful and aggressive

22. Where would you like to travel?

europe.. japan.. idk

23. Do you have trust issues?

no

24. Favorite part of your daily routine?

sleeping and eating

25. What part of your body are you most uncomfortable with?

i really dont know.. its like an all around tie.. .

26. What do you do when you wake up?

brush teeth and wash face, change into outside wear if im going outside, lotion my face and put on mascara, make tea/breakfast

27. Do you wish your skin was lighter or darker?

overall just smoother.. like a more even tone.. but darker i guess

28. Who are you most comfortable around?

y ou

29. Have any of your ex’s told you they regret breaking up?

ive dated.. once but i didn’t even like the guy.. i just said yes because it was like. .mmkfkucin 5th grade and then he broke up with me (i didnt care tbh) and then asked me back?? it was weird because he told me he was breaking up because he found.. someone hotter or something and they said if he dumped me they would date him and they didnt.. .it was wild tbh i dont really know why they did this it was like 6th grade. ......... ... .anyways

30. Do you ever want to get married?

theoretically, yes? but idk it seems exhausting and i cant grasp the concept of someone actually liking me for so long

31. Is your hair long enough for a pony tail?

yes

32. Which celebrities would you have a threesome with?

fuck i dont know i dont really think about that buds

33. Spell your name with your chin.

gthhju-asnhhy

34. Do you play sports? What sports?

no unless robotics counts

35. Would you rather live without TV or music?

tv

36. Have you ever liked someone and never told them?

yes

37. What do you say during awkward silences?

i just try to do something funny

38. Describe your dream girl/guy?

nice, a kind person, likeable, liberal, ,

39. What are your favorite stores to shop in?

tjmaxx, marshalls, burlington. i go stright to that mf clearance section

40. What do you want to do after high school?

perferably die, but thats unlikely so i wanna go into a good college, make friends, get a decent job

41. Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

my mind says yes but my heart says no

42. If you’re being extremely quiet what does it mean?

1) tired 2) mad 3) i cant/dont wanna make conversation 4) im just .. zoned out

43. Do you smile at strangers?

if they smile first

44. Trip to outer space or bottom of the ocean?

im fucking terrified of both

45. What makes you get out of bed in the morning?

i have to go to school or i feel like shit

46. What are you paranoid about?

every time im disrespectful, aggressive, or really any action that i make

47. Have you ever been high?

no

48. Have you ever been drunk?

no

49. Have you done anything recently that you hope nobody finds out about?

sure

50. What was the colour of the last hoodie you wore?

it was a brownish orange (a coat with a hood)

51. Ever wished you were someone else?

ye

52. One thing you wish you could change about yourself?

give myself a massive sponge dick

53. Favourite makeup brand?

i dont really wear makeup.. i like ChapStick

54. Favourite store?

tjmaxx

55. Favourite blog?

@eggroll-sushi​

56. Favourite colour?

orange? either a peachy orange or a borwnish orange. but i can appreciate a good palette

57. Favourite food?

id say pho but i like a lot of foods

58. Last thing you ate?

oreos and milk

59. First thing you ate this morning?

blueberry english muffin with honey butter

60. Ever won a competition? For what?

recently my team won a robotics comp

61. Been suspended/expelled? For what?

no

62. Been arrested? For what?

jesus no

63. Ever been in love?

no

64. Tell us the story of your first kiss?

well ... my mo was telling me goonight-- (i havent had one)

65. Are you hungry right now?

yeah

66. Do you like your tumblr friends more than your real friends?

my tungle friends are also my irl friends

67. Facebook or Twitter?

twitter (i dont use either)

68. Twitter or Tumblr?

tumblr? i hate it tho

69. Are you watching tv right now?

n o

70. Names of your bestfriends?

you know who

71. Craving something? What?

food.. savory junk food........olives, nachos, ,,

72. What colour are your towels?

white

72. How many pillows do you sleep with?

two, but i have 3 on my bed

73. Do you sleep with stuffed animals?

i just keep em on my bed yeah

74. How many stuffed animals do you think you have?

4 on my bed (god bless your soul, okoshi, wherever you are) but like.. 10 total?

