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Hell N Back by Bakar

ONE: when the present creeps up on you.

I was sure that Hell sounded distinctly of heart monitors and white noise.

Anticipation had to be my least favorite state of being, that and apprehension, dread would always creep in in those moments, worry folding itself in. That following Sunday, both lingered in the room, silently, looming over the bodies that lay.

I stood by the window, watching my younger brother as he laid his curly head atop crisp hospital sheets.

Something about watching him felt so imposing; Peter sat in a plush navy chair, it probably the most comfortable thing in the room but nothing in his posture alluded to that. Despite being slouched over, he was rigid, eyes narrowed in on our Abuelita.

Her dainty, wrinkled hand still enveloped in his.

And it felt all too personal, so morose, it scared me how recluse he'd been.

Her nails were painted, that same cherry red she religiously wore, it chipped over from shaky application.

Back when my life consisted of taking a day at a time, days I wasn't filming, I'd visit her. The nurse that frequented would be on her way out, offering a smile, Abuelita would make a snide comment about how Miss Nancy had a big fancy degree but couldn't warm tea to an appropriate temperature.

She was always so chastising in that way, in small quips but she was old and you couldn't be mad at her for any judgement.

And Nancy would laugh it off, promising that she'd make it hotter next time. I'd sink down into the couch beside her, her tiny feet kicked up in the coffee table, and we'd watch telenovelas.

She was bordering 90 and she was sick but her energy rivaled mine... often, it was hard to keep up. Something akin to Soledad constantly governing screen time, she'd tell me old life stories as I painted her nails only stopping to fall back into her favorite show.

She reminisced over the simple life, being a young girl, a dancer in the 50s, meeting Abuelo and him becoming her everything. She go on about the hours she'd spend at the beauty shop before their dates, her memories never faded.

Describing it down to the smell, she reminisced about Bernarda and what's her name, Car-Carmela— no entiendo— es Carmen. Carmen. She would roll her r's a bit too much then, spacing out the word and dragging it out in between her pointer and index. Car-mela, pfft— her lips upturned at the prosperity— the audacity that someone was actually named Carmela.

I was sure Carmela had a crush on Abuelo, at least by the way she sneered. Abuelita would then admire her nails, shake her head, and tell me that a man couldn't be kept unless he wanted to be.

How he loved her, she'd emphasize, so passionately. How even if a curl was out of place, still caught in a roller when he walked in a bit too early, he'd think she was perfect.

Their love story was so spontaneous, true soulmates, that much was obvious, her existence was half of his.

And she was content that way, marrying a week after meeting, and conceiving my mother years later.

I envied her sometimes, how fondly she spoke of things despite how much life had thrown at her. From migrating to the US in the 70s and being forced to stay put after border barriers, not attending her own mother's funeral.

How she didn't regret a single thing because she didn't have the time to. And she was right.

And she made something of herself.

Prickling over Pete's skin, anxiety pierced, spilled over along with his tears, so obvious and I tucked my arms into my sleeves to keep from pulling him back. He was never good at the hard stuff, he never had been.

And he didn't know Abuelita was sick until she was in remission. We'd all convinced ourselves that it would be the last round of hospitals and chemo and hospitals and chemo and hospitals and chemo and waiting. Nativity was easiest to fall into and Pete never realized that cancer was unlikely to stay away.

The longer she was in remission, the easier it got to pretend and her frail body never looked as thin as it did then.

I felt myself forcing a smile, tears burning my eyes and I tried not to look at all the machines, "She'd kill us for letting the doctor see her without lipstick, you know." My heart was beating a bit faster, it pummeling against my rib cage, I sucked in a deeper breath, hoping Pete would offer something conversation-worthy.

Sadness always hit me too hard, I couldn't exhale without shaking and my lips trembled with the effort.

Everything was in gray, morose, so somber it scared me and I tried not to let myself get too far ahead. There was a little sport's water bottle sitting on the table beside me and it was filled with enough warmth to forget her cold fingers.

