#selfiepara

Soprou a fumaça do cigarro para fora de seus pulmões, apesar dos meses em que morava ali as ruas, a língua, o clima ressaltaram constante que ele era um estranho naquelas terras e nada lhe era familiar. Não queria admitir nem para si mesmo o lamento que sentia, tinha o irmão e a sobrinha com ele e Maddox sabia que ambos eram as pessoas mais amava no planeta, todavia o pesar ainda remoía dentro dele. Não conseguia esquecer o passado, esquecer que jamais poderia voltar a cidade onde cresceu, jamais veria a casa que pertenceu a sua mãe ou visitar o túmulo dela novamente. Conhecia Derek, sabia por alto das escolhas do irmão, Mad não apoiava mas também jamais ao menos imaginou em afastar seu gêmeo de sua vida. E se não fosse por Derek, Maddox não teria um pequena princesa em sua vida, só pensar na menina fazia um curto sorriso surgir em seus lábios.

Consequências para manter os dois em sua vida no entanto eram tão reais quanto o vento passou rajando e lhe fez se encolher minimamente dentro do próprio casaco. Viu seu reflexo na vidraça de um comércio, era tarde e ele devia se apressar afinal depender de transporte público era sempre ruim, no entanto o mais velho dos Stymest acabou fazendo o oposto e parou para encara a si mesmo. Se acrescentar um centímetro a mais aquele reflexo e estariam vendo uma imagem de Derek. Atrás da vidraça os eletrônicos estavam expostos para venda, incluindo TV’s. No televisor exposto ali bem na fachada da loja, a tv no mudo transmitia um telejornal qualquer, a legenda anunciava ‘Polícia procura’  Mad não chegou a ler o resto da frase, ou mesmo olhar para foto do suspeito, seus olhos desfocaram da tv e voltou a enxergar o próprio reflexo. Deveria ser a sua foto aparecendo no jornal, ou de Derek não fazia diferença, em algum programa sensacionalista sobre pessoas desaparecidas talvez fosse expor a foto de Summer, como uma adorável e linda menina que foi sequestrada pelo pai e o tio. Os batimentos cardíacos do moreno ficaram apressados e respirar pareceu uma tarefa complicada por um segundo ao lembrar da mãe da menina, seus olhos ameaçaram se tornarem marejados. Era culpa, tal medo, o moreno continuava sem saber nomear aquilo que vinha borbulhando dentro dele. Não ele não queria que irmão fosse parar atrás das grades ou acabasse morto, não ele não aceitaria entregar a sobrinha para estranhos e não ter qualquer domínio ou certeza sobre o futuro da menina, não ele mesmo não queria ir parar na prisão por se manter com Derek e Summer, ele não aceitava nenhuma daquelas opções.

Ajeitou a touca enquanto pisava nos degraus que lhe guiavam até a estação, o trem sairia às cinco em ponto. A estação estava quase deserta, apenas alguns poucos funcionários circulavam pelo local, as caras de sono e pouca simpatia eram evidentes. O céu aos poucos se tornava claro, mas o sol ainda não era tão visível. Mostrou sua passagem naquele horário ao fiscal, o curto aceno de cabeça indicava que seu embarque era permitido. Mad encaixou os fones de ouvidos, a poltrona não era confortável o suficiente para um cochilo, mas isso não lhe impedia de tentar. Os óculos escuro, companheiros fiéis em seu vestuário escondiam os olhos claros. As pálpebras se fecharam e tentou relaxar. A viagem de Liverpool para Londres podia levar de duas horas e cinco minutos até insuportáveis quatro horas, viagens naquele horário entretanto era sinônimo de uma ida mais rápida e vagões silenciosos e quase vazios.