75. Favourite animal?

cat but i also like most animals

76. What colour is your underwear?

its currently gray

77. Chocolate or Vanilla?

dark chocolate

78. Favourite ice cream flavour?

blue moon

79. What colour shirt are you wearing?

black with white text

80. What colour pants?

shades of gray

81. Favourite tv show?

su? i dont really watch any others

82. Favourite movie?

the man from uncle movie/ kingsman

83. Mean Girls or Mean Girls 2?

mean girls?

84. Mean Girls or 21 Jump Street?

mean girls i guess

85. Favourite character from Mean Girls?

idk

86. Favourite character from Finding Nemo?

starfish

87. First person you talked to today?

mom

88. Last person you talked to today?

you

89. Name a person you hate?

protein shake (jk)

90. Name a person you love?

my mother

91. Is there anyone you want to punch in the face right now?

maybe

92. In a fight with someone?

im constantly in a fight

93. How many sweatpants do you have?

one

94. How many sweaters/hoodies do you have?

many, over 10

95. Last movie you watched?

Logan

96. Favourite actress?

janelle monae always looks stunning

97. Favourite actor?

uhhhhhhhhh dwayne is a friend

98. Do you tan a lot?

yes?

99. Have any pets?

no

100. How are you feeling?

sick

101. Do you type fast?

not really

102. Do you regret anything from your past?

yes

103. Can you spell well?

yeah i guess

104. Do you miss anyone from your past?

yeah i suppose

105. Ever been to a bonfire party?

i went on a camping enrichment?

106. Ever broken someone’s heart?

no?

107. Have you ever been on a horse?

yeah

108. What should you be doing?

studying for histry quiz

109. Is something irritating you right now?

yes

110. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt?

no?

111. Do you have trust issues?

im pretty sure this was already asked

112. Who was the last person you cried in front of?

mom?

113. What was your childhood nickname?

ass (im still a kid, right?)

114. Have you ever been out of your province/state?

yes

115. Do you play the Wii?

when someone has one

116. Are you listening to music right now?

no

117. Do you like chicken noodle soup?

yes

118. Do you like Chinese food?

yes

119. Favourite book?

harry potteR?

120. Are you afraid of the dark?

yes

121. Are you mean?

yes

122. Is cheating ever okay?

no

123. Can you keep white shoes clean?

no. once i stepped in a massive puddle and got wet like halfway up my calf

124. Do you believe in love at first sight?

no

125. Do you believe in true love?

n..yes?

126. Are you currently bored?

yes

127. What makes you happy?

friends, having a good time, making people laugh

128. Would you change your name?

no

129. What your zodiac sign?

scorpio

130. Do you like subway?

yeah

131. Your bestfriend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

we would both suffer

132. Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

you (this is a repeat again)

133. Favourite lyrics right now?

//

134. Can you count to one million?

i could, yes

135. Dumbest lie you ever told?

bro idk

136. Do you sleep with your doors open or closed?

closed

137. How tall are you?

5′4″?

138. Curly or Straight hair?

i have curly hair

139. Brunette or Blonde?

brunette

140. Summer or Winter?

summer

141. Night or Day?

cant choose

142. Favourite month?

november

143. Are you a vegetarian?

no

144. Dark, milk or white chocolate?

dark

145. Tea or Coffee?

tea

146. Was today a good day?

eh i guess

147. Mars or Snickers?

mars

148. What’s your favourite quote?

“you’re like shaggy from scooby doo; always alone”

149. Do you believe in ghosts?

yes? im scared of them so

150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what’s the first line on that page?

“’You will blow your eyes out,’ said Nwoye’s mother...” (Things Fall Apart)