Both of them? His mom? Bo furrowed his brow, unsure how to take it really, but at least understanding part of it.

His son was hardly the kid he’d expected. Damn. Maybe he’d been too late.

“Roman, I’m not going anywhere… I mean, I can’t stay here, but—”

A timer beeped, counting down, and it was then that Bo realized he didn’t have a colander handy. Cursing under his breath, he went for cabinets again. But back turned, and feeling a bit bad for it, he continued,

“You can’t treat people like that. Yeah, some people don’t listen. But if you think doin' those things will make them? You’re mistaken, Ro.”

He thought of Rocket.

“Making people scared of you doesn’t make you any more heard. It’ll just make you lonely.”

Roman Maher

"So you are going somewhere then? You're leaving?" his eyes narrow on his dad, filled with hurt and a lack of understanding.

Lips contort into a nasty snarl. The kind you shouldn't see on a child so young. There's darkness here, and Roman's already ankle deep in it.

"You're wrong." no idea what he's talking about but still so sure. "I'm..." angry lips quiver, wavering in their resolve. Just can't bring himself to say it. To admit the truth and see if it beats out the lie.

"I hate you." it's sudden, sharp and you'd think he had a dagger in his words. Out the kitchen he goes in a tantrum, knocking the chair down on the way.

boruta maher

“No, Ro—” Shit. That’s not what I meant. This kid could twist words just as effectively as his mother. He was already exasperated.

The timer dinged incessantly, and he threw his hands up a moment, scrambling. He turned to pour the spaghetti into the colander, in the sink.

'I hate you.'

Bo clenched his jaw, and his ears rang. He blinked down, and sniffed.

His voice came, willfully even.

“Run cold water over the pasta once it’s done.”

He turned on the sink, and the water pooled into cold silence for a moment. He jostled the pasta under it.

Noticing the timer was still dinging, he jabbed it with his thumb.

Roman Maher

Back in the living room, alone, Roman continued his tantrum.

Knocking over end tables, breaking lamps, and throwing aside couch cushions. Anything to cause as much of scene as possible.

"I hate everyone!" a vicious declaration from deep within his soul.

boruta maher

Bo hissed through his throat pacifyingly and stirred powdered cheese and other ingredients together with the pasta in the pot again, shoulders tensing at the shuffling around. Then, something shattered, and he finally threw down the spoon.

“Hey!”

He walked into the room to assess the damage, just in time to receive another verbal lash. His jaw set.

“ROMAN. STOP. NOW.”

His voice boomed, firm from deep in his chest.

Roman Maher

Stop? His dad didn't get to make demands. Orders. Not when he'd spent so long gone.

A tiny terror, Roman marched straight for his father, fist drawn.

"You stop!" he threw a punch for the only place he could reach. Right between the legs.

"Stop pretending to care."

boruta maher

Pain was like a vague shadow in the searing white of frustration, and then it pierced through like a needle in the form of a ten-year-old fist. Not that it would land. It didn't need to.

His hip turned with a knee reflexively and he caught the fist in a large palm, and didn’t let go.

What the fuck.

Bending, he wrapped around the boy and held him there, bound at the shoulders and elbows by capable muscle.

“Okay. We’ll talk when you calm down.”

Roman Maher

Swing and a miss. Now he was captive with nowhere to go and nothing to do but struggle. When that didn't work, Roman resorted to the tried and true strategy of champions.

Tears.

They flowed like a river down his cheeks. He sniffled, "Fuck you." and they wouldn't stop.

Why wouldn't they stop?

boruta maher

What a rollercoaster.

He still supposed this was his fault, even in the moment. The guilt was unrelenting. So, he strived for patience. Bo had an abundance—but even his had an end, eventually.

Tears wetted his arm and he sighed.

“Guess that’s fair.”

Hopefully, the boy would get tired and stop struggling, at some point.

Roman Maher

The struggle stops but his tears don't.

"Go away. I don't want you here anymore." his voice is shaky and angry.

boruta maher

“I’m not going anywhere, Roman.” He said sort of gruffly.

At least not until his mother got home. For one, they both had a lot of shit to pick up. Bo knew better than to leave dirty dishes and a pot of cold mac ‘n’ cheese—much less broken glass and upturned furniture.

The messes still to be addressed did not end there.

As the struggle stopped, he pulled tighter. A hug, maybe, even though he still acted as an oppressive restraint against the ball of existential rage pressed against his torso.

He shut his eyes.

“I’m gonna fix this.”

He wasn’t sure to whom he was promising.

Roman Maher

"Go away!" he couldn't shout it any louder. Roman couldn't scream it with any more zealous hatred than he already was. The hug meant nothing. His dad's words were little more than promises carved in sand, washed away with the rising of the tide.

"Fix?" glass shattered in his chest. Did his dad think him broken? An unspeakable force trembled Roman's lower lip. "I don't wanna be fixed." he trembled in his father's arms, fingernails attempted to claw into his forearm.

Retreat. Flee.

No one wanted him.

boruta maher

Yet again he was misinterpreted. A sentence reduced to one single word which clearly had set off alarms in his son’s mind. Chaos erupted again.

“No, Roman, I don’t mean you—Ow! Stop that.” He squeezed at a hand with his own—not hard, but enough to get his attention. “I mean this messed up situation I put you in. I shouldn’t have left, alright? That’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

With a harsh sigh, he maneuvered so he could face him better.

“If I let you go, are you gonna try to hit me again?”

Roman Maher