Londres era sua cidade, havia nascido ali embora não conseguisse mas se imaginar morando fora de Liverpool. Por mais que fosse próximo de sua mãe, carregava a fala e os traços de seu genitor o que significa um sotaque londrino. Apenas pensar no homem já fazia com que uma expressão carregada surgir no rosto de Maddox. Seu pai era um homem aparentemente educado e simplista, o problema nisso eram exatamente as aparências. O seu genitor não dava espaço para dúvidas ou questionamentos, se ele dizia que tal coisa era o certo todos deveriam aceitar, como verdade absoluta. Maddox ainda não entendia como sua mãe terminou casada com o homem, lembrava da gritaria quando ainda era muito pequeno para entender o que era realmente dito. Recordava do silêncio ensurdecedor no qual a casa ficava assim que pai entrava. A visão se tornou embaçada e o nó familiar ameaçou se formar em sua garganta, tudo porque recordou brevemente do falecimento da mãe. A mulher era doce, risonha, divertida, todos os colegas e amigos de escola sempre diziam que a mãe dele, era a mãe mais legal que existia e o mais velho dos gêmeos Stymest se orgulhava do fato. Anne era seu lar, eles eram um time e então o calor, piadas e risos sumiram de repente. Tudo foi substituído pela frieza de humores, a rigidez de seu pai, o isolamento fez a perda da mãe parecer tremendamente real e sólido. Uma desolação dominou tudo e a base que Mad tinha e entendia como amor desapareceu diante de seus olhos. Família virou uma palavra sem sentido por um tempo, as coisas só voltaram a melhorar quando Derek se aproximou. O mais novo cuidou de Maddox, do jeito dele é claro. Mad riu baixo, sozinho ao lembrar da reaproximação inicialmente desconfortável entre eles, porém não demorou para que se entendessem. Foi bom para Maddox perceber que não estava totalmente sozinho. Desmond no entanto ainda se mantinha um quase desconhecido, apenas ia e vinha na casa as vezes e gritava ordens, algumas vezes sumia por dias. Um pai, ao olhos de Mad é alguém que se importa, cuida, que ao menos tenta estar por perto. Desmond, nunca foi seu pai e nem se importou quando Mad mais precisava.

O percurso foi tranquilo, uma chuva fina caía sob Londres quando Mad desembarcou. Os sons da rua eram abafados pelo fones de ouvido discretos, as orelhas estavam protegidas pela touca escura. O próprio reflexo espelhado na vitrine de um loja chamou sua atenção durante uns segundos. A camiseta branca simples, moletom negro e sob esse uma jaqueta jeans surrada, talvez o seu subconsciente lhe fez escolher peças que lembram o vestuário do irmão. Derek e o homem sempre se entenderam com perfeição, já Mad nunca havia de fato se deu bem com o sujeito. Da estação até o hospital, fazendo uma parada para um desjejum em uma lanchonete de esquina, levou cerca de uma hora e meia. Seus dedos brincavam com o isqueiro em seu bolso, estava inquieto. Não conseguia entender de onde veio a ideia dele ir visitar o homem. Sozinho. Se Derek estivesse ali faria algum sentido, divagou enquanto puxava um cigarro e acendeu, pouco ligando para as leis que lhe proibiam de fumar em local público. O céu estava cinzento, os pingos de chuva se tornavam densos, ainda sim Mad continuava protelando para entrar no hospital. O primeiro cigarro acabou e ele acendeu mais um. Somente quando acabou seu segundo cigarro Maddox atravessou a rua, o segurança na porta lhe olhou meio torto mas o sociólogo não se importou.  Retirou os óculos escuro ao seguir até o balcão de informações. _ Em qual o andar e quarto está Desmond Stymest?

Peter looked about the waiting room. His fists were bound tightly in a ball as he tapped his feet. The room was completely empty – he insisted it to be that way, otherwise he wouldn’t show up. He being ashamed was the understatement of the century. He’d always had a somewhat short fuse, but he was usually able to brush it under the rug and get over it within an hour or so unless someone had really annoyed him for usually good reasons. Ever since his mother went in the hospital, and particularly a month or so Joseph entered his life, the ability to control it had flew out the window, and he would often lose it without being able to control what he was doing or saying. Another thing that he was constantly aware of was the fact that he was no longer a boy – even recently his muscle mass had increased, and he was afraid he would hurt someone. It was because of these reasons that he picked up smoking – the even slight high that he got from the very first drag tended to cause the feeling to drift – even if he lied to everyone regarding it by saying it was because he was ‘curious’ or ‘bored’. Peter’s fists clenched even tighter, and he watched his knuckles turn white.

God, he’d kill to have a cigarette right now.

“Mr DeFranco?” his head whipped around to see the receptionist at her desk as she calmly talked to him, having felt the tension radiating from his body, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No…thank you,” Peter said slowly, releasing his clasp on his fingers.

“Ok,” she said softly, “Dr Ryan will be out in a minute for you.” He nodded in response, turning his attention back to the window he was facing.

The main turning point was his mom. He could feel his relationship with her was deteriorating, and he hated the feeling. He remembered the times where just he and his mom would go out for ice cream – he would always get chocolate, she would always get strawberry cheesecake. He even remembered the times where she would have to get him out of trouble that he often found himself in. The times where they were situated across from the principal, who would repeatedly stress how he would not behave in class. Of course, Peter knew why he didn’t behave in class – his way of dealing with not being able to keep up with the rest of the class was to mess about and not pay attention – but he knew now that it wasn’t the best reason in the world. There were a couple of times even outside of school he’d done something that he shouldn’t have done, for example, being on someone else’s property without their permission, or back-talking a small businessman (which he was somewhat renowned of doing). In Peter’s eyes, he was trying to show off in front of his friends, but he knew that his mom didn’t care about his friends or what they thought. Nevertheless he was grateful for his mother – she got him out of any trouble he dug himself into. The last thing he wanted her to think was that he was taking her for granted, which she had stated that she felt he was doing.

