Chapter Text
Ezra
Every Sunday I wake up and hope by some bizarre twist of fate the church is gone.
Of course, I'd still have to get out of bed, cover my tattoos with band-aids that are starting to give me a rash and be “oh-so-torn-up” by the loss. But I wouldn't have to go, and that's all I could ever ask for.
It'd also be nice to see Seth upset for once. I mean he hasn't really done anything wrong, he's just always weirdly happy. I've only seen him really frown four times in the past two months we've been rooming together.
The first was when he dropped an entire carton of eggs in our carpeted entryway. The second was when I told him I was never going to call him anything other than Seth. The third was after we'd knocked on the door of an angry chain smoker asking for donations and he called us slurs, which I try not to think about too often. And the fourth was when his dad ranted over the phone one night—Seth didn't eat dinner and went to bed early.
So yeah, it would be great to see him upset again because every other hour of my life he's smiling, and I know it's not a real smile. I want to see him actually smile, a real one, even if it's just once. Then I'd know he hasn't had the life drained from him, and he's a real person. Not just some complex illusion I've summoned to keep myself entertained while I'm stuck in the middle of Arizona with little in the way of entertainment.
I’d know he’s not just a cardboard cutout of himself reciting lines like a toy with a pull string. Depth of personality, real human qualities, not some flat two dimensional guy I’ve been letting share a room with me. That’s all I’m asking for.
But he's definitely real, cause he's gently shaking me awake. Hand clearly outstretched from his body in fear of the last time I accidentally kicked him in my sleep. Or the other time I cussed him out. Or the other time I bit his hand. Quite frankly I’m starting to understand his reluctance to wake me up in the morning despite my asking him to.
Yet he’s completely ignorant to the fact that he's way too fucking bright in the morning. With his overgrown hair still curly catching the light and white shiny teeth. A genuine pain in my ass and an unfairly put together sight to be rudely awoken to. And god sometimes I wish I could just tackle him in his dumb transformers pajamas and make him understand that. The urge to do so only solidifies my concern that my violent tendencies are only being aggravated by Seth.
Right now though I'm stuck with him, so I just have to suck it up and roll out of bed.
“Ezra, dude, it's time to get up. You said you wanted me to wake you when I got up, man.”
I roll my eyes, “Really? I couldn't tell when you flung the curtains open and then tried to push me off my own goddamn bed.”
He opens his mouth to protest but realizes I'm goading him on for a reaction, “I want eggs before we have to go to morning prayer.”
I cover my head in blankets. Of course. It's the least I can do though, considering he doesn't force me to pray with him or read the bible. He quietly ignores my atheist tendencies and I make him food. I think it's pretty damn even, especially because as far as I know he hasn't told anyone else about my ‘sacrilegious habits’.
Groaning, I kick off my blankets and throw my legs over the side of the bed. Seth raises an unimpressed eyebrow at my drama, or more likely my unnecessarily short shorts. I feel the slightest twinge of guilt for the shorts until I remember he’s a prude and I’m making him breakfast. I push past him and trip over my own stiff legs, grabbing the wall to stop myself falling as my vision blacks out. Seth turns towards me concerned, “shit, stood up too fast”.
He flinches, like always, at my loose tongue but still supports me with one hand, leading me into the kitchenette as my vision clears. Seth digs my pills out of my bag and I hold them, staring at him expectantly until he sighs and gets me a glass of water. A sneer of a smile forms on my face before I can stop it and I swallow my pills before he can even think to look offended.
“Eggs, rice from the fridge, and whatever you want on them”. I snap, back turned as I rummage through the cabinet for a skillet. I hear him opening the fridge as I reach for the plastic container of cooking oil.
“Can I have mushrooms?” He asks through a yawn, eggs balanced precariously in one hand. I snatch them, “only if you don't drop this carton like last time.” He smiles, big and sunny, I think this is the closest I've gotten to getting a real smile out of him. A smile tries to find its way onto my face in return and I crush it.
