Chapter 3: A Knife in the Kitchen Drawer
The pasta water had been boiling for eleven minutes.
Ender knew because he'd been counting—not out of any particular interest in the doneness of cheap rotini, but because counting kept his mind from wandering into places it shouldn't go. Eleven minutes since he'd dropped the pasta in. Nine minutes since the water had started to froth and spill over the edges of the pot, hissing against the electric burner. Seven minutes since Pete had raised his voice in the living room.
"—selfish fucking prick, after everything I did for him—"
The wall between the kitchen and the living room was thin. Thin enough that Ender could hear every word, every clink of beer bottles, every low murmur of Marcus's responses that never quite resolved into actual sentences. He kept his eyes on the pot, on the bubbles rising through the water, on the way the rotini swirled in slow circles.
His hands were still shaking.
They'd been shaking since last night—since Marcus had left, since Pete had crawled into bed beside him and draped an arm over his bruised ribs like nothing had happened, like Ender was a thing he owned instead of a person he'd broken. He'd woken up with the arm still there, heavy and possessive, and had lain perfectly still until Pete's breathing had evened out into something deeper.
Then he'd gotten up. Showered. Dressed. Come to the kitchen to make dinner, because Pete expected dinner, and Pete's expectations were not suggestions.
"—called me a parasite. A fucking parasite. His own brother—"
The onions were burning.
Ender reached for the wooden spoon, stirred them around the pan. The smell was acrid, wrong—he'd let them sit too long in oil that was too hot, and now they were black at the edges, charred in the way that made Pete complain about the taste. He should start over. He should throw them out, chop new ones, do it right.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking, and the thought of starting over felt like climbing a mountain.
"Ender!"
Pete's voice cut through the wall like a blade. Ender's shoulders tensed, his spine going rigid before he could stop it.
"Yeah?"
"Get in here!"
Ender turned off the burner. The onions sizzled in protest, dying slowly in the pan. He wiped his hands on the apron Marisol had given him last Christmas—the one with the faded print of a rooster, the one Pete had laughed at and said made Ender look like a fucking housewife—and walked into the living room.
The television was on. Some sports channel, muted, the screen a blur of green and white and motion. Pete sat on the couch, his legs sprawled wide, a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. Marcus occupied the armchair by the window, his long body folded into the cushions like he'd been there for hours.
He probably had been. He'd probably never left.
"Bring us another round," Pete said without looking up. "And grab the chips from the cabinet."
Ender nodded. Turned. Walked back to the kitchen.
The beers were in the fridge, shoved behind a carton of eggs that had expired four days ago and a half-empty jar of pickles that Ender didn't remember buying. He grabbed two bottles, popped the caps with the edge of the counter, and looked for chips.
There weren't any chips. There hadn't been chips in the apartment for two weeks.
He stood there for a moment, staring at the empty cabinet shelf, trying to decide if this was worth mentioning. If he said they were out, Pete would ask why he hadn't bought more. If he said nothing and brought the beers, Pete would ask where the chips were. There was no winning. There was only surviving.
He brought the beers.
"Where's the chips?" Pete asked.
"We're out."
Pete's eyes flicked up from his phone. Dark green, flat, unreadable. "Then get some."
"From where?"
"The store. It's eight o'clock. The bodega on the corner is still open."
Ender's hands tightened around the beer bottles. "I don't have any money."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, the kind of silence that preceded something worse. Pete set his phone down. Took a long pull from the beer Ender had just handed him. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You don't have any money," he repeated.
"No."
"I gave you money this morning."
Ender's jaw tightened. "No, you didn't."
The lie was out before he could think about it. Pete had given him nothing—had taken the eighty-seven dollars from last night, had pocketed it without a word, had left Ender to walk to work and back on feet that ached with every step.
But saying that out loud would be worse. Much worse.
Pete stared at him. The seconds stretched, elastic, infinite. Then he laughed—a short, sharp sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're right," he said. "I didn't."
He leaned back into the couch, draped his arm over the back, let his gaze drift to Marcus. "See? This is what I deal with. Can't even keep track of basic shit."
Marcus didn't respond. He just watched Ender with those gray eyes, cold and calculating, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
Ender felt his skin crawl.
"The pasta's almost done," he said. "I should—"
"Wait."
The word stopped him mid-step. He turned back, slow, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs.
Pete was looking at him now. Really looking. His eyes traveled down Ender's body, lingering on the spots where the bruises showed beneath his shirt, the ones he hadn't quite managed to hide. Then back up to his face.