“Peter?” he heard a male voice call. He turned, slightly startled from his daydream being interrupted, “I’m Dr Zackary Ryan. Want to follow me?” Peter nodded and stood up, following him into his office.

Dr Ryan’s office was a grey-walled room adorned with children’s drawings and abstract art. It was populated with a desk with a desktop computer with a chair. There was also a separate area of the room with one corner sofa with a coffee table and a TV, which seemingly had an Xbox accompanying it. The furniture popped from the room’s dull, colourless walls; the couch was teal as was the TV stand. The desk had a glossy black finish and the chair was sleek white.

“They wouldn’t let me change the wall colour, so I changed the furniture myself,” the man smirked, seeing Peter observing his surroundings. Dr Ryan gave off the appearance that he was young when he really wasn’t – his straight hair that grew like his father’s was short on the sides and longer on top. His youthful blue eyes were soft, lines surrounding the end of them from excessive smiling. He stood at only around five feet seven or eight, and the clothes he wore were the epitome of smart casual – he had obviously came to work in a suit, but the blazer hung loosely over the back of his chair and his button was undone. His light blue shirt had its sleeves rolled up, revealing his arms, which had its veins poking through. Now, Peter wasn’t attracted to guys, but he wasn’t opposed to admitting when a man was attractive – Zackary Ryan was. His presence oozed easiness and calm, which was exactly what he needed; someone to outshine his overly easy going nature. “Take a seat and get comfortable. And call me Zack.” Peter nodded, sitting at one side of the couches, and the therapist went to get himself a cup of coffee from the coffee machine on his desk. He offered Peter one, but he declined, not being fond of hot drinks other than soups.

“Why won’t they let you change the wall colour?” Peter mustered up while Dr Ryan got himself a coffee, deciding that small talk would be useful.

“Eh, probably something to do with it would increase waiting times because I’d have to share a room for a few days with another doctor while it got painted,” he shrugged simply, lifting up the cup and sipping on it before sitting down and setting it on the coffee table. “Now look, I’m supposed to be formal with you for a bit. I don’t know how you found our centre, but it’s pretty relaxed and is a little different to most – particularly with me. There are times you will get angry. It’s all part of the process. I’ll try to figure out how you’re feeling and why you’re feeling that way, but you need to warn me if you feel like you’re gonna turn violent, ok?” Peter nodded. “And it’s ok to tell me that. It’s ok to feel that way. It’s ok to curse.” Dr Ryan paused for a second. “So, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked, not expecting the question.

“Tell me anything. It doesn’t have to be relevant over why you’re here, just tell me what you feel like telling me.”

“Uh,” he thought, completely caught off guard by the question, “I’m Peter, I live in LA…”

“Want me to give you some ideas to talk about?” Zack suggested, seeing his discomfort. He nodded. “What age are you?”

“19. I turn 20 in October,” he replied.

“Immediate family?”

“Mom, dad, a sister, three brothers and a son,” he shrugged, “Oh, and four dogs. Six if you want to include my mom and dad’s.”

“Full house?” he raised his eyebrow at him, a lopsided smirk appearing on his features, making Peter chuckled slightly.

“Kind of,” he laughed, “My sister and one of my brothers moved out, and I’ve just recently moved out as well.”

“How’d your mom and dad allow you four dogs?” he smiled, noticing him ease up when he used a light hearted approach.

“Barely,” Peter laughed again, “I got one dog from a shelter, and then I found the other three.”

“Wow, you didn’t buy any from a breeder then?” he questioned, getting a head shake in response, “Good man.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, always having a soft spot for rescue animals. Which his mom also needed to put up with, now that he thought about it. The countless animals – particularly dogs – that he had brought home over the years.

“What about your son? What’s he called?”

“Joe…Joseph, even,” he nodded, “He’s 16 months old.”

“You could’ve brought him if you wanted,” he smiled, “We have a bunch of toys.”

“He’s with my mom,” he shrugged, “I’ll remember for next time, though.”

He asked his dad to look after Joe for a bit without telling him where he's going before leaving towards the address Luci gave him. He marched right up to the door, his blood boiling, and knocked loudly. A tall, muscle-y, angry looking young man answered the door. Peter looked up at him, not expecting him to answer. "Uh...are you Tristan?"