I won’t smile at him. I hate him, he's awful, he likes mushrooms for breakfast for fucks sake, he,
“I got more shallots, you said you like 'em more than the green onions right?”
I want to scream or just punch him square in the face. Instead I dig my chipped bright red nails, courtesy of the two sorority girls I'm dead certain are dating, into my palms.
“Thank you,” I say through a grimace I hope looks like a smile.
“No problem!” Another smile, this one a little more hesitant probably by how I'm holding the spatula in a violent grip. Internally, I’m running a PSA called, “we don’t punch our roommate” on repeat until the words become static. My eyes have gone dry from staring at the wall while I cement the mantra into the depths of my brain.
Seth, used to my absurdist antics, just waits for me to come back online. He’s humming something I can’t quite make out and struggling to crack eggs into a bowl. This takes me out of my staring competition with the wall, as I maneuver the bowl closer to myself in an effort to protect the few eggs we can afford.
Seth frowns at the gesture of distrust in his culinary skill and I shrug, still not trusting myself to speak without saying something absolutely stupid. He hands me a fork, the worst one we own—tines not tapered and the handle a perfectly round cylinder—and I take it as retribution for revoking his egg cracking privileges.
Surprisingly, he’s managed to keep any pieces of eggshell out of the bowl but a runny streak of yolk across the countertop confirms my fears. Seth has recently convinced himself that he is capable of cracking an egg with a single hand.
This hubris is likely due to our recent Ratatouille rewatch. However, he has consistently failed at this and as a gesture of further spite I crack another egg into the bowl single handed. Now frowning with furrowed brows and crossed arms Seth storms off leaving me chuckling to myself in the kitchenette.
The eggs are ultimately unharmed by Seth and the invisible rat chef he keeps trying to tell me is secretly puppeteering him. He moves back over to the stove top, now revealing his hidden stash of mushrooms and dumping the thin slices into the pan with no grace or real thought. As such several make a successful escape onto the floor that Seth doesn’t even notice. Internally I praise them for such a daring move and service to their country.
Seth hums the same tune from earlier. It's familiar but I can’t name where I know it from, a movie we watched recently maybe? Finished with his assault on our kitchen, he makes up his food and shuffles to sit across from me at our table. He’s still humming and I finally put it together, the stupid song from fucking lego batman. I laugh to myself and scratch at the table, a sort of ritual before I can actually convince myself to eat this early in the day.
It’s small, low to the ground and thrifted off facebook marketplace. It could have been oak once, oil or varnish finished with a pleasant sheen. Now, it's banged up and splotchy with age. Unfinished wood gleams like rays of sunlight through the clouds. A streak of sharpie runs up a leg, and a burn mark is eating up a corner. The faded water rings in another corner look almost identical to the olympic logo, each one a light discoloration in the wood. I like to run my fingers over them, tracing the patterns I make up, feeling the raw wood beneath my fingertips.
Seth taps his knee against the underside of the table to get my attention and I look up quick, food halfway to my mouth. Seth smiles a little and tilts his head,
“I just wanted to know if you’re planning to skip morning prayer again today? Apparently not knowing where you are at all times is a poor reflection on my character and status as your roommate.”
I duck my head guiltily,
“Yeah, just tell them I’m getting some extra studying in or something. Thanks by the way.”
Seth just shakes his head,
“No problem, you end up all fidgety the whole time and get I don’t know, snappy? Plus if you actually studied when you skipped, maybe your grade would finally go up.”
I glare at him and huff,
“Okay, mom. Maybe I’ll actually study today.”
Seth grins and goes back to shoveling food into his mouth at an inhuman speed. It's a kindness I’ve had to remind myself not to take for granted. It’s also someone to look out for me, genuinely. Something I haven’t had in a way that really means anything to me in a very long time.
