In this chapter, Mateo deepens his relationship with his Abuela while learning some shocking family news. Warning: I like very slow burn stories! There is some spiciness in this chapter, but do not expect a full-blown orgy. I'm interested in exploring what it's like for characters to break taboos in something close to a realistic way, while exploring their inner worlds. We're still fooling around at this point, so if you prefer quick action, look elsewhere. Thanks for reading and commenting!
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Mateo drifted towards his house that night, his body humming with a buoyant warmth. Everything felt less jagged. His Abuela's touch, her breath, her willingness to show her truth to him had unknotted something deep in his chest. For the first time, he felt... okay. Okay to be himself, to have desires, needs, wants. Okay to take up space. His mind reeled at how fundamentally his perspective had shifted from the seemingly small act she'd performed. A small act, though made earth-shatteringly profound because of who had performed it.
As his parent's house came into view, his steps became heavier. He heard an abrasive voice, tinny and sharp, somewhere in the background. It hurled accusations, calling him pervert. Disgusting, filthy, sinner. Sick. He had kissed his own grandmother, let her suck his cock. He'd watched his cum dribble down her chin. What kind of person was he? He had crossed an uncrossable line. An icy feeling of shame crept into his chest and burned his cheeks, threatening to overwhelm him. He felt his old pattern return, here to save him, urging him to turn from the abuse the voice heaped on him. To hide from it, to avoid the discomfort.
But no. Mateo's feet slowed, stopped. Planted firmly, he turned to the voice inside and simply stared at it, his courage building by the moment. Without judgement, without fear, he leveled the weight of his full attention on that voice. As he did, memories came flooding back. The music, their dancing, his Abuela's tears of gratitude at what it had meant for her to relive that moment from her past. The depth of love he had felt for her when he kissed her, and how she'd accepted him fully.
He thought even of all the small moments of love and affection she had shown him over the years, things that he had disregarded because they hadn't fit his narrative. The voice became weak, almost pathetic in the light of his attention. Mateo realized he was the one in charge. He would decide what meaning to make of his life, and he knew deep down that the moment he'd shared with his Abuela was holy.
It was also hot, he thought with a wry smile. It was amazing to him how religion treated the purest expression of love as something dirty and sinful. He shrugged, letting that old worldview drop like a ratty old jacket he no longer needed.
He let himself quietly into the silent house, feeling a satisfied weariness creep in like he'd just fought off an attacker and lived to tell the tale. He didn't bother with a shower, not ready to wash off Elena's lingering scent as he clumsily disrobed and collapsed into bed. He smiled at the memories triggered by the faded band posters on the walls of his childhood bedroom. Sleep crept up behind him, cradling him in a warm, dreamless rest until morning.
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The sun sliced through the blinds, sharp and insistent. Mateo stirred, eyes blurry and blinking against the light. He felt grounded and calm, a flutter of excitement at the memory of the night before. He smirked as he felt the judging voice trying to catch him again, impotent like a dog chasing a passing car. A newfound power coursed through his veins at the simple realization that he was the one who let the voice run wild. Sure, he may may not have created it, but now? He revoked its permission with a giddy finality.
Mateo stood, pulling on a pair of jeans and faded T-shirt. The fabric was soft against his skin, which brought to mind the softness of his Abuela's hands against his skin. His head tilted, sensing something before he became consciously aware of it. The house was quiet, but in the wrong way. The stillness was different, like a guitar string about to snap.
He padded downstairs, hearing a clatter from the kitchen, the sharp scent of bleach intruding on his morning peace. His mother was there, her hair in a messy bun, frayed strands that seemed hell-bent on escape. She scrubbed the dishes like she was trying to punish them for being dirty, her muscles straining with a ferocity bordering on violence. She didn't look up as he entered, but her shoulders stiffened, a silent acknowledgement.
"Morning," Mateo ventured cautiously, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," she muttered, the word clipped. The sink was piled with dishes, though Mateo couldn't remember the last time she'd left dirty dishes in the sink overnight. Maybe never.
He hesitated, watching her. The air felt wrong, heavy with latent violence. He knew he was trapped, unable to retreat without consequence, but fearing what was to come. "Everything okay, mamá?" he asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer to his question.
"Fine," she snapped, not looking at him. A plate clattered in the sink, miraculously unbroken. "Just trying to keep this place from falling apart. Someone's got to."
The edge in her voice hit him like a slap, sharp and unprovoked. Mateo's first instinct was to shrink back, to escape like he always had. Growing up, he'd learned to tiptoe around his mother's moods. Her anger was always lurking around the corner, never exploding all at once, but released in controlled bursts at innocent passers by. The key was to keep moving, to let someone else absorb the impact, which usually meant his father. He seemed to weather her moods without a care.
Mateo realized the house was empty save the two of them, and he was caught without a buffer. Yet something shifted in him. A quiet, indignant resolve kindled by his Abuela's warmth the night before, an insistence that he deserved to take up space. He didn't need this. It wasn't his responsibility to manage his mother's moods. He had done nothing wrong.
"Mamá," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "I don't like being spoken to like that. I'm just trying to check in with you." He could scarcely believe he had uttered those words, and took them as the first real sign that he had indeed changed.
His cheeks burned all the same with the anticipated conflict. However, he realized with surprise that he didn't regret them, no matter how mad it would make his mother. His words hung in the air, a line drawn in the sand. Isabel froze, her hands still in the sink, water dripping from her fingers. As Mateo's shoulders tensed in anticipation, he watched hers slump. She slowly turned to face him, her eyes red-rimmed, tired, and glassy.