"What's it to you?"

"You...you're going out with Clara, right?" he said nervously, biting his lip. Without Joe being in the picture, he wouldn't be so nervous - he would've fought until one of them won - but now he was there, he didn't want to get hurt or hurt him too badly, thinking more of what could happen afterwards.

Tristan stepped out, glaring at Peter. "Yeah? How the fuck do you know her?"

"She's my friend," he explained. Tristan shoved Peter.

"Get off my fucking porch," he said angrily, backing him off towards the end. Peter bit his lip, trying to keep calm, but he knew he quickly lost his temper.

"Don't fucking push me, asshole," he warned, shoving him back, only to be met with a rougher shove. Peter lost it quickly, throwing a punch to his nose.

Tristan's head fell back, surprised, before punching Peter in the ribs, which made him double over. It also made him even more angrier. He punched him rapidly three times in the face - once on the nose and once on each cheek - and he fell back, glaring at Peter.

"What the fuck?" he shouted, obviously done with fighting, probably due to the blood coming out of his nose and mouth.

"Didn't your mom teach you to never touch a fucking girl?" he growled, approaching him, more confident now, "What the fuck do you think you're doing to your girlfriend?"

"She owes me money!"

"She owes me money too, but I'm not doing shit to her," he spat, pushing him against the wall, holding him by the scruff of his shirt. "Don't fucking let me have to come here again."

He was surprised that she hadn't even bothered to phone him to see how Joe was doing. She hadn't taken any interest in his life whatsoever - it was like she just handed him off without looking back. He wanted him to have her around, and although that he thought that his son would grow up ok without her, he knew that further down the line he'd wonder who she was.

Peter knew from the start that he'd be very open with Joseph. He'd tell him that he wasn't planned, but that just made him even more amazing in his eyes. He would tell him that Mary was not his mom, but that she loved him like she was. It wouldn't be the perfect family set up, but it'd be nice.

Peter sat up and pulled his phone out, scrolling down to her number. Joe let out a screech, making him look down and chuckle at the wide-eyed baby stare up at him. "What is it?" he smiled at him, getting a smile back. Joe then continued to play with his toys, shaking his rattles and trying to fit shapes in holes, and ultimately failing, of course. He didn't get frustrated, though, and he didn't like giving up, so he was able to tap her number on the screen and call her.

He tapped his fingers lightly on the ground as he listened to the phone ringing on the other end. He sighed lightly as she didn't pick up, and tried again. This time Clara picked up almost right away, to which Peter was surprised about.

"What's up?" she asked, her voice calm and level. He didn't reply; too shocked to speak. "Sorry, my phone was in the other room. Are you ok?" Peter shook himself out of it, mentally pinching himself.

"Yeah, I-I just wanted to know if you were gonna come see Joe?" he asked, Joseph looking up at the mention of his name then back down at his puzzle. Peter heard a sigh at the other end of the call, followed by what he assumed was her closing her door.

"Peter..." she sighed, not knowing how to approach the question, "He's yours now."

"But he's yours," he replied quietly, "He's as much yours as he is mine."

"I know, but I can't look after him," she replied in a similar tone, "He's better with you and not knowing me. Just tell him that Mary's his mom."

"No," he said, shaking his head, "I'm not gonna lie to my son because we fucked up."

Clara sighed again. She knew Peter could be difficult if he wanted to. "Do you want me to pay child support or something?"

Clara's response made Peter angry. "No, I don't want you to fucking pay child support," he spat, "I want you to see him, and cuddle him, and play with him, and, and-"

"Peter," she said, stopping him in his tracks, her own anger beginning to rise, "I don't think you understand what I'm saying. I don't want to see him, or play with him, or any of that shit you said. He's yours."

"He's yours as well!" he shouted, making Joseph let out a loud cry, not liking when his father yelled. Peter sighed, putting the phone on loudspeaker as he bounced him lightly. "He's missing out, Clara. I know you. You are one of the nicest girls I've ever met, and you can be nice to Joe as well."

Clara listened to Joseph's cries slowly calm, and inhaled deeply, reaching for her cigarettes before lighting one and taking a drag. "Listen, Peter," she said, letting the smoke out of her mouth, "I work 12 hour shifts Monday to Friday, on Friday night I go out and on Saturday night I go out. The only time I have for him is half of Sunday because I'm either recovering from the night before or he's sleeping."

"Well then change that," he said, a small groan in his throat, "If you didn't go out on Friday or Saturday - it doesn't have to be both - he would be able to know you. I'd keep him, but even if you came over every Friday, or even every other Friday, and-"

"I don't want to get to know him, Peter!" she snapped, inhaling again, "How many fucking times do I need to tell you?"