"You look like shit," Pete said.
Ender didn't answer.
"You sleep at all last night?"
The question was a trap. Ender knew it was a trap. But there was no right answer—yes meant he was lazy, no meant he was ungrateful—so he just stood there, silent, waiting for the blow to land.
"I asked you a question."
"No," Ender said. "Not really."
Pete nodded. Took another drink. "Marcus said you did good."
The words hit like a fist to the gut. Ender's vision swam for a second, gray at the edges, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.
"That's a compliment," Pete said. "You should say thank you."
Ender's throat was closing. His hands were shaking. His body remembered the weight of Marcus on top of him, the smell of his cologne, the way his breath had hitched when he came. He remembered the ceiling—the water stain shaped like a hand—and the way he'd floated up, up, past it, into somewhere else.
He remembered coming back.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Pete smiled. That smile—the one that had been there from the beginning, the one that said I own you, the one that made Ender's stomach turn.
"Good boy."
The words were a slap. Ender felt them land, felt them settle into his bones like something permanent. He turned away, walked back to the kitchen on legs that barely held him, and stood at the counter with his hands braced against the edge.
The pasta was overcooked. Mushy, waterlogged, the kind of pasta that had been sitting in hot water too long. He'd have to drain it, sauce it, serve it, and wait for Pete to complain.
But first, he had to stop shaking.
He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Counted to twenty. Counted until the world stopped spinning and his breath came back slow and steady.
When he opened his eyes again, he was still in the kitchen. Still in the apartment. Still trapped in the life he'd somehow ended up living.
But something had shifted.
—
"Josh called me a parasite."
Ender was at the stove again, stirring the sauce into the pasta, when Pete's voice drifted through the wall. The television was still muted, still flickering, but the conversation in the living room had taken a turn.
"I've done everything for that kid," Pete said. His voice was louder now, edged with something that might have been drink or might have been rage. "Everything. And he calls me a parasite."
"He's your brother," Marcus said. His voice was smooth, neutral, the voice of a man who had learned long ago how to navigate Pete's moods.
"He's a fucking kid who doesn't know how the world works." A pause. The sound of a bottle hitting the coffee table. "He used to wire me money every month. Every fucking month, without fail. Then he meets this girl—this cunt—and suddenly he's too good for me."
Ender stirred the pasta. His hand was steady now. His mind was somewhere else.
Josh.
He'd met Josh once, three years ago, when Josh had driven down for a weekend to visit. He remembered a tall man with Pete's jaw but none of his cruelty, a man who had looked around the apartment with a furrow in his brow and asked Ender if he was okay. He remembered the question, the way Josh's eyes had lingered on the bruise Ender hadn't quite managed to hide—a yellowing mark on his wrist, shaped like fingers.
Josh hadn't asked about it. Not directly. But he'd looked, and Ender had looked away, and they'd both pretended nothing was wrong.
That was the last time Josh had visited.
Pete had told Ender that Josh was dead to him now. That Josh had betrayed him. That blood meant nothing when someone turned their back on family. But Ender had seen the way Pete's jaw had clenched when he'd said it, had heard the hurt buried under the anger.
Pete missed his brother. Pete would never admit it. Pete would rather burn the world down than admit he needed anyone.
"—lives in some shithole town in the middle of nowhere," Pete was saying. "Thinks he's better than me because he's got a house and a girlfriend and a fucking dog."
"Some people are like that," Marcus said.
"He said he's going no-contact. Can you believe that? My own brother. Going no-contact. Like I'm some kind of—like I'm a fucking abuser or something."
Ender's hand tightened on the wooden spoon.
"He said he's changing his number. Said he doesn't want to hear from me again." Pete laughed, but there was no humor in it. "So I guess that's it. That's the end of that."
Silence.
Ender stirred the pasta. The sauce was bubbling, thick and red, the smell of tomatoes and garlic filling the small kitchen. He should call them to dinner. He should serve the food and sit quietly and wait for Pete to finish eating so he could clear the plates and wash the dishes and disappear into the bedroom.
But he didn't move.
He was thinking about Josh. Josh, who lived three states away. Josh, who had a spare room—Ender remembered him mentioning it, had seen the dark of a hallway on a video call once, had glimpsed a made bed through an open door. Josh, who had looked at Ender's bruises with a question in his eyes that he never asked.
Josh, who had just gone no-contact with Pete.
The pasta needed salt. Ender didn't add any.
—
They ate in silence.
