Reflection, Reconciliation

 📅 July 2012

〚ᴛᴡ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ғ-sʟᴜʀ/ʜᴏᴍᴏᴘʜᴏʙɪᴀ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴs ᴏғ: ᴀʟᴄᴏʜᴏʟ ᴜsᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴛʀᴀғғɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴜɢ ᴜsᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ sᴇx ᴡᴏʀᴋ〛

Anarchy had been finding the summer rather frustrating. His appearance, age, and everything else were making it difficult to find any form of steady work. He’d taken to odd jobs, mostly physical labour—which sure, was something—but it was inconsistent and alienating as far as employment went. Athena was out of school and thankfully around more, at least, which he needed—and not just so she could play drums for the hypothetical album they were all working on. 

Sethfire seemed to have found a glass of whiskey or two at night to allow him a reprieve from the nightmares that had broken his sleep before. And he was Sethfire and chronically calm—chronically understated, even—and he really did seem better rested now, but whiskey bottles in the cabinet had shaken Anarchy at first, even if they were Macallan and not Ten High. Athena, though, pointed out that Sethfire was literally in school to be a psychologist; he was a certifiable genius and gentle to a fault. He wasn’t hiding the bottles, hell, when he caught Kato drinking out of one he just told him to use a glass, and to not make himself sick, saying; ‘You’re a teenager, you’re going to want to experiment with alcohol. That’s normal and I’d rather you did it at home anyway.’ He wasn’t territorial about his booze; wasn’t angry from it, or around it, or about it.

It’s Seth; there’s nothing to worry about, ‘Key. Anarchy knew she was right; he followed her lead and shrugged off his misgivings as unhelpful projections from his past.

He couldn’t quite do the same with Kato.

Kato was…well, great. He also fucking sucked. He got excited about the wrong things, or got moody and sulky for weird reasons, or for no reason at all. He was almost always buzzing about something—sometimes energetically like a bee, sometimes angrily like a wasp, sometimes annoyingly, like a mosquito. He revelled in stories with shock value—his own especially—and asked too many questions about Anarchy’s past, and about drugs, and about Johns. 

He was also hilarious and empathetic and as fantastic a guitar teacher as Anarchy could’ve asked for; passionate as a hunting dog. He’d tell Anarchy he sucked, at first, but was too excited about him not sucking eventually to actually be crushing about it—and when Anarchy really did learn and succeed, Kato reacted with the amount of thrill appropriate for the two of them having managed to go back in time and stop 9/11. 

Kato was psyched about the album; the band. If enthusiasm alone could drive success they’d all be playing a sold out show in Madison Square Garden by now thanks to him. Point being that it was weird that earlier in the year Kato had started ditching them and their near-constant collaborative musical spitballing to shut himself in the bedroom for an hour or so at apparent random. Not so random as to do it when Sethfire wasn’t in a class or asleep, though, of course. 

When Anarchy or Athena asked what was up, Kato would roll his eyes like everyone was stupid and say he was working, and goddamn, couldn’t a guy get a second to knuckle down and think anymore? I thought this was a free country. He’d grin and be sarcastic and otherwise normal, and when Anarchy badgered him too much he just drawled something along the lines of “Do I have to spell out for you that I’m jacking off? Or are you hoping that if you’re obtuse enough I’ll invite you in during?” and laughed before leaving for another pack of smokes, and energy drinks for all of them. Athena—after defining ‘obtuse’ for him—brushed off Anarchy’s lingering concern and mistrust with “I’m not gonna police the euphemisms he uses for jerking it.” 
“But…For an hour and a half?” Anarchy asked.
Athena glanced at the clock and made some impressed expression that bubbled into a giggle. 
Despite her lack of concern, it was weird. Anarchy knew it was weird. 

Then it got worse, weirder enough that even Athena would’ve gotten suspicious if she’d been awake for it, because over the last couple weeks, Kato had started—on occasion—going out at night: Not for smokes or Monsters, Anarchy knew, because he was disappearing into the evening and coming back empty-handed and late…or even early the next morning. Anarchy had guessed where he was going, but it wasn’t until some hot, nondescript July night that Kato confirmed his suspicions.

