Carter's Shadow - 31. Chapter 31

Tony skated lazily up the road alongside Joey; foot in front of foot, he was barely pushing off, gliding with a grace on the pavement he would have on ice. It was supposed to have been the night that West would have come out with them. Tony was disappointed; the fledgling relationship had died far too quickly, but that was life. And despite the fact that it was over, it didn't stop him from feeling angry over what had happened to West.

"Who did it?" he repeated, dropping off the curb to avoid a newsstand.

"Fucking Brad." Joey was seething, he had been for days. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his Nike windbreaker and a scowl was painted on his face.

"But the cops--they're involved now, right?" Tony pried.

"The cops can't do shit," Joey snarled. "They arrested them, but they were let back out yesterday."

"Yeah, but that's pending a trial," Tony pointed out, shrugging. "They aren't going to get away with it. Look, dude, the system may suck, but it does work; they'll get banged up and that's it, it's over."

"Yeah?" Joey turned slightly. "Then what, they get a few months probation, maybe some community service, while my brother's lying in a hospital bed?"

Tony shook his head, "Look, bro, I don't know what you're thinking, but stop, man." He reached out a hand to lightly touch Joey's shoulder, "You don't need any more shit right now."

Joey shrugged off Tony's hand, "You don't understand..."

"I do," Tony insisted. "I like West, remember?" He sighed, "I'm also your friend and I'm telling you, you need to calm down before it's you who gets busted."

They were walking up the small road that connected to the east entrance of the mall, a spring drizzle making the roads damp. Tony, as usual, didn't seem to care about the rain, or the fact that he was getting wet. It was just water to him, and he never got why some people had to run from storefront to storefront just to avoid a couple of drops of water getting in their hair.

He watched Joey carefully; he'd known the guy for some time, and knew his moods. Joey wouldn't just forget it. He'd seethe as the thoughts simmered over a slow boil in his head until it dried out, or boiled over. And Tony knew the only thing he could really hope to do was keep Joey from exploding and doing something that'd get them both locked behind bars.

* * *

Peter was in his typical spot on the rug, game controller in hand, trying to vent his frustration at a particularly difficult computer game. The smells of Jeff Sternosti's pasta sauce filled the air.

It was a usual Friday night, friends coming together for yet another impromptu tradition that had just seemed to take hold one day and become a weekly event. Jeff was in the kitchen whipping up his sauce. Will's former university roommate, and Lisa's current boyfriend was a true Italian; his sauce was unbeatable, and it just seemed to go with everything from lasagne through to ravioli. If pasta had been made for a purpose, that purpose was to be smothered in Jeff's sauce.

Lisa and Will were out on the balcony talking, close friends who saw each other every day, and yet they always had something to talk about. Peter could see them through the patio doors, Will gesturing with his hands as he talked, emphasizing some important point or another. Will was probably off-loading to her about work.

Andrew and his friend Jared were sitting on the couch behind him, a couple of bottles of beer in hand, the two lost in talk about the hockey team Andrew was coaching. Andrew was explaining to Jared, probably the only one out of all of the people in the house that night who understood what Andrew was talking about.

Jared was a good guy, a used-car salesman turned banker. One of those investment types constantly pressing a business card into your hand and promising to turn a meagre paycheque into a solid return. He knew Brody was the only one of them that invested with Jared, the rest never seemed to have the money needed. Will was a call centre manager, Andrew a student, Jeff worked construction and Lisa worked PR. Brody, however, never seemed to actually have a job--not one that required him to go to an office at any rate. Whatever it was he did, it had him jetting all over the place.

Peter had tried to guess a few times, based on some cryptic clues Brody would drop intermittently. It had started sometime after Brody had done school; it involved people, and trips to the States. Well, the first few trips had been to places like Montreal and Toronto. Peter's guesses had ranged from drug kingpin through to pimp. But while Brody was always larger than life, he never came across as a criminal.

Sure Brody skated a fine line between legal and illegal. But he never seemed to get caught. Well, he had come close once when a female cop had busted him, but apparently one night a uniform shirt and a badge had been found, and the charges had been dropped the next day. Brody had a magical touch that seemed to make things go his way. That he had found a way to make that turn into money was proof positive the guy was lucky.

