Fishbones Book II – Chapter 37: Mitzvah

Posted On December 16, 2020

The expected nightmare never came. Days passed and the only things running through Ferris’ dreams were shadows and whispers. There was something different about that night. Ferris hadn’t been a reluctant bystander or an unwilling accessory to a crime. From the moment he’d burst into the stairwell to the sound of bone cracking on flesh—a fist hitting Demos’ cheek; the image of Aldo pinning him, twisting back his hair—the red of blood and the violet of bruises. Ferris had wanted it.

He had wanted to see Aldo die.

Ferris sat up in bed with a groan. Everything ached. Keeping up with Demos had been more challenging than he’d expected. He glanced over to see Demos still asleep, somehow managing to claim the majority of the bed in spite of his small frame. Somewhere, Ferris could hear the chime of his phone—a text—but it was muffled, far away. His eyes scanned the nightstand, the bed, the floor. The chime came again.

It was out in the living room.

“Shit,” Ferris muttered.

“Ugh.” Demos rolled over, burying his face in a pillow. “I’m trying to sleep.”

There he was, complaining about the slightest movement and a single spoken word. Ferris had the brief notion to compare him to a princess on a pea but thought better of it. He instead slipped out of bed and tugged on some semblance of an outfit. By the time he realized these were yesterday’s jeans, he was already in the living room.

Seamus was lounging on the couch, feet up on the coffee table with a plate of toast on his belly. “There he is,” Seamus said. The toast crunched as he ate, crumbs scattering onto the cushions.

“Hey. You’re up early.” Ferris didn’t have the energy to mention the mess. He held his back, wincing at the dull pain that had crept up his body. “Damnit.”

“Been at the gym?”

“Uh, yeah. I had a lot of—“ Ferris pushed up his glasses in an attempt to rub the bleariness from his eyes. It didn’t work. “—missed cardio to make up for.”

Seamus dusted a few toast crumbs from his shirt. “That how you got that cut?” He gestured to his mouth.

Ferris had already forgotten about his marred lip. And about getting clocked across the face with the butt of a pistol. The cut had healed somewhat but apparently not enough to go unnoticed.

“Sure. Uh, have you seen my phone?”

“Yeah.” Seamus held up his other hand, giving the phone a wave. “You got a text from your mum but she uses all these funny words.”

“Hey, stop reading my shit.”

“What’s a—“ Seamus held the screen closer to his face, squinting. “—mitzvah?”

Ferris swiped the phone from Seamus’ hand. “Tolerating you.” With a sigh, he stared at the message until the letters came into focus. “Oh, she wants me to housesit next—ow.“

Something thumped into his leg. Ferris looked down to see a disoriented pug at his ankle. Stanley was dressed up in his Diva sweater, something Seamus must have done when Ferris wasn’t looking. His corkscrew tail wagged furiously.

“Stan, I think you have more eyes than brain cells,” Ferris said with a frown. How did he, of all people, end up with the stupidest dog on the planet?

The pug waddled toward the door then looked back with a walleyed huff.

Ferris sighed. “I’d better walk him before he hurts himself.”

“Oh, let me do it.” Seamus sat up in an instant, nearly dropping his plate. “I want to walk him.”

This wasn’t the first time Seamus had offered to take the dog outside. It was strange. He’d been doing it more often lately, even in the cold.

“Why?” Ferris asked. “You hate doing, uh—things that could be construed as chores.”

Seamus pointed at him with his entire hand, eyes set in a stern gaze. “Mate, that pug is a girl magnet. I don’t even have to dress well and they come running.” Then, his voice raised in pitch. ”What’s his name? He’s so cute, I love his little sweater! Can I pet him?” Somehow, he’d managed an exquisite impersonation of a young American woman. Maybe a little too west coast but still impressive.

“When have you ever dressed well?” Ferris closed his phone with a snap. “And stop using my dog to pick up women.”

“Aw, Fer. Come on.” Seamus left the sofa, scooping Stanley up from the floor to leave a kiss on his wrinkled face. “It’s our bonding time.”

Ferris ran his hands down his face. “Ugh, fine. Just don’t stay out too long.”

Soon, Seamus had dressed Stanley up in even more clothing Ferris couldn’t remember buying, nestled him into a harness, and whisked the pug out the door. Well, whatever made him happy.