I lean back and pick at the last few pieces of rice in my bowl mulling over which lectures I can reasonably get away with avoiding. I promised Seth that I would run to the store for him and it's a significant bus ride to find any store that carries what we both want. I could just go to two different stores but that would take even longer.
It's a pointless battle, if I really wanted to be in those classes I could make it work. Go after classes, borrow someone’s car. It’s an avoidance, of seeing others, seeing my mom’s expectations. But I still need the degree to move and that’s what gets me through every day. The light at the end of the tunnel, computer science, Japan, Australia, New York, somewhere distinctly not here.
Seth slams his bowl down on the table and pushes himself up to standing, tilting the table precariously towards him. It scares the shit out of me. My glass slides towards him and I slam the table down on my end to keep it steady.
He winces,
"Sorry, sorry! I have to stop doing that."
I shake my head and point my chopsticks at him threateningly,
"You are going to break every dish in this apartment and we will have nothing to eat off if you keep doing this. Figure out your spacial awareness issue and get them in check before I put you in a fucking hamster ball indefinitely."
Seth frowns and takes my now empty bowl from my hand. I move to snatch it back and he yanks his arm back moving with his other to grab my chopsticks.
I predict the move and snap them at his fingers but he wrangles them from my grip.
I stand up, muscles tensing and shoot a foot out for his ankle. Seth narrowly misses my swing and makes a run for the couch. I have the advantage on him in distance and block him, forcing him back towards the kitchen. He darts past the table again and I sprint to follow. Crashing into him against the counter. He drops the chopsticks but holds fast to the bowl, clutching it to his chest. I press a finger into his collarbone and sneer at him, our eyes almost level as he curls around the bowl.
Seth freezes entirely, and whatever I was planning to say dies in the back of my throat. He looks playful, but his body is rigid and he keeps taking shallow little breaths like he can't quite get a full one in. I back up and duck my head down to the floor, hand scrubbing my hair.
"Sorry."
Seth shakes out a little and tries to untense his shoulders,
"No, it's fine."
I awkwardly turn on my heel and shuffle back towards our room. A part of me wants to linger, apologize properly maybe. I ignore that part and try to move on as quickly as possible.
"I'll uh, be in the shower if you need anything."
Seth gives a soft hum in response and I hear him turn on the sink and start scrubbing. The apartment is quiet now, just the sound of water running and our next door neighbor blasting some kind of meditation podcast I can sort of make out if I hold completely still and stop breathing.
I slide open the door to the bathroom and flick on the lights and fan, the motor struggles for a second grating against something it probably shouldn't, before settling into a loud hum.
It's dim, and the window is still cracked open from when I tried to air out the apartment last. It gets this weird smell sometimes, cigarettes, wet denim, and a cloying rose perfume. I think the last tenants got the smell in the wallpaper and only tearing it down will fully get rid of the scent. Seth hates it and has said as much repeatedly since we first started renting together. I thought the smell would be an improvement from dorm room funk but Seth doesn't agree. My last apartment reeked of old shoes and tobacco so I never really notice the smell unless Seth complains.
I slam the window down to close it and hope that Seth doesn't notice, I'm sick of sleeping in a frigid bed. The fan kicks up a notch and I wretch the shower handle fully around waiting for the water to heat up. I pull my shirt over my head, startling as Seth knocks on the door,
"Ezra, are you going to the store today?"
I try to respond but he opens the door. Instantly, Seth freezes again, mouth partially open, hand still opening the door. I raise an eyebrow,
"Yeah I'm going to the store, do you want anything other than what's on the list?"
Seth is fully rooted to the ground, and his gaze keeps flickering between my head and my half turned back. Part of me wants to make a comment but I'm not responsible for him and I'd rather give him the easy out of me ignoring his behavior. I clear my throat for his attention and he finally pulls himself together,
"I, uh, didn't realize you had a tattoo on your back."