Gin was always my drink of choice mostly because the intoxication buried itself in a minty flavor, you couldn't tell how much you were drinking until you were completely wasted and maybe that was dangerous in a way.

But I enjoyed the taste, the same couldn't be said for regular vodka, I didn't reach for dark liquor much anymore.

But I loved wine, something light like a sangria was always relaxing curled up watching middle-aged white women solve their problems via Netflix.

Nights watching Grace and Frankie, Devil Wears Prada, something slight like Sex in the City with a throw over me, that was relaxing. That was surely how I planned to spend the night after assuming all familiar responsibilities, pretending like my world wasn't crumbling around me.

But there was tonic water in my water bottle, a bit of gin for balance and I was sipping it consciously, remembering and reminding myself that I'd have to drive us home.

Just a small taste, the pine overbearing and I barely felt a difference but standing here was getting easier. It wasn't much, I drank more than this in high school. It wasn't a big problem at all, people drank at this time at brunch and those were always my excuses when I fought the idea that maybe I wasn't making the best decisions.

I tried to forget where I was for a second at least. A minute just full of subtlety and silence, I tried not to take the latter to heart.

Pete hadn't spoken to me since I walked in, I wondered if he spoken at all these past few days. There were tears still lining my eyes and I took a full sip, it deep and hitting me in the chest enough that I found myself screwing back on the cap.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, a tiny burn rose and bloomed from the center of my stomach and I swiped shaky hands under my eyes.

His eyes were fixated on her face, hers peacefully closed and his lips were parted into a soft, small 'o.' Pete brushed his fingers through gray hair, laced with white highlights and over wrinkled tan skin. Tear streaks stained a somber face and he wasn't looking at me.

It had been an hour now, an hour of me being there at least. When I'd finally gained enough courage to stop hiding out at my ex-boyfriend's and entered my childhood home, it was tense.

My mother mentioned Pete sleeping on the couch in Abuelita's hospital room for three days and I now realized why she was so urgent for me to come home. Pete didn't talk about things that bothered him, he didn't really talk a lot nowadays anyways.

My words to Milo rang through my head and I could see that pain of not having a brother to confide in. Pete and I used to be so close but when college and my relationship and the decline of LightofDay started, the stress took precedence.

And sure, we talked on the phone and we FaceTimed occasionally but it wasn't the same. Video calls weren't compensation for not visiting and I knew that.

I think he had an on and off girlfriend but he wasn't very outgoing anymore, maybe his anxiety worsened but it was full-fledged now and I was sure he was retreating into himself more now than ever.

He didn't respond, just combed through her hair ever so gently. I struggled to stay still and wondered if he'd gotten any fresh air, anything to get out of this depressing little white room.

"Are you hungry?"

Pete didn't look up at that, didn't respond and even if it was mostly to get him to leave and -I don't know- live again, I could tell he wasn't eating much.

I tried not to think of Jules, pushing it off by telling myself that being friends was the best decision I could have made. We would both benefit from getting rid of the extra emotions and stress that came with long distance, the pressure of just being in love. I didn't realize how much I was thinking of him when the bottle was pressed against my lips again and I was trying to think up solutions.

I was always trying to solve something, Abuelita made sure to tell me that after Milo and I became so estranged. Everyone else in the family would preach that blood is thicker mantra but not her.

She'd tell me to fix things in my own time, not to risk my happiness to keep someone in my life that didn't want to be there. And maybe that had changed when it became two years that we didn't speak.

But she always reminded me that no one was owed my forgiveness and it wasn't my job to fix them.

It wasn't my job to fix anything, even if I really, really wanted to. I remembered nights with Jules, sobbing into my chest, telling me that he couldn't be fixed and at the time, I didn't think that that was what I was doing... It wasn't my intention to make him a project.

But when he sat in front of me, insisting he was better because he truly didn't think that I'd love him without fault, without conditions... Jules was barely holding himself together with frail bones and tear streaks, I couldn't help but think that maybe I'd gone about everything the wrong way.

Maybe my persistence to fix everything and everyone was exactly why Jules didn't tell me anything, why Pete would rather sit in silence in a hospital room than come home. Maybe I pushed too hard.