Will's other friends, Farah and Rafik, were usually left out of pasta night, primarily because Will didn't get along with Farah. They were like oil and water, they just couldn't mix. Farah was a possessive and controlling woman who had her new husband's testicles in a vice-like grip. Will for his part simply thought she was a bitch and was quite vocal about it.

It was funny being Peter; he sat oftentimes overlooked by everyone, Will's little tag along. He didn't quite fit in, yet everyone was fond of him. He was a part of the extended family that existed in a group of people that had been drawn together over the years to find their way to that house on a Friday night enjoying Italian-style pasta and good company.

Will came back into the house, nodding to Andrew and pausing a moment to tussle his sprog's hair as he headed for the coffee pot in the kitchen. Lisa followed him into the house.

"So when do you have to have it done by?" Lisa was asking.

"You know my boss," Will carried on the conversation as they entered the kitchen. Lisa took a moment to kiss Jeff while he stirred in the secret ingredient to his sauce--three teaspoons of instant coffee. "Everything has to be done yesterday, it doesn't matter that I have to find a polite way of saying 'you suck that's why people are quitting'." Will shrugged and poured his coffee.

"What about going over his head?" Lisa asked. "You know, to his boss and explaining the situation?"

"I thought of that," Will nodded. "Problem is Scott's office is right next to the regional managers, so I have to walk right past it to speak to Mister Labora, and to be honest, Labora isn't much better than Scott is. It's not about the people, it's about the numbers."

"You need to get out of there," Lisa observed, as they walked back across the living room, and again Will messed up Sprog's hair.

Lisa glanced down at Peter and folded her arms. "Your hair's too long," she remarked. "And what's with the clothes?"

"He's been raiding my closet," Will commented shaking his head. "I don't understand; I come home and all my shirts are out of order and he's there parading around in..."

"Wait," Lisa paused and looked at Will, "you order your shirts?"

"Yes," Will nodded, "light to dark..."

"You really are gay!" Lisa grinned.

"You should see his sock drawer," Andrew glanced up from his conversation with Jared.

"What, he organizes from largest to smallest?" Lisa asked, smiling innocently.

"Largest to smallest?" Will blinked, wondering what that meant.

Lisa rolled her eyes, "You know, your battery-operated recreational vehicles?"

"What are you on about?" Will's frown deepened.

The room giggled, even Peter laughed, as Will stared at all of them in total confusion. "Right, so you're all cracked," he said, shaking his head and heading back out onto the veranda.

Lisa stayed a moment and smiled at Peter. "You're coming with me tomorrow," she said firmly. "Get you out of old man clothes and into something," she glanced towards the door Will had stepped out of and dipped her voice, "a little more stylish."

"I heard that!" Will called through the open door.

"You were supposed to," Lisa called back, going out to join him again.

* * *

It was raining fully now; Tony had changed out of his skates and had pulled his own windbreaker from his backpack. He and Joey were walking through the market since the rain had all but killed the skating idea.

The rain drummed off of his ball cap, dripping down the back of his neck, occasionally making him quiver as the cold droplet rolled beneath his collar and slid down his back. There were still plenty of people about, hurrying up the street, their umbrellas bumping together as they jostled through the cramped and narrow sidewalk of the market. The fruit and veg stall owners were still making transactions despite the fact that it was raining, trying to milk out a last few sales before they shut up shop for the evening.

"Where are we going?" he asked vainly; Joey hadn't been very responsive since they had left the mall. He only stopped occasionally to answer his phone and make the customary palming handshakes with people he was meeting.

Joey knew everyone; well, more aptly, everyone knew Joey. The drug deals on street corners, the cars that stopped he would get into and then out of. It was all part of him, and Tony just shrugged it off as what Joey chose to do. The CD case Joey carried with him everywhere had enough of a supply in it to ensure he turned a tidy profit from a few hours work.