Pete at the head of the table, Marcus across from him, Ender between them like a buffer. The pasta was mushy, the sauce was too acidic, and Pete made a face with every bite but didn't say anything. That was worse, somehow. The silence ate at Ender's nerves more than yelling ever could.
"You hear from your sister lately?" Pete asked Marcus, between bites.
Marcus shook his head. "Not since Christmas."
"She still with that guy? The one with the boat?"
"Far as I know."
Pete nodded. Chewed. Swallowed. "Some people get all the luck."
Ender kept his eyes on his plate. He'd taken a small portion—smaller than usual, because his stomach was still twisted from last night—and he was moving the pasta around with his fork, making it look like he'd eaten more than he had.
"You gonna eat that or just play with it?" Pete asked.
Ender looked up. "I'm eating."
"Doesn't look like it."
"It's good. Just not that hungry."
Pete's eyes narrowed. He reached across the table, grabbed Ender's plate, and scraped half the pasta onto his own. "Then I'll eat it. No sense wasting food."
Ender didn't say anything. He just watched his portion disappear, watched Pete shovel it into his mouth with the same indifference he showed everything else, and felt something cold settle in his chest.
He was hungry. He was always hungry. But hunger was a familiar friend now—a dull ache he could ignore, a sensation he'd learned to live with. It was the other things that were harder to ignore.
"You're quiet tonight," Marcus said.
Ender's gaze snapped to him. Marcus was watching him with those gray eyes, cold and calculating, his fork paused halfway to his mouth.
"Just tired," Ender said.
"Long day?"
"Yeah."
Marcus nodded. Took a bite. Chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring something. "Pete says you work at a diner."
"That's right."
"What's it called?"
"The Blue Plate."
"Good food?"
Ender shrugged. "It's okay."
"You get free meals?"
The question was casual. Too casual. Ender felt his pulse quicken, felt the familiar prickle of anxiety crawl up his spine.
"Sometimes," he said. "Depends on the shift."
Marcus smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Nice. Perks of the job."
Ender looked away. He knew what Marcus was doing—probing, testing, looking for cracks. Looking for something to use. Marcus was always looking, always calculating, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
But Ender had learned to play this game too. He'd learned to keep his face blank, his voice steady, his answers short and unremarkable. He'd learned to disappear into himself, to become so small and so quiet that no one noticed him at all.
Except Josh had noticed. Josh had seen the bruises. Josh had asked.
And Josh was gone now.
The thought hit him harder than he expected. He set his fork down, pushed back from the table, and stood.
"Where you going?" Pete asked.
"Bathroom."
Pete's eyes followed him across the room. Ender felt the weight of that gaze on his back, felt it crawling over his skin like a physical thing. But he didn't look back. He just walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it.
Then he leaned against the sink and pressed his hands to his face.
—
He didn't cry.
He'd learned not to cry, years ago, because crying made Pete angry and Pete angry was always worse than Pete indifferent. So he stood there, breathing slowly, counting the seconds, waiting for the tightness in his chest to loosen.
Josh has a spare room.
The thought surfaced unbidden, like a bubble rising through water. He pushed it down, tried to focus on something else—the cracked tile behind the toilet, the rust stain on the faucet, the way the mirror distorted his reflection—but it kept coming back.
Josh lives three states away.
He could take a bus. He had eighty-seven dollars in his pocket—no, wait, Pete had taken that. But maybe he could stash some away. Ten dollars here, twenty there. Enough for a ticket. Enough to get out.
Josh has a phone number.
Ender didn't have it. But he could find it. He could look at Pete's phone when he was asleep, scroll through contacts, find Josh's name before Pete deleted it. He could memorize the number, write it down somewhere safe.
Josh would help. Josh had asked if Ender was okay. Josh had looked at his bruises and said nothing, but he'd seen them. He'd seen.
Maybe.
Maybe Ender was just telling himself stories. Maybe Josh was just like everyone else—just another person who looked away, who pretended not to see, who didn't want to get involved.
But it was something. A tiny, fragile thread, stretching across three states, connecting him to someone who might—might—help.
It was more than he'd had yesterday.
He pushed away from the sink. Looked at himself in the mirror—pale skin, purple-white hair, glasses that were slightly crooked, eyes that were slightly too bright. He looked tired. He looked scared. He looked like a man who was running out of time.
But he also looked determined.
He reached up, adjusted his glasses, and took a deep breath.
Not tonight, he told himself. But soon.
Before Marcus comes back.
Before Pete drinks himself into a rage.
Before something happens that can't be undone.
Soon.
He opened the door and walked back to the living room.
—
Pete was drunk.
