And that almost drags a word from him, but he holds his tongue.
“I mean, I know the rule about digging into your past—so I won’t. And I don’t think you have mommy and daddy issues the way people keep saying—and what is with that, by the way? Like shitty parents make you unworthy of patience and love? Fuck that.” Avery laughs at himself, and the sound is enough to soothe the edges of a rough thought trying to burst forward in Alejandro’s brain. “I think you’re sad, and I doubt I’ll know why. But I’m just gonna keep talking because I think that’s what you want.”
He takes another drink instead of answering, because it’s both no and yes. No, he doesn’t just want that, but yes, that’s all he’ll ever accept.
“So, buckle up, boss,” Avery says and winks, which makes Alejandro’s heart beat in a single, painful thump. “I’m about to regale you with the tale of Chad the Choad in my History of Athenian Law class on Tuesday.”
2
The Way He Is
Avery Marshak didn’t grow up with a lot of expectations about life. His parents were firmly lower-middle class and that was fine. He didn’t have a college fund, and he got a handful of checks at his bar mitzvah that most definitely weren’t going to cover the cost of a car when he turned sixteen. Instead, he spent kit on candy, and he and his friends snuck into an R-rated movie. It made suffering through Hebrew lessons and enduring wet kisses from distant aunts totally worth it.
His parents didn’t have big dreams for him, and the worst he suffered at school were the anti-Semitic teachers who assumed he was going to be good with accounting or drama. His mother had suggested exactly one time that he think about Rabbinical school because he was good at history, but the look on his face told her where she could stick the idea.
But he loved his parents. They were good parents. They just wanted him to be happy, and Avery was, in general, an easy person to please.
He got into a state school with ease because he didn’t graduate at the bottom of his class. Grants and some scholarship for being gay and Jewish came easy, and while they haven’t covered the cost of living in the dorms, they pay for most of his books with a little extra left over so he can get double toppings on his pizza for a few weeks.
He takes both Latin and Greek and ignores people saying that a doctorate in Classics means he’s going to be earning minimum wage teaching Roman History 101 at the community college for the rest of his life. He works at the Taco Stand to pay his share of the shithole three-bedroom apartment he found listed by a couple of stoners on craigslist. On weekends he does fundraisers because he wants the Classics Club to afford their senior trip to Crete.
And that’s life for the first three years of college.
It’s simple. He’s simple. He’s gay, he’s attractive, he hooks up on occasion. He got decent sex ed so he always uses a condom and he never skips his PrEP. He’s had his dick swabbed enough times that the pinch of cotton up his pee-hole doesn’t bother him much anymore, and he was even on first-name basis with the clinic staff for his sophomore year, during what he liked to think of as his college sexual peak.
He wants to fall in love someday, though, and do all that hetero-normative shit like buy a house and have a job and dress their dog up for Pride. But he’s barely twenty, and he doesn’t need that shit for a long, long while.
What he wants is maybe a promotion to shift manager and to be able to afford more than ramen and Kraft mac and cheese. He wants an apartment with a functional water heater and to not have to trudge downtown in the winter to wash his clothes at the Coin-Op. What he wants is hope that he’s not going to have to give up his dreams because he wasn’t some asshole rich kid born with a silver spoon lodged so far up his ass he can eat with it.
And as though the universe or Hashem or something is answering his prayers… he gets Alejandro.
It’s hindsight that tells him he probably should have looked this gift-horse in the mouth—he’s a classical historian after all, he knows better. He knows that with power comes a price, but the man and his offer are so impossible to resist that he decides to put both heart and dignity on the line.
He meets him as fall is creeping into winter when the Classics Club is hosting a car wash in the KFC parking lot. His co-president Shanice was the one who came up with the idea because even in the dead of winter, people still wanted fried chicken, and they might be willing to kick a few bucks to some pathetic looking students standing out there with a bucket and a hose.
The entire club balks at the idea, but Shanice is also his friend so he backs her and tells the club if they want even a prayer of being able to bask in the warm waters of the Mediterranean and get their hands in some sweet, sweet artifacts, they have to pull their weight. So they do, grudgingly, and to make sure it doesn’t look like he’s taking advantage, he’s right out there with them.
It’s freezing outside, and he’s soaking wet, and his shirt is see-through and the tips of his fingers are blue. They’re washing with Dawn because no one had the cash for anything else, but the three people so far who stopped in don’t seem to give a shit that it’s not actual soap for cars.
He’s busy trying figure out a way to make the water from the hose come out a little warmer when a car screeches to a halt so close to him he feels the wind swish by. He stands up, indignant, ready to tear this guy a new asshole, but the words die on his tongue because the man is possibly the best-looking stranger Avery has ever seen in his life.
He’s tall—God, he’s so tall. He’s broad with big shoulders and grey at his temples, though the rest of his hair is pitch black. He’s got on shades with CC at the temple which is some designer brand, he thinks. He looks like if you cut him, he bleeds dollar bills, and he’s got something in his fist as he takes three marching steps toward Avery.
Avery’s vision goes a little fuzzy when the man’s woodsy scent hits him, and he only really comes back to himself when he realizes the stranger’s holding a wad of cash.
“Don’t scratch the paint,” he says. His accent isn’t American. It’s some sort of British that he never hears on TV, and it’s almost comical because it sounds all wrong coming from this man’s face. His skin is dark olive and his facial hair is pristinely edged and trimmed, and he looks like the son of Ares, wandering out of the some fiery mountain without a care in the world.
Avery, of course, gets to work as he realizes the bills he’s holding are in triple digits. He throws them over at the club treasurer, Kelly, who is frantically trying to figure out if this man needs change, and Avery gets to work.
The car doesn’t need a wash, of course. The thing is in excellent condition and looks like someone buffs it daily. But he does it anyway with the softest, cleanest little microfiber towel he’s got left, and he doesn’t scratch it. When he’s done, he swipes his wrist over his forehead and shivers because he’s pretty sure he’s going to get frostbite if he has to stand in cold water any longer.
He meets the man’s eyes though, and he feels his heart in his throat when he marches over like he’s furious at the distance between them. He doesn’t touch Avery—which is a shame. But he holds up more money—folded neatly between his first and middle finger.