I shrug, it definitely isn't my favorite but I see why it surprised him. It’s not subtle and I’m fairly certain he hasn’t seen it before. His reaction though reminds me why we don’t watch anything above PG-13 together.
"Well I don't exactly walk around the house shirtless."
Seth blinks a few times and nods,
"Yeah. Um, crap, I, can you get more of my toothpaste?"
"Sure, just add it to the list."
I wait for him to leave and it takes an unreasonable amount of time for him to remember to do so. The door rattles shut behind him and I finish undressing, stepping into the warmth of the shower.
I honestly get why he was shocked at the tattoo, the stamp isn't exactly small and it healed pretty well for being done by a friend. I'd say I want to laser it off now that I've lived with it a while but it's so out of the way I hardly even remember it's there most of the time. It's not like anyone else sees it either.
Part of me is amused by Seth's reaction, a rush at being so blatantly sacrilegious and in such a flamboyant way. But I remember the argument with my mom about it and turn the shower up hotter.
When I towel off and slink back to our room Seth has already left for morning prayer and our neighbor has turned off the podcast. I unlock my phone to find 3 messages from Seth. An apology, another apology, and a request for deodorant. I chuckle to myself and pull on what clothes smell cleanest.
A message comes through from our prayer group chat asking where I am and I remind myself to mute the notifications while I wait for the bus. If I just wait it out eventually they’ll stop texting me. Probably.
It’s oddly quiet without Seth clattering around. All I can hear is the hum of the fridge and the fan still running in the bathroom. When it’s this quiet I get this itchy feeling, like I need to scream, blast music, or something. The quiet is stale, it reminds me of the varnished wood of a pew or light filtered through stained glass. I don’t like it.
Seth is loud, bordering on obnoxious, but a comfort. My last roommate was barely ever in the apartment and as a result I was too. It was too quiet to just sit in by myself. To be honest though this is self inflicted. I could be at morning prayer if I didn’t want to be by myself, or on my way to my first class. It’s a sacrifice I guess, a lose-lose for the promise of later reward.
My eye catches the clock on Seth’s dresser and I realize if I don’t leave now I’m going to miss my bus and I’m sure as hell not waiting a half hour for another. I grab the cash Seth left me for his groceries and throw on whatever slides are closest to the entryway.
I’ve suddenly decided I’m actually going to try and go to class today so I guess I have to pull myself together and get through this as fast as I can. One store, a handful of things, run back to the apartment, get my bag, make it to the last 3 classes of today.
I pull the front door shut with force that’s wholly unnecessary and march down the hall to the stairs.
My phone pings with another message to the group chat and I fully shut my phone off. If I just power through the rest of the day and force Seth to cook dinner maybe, maybe I can actually get my grades back up. And if I get my grades up then my mom will send me money, which will finance my endless need for redbulls.
I once threatened Seth I’d build a wall to separate the halves of our room out of all my empty cans. He threatened to open all the windows at night in retaliation. I’ve since retracted my threat. It gets fucking cold, and the street below us is insanely busy—kicking up desert dust and cigarette smoke. During the day it isn’t nearly as bad, but the bathroom is the only window I actually think is worth the risk to open. I’m eternally grateful that the building architect decided to make the whole complex indoors so I can wander the halls and main lobby without hacking up a lung.
The main desk is completely deserted as per usual and I find myself a little disappointed that there’s no one to chat up before I brave the awful sun that completely bakes this city. My mom has repeatedly sent off-handed texts about remembering to use sunscreen but I ignore her and risk the long term damage just to piss her off.
My mother rarely if ever texts. When she does it’s either a reminder or a question she wants answered. She means well and actually makes an effort to parent me despite the distance. But I remember that being at this school was her choice, her decision for me. Sure she based it on what she assumed to be reason and logic, but we just can’t agree on whether or not the safety of my everlasting soul is a real concern. It’s a fundamental dissonance I’m sure will take the back burner after I graduate. The past few years though, it’s been center stage. Every argument, every question, all tie back to her overbearing concern.
