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Vegetta is unsure of his motives, but curiosity gets the worst of him and he dials the number again. He's half expecting the dreadful note of the dial tone. He's tired of hearing his son on the phone, laughing in the dusk of the evening. He's tired of watching Roier dangle the keys of his store as he calls for Leo, both of them looking forward to a sunny afternoon. He likes to think that he's more sensible than a heartsick teenager but it does cross his mind that maybe he is lonely. He dismisses the thought, it's not up for discussion even at the best of times, and the tone crackles and clicks.
“The sir can't get to the phone, but I can take a message if you want.”
Vegetta didn't realise he was being spoken to, the words don't necessarily make any sense to him before his tongue runs its course.
“Hello?” His voice cracks at the shock of someone picking up the call.
“Howdy, sorry- who is this?” The man on the other side sounds young, still green and barely picking up the local twang Vegetta has finally gotten used to. His English allowed him to travel, but ever since setting roots in the vast plains of Ohio he’s realised he should’ve paid more attention in class. Or at least watched a couple more movies.
“Is Foolish there?” Vegetta asks, not interested in prolonging his embarrassment.
“Sorry, man, he can't make it to the phone right now.” The kid seems to rummage through a pile of papers, muttering to himself. “I can take a message, though.”
“When will he be able to?”
“To…?” The question hangs in the air briefly.
“To get to the phone.”
“I don't know, sir.” There's a beat. “Give me your name and I'll pass on the message.” It feels final, almost rehearsed.
Vegetta hangs up. He's not even sure why he phoned, the blood-red feeling of confusion drags down his body and falls heavy in his stomach. The fresh layer of silence exposes him, and he can't bear it. Vegetta turns to the kitchen sink and fills up a glass, watching the water ripple in before swallowing it whole.
He feels like a fool, for allowing another man into his life and derailing it so completely in just a couple of weeks. Vegetta stands in the dark of the kitchen, unable to keep moving, singing, seeking that speed that got him so far from his home. He’s supposed to be better, for his kids, for himself. Vegetta turns and stares at the lamp before him, he wonders whether Leo would mind if they move again. She finally has a wardrobe, and she’s so proud of her clothes and friends it would be a shame to part from them. He wishes he was somewhere unknown, where he is able to avoid any more awkward conversations at the diner, or down at the mechanic shop. Maybe he can pack up and drive away himself, Roier is old enough and Leo gets on well with Pepito.
He muses over the thought briefly before realising he’d risk getting a bounty on his head by the pesky sheriff. That lanky Brazilian would make it his life’s mission to get him back if Roier even suggests the idea. Before he knows what he’s doing, he storms out of the house. Vegetta shoves his helmet on and kicks the pedal off the gravel.
On the road he can think, or even better, he stops thinking and allows his body to take control. The leather presses against his skin as he drives down the motorway, the only thing separating him and the world, his battle armour. He's almost swerved to the elbow of the road by a massive truck, its loud horn almost deafens him. He has half a mind that he has no recent flattering pictures, all his old portraits had been left in his mother-land, buried deep under his old school clothes. It takes the journey home for his heartbeat to lower, his teeth clench and unclench as he fills his lungs.
-
Vegetta tries calling again, the line has him on hold briefly before that kid answers again.
“Hello?”
Vegetta doesn’t bother asking, he just hangs up. Silence reigns in his house for some time, it seeps from the corners and the dust into the furniture and its inhabitants. He’s sitting by the phone for what seems like days, scratching the wood detail of the table with his nail, following the patterns up and down the grain. Vegetta hardly notices his son returning from his supply run, as he opens the fridge and cracks open a can. Roier taps the kitchen counter with his fist twice, gathering courage. The boy grabs something from his back pocket, and tosses it to Vegetta. Reflexively, Vegetta catches it over his shoulder, and finds that it’s a book.
“Es de cowboys.” His kid informs him, taking a sip.
Vegetta looks up from the book, watches as Roier drags the front of his boots over the tile grouting, holding the can up to his lips.
“¿Es tuyo?” He questions the origin of the frayed paperback.
“Mhm,” Roier confirms, “I got it from the post-office. I haven’t read it, though. Don’t know if it’s in old English or whatever.” The boy looks up and lets a grin soften his features. “It has cowboys, so you’ll probably like it.”
Looking down again, Vegetta turns the book over in his hands, wonders at how considerate his son is turned out to be, despite all the odds piling against him, and his eyes threaten to water with how proud he is. He hates the sting, hates how he's wallowing in self-pity about a man who didn't give a second thought to leaving him without even saying goodbye. He thinks of Leo, and the crayon drawing of a horse she left half-started on the table that morning. Vegetta hadn’t allowed her to finish it before dragging her to school, in a misplaced outburst of jealousy. He rubs his knuckles against his eyes, praying the boy doesn’t notice the slip.
“You really aren't gonna tell me what happened?” Roier mutters, trying to keep his father’s eyes on him.
Vegetta feels his patience thinning, he scratches the grain once more. “I’ve already told you, nothing happened.”
