“Mm, you better,” Memo said, the sass gently woven into his voice. He spun the bowl of mashed avocado and gave the spoon a taste, testing salt and heat. Busying himself with preparing the guac, he watched Alex step gingerly out of his room, like a frightened animal leaving the den; best to not let him know he was watching.

He couldn’t, however, hold back the snicker at the presence of an ice bucket. “What is this, a four star hotel?” he asked, unable to fight the cheekiness out of his tone this time. Sliding the pan off the heat, he retrieved the warm, pliable tortillas from the microwave, and began assembling: meat, onion, pepper, cheese, cabbage, guacamole.

“That’s a loaded question,” he said, sucking a smear of sauce off his thumb and not really paying attention. Here he stood at the edge of a chasm: does he go full in and confess his love for fruity drinks? Or does he pretend to be a man, and go with the straight liquor?

He hedges his bets for something in the middle. “It depends on what version of me you’re expecting to get out of it,” he says, which is the truth. “But I will drink whatever.” It is also the truth.

He assembles two plates, each with three assembled tacos, and sets the extras and rest of the accoutrements on a baking sheet, somehow ordering everything so he can carry it all in one armful.

“Dinner in bed it is, then.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Memo said, passing on the TV tray in lieu of the baking sheet he already had set up, “but, I’m not surprised. You seem to have everything here.” He took a second to peruse Alex’s proffered wares-- the alcohol, not his very cute, sleep-mussed hair, or his face, or his body, or anything like that--

“You can hardly blame them,” Memo said, following Alex into the bedroom. “You’re tall and handsome. And you bartend, which means you must have loose morals.” He let the sarcasm drip from that last bit.

He set the tray of food down near the end of the bed and pulled up the blankets to protect the sheets before sitting cross-legged up near the pillows and setting his plate on his lap. Ripping a piece off a roll of paper towel he lamented his creative choice to make sloppy tacos, but he’d come too far, now.

“Where’d you bartend at?” he asked, curious. “Here in Fortree?”

He was determined to keep Alexei's less-than-sordid past as the topic of conversation. From what Memo could glean, his biggest, dirtiest secret was that he bled too much. It was a much safer theme of discussion than anything in Memo's history.

Memo’s face was something between awe and surprise as he watched Alex toss the shot back with ease, like it was water. He was sure he looked shocked, and his own throat burned in solidarity.

No chase?! The man was crazy. He forced himself to chew to keep his jaw from dropping open.

The name of the bar made him laugh, and he covered his mouth with his hand. “Trashy Rascals, oh god. That’s a horrible name. I’m so sorry.”

He politely kept his giggles to a minimum as Alex kept talking, the smile eventually fading into something more comfortable and apropos. Yeah, the poverty. Memo could relate-- being out on the street without a dollar to your name, cut off from your parents…

“Did your parents not help you out at all?” he asks, catching onto a thread, there, and pulling a little bit.

Memo rolls his eyes, mouth twitching up in a smile. “Yeah, and? My last name is Marceliño, but I can’t drink tequila like it’s water.” He pulls apart a piece of tortilla and mops at some of the juice on his plate. “It may be in your heritage, but it’s not a given.”

His eyes flicked up from his plate at the sudden shift in Alex’s tone.

Locked me up at home.

He can feel the color draining from his face. In his mind’s eye, he sees the lingering form of his parents, escorting him to the bathroom, and back to his room, the click of the lock on the door and the slip of the deadbolt they had installed, just for him.

Because of what I am.

Memo swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Desperately, he wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t this room where his eyes were prickling with tears. He coughed, rubbing at the apple of his throat, hoping to mask some of the emotion welling up within him.

To him, it sounded like Alex’s parents were just worried about him-- in a terrible, horrible, suffocating way. The thought made him sick, that he’d been so indoctrinated into this-- this idea that strict parenting was a victimless crime.

“I--,” he started, then stopped, heart hammering in his chest.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, gently sliding his half-finished plate onto the baking sheet and slipping off the bed, walking stiffly out of the bedroom without a backward glance.

It was wrong, he was wrong, what Alex’s parents had done to him was awful, just like what his parents had done to him was awful. This was just the-- the forced reprogramming talking. He squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to go back in there and tell Alex that.

But he couldn’t move. He was a statue, growing into the floor, and he couldn’t even comprehend why.

He heard his name being called from behind him and he tried to force himself to smile and turn and act like everything was okay, everything was all right; at the very least, he managed a shaky, “I’m-- fine. Everything’s fine.” But he didn’t move from his spot or turn to look at Alex.

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to breathe.

“Sorry, I--,” he bit off the words, not really knowing what to say. He couldn’t really explain what was going on.

He didn’t know what to apologize for.

Sorry your parents were crazy? Sorry they messed you up, just like mine did?

Sorry for--

Almost agreeing with them?

His stomach lurched. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, and twisted, like smiting a cigarette, but instead of fire it was tears.

“I think I might be having… a PTSD moment?” he finally said, hating himself for it. This wasn’t what he wanted to portray. This wasn’t what he wanted to lay at the feet of the people he cared about. Hoenn was supposed to be new, he was supposed to be new, not dragging around all these old bones and ghosts.

“I’ll be okay,” he said, but his voice cracked.

Yeah, he didn’t sound fine, and he hated that. His fingernails bit into the meat of his hand as he squeezed his fists, willing himself to stop being a freak. But it was too late to turn back now-- he’d already done and acted a fool. He could explain it. He just needed… to be in control.

“My parents… locked me up, too,” he finally managed to choke out; he relaxed, if just a little, shoulder sagging. There was a pounding in his head from the tension release. “And after a long time… after enough of it, I started to think. They were right.”

It all kind of unspooled, like a yarn ball bouncing down a hill.

“Like, they were doing it because they cared for me.” He fisted his hand in his own hair and tugged, feeling the burn along his scalp.

“Like that made it okay.”

He looks at Alex, then, if just for the briefest of seconds, eyes flashing up then back down again.

He’s asking for help. He just doesn’t realize it.