I don’t hate it though. It’s nice to have a parent who is active in my life and genuinely cares about me. A lot of people I’ve met here can’t say the same.
The bus pulling into the loop in front of the apartment complex snaps me out of my reverie. I reluctantly leave the lobby, shielding my eyes from the reflective heat waves rippling in a five foot radius around me at all times.
The bus driver looks as exhausted as I feel and stares straight through me as I wait for my bus pass to process. It finally pings after a solid 30 seconds and I shuffle to the back of the bus as it kicks into drive lurching me forward. The bus is mostly empty but the few people that are on are a wide array. I find an empty seat and lean up against the window.
It's grimy and covered in grit at the corners, plastic of the casing yellowing. The red paint of the emergency handle is cracked and parts of it flake off every time I brush past. The weathering is most notable in the threadbare fabric of the seats. Green foam peaks through in torn chunks and small pieces lay scattered on the floor. A light smell of stale cheetos permeates the entire bus and I'm grateful that the bus driver seems to be disregarding the speed limit.
Dust kicks up in pluming clouds in the wake of the bus, consuming the cars directly behind us. It's like a dense fog, eldritch and infinite down the road that stretches through the desert. A few buildings simmer out the window, whipping past in bright colors surrounded in rings of cacti and dead brush. The sun is hot against my face, even through the tinted window. I pull away to lean back on the seat and find it tacky with heat, burning against my skin like hot wax.
I pull out my dented CD player, angling it to see what I sharpied on the disk inside. It's a playlist I burned a few weeks ago and it's already skipping in certain spots from my poor handling. I plug in my headphones and set the CD to start from the beginning. It whirs noisily in my hands as I wait for it to start.
The player itself is a few years old and it shows the few times I've actually accidentally dropped it despite my best efforts. It took months of paychecks to afford it and I hope that I won't have to repair it anytime soon.
The opening track starts playing and I lean back into the window, turning at an angle to avoid contact with the seat. The bus stops periodically, jolting me around. Each turn yanking me around with no regard for the exhaustion in my body. It's times like these I wish I could afford a car but honestly it's unrealistic and the gas costs alone are enough to cut into my grocery budgeting.
Seth could probably afford a car. Maybe I should ask him if he plans on getting one, granted it's a little late into both of our degrees but better late than never. Hell I could even offer to cover half the gas and we could share the car.
I pull a pen out of my pocket and write 'seth car, share?' on my arm before I forget. It's nestled between a song lyric and a running dog on my forearm, blue scribble framed in stark black. I slide the pen back into my pocket and settle my shoulders against the warm glass of the window.
I watch the road slow as we come to a stop at a light and stare at the driver in the car beside the bus. They're pretty unidentifiable through two thick panes of glass but I can see they have massive bright blonde liberty spikes and it makes me smile. They're nodding along to some kind of song, I'm assuming rock, and tapping their flat palm against the steering wheel.
The light changes and we jolt forward, losing the spiky driver to the mass of cars.
I have most of the stops on the route committed to memory at this point. It's not a long ride to the store but I still despise leaving the apartment when I don't have to. Even worse, most reasons for me leaving the house are either a lecture or something I was guilted into by Seth.
He does this freaky thing with his eyes, somehow gets them to water, honest to god tears, in under three seconds. It prods at the vulnerable part of me that remembers when Esther could still pull something like that and get me handing over cash before she even said a word. He arguably uses it for less evil reasons than she ever did but it shocked me at first that someone other than my sister could pull that on me and it would actually work. Every time he does it I worry he's going to realize just how quickly I cave and use it to his advantage.
The bus jolts forward with another lurching start and I fully crash into the seat in front of me. Thankfully, it's empty but the heat of the seat is immediate and painful on my skin. I pull away wincing and look out the window to find my stop the next one down the street. Suddenly grateful for the excuse to leave my seat I shoot up and pull on the cord for my stop.