“Is that why Leo can’t go horse riding anymore?” Roier pushes his weight off the side of the counter and makes his way over to his father. He practically looms over the man, who’s still sloped over the dining chair and twiddling the paperback in his hand. “I thought you two were, y’know, friends.”
“I didn’t say she can’t, I just said that I can’t take her.” Vegetta lets out a long sigh through his nose.
“But you won’t let me, either.” Roier paces, drags another chair out before stopping. “Look, I’m just worried. Last time I saw you like this was when-”
“Don't. It’s better if we don’t bother the man.” He tightens his grip over the spine of the book, and presses his free thumb and pointer finger just under his brow.
Deciding for himself that his conversation with Roier is done, Vegetta makes his way to his room, bumping their shoulders together. He strips down to get into pajama pants and ignores the feeling of Roiers’s eyes boring through his closed door and onto the back of his head. If he didn’t have as much pride, he’d beg for his kid’s forgiveness. But it’s the silence that got him here, and it will be silence that will keep him going.
-
He used to seek out the highway, but these days he seems to always land in the dark corners of fields, the back streets of town, the rickety bench in his own backyard. Even now, as he walks along the edge of the sidewalk where he has his bike parked, he hopes the dark consumes his body and he never has to see a streetlamp again. The night is dark, the air sticky and thick. The sky is smattered with stars, constellations that look the same at the other side of the globe, but they seem farther away here. A couple fall, zipping too fast to be more than a glimpse of light, and he’s already asked for the same thing twice today.
His energy reserves are depleted, and his body is still wired when he gets home. As he peels off his jacket, Vegetta feels his muscles still taut and vibrant from the ride, even as he tries to steady his heart rate. He breathes in the slight ozone that has permanently made its home onto his skin. There’s a blessed moment of silence in the penumbra of the hallway, then:
“... Can you tell me if he hurt you, at least? Gringos tend to do that sort of thing.”
‘Deja de tocarme los huevos,’ Rattles all across his brain. Vegetta is irritated enough to snap at Roier’s continued questioning, but he stops himself. It’s not in character for his son to ask such an odd question, so Vegetta resists insulting the boy and instead thinks. After hanging the jacket, Vegetta pauses where he’s standing and he tries to remember.
All that comes to mind is the field-green of Foolish’s eyes, the soft curl of his hair, how it sticks to his nape after being in the ranch all morning. He sees the man’s straight teeth, the sharpness of his smile, and the softness brimming in his eyes when they held each other. Roier must be thinking of the rodeo, as he looks down at the drawings strewn across the dining table and picks one up to hold against the light.
“He was real sweet on Leo. You saw that too, right?” He asks without preamble.
Vegetta looks away from the leather jacket, and at his son. “Foolish was a friend.” He’s practically stuck in place, his muscles both screaming for a shower or a good fist fight.
“Right,” Roier blows out a long breath. “Y’know, he probably doesn’t know what you want if you haven’t told him. He may have never seen anything like it before, or not know he’s seen it.” The boy chuckles at the thought, almost pensive.
“Not everyone lucks out like you did, mijo.” Vegetta knows what he wants to say is too much. “You had someone waiting at the other side.” Particularly to someone he’s only just met, to another man. He’s been burnt before, it doesn’t feel safe to approach the flame so carelessly again.
-
Just after midnight, when Vegetta dials the phone number, the caller doesn't immediately speak. He knows he's listening to someone just by the soft, jagged breathing on the other side. The line crackles and fizzes, but it's otherwise silent. He has waited so long, just like this, too many occasions to proudly count. The boy had politely asked him to quit it, but there had been beer in the fridge, and a bottle of whiskey he’d been given as a housewarming gift. As he’s getting ready to hang up again, he hears breathing. Soft, and barely there, but he hears it. So he stays on the line, leaning his stubble into the warming phone, silently waiting for the other side to say anything. After ten minutes of listening to that soft breathing, Vegetta collects the courage to say something. But before he can, the man hangs up.
Vegetta doesn’t think he’s ever cared much about other people’s appearances, despite his own vanity. He’s unsure why Foolish has managed to fluster him so much. The cowboy is objectively very handsome, anyone could appreciate that. Vegetta likes the soft turn of his pronounced jawline, the soft upward slope of his nose, his hard brow. He likes the way the sun cuts his silhouette in the fields, as if king of his acres of land. He has enjoyed first hand how the farm boys wave and smile at the sight of horses, how men and women from all corners of the country lower their hats at him. Vegetta has seen many beautiful people in his life, dancers hold some of the most precious souls in the city, but he’s never been compelled like this: to covet and ruminate over their every thought.
But as he lowers himself onto his knees, his head leans against the kitchen wall, he can imagine himself staring at Foolish like a marble statue for the rest of his life and he’d never be sick of him. The fridge is covered in Leo’s doodles of horses, he thinks of her smile, how she’d dragged him to look at the sign announcing the rodeo’s scheduling. It’s everything he should avoid: He wants the man with the soft, green eyes.