Coming Home

Hello all--this is my first submission. It's the first chapter in a longer story where I explore wholesome themes of healing shame and repression, over a backdrop of hot incestuous sex that gets hornier as the story progresses. This chapter focuses on the main character and his relationship with the matriarch of the family. It's a slow burn, so be warned. All characters are 18 years or older. Feedback is welcomed.

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The train carriage vibrated, a low, rhythmic hum that seeped into Mateo's bones. It was a sound he'd known for nearly a decade, the soundtrack to his departures, his escapes from here. Now, heading back towards the town he'd left behind, the familiar pulse felt different--less like freedom, more like a tightening knot low in his belly. His analytical mind coolly catalogued the symptom as anxiety. He felt himself shrink as he got closer to the destination.

The town. He didn't even need to picture the streets; the idea of it was heavy enough, thick with the remembered scent of sun-baked streets and unspoken expectations. It wasn't the place itself, not the buildings or the squares. It was the house--the one with the blindingly white walls, the one where his childhood had unfolded under a measuring gaze that always found him wanting. The house where warmth was always rationed like a precious wartime resource.

Abuela Elena was turning 65. A milestone demanding celebration, demanding his presence. Mateo, the son who worked with computers in the city, the one who'd supposedly 'made it,' was required. Required to show up and smile, offering proof that his parents were the kind of people to have raised such a good son. He snapped the laptop shut, catching his reflection in the dark screen as it closed. 27, lean face, dark hair, with sharp features but pulled tight around the mouth. He was accused of having resting concentration face. Which was surprisingly accurate, given how much of his energy went to analyzing the environment. Vigilance had always been a survival skill.

The thought arose of his mother, Isabel, with the accompanying knot of anxiety. Her fierce piety--a shield against a youth she refused to talk about--had dictated the terms of affection in that house. Approval was currency, earned through obedience, through achievements that polished the family name. God, or his father, oversaw her efforts with mild disapproval. Sofía and Lucía, his younger sisters though vibrant women now--they'd navigated it differently. They bathed in a casual parental warmth he'd only observed from the periphery. He remembered the distinct ache, a physical clenching in his gut, watching his mother's hand gently smooth Lucía's hair, or his father holding Sofía's hand on a walk--a tenderness that he never seemed to be able to earn.

His father, Javier, was the embodiment of absence where Mateo was concerned. Physically present, yes. A provider, a maintainer, a dispenser of opinions on safe topics like sports and politics. But emotional terrain was treacherous ground, the land of 'softness' he'd actively warned Isabel against fostering in their son. "He needs to be strong," Mateo had overheard him say once, the words etching themselves into memory after a childhood fall had resulted in tears. "The world isn't kind to soft boys." His father's presence filled the house with a low hum of unspoken expectation--duty, responsibility, the quiet mandate to feel less, or at least, to show nothing.

The train slowed, brakes hissing, jarring him from the internal litany. The town. The air that met him as the doors slid open felt instantly different from the city's thin, metallic tang--thicker, warmer here, carrying the scent of dry earth and something pungently floral. He swung his backpack over one shoulder, gripped the handle of his suitcase, and stepped onto the platform. Empty, except for an old woman dozing on a bench far down. No welcome party. He hadn't asked for one, hadn't expected it. It felt easier this way, delaying the performance.

He took the long way to the house, delaying the inevitable through streets etched into his memory. Shop signs blurred, familiar names triggering faint echoes of the past. He saw faces in windows, older now, mirroring the changes in himself. He cataloged the differences with a detached focus--a sleek new cafe where the old bakery stood, solar panels gleaming on a familiar roofline.

Then, the street. And the house. Blindingly white, immaculate. Geraniums spilled from window boxes in bursts of controlled, vibrant colour--a testament to his mother's vigilant care. He paused at the gate, the scent of sun-warmed stone and those damn flowers filling his lungs. He took a deliberate breath, consciously smoothing his features, preparing the mask: pleasant, capable, untroubled. Let's get this over with, he thought.

He pressed the bell. Footsteps, quick, light. The door opened, and Lucía stood there, her dark eyes--so like his own, yet brighter--widening in what felt like genuine pleasure. "Mateo! You're here!" She surged forward, wrapping him in a brief, engulfing hug that smelled of vanilla and something artificial, like hairspray. It pressed the air from his lungs for a second.