Five seconds after the front door closed, the bedroom door cracked open. Demos peered out like a teen trying to sneak past somebody’s parents.

“Is he gone?” Demos whispered.

“Yeah, he went to walk Stan.” Ferris gestured out with his thumb. “Why don’t we just tell him already? This is getting ridic—wait, is that my sweater?”

Demos adjusted the collar of the navy blue Yale sweater but made no effort to reply to the question. Everything about it was wrong. Demos had done nothing at Yale aside from crashing his dorm room and drinking in the Timothy Dwight library. He hadn’t even attended college period. On top of that, it was too big for him—the sleeves hung past his knuckles; the hem brushed his upper thigh. For some reason, it brought an unwanted heat to Ferris’ face.

“How long does that usually take?” Demos asked.

“I don’t know, twenty minutes? Longer if he meets—hey.”

The moment Ferris said “twenty minutes,” Demos was invading his personal space. He tugged Ferris forward by the top of his pants then immediately began to unfasten the button.

Demos smiled. “I think I can do this in twenty minutes.”

“Fuck, Demos—“ Ferris’ heart tried and failed to do some kind of Olympic somersault. Two points out of ten. He was so pathetic it was almost funny.

Demos leveraged his other hand to drag Ferris in for a warm kiss. Ferris made some kind of muffled noise against his partner’s mouth, unable to do much more as he felt a tongue slide past his still-healing lip. He winced.

“Sorry.” Demos pulled back, his brow drawn. “Does it—“

Then, the front door opened.

“Ah, forgot the little bags that—“ Seamus stopped in the doorway, dumbstruck. “—oh.”

For what felt like ages, the three stared at one another. Demos, with one hand holding the back of Ferris’ head, the other tugging at his zipper. Ferris, frozen solid. And Seamus, squinting at the two as he balanced Stanley’s plump body in one arm like a frozen turkey.

“Wait.” Seamus held up a hand, now glaring. “Wait, wait. You’re telling me—“ He sucked in a breath through his nose. “You’re telling me this entire time we could have been fucking?”

“What?” Ferris evicted Demos’ hand from his pants with a slap. “No!”

Demos folded his arms, disturbingly calm. “Come on, Seamus. He’s not a slut.”

At this, Seamus only shrugged. “Well, at least now the three of us can—“

“I already told you no!” Demos snapped.

Ferris’ stare flickered back to Demos. “What do you mean you already told him no?”

“It’s nothing.” Demos waved a hand as if he were turning down an offered hors d’oeuvre. “It was a long time ago.”

Too much information was hitting Ferris from every direction. He dug his fingers into his forehead as if trying to shield himself from whatever revelation was coming next. This was why Demos had kept putting this off. This was the conversation he’d been protecting him from.

Ferris looked back up. “What the fuck do you two talk about when I’m not here?”

“Look,” Demos said to Seamus. “Now you’ve made him mad.”

“I’m mad at you, too! Jesus Christ. I—I need some air.”

Seamus tottered as Ferris pushed him aside then disappeared down the hallway. He glanced back at Demos. “Should we follow him?”

“You keep your fucking hands off him, Seamus.”

“Fine. You never let me have any fun.”

Downstairs, Ferris paced up and down the sidewalk in front of his apartment building. He probably looked like he’d lost his mind but couldn’t bring himself to care. It was still chilly outside and he’d neglected to bring a jacket. He found that difficult to care about, too.

They had said everything so casually. Intimacy wasn’t a big deal to Seamus—or to Demos. The two of them used to—

Ferris stopped beside the red brick wall, fighting his oncoming headache. He didn’t want to think about it. He knew it; he’d known for a long time. Something was twisting around in his stomach—something he’d felt before. The first time he had seen Demos under the bleachers, caged against the wall by the arms of that boy. When he saw Demos in the hall, his hand brushing the wrist of another, newer boyfriend. Every time Demos adjusted his collar to reveal a red mark on his throat. Ferris’ gut had wrenched each time and each time he’d been too stupid to understand why.

But Demos and Seamus—it was so long ago. This was ridiculous. Jealousy over something that had happened back when they were teens. Probably more than once. Probably a lot.