Sethfire had just drained his second glass of whiskey and bid the pair of teenagers at the breakfast table a goodnight, with a warm and rather parental request for them not to stay up too late. Athena had retreated to the bedroom early, with a heating pad and the threat of emasculation to anyone who dared pity her, and as soon as Sethfire’s door shut at his back, leaving them alone to talk, Kato turned to Anarchy with a mischievous lift of his eyebrows.
“So, it’s just past ten and I’ve been bored outta my mind all day—been thinking I’ll hit the bars tonight. You could come with.”
“No I couldn’t,” Anarchy replied, frowning, “a) I’m on fuckin’ methadone. Can’t drink. b) I’m eighteen. How the fuck are you getting alcohol? Going to bars? I know you already have been because I’m not retarded, but you’re, what, barely seventeen now?”
“I have a fake ID,” Kato said, giving him a somewhat contemptuous look. 
“Yeah, but you’re seventeen,” Anarchy responded, gesturing towards Kato’s face but leaving the ‘and you look it’ unspoken. “Cigs are one thing, but—”
“How are you blown away by me being able to get alcohol?” Kato all but laughed, “You bought fuckin’ heroin!” 
“Yeah, but that shit’s illegal all the way down!” Anarchy said, crossing his arms, “I didn’t have to convince anyone I was older than I was—dealers don’t give a shit if you’re twelve so long as you have the cash to pay for your dope. You must be going to some sketchy-ass bars.”
“Fucking of course they’re sketchy, dude,” Kato said with a roll of his eyes; “I’m not there to drink good shit and party with friends, I’m there to get wasted or find someone to fuck me. Back alley entrances; bartenders are all on something. Glazed eyes and blank stares as hell, they’re like ‘Has an ID? Has a face tattoo? Checks out. Here’s some shit vodka.’” 
Anarchy raised his eyebrows incredulously. 
“There a lot of chicks hanging at seedy bars looking to hook up with ponytailed edgelords?”
“Oh yeah. Chicks. For sure, I’m just drowning in pussy,” Kato drawled, his voice dripping with unmissable sarcasm. Anarchy balked.
“You’re fucking dudes?” he asked, feeling distinctly appalled.
“Eh, more like they’re fucking me,” Kato said unconcernedly, tilting his chair back. Anarchy leaned away from him, recoiling on instinct.
“God...Why?”  Anarchy grimaced. Kato’s nonchalance irked him; his friend seemed self-satisfied, flippant, like he was unaware of all the echoes his reckless behavior awakened for Anarchy.

“...Because I’m bi and drunk and they’ll have me?” Kato replied, raising an eyebrow. “It’s fucking whatever, ya know, I’ve been camming a few months anyway—”
“‘Camming?’” Anarchy interrupted, “What, you mean like, camwhoring? For men? That’s what you’ve been up to, locking yourself in the room all the time?” He couldn’t keep the disgust from his tone, and neither it nor his shift to distance himself from Kato went unnoticed.
“Yeah, for men. So what? How the fuck are you homophobic?” Kato snapped, letting his chair  fall back onto all four legs with a sharp clack.
“I’m not homophobic, it’s just fucking gross!” Anarchy threw back defensively, “Like, why would you choose to—?”
“What the fuck are you on about?! You were a gay prostitute!” Kato spat. 
Anarchy flinched and barely resisted the urge to hit the table. 
“It wasn’t my fuckin’ choice, though!” he retorted, bristling. Anarchy had decided Kato was “like him” when they first met, and maybe he’d been sort of right, but it was pissing him off, now, because the ways in which Kato wasn’t like him, Kato seemed to want to become like him…or like who he’d been, who he’d had to be. And Anarchy couldn’t fucking figure out why. Kato didn’t understand what it had been like to actually live it as a kid; he was almost treating that trauma like a tourist attraction, or something. He didn’t know what it meant to have alcohol be just another tool for some sick fuck to use to ply you with, to make your body and mind more malleable; to have to drink it and have to fuck after and have to do all of it so that you could get your hands on some dope. To have no one who worried about you. No one who cared if you made it home. Kato had no damn clue. For him it was like it was cool, or fun, or edgy: Wanna come with? Teenage rebellion, like sneaking the booze. Anarchy scowled at him, feeling vaguely betrayed.
“Sure, I was a prostitute but I did what I did because I had to,” he snapped, instead of ‘why do you want to treat the worst parts of my life like a goddamn playground.’ “I’m normal, yanno; I wasn’t just fagging it up for fun.”
“‘Normal?!’ As opposed to gay?” Kato spat; he shot Anarchy a furious but wounded glare, then stood up so violently he almost knocked his chair over. “Fine, whatever—at least fags like me keep the creeps from buying trafficked kids like you! You’re fucking welcome!” He spun around and yanked his jacket onto his shoulders with untempered aggression before striding off towards the door.
“...Where are you going?” Anarchy asked warily. Kato stopped and stood but didn’t look at him.
“Out.”
“To one of your seedy gay bars?” Anarchy felt bitter enough to bury any semblance of brewing guilt. “Good luck cock-hunting, I guess.”
“Go die.” Kato let the door slam behind him.

