Give and Take (poly) (bxb)

Romero's Take Pt. 1

He doesn't speak, so I do. He sits there, black starry eyes on a scrawny Asian boy. He sits on the floor like he has never seen a chair in his life and doesn't know how to use the many that litter the dining room we're in. Like he never spent a day of his life in comfort, only in caution.

"I'm not mad at you for stabbing me." My words are flat as I raise the thin fabric of my shirt, a smile now on my face, a blush on his. "See, it's all stitched up. I'm fine."

Still nothing. Still staring, this time at my exposed chest. The crisscrossed black threads intertwined with tan skin. A shake of his head and he's looking down at the small hands at the center of his crossed legs. He is small. Why is he so fucking small?

I don't get it. He is a kid, even younger than I am, short and skinny. Yet, he got in. He almost killed us all, could've, would've. Yet, he stayed in.

It had been a week since he joined the gang. When they finally caught him, he went willingly, chatted up with Von and Diana for a couple of hours, then suddenly, everything was fine and dandy and he was our newest gang member.

I only got in when Diana got tired of me regularly stealing from a property she owned. I beat the security guards she sent, twice, then she offered me a deal. Food, money, shelter, protection- for my life. Sounded like a great deal at the time.

My parents were nomads. Father from Brazil, Mother from Mexico. We never stayed in one place for too long, and I worked all of the odd jobs with them, from selling opium in Guerrero to scamming gringos in Cozumel. America was supposed to be different.

"Okay," I sigh exasperatedly. "You don't have to talk. You can just sit there looking pretty and pitiful."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"What the fuck?"

"And don't call me pretty," He stands up like it makes him as tall as me. He squints his eyes like it makes them more intimidating and sizes me up like it makes me shrink. "You can't and don't run me. You're not fooling anyone. You yourself have only been in this gang for a year, so stop while you're ahead."

"Who told you that?"

"Damian told me."

"Did he also tell you you could call him that?" I smile at him because this is hilarious. I cannot believe this brat is the same kid who took me down that night. He's wearing freaking khaki shorts!

"No," He says matter of factly, taking a small step towards me. "I did."

"And what did he decide we're going to call you?"

"Seven."

I don't have a cool nickname because I don't need one. My nomadic parents couldn't be bothered with a birth certificate. I'm not in any system, I don't have citizenship anywhere, and I'm virtually untraceable. I'm neither here nor there.

I was thirteen when I came to America. Previously we had been staying in Sonora, in a tiny pueblo in the middle of the desert. Living there was for the devils and the dead. The heat burning blisters into our skin, the lack of water making us feeble. Maybe that's why things went wrong that night.

I had to apologize to the kid. Meals would be awkward with his piercing stare. He'd stare at me from one end of the table to the next, looking over heaps of mashed potatoes and steaming steaks like he'd rather stick a fork in my neck. He'd go extra hard on me in training like I killed his pet or ate his leftovers or did something- anything somewhat deserving. Not like I said three sentences that I guess hurt his feelings beyond self-repair.

He has my neck and right arm in the tight space between his thighs. My other arm is twisted in this position that makes me feel like the slightest movement could break it. Worst of all, he is on top of me. Taunting without so much as a victory smirk. He just looks down at me like I'm the scum of the Earth.