Ferris shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. Demos’ past—who he had been with. When. How. It didn’t matter. Seamus had said once, back on his first day bartending, “It was nice—real nice. But I don’t think he meant it.” Ferris rubbed his hands over his arms to fight the chill as he remembered Seamus adding, “You know, I don’t know if he’s ever meant it.”

But Demos meant it now.

Didn’t he?

“Pescetto, wait—“ came a voice from the building’s entrance. Demos. “Come on, he was kidding.”

Ferris turned with a glare. “Was he?”

“Well, you know him. He’ll fuck anything.” Demos paused. “Not that you’re anything.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat; he’d actually had the foresight to bring outerwear. Demos patted over the pockets, a single cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I mean—shit, I need a light.”

Ferris sighed then pulled a matchbook from his pocket. The same one from yesterday. He struck a match and cupped his hand to shield it from the cold air. Demos leaned in before exhaling a small puff of smoke.

“Thanks.” Demos pulled the cigarette from his lips then looked up. “Um, he mentioned it once. Back when we were in school.”

“Yeah. You two used to—“

“It wasn’t serious,” Demos said. “I promised him you were straight and that you—you wouldn’t be into that, anyway. I guess I was wrong about the first thing, but—you’re not into that, right?”

Ferris glanced away. The knowledge that Demos and Seamus had casually hooked up years ago—that was something he could live with. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but he could move past it. But this, the thought of watching it happen right in front of his eyes. Here, and now?

“No.” His face burned. He paused before asking the question he didn’t want the answer to, “Are you?”

“Look at me.”

Ferris swallowed down the protest caught in his throat and let his eyes drift back to Demos.

“You and me—I spent so many years thinking this could never happen,” Demos said. He lowered his cigarette, ashing onto the sidewalk. “That you’d never look at me the way I look at you. But the second you took my face in your hands and told me you loved me, the second you proved me wrong—“ He took in a soft breath, steadying the shiver in his throat. “That’ll never leave me. The sound of your voice, the way my chest felt so—so full. Warm. The way you looked at me like I mattered—like I was the only other person in the world. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

Ferris wasn’t sure how much time passed as he stood there without a single thing to say. The world seemed to have slipped away. The figures moving past on the sidewalk, the pang in his stomach—all of it had left him. He wanted nothing more than to do it again, to hold that face in his hands and say out loud just how much he loved him. Instead, he simply exhaled, letting out the stale air that had collected in his chest.

“So—“ Ferris eyed the sidewalk then looked back up. “That’s a no, right?”

Demos let out a short laugh. “Ferris—“

“I’m sorry. I—“ It was only then he noticed the other people on the street. Eyes. Witnesses. Reasons he couldn’t reach for him or kiss him. Holding back—for some reason, it ached. “That’s all I want, too.”

“Good,” Demos said. His fingers brushed the edge of Ferris’ sleeve. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him touch you.”

Ferris scoffed. “I won’t let him touch me.”

It came to him again, Seamus at the bar, his voice as he said, “I don’t think he meant it.” There was something distant in it. Something almost—lonely.

“Do you think he ever wanted—more? With you?” Ferris asked.

Demos watched his cigarette smolder for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s hard to read.” His gaze wandered down the sidewalk toward the intersection. “He’s been around, but I don’t think anyone’s ever said they loved him and meant it. I think sometimes—he’s hurting.”

“He’s good at hiding it.”

“Not good enough.”

In that second, Ferris felt a well-deserved pang at disregarding Seamus so quickly. Was it guilt? Seamus’ mother had never been there for him, even when they had lived in the same home. Ferris wasn’t sure if Seamus’ father was even a real person. Every one of Seamus’ relationships had lasted an average of two weeks. He had always laughed it off, always insisted he preferred it this way. Maybe it was an act. Maybe he wanted something more.

Maybe Ferris was no better than his parents.

“I’m such an asshole,” Ferris said under his breath.

Demos breathed out a soft plume of smoke. “You’re not responsible for his happiness.”

“I know, but—I can do better,” Ferris said. “Can’t I?”

“You can try.”

Ferris heard a rustle of fabric. He glanced over to see Demos with an arm out. He was offering his jacket.

Demos gave a slight smile. “You look cold.”

Something stirred in Ferris’ chest. Demos, who was always complaining about the temperature, always shivering and kvetching, was offering his jacket. There was no way on earth it would fit over Ferris’ shoulders, but this perfect idiot was trying anyway.