Peter was taken back at her tone, it being much sharper than what he'd heard her before. He sighed, looking down at the baby that, much like the first day he got him, stared up at him intensely, watching his dad's facial features. "You know what?" he said through gritted teeth, tears beginning to brim in his eyes due to her response, "Fine. Miss out on easily the best thing that has appeared out of the blue in my life. Go fuck someone else and hope to God that you don't get pregnant, because you don't deserve to have the fucking joy that I have in my arms right now."

Peter sat on “his” chair, as it was known as in the office. It was well known that he was the only one that sat in the chair, based on the fact that he’d spilt stuff all over it. It was his work chair; where he would sit for hours on end playing video games. His job was a dream to him, and he was thankful for it, but sitting in the same place for up to 6 hours a day could get tiring for him – even if he could get up and do something else in the middle of it. He still felt obligated to stream or progress in the game even if he could leave.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, taking it out to see who it was. ‘Clara?’ he thought to himself. He swiped the screen.

‘Where are you?’ it read.

‘At work, why?’

‘Since when have you worked?’

‘For like 2 months’

The texts stopped for a few minutes before the phone buzzed again.

‘Peter please.’

‘Please what?’

‘Your house. Now’

‘I’m busy!’

‘Well I need you to drive to your fucking house!’

Peter sighed, looking towards the webcam.

“I’m gonna need to stop the stream about 10 minutes early. I need to go do something, sorry,” he smiled at the camera, “I’ll see you guys later.” He signed out and lifted his sweater and told his dad he’d be back after he went home to get something, not thinking anything of it. It wasn’t rare for Clara to come to him saying that she “needed” him and it just turned out to be something stupid. Nevertheless, though, he got into his car and drove back towards his house, seeing her in his driveway with her hands on her hips.

            “What?” he said, getting out of his car beside her.

“What took you so long?” she snapped.

“Because LA traffic sucks!” he responded.

“Whatever,” she groaned, still looking at him.

“What?” he repeated, already becoming impatient. He wasn’t in a good mood since she took him out of work. He felt like he was letting a lot of people down when he left early.

“I’m done,” she said simply. “I’m fucking done.”

“What do you mean you’re fucking done?” he scoffed, “Done with what?”

“Peter, meet Joseph,” she groaned, opening the car door to a baby sleeping in their car seat, “He’s your son.”

            Peter paused, looking from Clara to Joseph, then back to Clara again.

“What the fuck?” he shouted, “It’s not my kid!”

“Yes it is!” she whispered harshly, hinting him to keep his voice down, “You slept with me, remember?”

“Yeah, with a condom!” he growled, gritting his teeth.

“Well, if you had listened in Health Class, you might be fucking aware that contraception doesn’t always work!” Peter flung his hands up, then let them fall back down to his sides as Clara loosened the seatbelt around the car seat.

“Well, you’re a slut, who was probably sleeping with 20 other people!” Clara turned to him and scowled.

“Get the fucking bottles in the trunk,” she said angrily, “Then fucking look at your baby. He’s yours. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else when we slept together, you fucking ass.”

“No! I’m not taking him in because your baby’s daddy didn’t!”

“Fucking. Look,” she growled, moving aside to show Joseph, who had woken up at this point. Peter walked over to see the child, who looked up at him in wonder. His brown hair had been swept to the side and his brown eyes latched onto Peter’s, who immediately shook his head.

“Not mine,” he bit his lip, realizing that he looked just like him as a baby. Clara groaned.

“Take him and the fucking bottles in and set up the crib. He was born on October 12th,” she told him, getting back into the car without looking at him. Peter looked down at Joseph, who was still staring at him.

“Hold on,” he sighed, going to the trunk and grabbing the dozen or so bottles filled with pumped milk and brought it inside. He came back out to grab his crib, lifting it in too. On his final trip, he stopped by Clara’s window and bent down. She rolled it down. “What about when I run out of milk?”

“Call me,” she said simply, still not looking at him.

“Can we at least sort it out so that I don’t have him all week?” At this point, she turned and looked at him, scowling.

“I looked after him during the worst fucking months. I carried him for nine months alone,” she groaned under her breath, “You have him.” Peter bit his lip again looking towards the back seat, standing back up. He went over to the open door, lifting the car seat and backing away from the car.

“I’m getting a paternity test,” he told her, looking down at her. He couldn’t believe what was happening.

“Whatever. Your waste of money,” she said as she reversed and left their driveway, driving away.

Peter walked in and set the seat on the floor, putting his head in his hands as he sat down.