"Hola, Luci," he managed, the warmth in his voice feeling thin, manufactured. He patted her back, his hand stiff against the soft fabric of her top.

"Mamá! Papá! Mateo's arrived!" Her voice echoed back into the house as she pulled him over the threshold.

Cool dimness enveloped him after the bright glare outside. The familiar scent hit him instantly--lemon polish, sharp and clean, overlaid with the rich, savoury aroma of meat stewing low and slow. His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a crisp apron. Isabel. Petite, her dark hair streaked with silver now, pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing the sharp cheekbones. Her eyes, quick and assessing, swept over him, a familiar inventory. A quick smile, perfunctory.

"Mateo," she said. The tone wasn't unkind, exactly, but it lacked the easy warmth of Lucía's greeting. "You're thin. Doesn't the city feed you?" A statement camouflaged as a question, concern laced with subtle critique.

"Hola, Mamá." He leaned in, performing the ritual kiss on her cheek. Her skin felt cool beneath his lips. "I'm eating fine. Just busy."

"Work is important," she conceded, her gaze already flicking past him, scanning the hallway for imperfections only she could see. "But you need more meat on your bones. Your Abuela is very excited to see you." Another gentle tightening of the leash of duty.

His father emerged from the living room, remote held like a shield. Javier was broader than Mateo remembered, grey dusting his temples, his face weathered but impassive. It had only been a few years, but it was enough to see him age. He offered a hand. The grip was firm, bone-dry, a pressure that felt more like a test than a welcome. "Mateo. Good trip?"

"Fine, Papá. Really not too bad." Small talk. Safe harbor.

"Good. Work good?" His eyes were already drifting back towards the television's muted flicker in the living room.

"I can't complain." A curt nod. A masculine clap on the shoulder, to let his son know he approved, but wasn't gay. It's important to send the right signals.

Mateo waited for the interaction to conclude, releasing a bit of tension as Javier turned back towards the living room TV.

Sofía came down the stairs then, her movements quieter than Lucía's, her smile holding a hint of shared irony. "Hey, stranger," she greeted, pulling him into a warm squeeze. "Ready for the interrogation?" A fleeting glance, a shared acknowledgment of the family's undercurrents. Sofía, the middle sister, the observer, sometimes a buffer. Aware that Mateo had a different role, she did what she could to lighten the load.

"Always," Mateo managed, smiling a warm smile that felt unnatural on his face.

They drifted towards the kitchen, the house's operational center. It buzzed with preparation. Bowls of snacks gleamed, platters of thinly sliced ham and cheese lay waiting, the aroma of the simmering stew thickening the air. His Abuela Elena wasn't here yet--getting ready, probably, indulging in the pre-party rituals.

"Can I help?" Mateo asked, the old impulse surfacing--the need to be useful, to earn his keep, to find a function within the family machine.

"No, no," Isabel waved him off, her gesture efficient, dismissive. "You sit. Have a drink. Lucía, get your brother a beer."

He perched on a stool at the small kitchen island, feeling acutely like a visitor, an observer behind glass. Lucía placed a sweating bottle of beer before him. The cold seeped into his hand, a small anchor in the swirling currents of the room. His sisters fell into easy chatter with their mother, a fluid exchange about neighbours, party logistics, desserts. Jokes he didn't get, shared histories alluded to with a glance. He watched his mother laugh at something Lucía whispered, a genuine, unguarded release of sound that sent a familiar, hollow ache through his chest. That laughter, that effortless intimacy--it was a language spoken fluently in this house, just not with him.

He took a long swallow of beer. The cold liquid did nothing to soothe the tightness coiled deep inside. He was here, playing the part. But his real self felt leagues away, barricaded behind layers of carefully coded procedures. The party hadn't even begun, and the weight of performance was already settling onto his shoulders, a profound exhaustion. He watched his mother arrange slices of fruit on a plate, her movements precise, economical, utterly controlled. Like everything else in this house. The evening stretched before him.

Hypnotized, Mateo watched the metronome of his mother steadily chopping vegetables, her features scrunched in concentration. A maestro at her instrument. She looked like his memory of Abuela Elena. His childhood vision of her, anyway. Pious, watchful, her pronouncements on behaviour softened slightly by age but carrying the same weight of judgment.