Ferris laughed before he could stop himself. “No, you keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” It was then Ferris noticed just how close Demos was. Close enough for their arms to brush, close enough to see the color in Demos’ eyes. He watched Demos’ gaze drop from his eyes, settling on his mouth. Demos’ free hand lifted, reached for his face, then pulled back. They were still in public.

“Does your lip still hurt, Pescetto?” Demos asked, his voice soft.

Ferris let the new nickname sink in once more. Little fish wasn’t really the most dignified thing he could be called, but then again, Fishbones had never been dignified to begin with. And the way Demos said it, the way his voice closed in around that single word—it forced a skip in Ferris’ heart that he would never admit out loud.

“It’s fine,” Ferris said. “Stop worrying.”

Demos’ thoughts must have wandered back to that moment in the abandoned gas station, as his eyes had darkened and his voice lowered enough to mutter, “I wish I could kill him again.” He tugged his coat back on and straightened the collar with a snap.

“Easy, there. It’s over.” Whatever Demos was imagining, it seemed like a task that involved digging another hole. A task Ferris would leave the Ghost to do on his own. “Did you tell Victor? About—“ He trailed off before he could say “Aldo” out loud.

“I did.”

“He didn’t ask for any evidence?”

“Oh, yeah. Exhibit A for my murder trial: the severed ear they found in my nightstand. No, he didn’t ask for evidence. What is this, Snow White?”

“Maybe you need to get back in bed. You sound a little cranky.”

“Sorry, I’m just—he didn’t say anything.” Demos took a drag of his cigarette, then breathed out a plume. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

“Just be patient. They’ll tell you sooner or later.”

“Yeah. You know me, a shining paragon of patience.” Demos groaned. “Fuck, I need a distraction.” His eyes drifted back in Ferris’ direction, flickering up then down. “Where were we before Seamus walked in?”

Ferris gestured to the sidewalk with both hands. “We’re in public.”

“So, let’s go back upstairs.” Demos stubbed the cigarette out on the smoker’s pole.

“You’re killing me, Ghost,” Ferris said as they headed toward the entrance. “I had to tell Seamus I was sore from the gym.”

“Oh, that reminds me. I want to go with you next time.”

Ferris blinked. “To the gym? You’re actually going to work out?”

“God, no. I just want to watch.”

Ferris sighed as he held the door open for Demos. “You really have no shame, do you?”

Demos glanced backward with the hint of a smile. “Have I ever?”

The door drifted shut behind them, the glass blocking out the chill from the street. This was the Demos he knew, the one he’d always known. This was the Ghost he’d fallen for, the smile that struck him every time, straight through the chest like so many arrows. This was it—this was all he’d ever wanted.

“No,” Ferris said. “You really haven’t.”

#

Seamus had been unusually quiet during his shift at the restaurant. He had learned, early on, that a handsome smile and a healthy dose of friendly conversation could practically double his tips. That evening, however, his smile had been weary, his voice lacking. The only one who’d seemed to notice was Sergio.

“Nice work today.” Sergio leaned on the bar. He and Seamus were the only ones left for the evening.

“Ah, just polished that,” Seamus said, eying the elbow on his freshly cleaned counter. Hell, he was starting to sound like Ferris. Now he just needed a pair of glasses and a math book or whatever it was that nerd carried around all day.

“Right, right.” Sergio straightened himself with a grin. “Everything okay? You were kind of quiet today.”

“Oh,” Seamus looked up. “Sorry. Is that bad? Shit, I’ll do better—I promise.”

“No, no.” Sergio waved both hands. “Don’t worry, you’re doing a great job. You’re a natural, even. Where did you say you worked before?”

Seamus snapped the lid onto a container of lemons. “The Crafty Crook.”

Sergio thought for a moment before snapping his fingers in realization. “Oh! That was where we—“

Then, he fell silent.

Seamus raised a brow. “Where you what?”

“Nothing. Uh, we didn’t do anything. I mean, I didn’t do anything. There’s no we.”

“Right,” Seamus said with a lifted brow. A sound from the front of the dining area stole both men’s attention. Someone had walked in the front door.

“We’re closed, mate,” Seamus called, only to have Sergio stop him with a lifted hand.

“It’s okay, this guy is a, uh—a friend.”