Not falling-down drunk—that would come later—but drunk enough that his movements were slower, his words slightly slurred, his eyes a little too bright. He was sprawled on the couch, his beer balanced on his stomach, staring at the television like it held the secrets of the universe.
Marcus was still in the armchair. He didn't look drunk at all. He looked alert, coiled, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
Ender cleared the plates. Washed them. Dried them. Put them away. All the while, he could feel Marcus's eyes tracking him, following him around the room like a hawk watching prey.
"Ender."
Pete's voice stopped him mid-step. He turned, dish towel still in his hands.
"Yeah?"
"Come here."
He walked over. Stood in front of the couch. Waited.
Pete reached out, wrapped a hand around Ender's wrist, and yanked him down onto the couch. Ender landed awkwardly, his bruised ribs flaring with pain, his shoulder banging against Pete's thigh.
"Hey," he said. "That hurt."
Pete laughed. "Everything hurts you."
Ender didn't answer. He was too close to Pete now—close enough to smell the beer on his breath, the sweat on his skin, the cheap cologne he'd worn since high school. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him in waves.
"Marcus was just saying he might come back Sunday," Pete said. His thumb traced circles on Ender's wrist. "Isn't that nice?"
Ender's blood ran cold.
"Sunday," he repeated.
"Mm. He's got a thing in the area. Figured he could stop by after."
The world narrowed. Ender could feel Marcus's gaze on him, could feel the weight of the words settling into his chest. Sunday. Three days from now. Three days until he'd be back in that bedroom, under that ceiling, with those hands on his body.
"I thought... he said next week."
Pete shrugged. "Plans change."
Marcus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Is that a problem?"
The question was soft, almost gentle. But Ender knew better. He knew it wasn't a question at all—it was a test. He could say no. He could say he had to work. He could say anything at all—
And then Pete would remind him of what he owed. One hundred and thirteen dollars. Plus interest. Plus the cost of Marcus's gas, his time, his trouble.
"No," Ender said. "No problem."
Marcus smiled. "Good."
Pete ruffled Ender's hair, a gesture that might have been affectionate if it didn't feel so much like ownership. "See? He's learning."
Ender's jaw tightened. But he didn't pull away. He just sat there, on the couch, between his husband and his husband's friend, and swallowed the scream rising in his throat.
Sunday.
Three days.
He'd be ready.
—
The beers were gone by ten.
Marcus left at ten-thirty, his goodbye a casual nod in Ender's direction, like they were co-workers instead of something worse. Pete stood at the door, watching him go, then closed it and locked it.
Ender was in the kitchen, wiping down the counters. His hands were shaking again, but for a different reason now. Not fear. Not dread.
Planning.
He needed to be smart. He needed to be careful. He needed to do something he'd never done before—trust someone.
Josh, he thought. Josh will help.
The idea was terrifying. Terrifying because it required hope, and hope was something he'd given up years ago. But it was also the only idea he had. The only way out.
Pete walked into the kitchen. Ender felt his presence behind him, felt the heat of his body, felt the weight of his gaze on Ender's back.
"You did good tonight," Pete said.
Ender's hand paused on the counter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Pete stepped closer. His hands landed on Ender's hips, rough and possessive. "Real good."
Ender's stomach turned. He knew what was coming. He knew it from the way Pete's breath had quickened, from the way his fingers dug into Ender's skin, from the way he pressed his hips against Ender's ass.
"Not tonight," Ender whispered.
Pete's hands tightened.
"What did you say?"
"I said not tonight." Ender's voice was shaking. His whole body was shaking. But he didn't stop. "I'm tired. Everything hurts. I just need to sleep."
The silence that followed was the longest of Ender's life.
Then Pete laughed. Soft. Low. Dangerous.
"Everything hurts," he repeated. "You think I don't know that?"
His hands slid up Ender's sides, under his shirt, pressing against the bruises on his ribs. Ender winced, sucked in a breath, felt the pain radiate through his body.
"I know everything about you," Pete whispered. His lips brushed Ender's ear. "I know every inch of your body. Every scar. Every bruise. Every place that hurts."
Ender closed his eyes. Don't fight, he told himself. Don't fight. Just wait for it to be over.
"You're mine," Pete said. "You don't get to say no."
His hand moved to Ender's belt. Ender felt the leather slide through the loops, felt the zipper pulled down, felt his jeans pushed past his hips.
But then… he turned around.
Just like the last time, he told himself. Make it quick, get it done, and get to sleep.
He walked to the bedroom and lay down on the mattress.