Sidestory:
The Eight-Year Gulf
by Rach and Tami
Desi, seated in his chair behind the counter, was not playing Gameboy as one would expect. Rather, he was eating carrots; a huge, wet bag of them sat in his lap, dampening the material of his pants. Obviously this displeased the Spaniard, who quite liked his khakis and quite disliked the thought of them soggy, but he ignored it for the timebeing and chewed another carrot. Through the glass window he could see Rafe and Adam embrace once, then Rafe turn to head up the stairs and Adam walk down the street. A part of him was angry at Adam for being so bold as to hug the potter, but he quickly shushed it when Rafe strolled in, face long and confused.
"Rafe?" he asked, picking the carrots off his lap and putting them on the counter. "Something wrong?"
The potter's expression immediately attempted to change as he sat down on the corner of the desk, but it didn't quite work. "Nothing," he said halfheartedly. "Enjoying your... Carrots?"
"They're fine," Desi said flatly. He crossed his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow at Rafe expectantly. Rafe squirmed in reply, not meeting Desi's eyes. "Okay, you're really wrong?" he asked again, lips pursed to the side.
Rafe stared down at the floor, looking at the tiles, looking at cracks and then the window and then the whitewashed wall. He looked wan and unhappy. "... I shouldn't have kissed you back, Desiderio. I'm too old for you."
Desi paused, unsure of how to reply. Rafe was right, after all. He was nearly a decade older - a man, while Desi was a teenager. Sighing, Desi pushed himself up onto the counter, next to Rafe. "Rafe, I can't help being young. It's not like I can magically age to ease your conscience, you know?" He stopped then, realizing that he may have sounded a little harsh. With a gentler tone, he continued, "And I'm sorry you feel that way. But don't beat yourself up about it. I kissed you first. I'm the aggressor, and I dare say, more at fault. If there is any fault in this situation." Desi shifted and stared absently at his hands, one finger trailing down his life line, stopping at the abrupt break it had early on. "And, I mean, if it's too much for you, that's okay. I can understand if you don't want to be together. I'll still make you lunch, and I'll probably still piss you off. I know what I want, and I would like to be with you. But if you don't, that's fine. I won't hold it against you." he finished awkwardly.
"... I can't do that." Rafe's glance fell towards the floor again. "I... I care about you, okay? I want you. I can't see you every day and pretend that I don't. But... It's fuckin' wrong."
"Oh, it's not so bad. After all, I act older than I am, and you act younger. Don't they cancel each other out?" he said, attempting a joke. Seeing how it did nothing to lighten the situation, he sighed again. "Look, the way I see it is that there is a difference between what's wrong, and what's not normal. I'd say we're more the latter. Besides, I'm not an idiot, Rafe. I've learned to think for myself, and I live according to my own judgement, not how other people judge me." He laughed and tossed his head lightly, realizing how surreal the whole situation was. Here he was, Ultimate Asshole Desi, trying to be comforting and wise. Dear God. Hesistantly, he added, "Now, I'm not going to say that you're a bit older than what most people would consider to be appropriate for me. But you know what? In the end, I make the decision, not other people. And with my mind, I'm more likely to take advantage of your naivete to this whole relationship thing than you with my age. That's what you're concerned about, isn't it?"
"No!" Rafe threw up his hands and stomped a few paces away from the desk. "I'm concerned because when you were ten, I was eighteen!"
Desi idly drummed his fingers on the surface of the counter, hardly phased by Rafe's explosion. One of them had to keep their cool, might as well be him. "So you're older. So what? Girls in America that are in their twenties are marrying seventy-year-old widowers. Look, I'm saying it doesn't really matter to me. It's not like I can do anything to change it. But if it's that important to you, fine. I can't change that either. You do what you think is right, but keep it in context. Try to think about the 'us' instead of the 'them', stupid as that sounds. God, I'm really not good at this sort of thing."
"I don't care about Americano girls and widowers," Rafe burst out, scrubbing one hand through his hair. "I'm fuckin' me and you're fuckin' you, no golddigger, and I'm not... I'm not... I care. I can't even kiss you without... Shit."
"Without a guilty conscience? Fine. So don't," Desi said, shrugging. His expression didn't change, but mentally, Desi was kicking himself. He couldn't stop himself from being cold, though. It was the only way he knew to react.
Rafe stood facing away from him for a long while, dark hair shivering down his neck. "... I don't know how not to have a guilty conscience. How not to say... 'You're kissing a kid.'"
Desi chewed his lip, catching it between his teeth and then letting go, then repeating. "Rafe," he sighed, shoulders sagging. "I'm not a kid, okay? I'm just - well, I'm young. I'm young. That doesn''t mean I'm some stupid child that you need to feel bad about." Desi muttered. His blank expression had finally been replaced with a glum one, and he miserably rolled a carrot across the counter top. "I've been agonizing over it too, you know. Don't think that this whole situation isn't making me feel awkward. But I've decided that I can get used to that awkwardness and still feel happy with you, you know? There are more important things to worry about."
"You shouldn't have to get used to it." The potter's voice was bleak. "That's... It's not what this is about. Not what you and me are about, Desiderio. You're young. Too young."
Desi's long fuse finally hit the dynamite. "Whose decision is that, then? Is it yours? No. I know what's best for me. I make my own decisions, and if I say I'm not too young, then I'm not too young. Stop moping and, I say this will all puns intended, act your age."
Rafe finally sat down on a crate, gingerly, knowing it was packed full of terracotta to be shipped out the next morning; the look he gave the Spaniard was dark-eyed and utterly unreadable. "No, Calavera," he murmured. "Hmph. So you say you are not too young? All good. I say I'm much too fuckin' old."
"Then that is a problem that you need to work out with yourself," Desi pointed out, still not completely in control of his flaring temper. "But for god's sake, Rafe, just get over it. You're making a ridiculously huge mountain out of a molehill."
He stood up and paced again, finally ending up at the desk and eyeballing the caramel-haired Spaniard from close up. "Losing you would kill me," he said raggedly, voice husky and barely there, one hand cupping smooth cheek with thumb practically bruising the bone. "Losing you would make my heart go. Losing you would feel like my skin goddamn ripping off."
Rafe sucked in a breath and pulled the hand away, fingers brushing Desi's chin soft as a broken promise. "So get out," he muttered. "Don't, hmph, come in tomorrow. I'll call you if I need you, Calavera."
Desi's yellow eyes went wide, his mouth open as if to reply, but the words - all in his head, all witty and pacifying and good - refused to come. He managed to muster a soft "Okay," as he turned away, and a part of him felt more raw and angry and hurt than he had ever felt. He quietly moved past Rafe and grabbed his jacket off the sofa it was casually thrown upon, his nails digging sharply into is synthetic fabric. After a moment, he moved to the door and opened it, inviting the cold autumn air inside the pottery before he slipped his jacket on and shut the door with a loud, decisive bang.
The potter stared at the slammed door for the longest time. Then he drew his hand back and punched the solid cash desk as hard as he possibly could, until the register rattled, with Desi's bag of carrots, until his knuckles split and bled and ached.
That hurt like a bitch. Rafe he went upstairs and did what he'd wanted to do for the past few hours, which was weep like an ashamed little boy.