—

Anarchy was still awake to hear him come back in just a bit before midnight. It didn’t matter how quietly Kato shut the door upon entering; Anarchy’s hypervigilant residence on the couch meant he could hear the key turn in the lock. Kato seemed steady enough on his feet walking in; mostly sober, not staggering. The idea that he was just out, clear-headed and still trying to catch the eye of some creep in a dark bar, made Anarchy’s lip curl with distaste.
“Look who’s home early,” he sneered from the couch, “What’s up, couldn’t find some loser to pound you in the ass tonight? Even on the free? Tough titties, dude.”
Kato whipped around to face him and offered a sneer that failed to hide the anger in his eyes.
“Caught me. Had to settle for giving a $3 blowjob in the back lot. Sure you’ve been there,” he hissed. 
Anarchy was on his feet in an instant, fists clenched at his sides. His past felt very present, and his nostrils flared with anger.
“How about you learn to shut your fucking faggot mouth?” He spat; because fuck, fine, if Kato wanted to play the role so bad, he should get used to the verbal abuse portion.
“How about if you keep running yours I’ll make you regret it?” Kato retorted, tossing his hair from his face and stalking up to Anarchy, unintimidated. “But no, you were right: I did miss out tonight. I should’ve asked you for tips on how to get my fag ass fucked. ‘Cause you’re the professional, aren't you?”

Anarchy hit him. They were toe-to-toe already, Kato was in his face and throwing history instead of hands—Anarchy made the transition. The hard, closed-fisted strike to the right side of Kato’s face didn’t stagger him for long, though: It was like he’d expected it, and within a split second he’d recovered enough to return fire. He kicked off and slammed his shoulder directly into the center of Anarchy’s chest, taking them both to the ground with the reckless force of it. The impact of his back hitting the floor knocked the air from Anarchy’s lungs, and while he was rendered breathless, Kato shoved himself up—nearly kneeling on Anarchy’s groin—and punched him in the face. Pain jolted up the right side of Anarchy’s jaw, even with Kato using his non-dominant hand, and Kato hit him again before he could recover: The blow to his sternum driving a harsh cough from his already-winded lungs. Kato stood up and planted a boot on his chest.
“Keep calling me a faggot and see what happens. Fuck you.” He pushed off with more force than necessary and started to walk away, but suddenly halted and gestured to the right-hand side of his face. “And ya know—keep going like this, and you can be just like your dad someday: An abusive fucking asshole. Congratulations.” 
He didn’t wait for Anarchy to reply before sweeping away, but had to push past Athena when he got to the hall to their shared bedroom; she stood blearily in the dark, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“What’s going on?” she asked groggily, “I thought I heard a thud, or something..?”
“Don’t worry about it, Athena. Just me and Anarchy horsing around. Go back to bed,” Kato said, his tone having drifted to the gentler one he reserved for her. She apparently took him at his word and followed him back to their bedroom, because the mouth of the hallway was empty when Anarchy got, wincing, to his feet. Sethfire had managed—probably with the assistance of his usual evening whiskey—to sleep through the scuffle: His door stayed shut.

Anarchy lay back down on the sofa, alone in the silence, and couldn’t stop Kato’s final stinging comment from playing and replaying in his head. He felt lost, somehow, like he desperately needed to go in search of himself or his values because he’d certainly misplaced something. It wasn’t just his sore knuckles or the ache in his jaw, either; he’d been in fights before. But this was with a friend, with someone he cared about, and Anarchy knew that no matter what had been thrown back at him, he himself had provoked it. And that was where he found himself stuck: Why had he been so willing to greet Kato with a barbed comment? When had he become so venomous? Had he really let the aggressive, insult-laden bravado of street survival leach into his actual self? He distractedly fiddled with his dog-tags, troubled. 
What would Hunter think if he saw me acting like that? he wondered to himself. The idea of his older brother’s disappointed frown brought a lump to Anarchy’s throat. 
What would Chey think? Anarchy guiltily dug his nails into his palm at the thought of his old friend. Chey had never let the street make him mean. Dry-humored, smart-mouthed, an expert at projecting don’t-fuck-with-me confidence, sure. But Chey had never been outright cruel—and had definitely never snapped a slur at someone. 
I don’t like the person I’m becoming, Anarchy realized; I need to fix this thing with K. And I need to fix myself. 

Anarchy figured Kato might need some time to cool off and, in waiting, ended up drifting into a few hours of broken, restless sleep. He awoke, disoriented, from a confusing dream wherein Kato morphed into his mother and cowered away from him in his childhood trailer home, and every time he tried to speak, his father’s voice came out. Opening his eyes to the diluted light of pre-dawn, Anarchy couldn’t bear the idea of waiting until morning proper to apologize. When he got to his feet, his back ached from its impact with the floor the previous night, and the familiarity of soreness along his spine made his throat burn.