"You know, we could," sucking in a breath, I set the bottle back on the table, stepping forward. My hands were in my pockets then, to resist the shake and I tried to keep my heart rate under control, "w-we could go get some food and come back."

Knowing that I had to keep it together for Pete, I tried to ignore her presence, she hadn't moved an inch since I'd arrived and that made it harder to speak through the lump in my throat. He was staring at her every day through every night just like this.

That couldn't have been good for him.

"Maybe sleep in a real bed, I know I miss being home."

Finally, he looked over at me, all chapped lips and messy, bushy curls. Pete had grown so much, he looked older and his curls were shorter now, cropped on the side, big ears protruding and sad eyes sat behind thick frames.

"Mama made dinner at -like- noon, she's been stress-cooking all day, I even saw tres leches."

I expected some response, a shrug at least, some movement that indicated that Pete heard me but he was still so blank, it was scary.

"We need to be with family right now," mostly that statement rose out of fear. I didn't know how well I'd be able to hold it together if we received bad news and I was the only one there to console Pete, "with Mom, especially. You know this hurts her the most."

"Th-that's why you're here." There was a sneer in his gritty voice, it almost a whisper, I wasn't sure exactly why it felt like he punched me in the gut. Malice coated each word, even if spoken nonchalantly and inferiority sunk in me when I realized what he meant by that.

"She worried about you."

Pete laughed at that, it soft and gravely, almost like he didn't believe a single word. I wondered where he got this confidence from, he'd always been timid when our mother asked for something, always respectful. Maybe trauma affected everyone differently.

Still, he continued and he said something that I wished he'd kept to himself.  "You know, M-Milo's been here... he-he's been here every-everyday, Paul. Everyday."

Just his name left a sour taste in my mouth, Milo wasn't anything but self-serving, everything he did was with his own gain in mind.

Instead of letting my own personal feelings take precedence, I tried a different tactic. "He's not sleeping here."

Sighing, Pete sat up, his eyes were still so heavy lidded when he looked over at me for the first time and that was when I saw the bags under them, the dissolved shirt that he'd obviously been wearing a few days. He hadn't washed his hair in too long.

"She shouldn't be alone." He dismissed it with a shrug, shoulders still slumped and his gaze was flickering, as if the energy to make eye contact was too much and he'd been drained.

"Peter—"

"Pedro." He was stern then. When I raised my brows, he'd elaborated, "Abuelita calls me Pedro." And I understood that. Being Mexican-American, raised in America, going to an American school, a predominately white school, in Michigan... there came a time you wanted to connect with your roots more than ever.

I didn't have that moment until my family met Julian, until he asked me why I didn't tell him before he met my entire family and we'd already been together for six months. I realized that even despite me being Mexican and raised in a predominantly hispanic, bilingual, household... I didn't have as much connection to it and maybe that had a lot to do with being white-passing.

We were all pretty white-passing except for my mother, she had darker, caramel skin and short-cut curly, black hair that fell to her shoulders. She was only about 5'2 with such obviously ethnic features and Spanish was her first language. I wondered if it hurt her all that the only one that ever really proudly identified with what was half of us was Milo.

And Milo looked the most white out of all of us.

I understood what Pete was saying now, he wanted to be acknowledged by the name Abuelita had called him, because it made him feel closer to her. Abuelita hated our English names, she'd never fail to point it out. "You wanna go by that now?"

I remembered the day I introduced myself as Paul to Nurse Nancy and although she didn't say anything, I could feel Abuelita sneering behind me. She bit her tongue then, but every so often she'd emphasize my name when she was around. Pablo, agua. She'd point at her cup, passing it to me.

Gracias, mi amor... when I brought it back, Nurse Nancy holding her pills, she'd look at the young woman and point to me, Pablo. And she'd smirk over at me when I stifled a laugh.

"I'm sorry," Stepping closer, I lingered for a second before nearing the bed. Brushing fingertips over the bar on the side of the bed, I bit my lip. Closing my eyes, I tried to find the strength to look down at her. "I should've been here."