"I've got one more to make," Joey said dismissively, hands in his pockets and his head turned down to the wet pavement as he walked through the jostling crowd.

Tony shrugged, pushing up his ball cap and glancing at the grey sky that was slipping steadily towards twighlight, "You sure you don't want to stop somewhere, grab a bite to eat?"

"Nah," Joey shook his head, "not hungry."

"Right," Tony said, falling quiet again.

They passed the army surplus, crossing the street and turning up past 'phods towards the American Embassy. Tony shook his head, wondering what it was going to take to get Joey out of the weird headspace he was in. He seemed fixated on his own thoughts, and whatever they were, he wasn't about to share them.

He wondered if he should just go, catch a bus back round to his apartment, leave Joey alone for a bit. But he didn't think that was such a good idea. Joey was wound up tightly and Tony wasn't about to leave him go off by himself. It was part of being friends, he guessed, keeping each other out of trouble.

"Well," Tony said, breaking the awkward silence again, "we could hit a bar or something tonight, after you're done."

"Mm," Joey grunted, not really listening.

"Right," Tony said again, looking back down at the pavement and his sneakers splashing through the thin puddles. He dug through his pockets and pulled out his packet of cigarettes, knocking one out and lighting it up, taking shelter a moment in a doorway to get his lighter lit.

As he turned, he had enough time to catch sight of Joey sprinting across the road towards a group of guys.

"Aww hell!" Tony commented, dropping his cigarette and chasing after Joey as the young skater ploughed into a tall blonde man, his fist sailing.

* * *

Peter was thinking about West while sitting with a plate full of lasagne staring at the TV and watching the hockey highlights. Ottawa was in the playoffs, and much to Will's complaining, the television was hijacked by the guys to ensure they could get the latest report as to what was going on out on the ice.

The problem was every time he looked up from his thoughts all he saw was skates, ice and pucks, which reminded him of West and he was back on the emotional roller coaster brought on by his conflicting emotions on the subject of the hockey player in question.

He poked the gooey mass on his plate with his fork--was he falling for West? Tall, arrogant, cocky... grey eyes that made him flinch at their openness... the fact that he always stood a little too close, close enough that Peter could smell the combination of cologne and the faint musk that was all West...

The fact was that Peter couldn't stop dreaming about hockey pucks lately. That annoyed Peter-- his dreams were supposed to be his own. True reflections of his artistic nature, steeped in romance and classic Jane Austen cheesy one-liners. But his Mister Darcy always had West's face. It just wasn't fair! How was he supposed to have a good wet dream when the only person he could think about infuriated the hell out of him?

Will was watching him, and Peter realized he had been playing with his food. That was a dead giveaway that something was troubling him, and he quickly began to attack the pasta in front of him in an effort to ward off Will's inevitable questions as to what was troubling him.

What was troubling him? The fact that he was thinking about West? The fact that West had admitted he liked him? Or was it that it was West, period? Sure he was hot, Blake had weaselled him into admitting that much. But could Peter see himself dating West? He wasn't exactly the ideal guy Peter had imagined his first relationship would be with. In fact he bore very little resemblance to that guy--was that what was bugging him? That he was holding out for an ideal guy that didn't exist? Perhaps it was the fact that he did exist that held Peter back.

Was that fair on West?

Peter rolled his eyes as he was back to poking his pasta again; here he was, thinking about what was fair for West, what about what was fair for him? No, life hadn't been fair to him, in fact in places it had been downright unfair. But that still didn't mean he had to stoop to the level of leading a guy on, did it?

Would he be leading him on? West was handsome, charming, funny, and he seemed to like Peter a whole lot. And Peter was clinging onto something he could never have, something so unattainable that he was missing out on life just waiting for a chance to grab it.

He liked West. He could almost hear Blake's 'Well duh!' in the back of his head. But it was strange to realize what everyone else around him had been seeing for ages. Like he was finally opening his eyes and admitting the truth.

What did he do about it now? His head fell back against the side of the couch staring at nothing. The lasagne was still untouched in front of him, as he let realization just sink in.

He stood unsteadily, looking at Will, setting the plate of pasta aside.

