#workings

Some days, however, they are right behind him. Dara's earliest memories revolve around his foster mother, a petite woman who seemed always a year too old to have a toddler running circles round her knees. She had been the very first adult to be completely honest with him. Firstly, she was not his biological mother; that honor went to a young slip of a thing that had gotten herself in a bad way.

Secondly, there was no father in this house. His own biological father was the reason Dara had to be pulled so abruptly from a home he didn't even remember, so perhaps it was a good thing that there wasn't someone there to remind him. It was quieter with just them two.

Thirdly, he was welcome there. And to this day he is welcome there, Amna getting on her tip toes to hug his broad chest, to coo at him, pat his cheek, point out where his razor missed his chin that morning. They're in a good spot now, Dara ever dutiful, but that hadn't always been the case.

The time between those early days of them learning what they were to each other and now, where no better son and mother duo could be found, there was pain.

Dara was quick to find a place he could fit in, desiring that more than anything else. When your so-called family was so unlike your peers, it seemed a necessary evil to force yourself into whatever crevice opened up in the hierarchy of kiddom—it started the usual way; little playground tussles, tacks on chairs, missing toys.

Every year it quietly escalated. If you weren't paying attention, you could almost miss it. He grew leaner and more cruel. Eyes sinking into dark pits, smile grating, nostrils flaring—Oh, but he had control.

Control over the narrative; no one misspoke about his mother because the last kid that tried got a fist in his throat. Control over his life; coke was dangerous but Dara was quite confident that he was even more of a danger. Control over himself—ah, well, that one was always tricky. Dara had already grown into the knowledge that he preferred guys to gals, and despite the rough edges and sharp smile, he still managed to get hooked.

Ian had been one of the many rabble of mischief makers he grew up with, and Dara...oh, Dara had always held his hand, originally as best mates until it spiraled into something deeper. "We'll get clean," was always the goal despite how much they indulged, hand in hand. "We'll do big things together", despite the way the sank further into their isolation, hand in terrible hand. I could love him was a quiet thought Dara would have on late nights when he would watch Ian's chest rise and fall as he slept.

But things don't always end up the way you wish them to.

"Seven years. Seven years they are saying." Amna's voice cracks as she whispers, disappointment and fear lacing every word. Anger never quite comes because her boy is crying, sobbing harder than she's ever seen him even as a child. "Possession, Dara—a-and for your friend—"

"He's go—one." It's groaned out between sobs, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe again. His chest aches, heart cut so deep he doesn't even know how he's alive now. There's nothing there. Just a red shell where Ian once sat. "Ma, he's gone." He cried like a child with his face pressed to the glass.

Amna still remembers pressing her hand to it, right where his cheek was as he quietly, through crack and strain and despair, told her directly that he was gay. That Ian was as close to love as he'd ever felt before. That he had held Ian to his chest, begging on the phone for the paramedics to come and save his friend. That Ian had gone cold and limp in his arms as Dara could only dumbly watch, impotent in his fear, useless in his love.

Seven years for possession at 17. Tried as an adult due to the overdose death involved in the case. Pleading guilty kept it from becoming a longer sentence, but he would have done it regardless. He was guilty. He knew it.

During his seven years inside, he worked. Wood shop became a quick favorite as it was the only thing he seemed to have some sort of talent—or tolerance, perhaps—for. It took his mind off Ian, even if only for a moment. It even helped him find employment once he was out, that news making both him and his mom (official now) smile for what felt like the first time in years. She even attempted Kalakand again for the first time since he was a boy, Dara unable to eat it without tearing up all over again.

Ian is not as distant a memory as Dara would like him to be. He still remembers his smile, boyish and infuriating in equal measure. Dara can recall the almost sickly yellow dye he used on the ends of his curls once, Dara despairing the first time he saw it before it grew on him (To this day every Siskin he sees reminds him of that stupid mop). He can even remember the way his warm hand slotted into his own, always a perfect fit as they walked, hand in loving hand.

Dara's currently one of the youngest working at Luca's Woodworks, but maybe, if you asked Dara at least, one of the best. The work still has a way of making him forget the rest of the world and the rest of his mind as well. It's just him and sawdust and sweat. It's enough.