There were tears in my eyes when I opened them, Pete smiling small, red nose and all and he was brushing her hair behind her ear now. Suddenly, I was thankful for the sounds of her machines, filling the somber silence. She looked so peaceful, and I know it wasn't the best thing to say but I could see how pale she'd gotten. She felt like a shell.

"She's strong, you know." I could feel tears falling now and when I looked down, I couldn't stop. My heart was beating wildly in my chest, a lump in my throat and I could hear my words starting to become hoarse, stumbling through quivering lips and I swallowed hard. "S-she's lived through a war," breathing out a gentle, broken laugh, I could feel Pete's eyes on me, "some shitty cells aren't gonna take her down."

He must've heard how difficult it was to pull myself together because he didn't guilt me anymore.

He just sat there for a second, leant forward to kiss her pale cheek and he was reaching for his book bag now.

He pulled out a box-shaped object, placing it on her side table. I wasn't sure what he was doing until he pulled up the antennas and I realized it was her old radio. He tuned it for a few seconds until soft latin music all pitchy and cheerful soaked the room.

Despite the static, I was grateful for the sound, and suddenly the weight in my chest felt a little lighter.

He sniffled, blinking over at me and it seemed that what I said resonated.

"The doctors say she's stable." I reassured, hoping he knew that I wouldn't make him leave if she wasn't.

And Peter nodded, turning the music up a little louder and he stood on shaking legs. Grabbing the back of the chair for support, I remembered that he didn't quite like to be touched in these moments. "You wanna come stay with me for a few days?"

"School."

"You're smart, you can miss a few days."

Shaking his head rapidly, I watched his brows furrow so quickly and I now understood why he didn't want to speak. "You-you have a roommate—"

"He won't mind." I wasn't so sure about that but it wasn't like I needed his permission. Pete wasn't fit to go home and put on a brave face, he'd end up right where he was before. "Really, I think it'll be good to get away for the weekend at least."

"...You're just fine?"

It was gentle, the question, I could see the confusion on his face, maybe a little disgust but it was harmless.

"I'm a mess." I assured. "I've just..." there were tears in my eyes now, they sprung so quickly, I coughed to keep them down, "I've done this before."

Pete nodded, sharply.

He looked back at her, only for a second before standing on shaky knees. He hiked his backpack up his shoulder and leant forward. With a rag, he dabbed her forehead, he smiled. He kissed after the cloth.

"Te amo, Aubelita."

: : :

Julian was absolutely gorgeous.

It was something that took me by surprise the moment I met him and continued to pull a gasp from my throat each time he looked at me.

He was stunning, alike a Caravaggio painting. Bright eyes, a slight gap in between his two front teeth and a soft, forlorn look about him.

And he was always blushed, it blotching and brushed so precisely over pale skin. Tall and slender with the longest legs that ran for miles all freckled up and laced between mine under tousled sheets.

Part of it scared me, how magnetically, conventionally, universally attractive he was and how everyone else saw it but him. I pondered what it would be like once he realized that we was always the most stunning person in the room. That... the lack of understanding that he was completely and utterly stunning, nearly ethereal... it took my breath away.

Hunter green eyes sat deep under bushy brows, thick, wispy lashes and hair that he spent way too much time on. His nose had the cutest point, it slightly upturned and his Cupid's bow arched high to show a tiny little gap in between his slightly bigger front teeth.

And he had the cutest smile, it bashful, he'd bite down on his lip if he realized he'd smiled too long, as if he wasn't allowed to. His eyes would downturn and he'd peer up at me, blush soaking into his skin and my heart would race a million miles a minute.

He was so beautiful, absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Sitting in Panera wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my day, being in Brighton wasn't exactly how I planned this weekend but the premature mourning laced in my mother's voice tugged at my heart strings and I was in my car before I knew it.

A plan was the last thing on my mind when the thought crossed to stop by Julian's, and maybe it was selfish in intent, in the purest form... I'd chosen to see him to postpone grieving. Abuelita wasn't dead, she wasn't, but for some reason, it felt like this would be the last cycle of hospitals and tears.