Just then, the doorbell rang again, a brighter, more insistent sound than Mateo's hesitant press had been. Lucía practically skipped to answer it, her face alight. A wave of sound washed in from the hallway--enthusiastic greetings, laughter tumbling over itself, overlapping voices carrying a warmth that felt alien within these carefully controlled walls.

A moment later, the kitchen doorway seemed to pulse with a different energy. Abuela Elena stood there, beaming. Her silver hair wasn't pulled back severely like Isabel's but coiffed into soft waves, framing a face that looked... softer than he remembered. A stylish silk scarf was knotted at her neck, adding a splash of colour. She looked radiant, her eyes behind her glasses sparkling with undisguised pleasure. It was her smile that snagged his attention--it wasn't just polite; it reached her eyes, crinkling the corners, unguarded and genuinely warm.

"Mateo, mijo!" Her voice, though carrying the slight tremor of age, resonated with affection as she walked into the kitchen. She bypassed Isabel entirely, coming straight to him, pulling him into a hug that enveloped him in a cloud of expensive floral perfume and something akin to warmth. Her embrace held an unexpected softness. She held him at arm's length, her hands resting lightly on his forearms, her gaze searching his face--not for flaws, it seemed, but with simple, uncomplicated affection. "Look at you! So handsome. The city agrees with you, eh? But too serious!" She tapped his cheek lightly. "You must smile more." It felt less like a command, more like gentle advice. He blinked, trying to reconcile the stern woman he knew with this more... grandmotherly energy.

Behind her, vibrating with a contrasting energy, stood Tía Carmen. His mother's younger sister grinned at him, her auburn hair escaping its loose knot, her eyes bright with mischief. Where Isabel embodied control, Carmen was glorious, unapologetic chaos. Flowing, colourful trousers, a patterned tunic, silver bangles jangling musically as she waved with expressive hands covered in delicate gold jewelry. "Mateo! My handsome nephew, get over here," she teased, her voice a low, husky murmur full of life as she pulled him into a rough, familiar hug. The family rebel--divorced, well traveled, secular--a living counterpoint to Isabel's rigid faith.

And beside Carmen stood Valentina. Mateo felt a genuine smile finally crack through his reserve, unbidden. His cousin was... breathtaking. Tall, poised, carrying herself with a quiet confidence that felt both innate and hard-won. Long dark hair curtained the shoulders of an elegant black jumpsuit. Her makeup was immaculate, subtle but perfect. Her eyes, intelligent and perceptive, held a spark of shared understanding as they met his. Valentina. She had navigated her gender transition with a fierce grace that Mateo deeply admired, weathering the silent chill from Isabel's side of the family thanks to Carmen as her steadfast shield.

"Mateo," Valentina's voice was smooth, melodic. She stepped forward, closing the small distance between them, and gave him a hug that lingered, warm and solid. "It's so good to see you. Still letting them work you to death?"

"Something like that," Mateo admitted, feeling a knot deep inside him loosen, just slightly. Being near Carmen and Valentina always felt like entering a pocket of breathable air within the family's often-stifling atmosphere. They saw him, not just the 'successful son' persona. They'd asked about his projects with genuine curiosity, celebrated small wins, offered quiet, non-judgmental presence during the awkward silences of his adolescence when his own parents seemed unsure what to do with their quiet, introspective boy. They simply accepted him. He didn't feel the need to perform with them.

"Nonsense," Carmen declared, gliding towards the counter to snag an olive with theatrical flair. "You need more fun, less work, sobrino. Life is about living." She shot Mateo a conspiratorial wink.

Isabel stiffened, a barely perceptible tightening around her mouth as she watched her sister. "Carmen, please. Use a plate." Those who aren't free remind those who aren't what they lack.

"Oh, relax, Isa," Carmen waved a dismissive hand, popping the olive into her mouth. "It's a party. Have some wine." She turned back to Mateo, her gaze direct and assessing, but without malice. "So, tell us everything. What do you do for fun? Breaking any hearts? Getting into any trouble?"

Heat prickled Mateo's neck. The directness felt like a spotlight after the careful indirection of his parents. He was acutely aware of his mother's sudden, sharp attention. "Uh, no, nothing serious," he mumbled, dropping his gaze to the beer bottle in his hands. "I've met a few women, but nothing has stuck. I have a hard time getting out with my work schedule." It was a weak response. Dishonest. Carmen looked at him, holding open the door for something real. He took another swig of his beer.

