Three Mistakes and a New Fate: 4
Preston Arden lazily lounged by the infinity pool. In other words, it was a typical afternoon for him.
He had his hands behind his head, his designer sunglasses in place as he caught the gentle rays of the sun. Eyes closed, he listened to the gentle sound of running water behind him as the pool happily gurgled, seeming to whisper to him to come in and take a dip. He would in a few minutes, if he could be bothered.
"Your Julep, Sir." Preston opened his eyes to find one of the butlers holding a drink out to him. He took it and examined it with a critical eye.
"Needs more ice, Jeeves." The man's name wasn't Jeeves, but it amused him to call him that. "Fix it."
"Of course, Sir." came the deferential reply. A literal second later Preston was handed a perfect drink. He didn't question the fast timing; life had a way of giving him what he wanted after all.
Preston took an experimental sip, finding it exactly to his liking, and let out a sigh of... well, not contentment, because he was never really content, but something approaching it. His thoughts were light, his mood was good, and the world operated according to his whims.
That's when he felt the slaps to his face. They were light at first, but quickly grew insistent. The world around him started to fade, another coming into focus as he heard a familiar voice, its tone playful.
"Wakey wakey, carnal." A final smack to his cheek brought him back to reality, the grinning face of Juan looking down at him.
"Qué?" came his tired voice, which then met with confusion. What had he just said? And wait, what was wrong with his voice?
Then it all came back to him. Reality reasserted itself as he looked around; the shitty apartment he shared with Juan(and the roaches) his brown skin, his muscles honed from years of hard manual labor. The curse that had caused all this, inflicted on him by his smiling roommate.
And the name felt right, felt real, even as he hated to admit it.
He put a hand to his face and groaned.
"There we go. All hittin you again, huh? Bet you felt surprised not waking up in your big fancy dormitorio today, huh? You get the floor now, güey. But 'considerin how passed out you were, looks like it suited you just fine. See, you ain't need all that fancy shit."
"Now c'mon, guero." Juan kicked him with one of his boots, not painfully but firm. "Get yo ass up. You don't wanna be late for work, and you ain't making me late. Shower's yours: I made sure to use all the hot water, not that there was much to begin with."
"You're a fuckin monster, vato." Mateo muttered, slowly rising to his feet. Juan chuckled.
"I'm also the closest thing you got to a homie now, so move."
Having no choice, the former heir did so. The ice cold water ensured he was in and out of the shower within a few minutes, and soon dressed in his uniform again. He hated how right it felt to this body; Mateo felt as home in this work gear as Preston had in his designer clothes. Even if he somehow found designer gear, he had a feeling it would feel wrong on this form, alien.
The pair headed off. Mateo stayed away from the seats on the bus this time, Juan clapping him on the back.
"You're learnin, güey." He sounded almost proud.
A few weeks passed in Mateo's new life. And it was pretty much unrelenting misery.
He was worked to the bone at the site, treated like shit, like just another worker by the asshole foreman. The guy treated everyone like trash, but Mateo was used to special treatment. Or had been, anyway. Here he was lugging lumber, digging holes, and pouring concrete for hours on end. He became very familiar with jackhammers; Juan laughed the first time he used one and nearly deafened himself before he handed him ear plugs.
The worst part was the work didn't really get any easier. Mateo already had a body built for it, thanks to Juan's little "gift" but that didn't mean it was easy work. It wasn't. It was hard as fuck every day, and he doubted that would ever change. Juan told him he just had to suck it up and embrace the suck, but Mateo couldn't imagine doing this the next twenty years of his life.
Juan sympathized as only he could. Looking sincere, he placed an arm on Mateo's shoulder.
"Bro, you should be good for 30 years. Don't sell yourself short."
Home--God, and why did it have to feel like that?-- was little better. What should have been a place to rest was anything but. Juan had him working like a criado while he longed about, taking great joy in watching the former rich boy sweat. Though, honestly, Mateo preferred when Juan was relaxing; other times he liked to watch his work, and he always found stuff to critique about it.
"Give that toilet another scrub, güey. Still looks plenty nasty from here."
Mateo turned around and glared. "It wouldn't be so nasty if you aimed while 'pissin."
Juan shrugged. He was leaning by the doorframe, shirt off and beer in his hand. "What can I say? Had no one to impress till you got here, and now I have you to clean for me, homie. Funny how things work out."
It was his attitude that pissed Mateo off the most. Juan always got those digs in, and the worst part was it seemed like teasing. If the vato hated him and spoke with anger he'd at least get it, but he treated ruining Mateo's life like a big joke. Mateo wanted to let his body's natural reaction take over and wipe that smirk off his face, but there was that part of him that feared what else Juan could do to him; the guy was basically a god; in no way would it be a fair fight.
So instead he just mutely nodded and started scrubbing the toilet again.
Juan offered him a beer when he was done.