Replacing having to hold myself together in front of family, I'd chosen to air my grievances with the other torn relationship that often plagued me. Maybe I was torturing myself, I told myself it was for the best.

I'd wanted to go to the clearing we always went to, wanted some quiet to clear my head and he was always so great at taking my mind off things.

Maybe soft sounds of birds and cool air brushing over my skin when we sat down to talk would open me up. I wanted to mention how much I'd rather be somewhere else, alone with him and my thoughts, but he just looked so thin.

And lifeless now, he was so pale it almost scared me. Perfect lips sat chapped, pursed above a five o'clock shadow. It was only a second before he tugged his cherry red bitten lip into his mouth in nervousness and he was shaking lightly, so slightly I barely realized it at first.

He'd hugged himself when we'd gotten to my car, running twitching fingers over the dash and his breath hitched with a fond smile.

I tried to find comfort in that but my heart slumped in my chest when he sunk back against the seat, tugging his hand back as if it took so much effort. His eyes were heavy lidded, shaggy brown hair fallen over his forehead, skin not as clear and bags too deep and he still looked so fucking beautiful.

Just him being beside me brought some peace, a little tinge of serenity sinking in, my abnormally tense nerves unclenching and I watched green eyes flick to mine.

In seconds, they'd fallen shut, closing him off and he was turned towards the door as if the shield himself. I wondered if it was wrong of me to use him as a relaxer, even if he didn't know, was it wrong to drudge up the past when he didn't look well? And if so, was I completely to blame if he still invited me in?

Was I taking advantage of the situation?

He was exhausted, all frail and willowy and unfocused, it reminded me of finding him at my door days after our first breakup, how easily he'd slumped into my arms.

How he cried about wanting to kill himself. I hated thinking about days like that and remembering that it was something he felt so often. Everything with him was so painful, so heartbreaking and it had always been like that. Every win we had, every I love you no matter how strong, was always followed and one-upped by my past or his past and our collective pain.

We were always so much, too much for each other to handle, and I was starting to think maybe he was right for being worried that we weren't easy anymore.

It was always work, everything about us but that was love, I was sure. Love was the fact that I didn't care how much it hurt and I would do it again.

And I was still so drunk on the way he licked his lips then, sucking the bottom one in when we stopped at a traffic light. He looked cute, all red-nosed and messy hair and I wanted to kiss him so bad then. Part of me said to pull over, tell him I loved him and let us go from there.

I swallowed past a lump in my throat.

Still, I tried to smile, tried not to let him see me cry. It was so weird, so discomforting how I was almost completely unable to hide from him. He was so exposed, previous reservations now scantily draped over a depressive episode, he was so low. And I regretted thinking that this would be easier.

But he seemed better than last time, even if it wasn't by much.

A bittersweet taste lingered on my tongue, words left unspoken.

: : :

"The new decor, it-it's colorful." My aunt Claudia sat perched at the table, smile on her pretty face. Ringlet curls tied up on the top of her head, a golden brown, she had pale skin and high cheekbones... she didn't look much like my mother, her skin a bronze brown and hair dark with tighter curls.

Aunt Claudia was younger than my mother, lived in New York, and she always had something to say about everything.

"Did Micheal choose the couch?"

She laughed when my father chipped up, a hearty 'no,' he never did get when she was being condescending.

Sashaying over, she went to hug my mother gently, although her words contained a weird tone. "Hermana, it's rustic..." one thing about Aunt Claudia that never failed to ruin a good day -even if this day was exponentially worse than others- was her picky nature.

Abuelita would gossip, shake her head when talking over telenovelas about how much of a 'chismosa' her daughter was. She's grumble a bit about how they never came to visit her, how their kids didn't either.

And maybe that was why I never really wanted to know Aunt Claudia, her reputation preceded her.

She never failed to point out things that other people didn't and maybe in the old days, it would be an unspoken air of superiority and she seemed to always have it.

In between asking my mother when she'd move out of this old house, Abuelita's first purchased home, she'd gotten started on the decor.