Valentina rescued him, placing a light, cool hand on his forearm. The simple touch was grounding. "Leave him alone, Mamá. We all know Mateo's the mysterious type." Her smile held layers--playfulness, understanding. She knew his silence wasn't mystery; it was armour. "We heard about your latest project, though," she continued smoothly. "I can't say I totally understand it, but a million users in the first month? Wow. Sofía told us all about it. It sounds incredible, Mateo."

Genuine praise. Specific. Informed. It landed differently, settling somewhere warm inside him. "Ah, yeah. It's been... challenging, and chaotic. But good. Rewarding." He felt an unexpected urge to elaborate, to explain the intricate logic of the code he'd written, the satisfaction of solving a complex puzzle--something he rarely bothered trying with his immediate family, whose eyes usually glazed over behind vague affirmations. He held back.

"Challenging is good! Keeps the brain nimble," Abuela Elena chimed in, startling him again. She patted his cheek, her touch surprisingly firm. "We are very proud of you. But Carmen is right. A little fun is also important. Life isn't only work and duty."

Mateo blinked, studying his grandmother. Was this real? Had age softened her edges, or had he simply projected his mother's rigidity onto her all these years? He watched as Elena interacted easily with Carmen, her tone holding affectionate exasperation rather than the sharp judgment he'd braced for. She complimented Valentina's jumpsuit, listened intently to Carmen's recounting of a recent trip. The warmth he'd initially dismissed as a birthday glow seemed... genuine. Consistent.

Isabel remained the fixed point of tension, her movements precise as she refilled a bowl, her smiles tight as she observed her mother, sister, and niece. The easy affection flowing between Elena, Carmen, and Valentina--their casual acceptance, the lack of judgment, the way they drew Mateo into their circle--threw the strained dynamics with his own parents into stark relief.

His father reappeared briefly, offered polite, distant greetings to Elena, Carmen and Valentina, then retreated again to the sanctuary of the living room and the television. Sofía and Lucía, however, slipped easily into the warmer current, laughing at Carmen's stories, drawing Valentina into their chatter, who was pouring generous glasses of wine for anyone with an empty glass.

Surrounded by the lively noise on the terrace, Mateo felt a strange dissonance. The background hum of anxiety hadn't vanished, but it was now overlaid with something else--a fragile sense of comfort, a surprising pocket of acceptance found within the familiar, tense landscape of homecoming. Valentina caught his eye across the kitchen island, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. It felt like a lifeline. For the first time since stepping off the train, Mateo felt a flicker, faint but distinct, of something other than weary obligation. He realized that he had been focused on the tension, projecting that on his whole experience. Was his memory unreliable? Or had his upbringing made him blind to the life that existed within these walls?

The party noise had softened, retreating indoors as the evening air cooled and the stars began to twinkle. Laughter still drifted out, but interspersed with longer pauses, the comfortable silences that settle when people start to wind down. Mateo slipped out onto the small back terrace, needing a moment away from the lingering intensity, the effort of navigating the overlapping conversations. The air here was different, thick with the heady perfume of night-blooming jasmine, erasing the earlier smell of stew and polish.

***

He saw her then. Abuela Elena, sitting alone on the wrought-iron bench tucked into a corner, half-hidden by a cascade of bougainvillea spilling from a large terracotta pot. She wasn't looking back towards the house, but gazing out at the darkening silhouettes of neighbouring rooftops, her profile etched against the dim light spilling from the kitchen window. Her posture seemed different out here--less the beaming birthday matriarch, more contemplative, lost in thought.

He hesitated. The old instinct--avoidance, keep interactions brief and superficial--warred with the curiosity sparked by her unexpected warmth earlier. Had he imagined it? Or maybe just a temporary mood she'd adopted in honor of his homecoming? He took a breath, the jasmine scent sharp and sweet, and moved quietly towards her. "Abuela?"

She started slightly, turning her head. Her face relaxed into a smile when she saw him. "Ah, Mateo. Come, sit with your old grandmother for a minute." She patted the cool metal beside her.

He sat, the bench's intricate pattern pressing against his legs through his trousers. For a moment, they were quiet together, the silence punctuated only by the distant chirping of crickets and the muffled murmur of voices from inside.