Arlo vaguely remembered Dimitri’s mother. She was pretty in the kind of nineties grunge aesthetic that was popular towards the end of the decade. Black hair, tattoos, pale blue eyes just like Dimitri’s. Did he talk about Arlo to his mom? What did he mean by ‘normal’ people?
Arlo’s lids fluttered open to find Dimitri examining his face, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. “What?”
“I like looking at your face,” Dimitri said, his voice a rough whisper, like he was imparting a huge secret.
Arlo shook his head, bemused. “I like looking at your face, too. I always have.”
“Always?” Dimitri asked, his head dipping lower until they were only inches apart.
Forever. Arlo had wanted Dimitri since before he was old enough to even know what wanting somebody like that meant. “Since the day I dragged my mat over to yours in pre-k.”
Dimitri’s eyes widened. “You remember that?”
Arlo scoffed, shaking his head. “I remember everything. Who forgets the boy who set your parents’ bed on fire?”
Dimitri sighed. “My mom made us move after that.”
Arlo leaned back against the wall. “My parents told me you’d been put in jail.”
Dimitri rolled his eyes. “Please, your shithead dad wouldn’t risk the cops realizing he was hurting you.”
Arlo frowned, keeping his voice low only because the conversation felt so heavy. “Why’d you do it? Are you crazy? I mean, I am, too. I’m not judging. But did you know they would die if you did it?” Dimitri nodded, not even an ounce of regret in his eyes. “And you didn’t care?”
Dimitri’s fingers trailed from his cheek to his throat, his thumb settling over Arlo’s pulse. “I cared. I wanted them to die.”
Dimitri had to feel Arlo’s pulse racing. Maybe that was what he was doing—judging Arlo’s reaction to such a bold statement. He should have felt horror, revulsion. Dimitri was standing there telling Arlo he’d tried to murder his parents in the most gruesome way possible. But, to Arlo, it felt like somebody was handing him roses.
“Why?” Arlo knew why, but he wanted to hear him say it.
“Because they were hurting you. I promised to protect you.”
Arlo shook his head. “We were five.”
“Even at five I knew you were mine.”
Arlo was certain the air had just been punched from his lungs. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Arlo floundered. “You just can’t.”
Dimitri frowned. “But why? Why can’t we just tell the truth?”
“And what is the truth?” Arlo asked, his head swimming.
“That you belong to me. That you’re mine.”
Arlo slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor of the short hallway that led to the back, his legs tucked to his chest as he attempted to process Dimitri’s matter-of-fact statement. Dimitri joined him on the floor, like it was the most normal thing in the world, legs criss-crossed in front of him.
“Does that scare you?”
“It should,” Arlo said. “Right? It’s an insanely unhealthy thing to say. My therapist would have a field day with it. Tell me I’m falling into old patterns, changing out one abusive guy for the next.”
“I would never hurt you,” Dimitri said vehemently.
“Maybe not physically. But there’s more than one way to hurt somebody. How long before you’re controlling where I go, what I eat, how I spend my money. Who I’m friends with?”
Dimitri’s eyes went wide. “I would never do that to you. I don’t want to control you. I just want to keep you safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Arlo wanted so badly to believe him. “My therapist would say you were co-dependent.”
Dimitri shrugged. “My therapist says I’m a psychopath.”
Arlo swallowed audibly. “What?”
“I’m a psychopath,” Dimitri stated again, casually.
“What does that even mean?” Arlo managed.
“It means I lack empathy and remorse. It means I don’t feel guilty about the things I do, no matter who they hurt.”
Arlo blinked. “You’re serious. You’re…really a psychopath.”
“Yeah. It’s just a diagnosis like any other. There are lots of us out there. Most of us don’t know it, though. My mom recognized the signs early and got me help.”
“The signs? You mean when you tried to kill my parents?” Arlo said, somehow finding the whole conversation a little funny. His therapist would call it an inappropriate fear response. He called it being crazy.
Dimitri nodded. “Yeah, right after we moved.”
Arlo leaned in, mesmerized when Dimitri did the same. “What do you mean when you say I’m yours? Like, you see me as a little brother or…”
Dimitri swooped down, capturing Arlo’s mouth in a kiss that lingered. His whole body felt hot then cold, his hands reaching up to clench in his shirt, holding him there.
“So, not a little brother, then,” Arlo said when they parted.
“No. Not as a little brother.”
Dimitri’s heart pounded, some feral part of him wanting to drag Arlo into a closet and claim him, to mark him up like Holden had but with bites and bruises that made Arlo moan, not cry. But Arlo deserved better than that. He’d been manhandled enough by people like Holden. Dimitri wouldn’t treat him like something disposable.
Dimitri gripped Arlo’s hands, still clenched in his t-shirt, pulling them free and kissing the backs of them, watching his cheeks turn pink. “Let’s finish up here, and then we can go back to my place. Okay? Just to talk.”
Dimitri’s lips twitched in an aborted smile at the look of disappointment on Arlo’s face. “Just talk?”
Dimitri couldn’t help but plant another kiss on his lips. “We’ll see. I’m going to take out the garbage. You finish cleaning the espresso machine. Then we can both mop up and get out of here.”
Arlo frowned. “I can do the garbage. You did it last night.”
“No. I don’t want you out there alone in the cold. Just do the machines. I’ve got this.”
Arlo looked like he wanted to argue, but he just took a deep breath and let it out, nodding.
Dimitri gathered the bundles of garbage from the large rubber bins around the restaurant, setting them at the back, before pushing open the heavy door and snagging the brick they used to keep it ajar. The door had been broken since Dimitri started. No matter how many times they complained, the owner, Maggie, waved them off, saying she’d take care of it the following week. They’d given up on asking.
The frigid night air robbed Dimitri of the air in his lungs. He hadn’t bothered with a jacket. He wouldn’t be out there long enough for it to matter. He watched the clouds form with each breath, goosebumps erupting over his skin as he reached for the bags.
He grabbed the two heaviest first, hauling them towards the dumpster and heaving them over the side where they landed with a thud. They’d cleaned out the fridges, making the enormous bags heavier than usual. It would have taken Arlo twice as long to get rid of them.