"A man should never be in charge of things like that, remember what Ma says."

My father did not in fact choose the couch but cheap shots were how my aunt communicated and due to the rest of the table being unable to speak, she had plenty of silence to fill.

But it was family. Even despite inner animosity, they were always invited home, especially at a time like this.

So many family members had been in town here and there, maybe that had a lot to do with why Pete didn't want to stay home as much.

My mother's face was solemn, everybody trying to keep up the momentum but it falling short. The elephant in the room was now looming over the table, swallowing all consistent conversation. Aunt Claudia's sons, who were no more than five and maybe eight, I didn't know them much... they sat peacefully, chatting amongst themselves at the kid's table.

And my father was serving dinner, placing platters onto the table, I'd never seen him do that before.

I sat beside my mom, Pete beside me and I locked hands with both of them under the table, Pete only for a second. He quickly brushed me off, reaching to make his plate and I bit my lip, offering a smile to the woman beside me.

"This looks great, Mami." I offered and she squeezed my hand in response, wrinkling her her nose with a quick smile. My father sat down beside her for once, giving up the head of the table to Claudia's husband, Ronnie.

"How's school been Pablo?" He offered with a wide smile. Ronnie was not even ten years older than me, Claudia another ten older than him and it felt a bit weird to think of him as an uncle.

Part of me wondered how he forgot when he'd probably been in school not too long ago, he probably knew exactly how it was.

I smiled politely though, tugged a glass of water to my lips and watched him mirror me with a beer.

"Good." School was decent, midterms were two weeks away and I still had to work on my 3D piece but I was feeling good about all the material, test wise.

But extended family asking about school was always a double edged sword. Art school was a tricky subject, even if I was paying for most of it from savings and just general hard work. My loans were still insane and the payout was not guaranteed, that wasn't enough for anyone except my mother.

Even my father suggested art as an elective, even despite all the work I'd done to prove how devoted I was.

But this wasn't the time and I was sure this questioning was to keep conversation flowing, so I offered a nod, biting into some steak. And I smiled, "How's Alexa?"

Claudia lit up at the topic shift, gushing about the ring on her daughter's finger. She spent the next twenty minutes pulling up pictures of Alexa and her military man and my mother pushed her head onto my shoulder in gratitude.

I tried to ignore the wine glass in front of my placing on the table, and the fact that my mother had poured a still apple cider in place of the Pinot Grigio they were all so gingerly having.

My father had a beer in hand and Milo sat on the couch, mirrored.

: : :

"Paul..." His arms were wrapped under mine, hands on my shoulder blades when he started to speak, lips buried into the fabric of my shirt and words barely audible.

I was sure this hug was probably too long, sure the forehead kisses and the cuddling was testing boundaries but I didn't want to let go. Holding him felt right after all this time, it felt safe again and something in me knew that I wouldn't get the chance for at least a little while.

So we stood there, in the middle of his room, tears in my throat and holding onto each other, like it would be the last time.

I could still hear the stuffiness of his nose and feel the slight shake of his body but it was subdued and I trusted he'd be okay once I left.

I'd overstayed my welcome anyways. "Yeah?"

It was silent, and then a tentative, "Are you okay?" as if he thought he were imposing.

I nodded and I could tell he didn't believe it, my heart was heavy and somehow him asking made the pain so much more evident.

And he knew me better than everyone, pulling away to look in my eyes. A beautiful mossy green and a soft smile. "Call me if you need me?" it was hopeful, so was the look in his eyes and the cute little bite of his bottom lip.

When I didn't respond quick enough, he became sheepish and I pushed myself to nod although I probably wouldn't call just as he didn't when he was going through it.

He knew, we were too similar in that way so he repeated himself, in a request that felt less expectant of an answer. "Just, just call sometimes."

: : :

A/N

This took way too long to write, whew, but I wanted to capture Paul's essence if that makes sense. I've been writing as Julian so long, I forgot what other voices sound like.

I hope you enjoyed! Excuse me while I rebury myself in schoolwork.

Updated: March 3rd, 2020

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