Will frowned at his sprog, trying to read the strange expression on his face; and gleaning nothing from it, he glanced at Andrew.

"I need your keys," Peter said; there was none of his shyness in his voice, only firm determination.

"Counter," Will gestured.

Peter was gone a second later, grabbing Will's leather jacket as he jogged out and around the Jeep, ignoring the rain coming down as he unlocked the doors.

Will stood in the doorway looking down at him as he climbed behind the wheel, starting the Jeep and driving away quickly.

* * *

West had been discharged from the hospital the day before. Peter knew he was probably at home, as he drove with a strange need, a determination that kept his hands tight around the steering wheel. He wasn't stopping to think, he didn't want to think, he didn't care to think. Screw thinking, he was past letting his own fears tell him what he could and could not do.

The Jeep swung into West's driveway, bouncing along the stones to pull to a stop outside the squat farmhouse. Peter was already leaping down from it as he almost hesitated. A man standing over by the barn, cleaning his hands on an oily rag was watching him, and Peter guessed it was West's father.

Peter pushed back his ball cap and jogged across the drive to meet him. "Is West home?" he asked earnestly, the insistent look in his eyes trying to communicate how desperate he was just to... to do what?

He didn't have time for doubts, he squashed the question.

Jonathon Harding pointed towards the house, watching as the strange young man with the wild eyes crossed the yard again and knocked tentatively on the back door.

* * *

West was in his room, sitting in his chair listening to some music and trying not to think about his injured ribs. He was recuperating well; it would still be a few weeks till he was up and about fully, but at least he'd be back at school on Monday.

He blinked at the unfamiliar knock at his door. His mother's knock was a light tap, and his father's was more of a rapping. This was a hesitant knock, and West stood up, to slide open the doors.

A wet, blond kid in a ball cap and a leather jacket two sizes too big for him had his arms around West in no time flat. It was the kind of surprise that sent West stumbling backwards, and wimpering as he felt his tender ribs arc pain through him.

He staggered and nearly fell, the pain darkening his vision, as he felt faint, reaching out to hold onto the only support he could find--the guy holding him, and a pair of flashing blue eyes looking up at him in stark terror.

"Peter?" West grimaced, nodding down. "Ribs?"

"I'm sorry," Peter let go in a hurry, stepping back and hitting the door frame, worry in his eyes as he gaped at West. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry..." he sounded like the was begging for forgiveness and West held up a finger as he tried to stand upright despite the pain and the dizziness it brought with it.

"It's okay," he managed, taking a deep breath he stood up straight. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I..." Peter glanced back to where West's parents were standing in the hall behind him watching him in confusion, and Peter balked, "I..."

West shook his head, smiling at the small guy who was stammering away in front of him dripping on the carpet. "Get in here," he said, tugging on Peter's hand and drawing him into the room, glancing apologetically at his parents as he slid the door closed, turning back...

Peter grabbed him by either cheek and kissed him. The bill of the ball cap prodded him on the forehead. It was a quick kiss, the kind of rushed uncertain kind that was more fearful than passionate, a desperate need to communicate a rush of emotions he was feeling.

West looked into Peter's desperate eyes, trying to see past the emotions to what was going on in Peter's head. But there was only the fear there, terror at what he was feeling, at what he was doing...

"I'm sorry..." Peter began.

West leaned down and kissed Peter silencing his fumbling apology, pulling back to yank the annoying ball cap askew to get a better angle to kiss him, and Peter relaxed, a mild sigh escaping as he opened his mouth, the desperate need easing as he curled against West, a light grunt from West indicating that he shouldn't squeeze too hard.

Peter pulled back a second to catch his breath, "I...I...l-lo..." He couldn't say it, the words terrified the hell out of him, and he stared at West hoping that he could say them without saying them.

"Ya think?" West said with his typical cocky smile.

"You're still an asshole," Peter protested.

West drew a hand to push an errant strand of blond hair away from Peter's blue eyes, tucking it back under the cap, "And you hate me, I know, I know." He grinned.

Peter pushed West lightly, "Bastard."