The man at the entrance didn’t look like any friend Seamus had seen before. He had unwashed, thinning hair and an unsettling glint in his eye. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of a bulky coat and he was avoiding eye contact.

“I gotta talk shop with my buddy.” Sergio gestured back toward the kitchen with his thumb. “You head on home, okay?”

“Yeah, all right.”

The two men disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors and Seamus found himself alone behind the bar. Well, time to go home. Would Ferris be there—would Demos? He had been over so often Seamus wondered if he should start contributing to rent. His visits were different now. In the past it would be the three of them, together in front of the television. A card game at the dining table. Bothering Demos in the kitchen.

Now, Demos spent half his time shuttered away in Ferris’ bedroom. The reason was painfully obvious. How could Seamus have overlooked it? Why hadn’t he caught on—how long had they been going at it, anyway? And why hadn’t they told him? But Seamus had no right to be upset. He and Demos had fooled around back in school, right behind Ferris’ back. But even then—

Even then, there was something between the two of them. Something Seamus could never reach, could never be a part of. There was that way they looked at one another: with trust, with love.

Seamus’ stomach began to churn, as if he’d eaten too much too fast. Maybe this whole “being employed” thing was taking a toll on him.

Seamus knelt to stock a few juice bottles into the fridge beneath the bar. He thought back to what Sergio had said only minutes prior. “Nice work today.” “You’re a natural.”

Maybe this was worthwhile, after all. Maybe he was finally doing something right.

He straightened himself, grabbing the very last item that needed to be put away. The container of lemons. It had only lifted a few centimeters from the bar before his hand slipped. Plastic clattered and the bright yellow slices tumbled across the floor he had just finished mopping.

“Ah, shit.”

Fine. Maybe he wasn’t doing this entirely right. At least no one had seen. He continued cursing under his breath as he crouched to gather up the lemon bits. Well, these were all ruined now, weren’t they? And he had to mop again. So much for going home.

Another ten minutes passed before he’d thrown the ruined fruit away, wiped up the seeds, and re-mopped the floor. Maybe Sergio wouldn’t notice. Maybe Seamus could claim that a very large number of customers had really wanted Limoncello martinis with extra garnish. Yeah, that sounded believable, right?

Seamus sighed. “Bloody lemons.”

A crash from the kitchen wiped any thoughts of citrus fruit from his mind. Just past the doors there was the clatter of metal hitting the floor and the din of two men shouting between thuds and grunts. The hair on the back of Seamus’ neck bristled. That didn’t sound very much like “shop talk.” With a hard swallow, he slid a half-empty bottle of vodka from the shelf and moved.

The swinging doors burst open as Seamus stumbled into the kitchen. The clamor of struggle, though jarring, had not prepared Seamus for the sight before him. The “friend” who had walked in just minutes prior had his back to Seamus as he grappled Sergio down onto a metal counter. Kitchen utensils had spilled over the floor, gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. The stranger had one hand on Sergio’s throat, the other raised in a tight fist.

Without thinking, Seamus lifted the bottle.

Glass shattered and the stringent scent of alcohol saturated the air when the vodka bottle smashed over the man’s skull. He staggered, bleeding as glass shards glinted in his hair. He was only disoriented for a moment, but apparently a moment was all Sergio needed.

Seamus could only stare as Sergio pushed himself upright, slid a steel cleaver from the counter, and plunged it straight into his assailant’s chest. The man screamed. Bone cracked and blood spattered. The knife fell with him, wedged firm in his sternum as his body toppled onto the blood and liquor stained kitchen floor. He gagged, shuddering.

And then the stranger stopped moving.

For a minute, both Sergio and Seamus stood in place. Neither moved, as if maybe standing perfectly still would keep them from being seen, from having to address what had just happened in the middle of the Ristorante Giorgetti kitchen after closing time. The lemons Seamus had dropped earlier were nothing compared to this. Blood, broken glass, pooling vodka, and an entire human body lay scattered over the tile, like the playroom of a fitful toddler.

The two men stared for another moment. A leaning pot lid finally fell, clattering to the tile with a rolling, echoing clang.

“Ah,” Seamus finally said. “You’re—going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.” Sergio panted, wide eyed and half spattered in red. There was fear in his eyes, even more frantic than when he’d been pinned to the countertop. “But Fish is definitely going to kill me.”