“You can be just like your dad someday.”

When he quietly pushed open the door to Kato and Athena’s shared bedroom, he found Athena to still be sound asleep, curled into her sheets. Kato’s bed was empty, though; he sat on the windowsill—still fully dressed in last night’s clothes—smoking a cigarette and staring out over the city, apparently awaiting sunrise.
“...Kato?” Anarchy whispered, careful to avoid risking waking Athena. Kato turned at the sound of his voice to face him, and Anarchy cringed at the bruise stretching from Kato’s right temple to the top of his cheekbone.
“What?” Kato kept his voice quiet, but it was patently harsh. After an irritated glance towards Athena’s sleeping form, he looked back up to Anarchy and jerked his head out the window before climbing out onto the fire escape. Anarchy hesitated for only a second, then padded quietly past Athena’s bed and, too, hoisted himself out into the mild morning air. Kato wordlessly shut the window in his wake before standing up and giving Anarchy a long, silent look.
“...I think I’d deserve it if you pushed me off,” Anarchy eventually said, gesturing to the scaffolding of the fire escape and leaning back against the railing. “...I’m sorry.” 

Kato seemed genuinely taken aback by the apology; his eyes narrowed sharply, his brow furrowed in confusion. He looked distinctly distrustful as he leaned against the rusty metal rail of the fire escape perpendicular to Anarchy.
  “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Anarchy repeated, averting his eyes. “I thought about...what you said, ya know, and I don’t want to be my dad. I don’t wanna be anything like my dad. And I...I don’t want to be taking my own shit out on my friends, either.” Anarchy paused uneasily and let shame wash over him. “Like...I know it’s gotta be my own fuckin’ history setting me off, but just because I got...ya know. Used. By gay men? Doesn’t mean I can be...I mean—I can’t pass judgement like that. You were right, it was fucked up. I shouldn’t have called you...ya know. Yeah.”
Anarchy chanced a sidelong glance at Kato, who stared down at the street below with an unreadable expression on his face. Anarchy could sense the distance behind his eyes and desperately wanted to fix it.
“It just freaks me the fuck out, K, like, I know I was an asshole and all but what if you get hurt? How old are these fucking dudes you’re meeting, ya know, like, you’re 17 and—”
“What if I get hurt?” Kato interrupted in a burst of laughter, gesturing to his bruised face. Anarchy flinched, but Kato didn’t linger there. Rather, he looked a little warmer, more open, in the wake of humor.
“...I’m fine, ‘Key. And...thanks—for apologizing. You were a fucking asshole. But...I dunno. I’m sorry for the shit I said, too.” Kato glanced down at his half-smoked cigarette, then offered it to Anarchy. “You said you didn’t want to be taking stuff out on your friends. So we’re good, then? Still friends?”
Anarchy took the cigarette and raised an eyebrow.
“The fuck, K, yeah. You helped save my life, basically taught me to play bass all on your fuckin’ own, you hang with me all the time...You think one fight’s gonna make me forget that shit? I punched you in the face and you’re sharing a cig with me. I’m a fucking idiot, but even a dumbass like me can see you’re a good friend to have. ‘Course we’re still friends.” Anarchy punctuated his words with a drag from the cigarette before passing it back to Kato, who took it with a slow nod, looking satisfied with the answer he got.
“...Cool, then. You’re the third person I’ve conned into believing I’m a decent human being; I’ll achieve world domination in no time.” Kato’s drawl was dry and relaxed, enough to make Anarchy laugh. Guilt still tugged at him, though, and he shifted his weight uneasily before ducking his head.
“I really am sorry, K,” he said in an undertone; “I wasn’t always an ass. I’ll be better. I’ll make it up to you.”

Kato gave a dismissive wave of his hand, trailing smoke.
“We all have our faults and our mistakes, ‘Key,” he said with a lazy smirk and a shrugged drag from his cigarette; “Some of us are a bit homophobic or punch our friends once. Some of us nearly mow down a bunch of school children with an illegally bought Uzi. Potato, po-tah-to.” He passed the cig back to Anarchy, who couldn’t help but snort.
“Okay, I get what you’re saying. But I really am s—”
“If you say you’re sorry again, I will push you off this thing,” Kato said through a smiled eye-roll, turning away to open the window. “C’mon, chuck the cig. I’m gonna make coffee.” 
“You go on, I’ll be right there.” Anarchy took a last drag before he stubbed out the dying embers and flicked the butt through the metal grating of the fire escape. The city skyline was brightening as the sun rose, and Anarchy scanned the horizon, the city, the dawnlit sky. I’m changing. For the better. Starting today.