Life continued like this for a little over two weeks before the first big upheaval came about, in the form of a rebar bar.
Mateo was tying down some plywood when a gust of wind hit, knocking a piece of it into him. The impact was just enough to make him lose his balance, and he staggered backwards directly into a pile of rebar. One of the bars directly pierced his left side, and pain surged through him.
"Mierde!" He hissed, pulling the bar away. He was bleeding. Not bad, but it had definitely cut into him. He'd had plenty of experience with pain and discomfort since coming to the site; his back basically never stopped aching anymore, and his feet had blistered up pretty quickly, the cheap boots doing little to protect them. So he kept his mouth shut. He could already hear Juan mocking him for finding a new way to injure himself, and he didn't want to give the guy anymore ammo. He doubted the rest of the crew or foreman would be anymore sympathetic either.
So he pushed through the pain and finished his shift, even though every step made him feel like a red hot poker was being inserted into his side. He'd go home and wash it; that ice cold water was sounding pretty damn nice right about now.
He'd just made it into their apartment when Juan spoke up.
"So ese, when you planning to stop actin like your side ain't wrecked?" His tone was casual, matter of fact.
"Don't know what you're talkin bout, bro." He tried to play it off. Juan snorted.
"You callin me bro? Yeah, you 'dyin, holmes."
"Rebar bar fucked up my side is all. No big."
Juan's stare looked less amused and more concerned. "And you didn't say nothin? Shit, holmes. Let me see."
"I can handle it myself."
"I've seen you limpin half the fuckin day, güey. Toss your shirt and let me see."
Mateo wanted to argue further, but he also lacked the energy to do so. Silently he lifted his shirt and tossed it on the couch. It missed, hitting the floor. Surprisingly, Juan did not offer up any wisecracks. Instead his eyes were focused on the large bruise on Mateo's side. "Holy shit, güey ."
The bruise was a very angry purple spread across most of his side.
"It looks worse than it feels."
"Bullshit. Get on the couch, I'll be right back." Juan's voice was authoritative enough that Mateo didn't object. He limped over to the couch and edged down. Juan returned a moment later, a first aid kit in his hand.
"Where'd you get that from?"
"Under the sink. Its a necesidad in our line of work, hermano. What, you think I never come home with battle scars?"
Mateo had never considered that. Part of him assumed Juan was indestructible. But for all his other flaws, he'd seen Juan work-- and sweat-- as hard as any other guy on the crew, so he must have been telling the truth.
"Hold still." Juan instructed, getting to work. He handed him a bag of veggies, instructing him to put it on the wound for a second. Then he pulled out a spray. "This gonna sting like a bitch."
"You don't havta do this. I can handle my own business Juan, I ain't soft." The voice that came out was fully street kid, fully Mateo. Preston had no experience with this; any boo-boos he had gotten had likely been kissed by his mother (or more likely one of the help.) Mateo though was a body who was familiar with pain, and he supposed he should be grateful for that; it prevented him from crying as he was sure his old form would have done.
"No one sayin you is. But you useless on the site like this guero. You just gonna make more work for the rest of us, and get a reputation for 'bein deadweight who don't know his own limits."
"Yeah?" Mateo snorted, which turned into a wince as Juan pressed down on the bruise with gauze. "Since when you care?"
"Since you got here. You my responsibility now." Once again, his tone seemed genuine. Mateo looked at him and found his stare was even.
"I didn't think you cared whether I lived or died." he admitted.
"I do, holmes." Juan's voice grew quiet. "Why you think I goin through all this trouble huh?"
"Maybe you just wanna keep me alive to keep torturing me."
"Two things can be true rich boy," Juan's lips curled into a smirk again.
"Ain't rich no more," Mateo's response came automatic again. It stung less than it used to, though maybe that was just because of the physical pain that overrode his mental angst.
"Exactly," Juan smiled again, looking almost proud as he finished up. "Ayy, look at you, güey, finally reaching the acceptance stage of things."
By the time they were done, Mateo had a big ass bandage on the side, but he did feel a little better. Juan instructed him to sleep on his other side and avoid putting stress on it. "And tell me if it hurts worse. You start 'tryin be a hero I kick your ass, carnal."
"Fine. And...thanks, man." The word took some effort to force out, but he managed. It felt right to say in this circumstance. He tried to ignore how smug it made Juan look afterwards.
When they headed to bed, Juan insisted he take it.
"I taken the floor the next few nights, güey. But Ima kickin you out once you get feeling better, you feel me?"
This time Mateo allowed the smile to cross his face.
"Yeah. Yeah, I feel you holmes."
A/N: Perspective readers may notice the apartment's geography looks different in some of the above pics. There's a reason for this: A wizard Juan did it. He enjoys shifting his apartment around like one would rearrange furniture. If something looks off he did it. If something looks off in any of my works, he did it; his powers are simply that vast.