The bus has become considerably more full and internally I hope it will be deserted when I finish shopping. I recognize a face towards the front of the bus and tuck into myself to avoid suspicion. Technically, the route runs near enough to campus that I could play it off. But I really don't want to make small talk about why I ditched morning prayer again.
I stand as close to the door as the black and yellow striped tape on the floor allows and push through the hissing doors the second we near pavement. I immediately start walking at a clipped pace for the Target, not daring to look behind me. It's nearing an uncomfortable level of heat right now and my only solace is the store which promises functional ac and a level of anonymity amidst the shelves. I cut off several cars in my pursuit and get only one honk for my recklessness which I fully ignore.
The glass doors slide open and I slip inside leaving the oppressive heat of the desert behind and rows of Saint Patrick's decorations ahead. It's all green and glitter and chevron orange stripes for the first few aisles. I brush past, headed straight for the bathroom items. A toddler mid-meltdown kicks out a leg that nearly misses my shin and I move faster past the toy section hoping to avoid injury. Somehow the store is even worse when I'm by myself. With Seth or literally anyone else it's manageable and even enjoyable at times. But when I'm on my own the whole store is out to get me one aggressive toddler at a time.
I manage to swipe the items I need into a basket I found at the end of an aisle and head to checkout with my basket in front of me like a shield. Thankfully, Veronica is working today and she waves me over with a smile. We share exactly one class, statistical analysis, and we both fucking hate it. She and I are like minded in many other ways as is easily noticeable by her raccoon striped hair and a full face of prohibited piercings. How she afforded and healed all of them I do not know. She just winks and shrugs every time I ask. I'm coming to think she does them all herself but I have no evidence to support this theory.
Today, her employee dress code violations are less flagrant than I expected. She must still have that manager--Dave?--breathing down her neck about 'appropriate workplace appearance'.
"Back to stock up for you and Sammy?"
I wrinkle my face in disgust and dump the contents of the basket onto the conveyor belt out of spite.
"Ronnie, you are literally the only person who calls him that."
She just grins and starts scanning my items at the slowest pace she can manage.
"Honey, you're literally the only person who calls him Seth."
I flip her off and wait with my arms crossed and hip cocked for her to finish scanning my items. She bags them with the least efficiency possible, reordering the items in the bag over and over until I move to grab it.
"Have a great day sir." She says with a sugary air and lets her hand linger on my wrist.
I swat her away and pull a face. She just smiles wider and watches me walk back out the door into the now scorching heat.
I walk away from the store grinning despite myself and chuckling every few steps. We have a night class later that I'm praying she'll actually show up to because I'll have no one to talk to otherwise.
I shuffle back towards the bus stop and stand under the shade with a mom and her kid, waiting for the next bus. It runs in short cycles so it should only be 3 minutes tops.
My phone suddenly starts buzzing and I open it to see Seth calling me. I answer, leaning against the shaded wall of the bus stop,
"This is your roommate and personal chef Ezra speaking."
"Dude you have to start answering the phone normally."
"And you have to stop wasting my minutes, what do you want?"
"Oh sorry, uh, I'm headed to our next class soon. Do you want a ride when you get back?"
I dance in a little circle and throw my arms up, "hell yeah! Lemme just get my stuff sorted and email my English professor."
Seth chuckles a little, "right you skipped that class today, okay cool. See you when you get home."
"Yeah, see ya."
I hang up with a weird hook in my rib cage and watch as the bus rolls to a stop in front of us. The mom pulls her kid on board and I follow, tapping my pass again. I find a seat near the back that's nearly deserted and sprawl out.
It's weird, my inhales keep catching and I keep looping what Seth said over and over.
Home.
It's such a weird concept to me to have a home that's not where I grew up but I guess he's right. Where I am now, or rather where I'm going back to, has become home.