There are two sets of identical laughter as his boys leave the kitchen. He pauses, thinking on what they said. He wonders how long it was they knew Maria was cheating on him. He wonders how long that hatred has been in them, boiling and roiling until they decided to ask Monika for her help. He flinches. He could have happily continued not to see the fact that she was cheating on him, but when Sibrand made his offer, he knew he had to move out. He knew he had to for his boys. He wishes that he could’ve continued to live in happy denial and spared himself the hurt, but it wouldn’t have happened. Not with children.
And despite the hurt he feels at the thought of Maria, he still has this unbidden happiness blooming in his chest. All his life, he’s been worried that he hasn’t raised his boys right and that he’s pushed them too hard, but here they are, admitting that he’s done a good job. And he feels happy that his sons prefer him enough to enjoy spending time with him. They’re teenagers, the age where kids are supposed to hate their parents. They enjoy being with him. He feels proud that he’s raised kids that enjoy adult company.
And they’re trying to care for him. It’s almost funny. He’s always been the one to care for his boys. Ever since he was picked off the streets by Maria, he’s realized the importance of a family. He’s learned to enjoy touch and cuddling, and Maria thought it was wonderful. His boys loved it when he would wrestle with them, or when Desmond would come over and they would pair off and have Nerf fights. And now they were trying to take care of him. It’s admirable.
He lets that thought fuel him long enough to get the fridge clean. His sons are back in the kitchen, Sef working some form of math that all looks like a foreign language and Darim reading a textbook with confusing looking diagrams. He’s proud his boys are still in school. He’s proud that Darim is in college and Sef is going to be applying soon enough. Darim’s first year is paid off, but this year, he’ll have to apply for government aid. He won’t ask for Sibrand’s help.
He puts everything back in as Sibrand comes walking in, looking at his boys’ schoolwork.
“Did your maid never clean the kitchen?”
Sibrand glances at him briefly as he watches Sef work the problem in his math book. “No. I always cooked. Never very well, but I don’t like someone else preparing my food.” Altair quirks an eyebrow, and Sibrand points at the problem.
“Check your work.”
Sibrand continues watching him, and he sees Sef’s eyes narrow when he discovers his mistake. How he even understands what he’s doing is beyond him. “Yet you trust me?”
“You feed your boys from the same dishes you’ll feed me. I can trust there won’t be poison or a razor in it.”
“Paranoid?”
“A little. I’ve had problem with contract killers before.”
Altair scoffs. There’s no reason for him to fear with him here. Of course, he doesn’t know that.
“You doubt me?”
“No, I doubt the skill of the killer.”
“I fear someone—Robert—will hire another. Someone more skilled.”
“You are safe.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.”
“How can you?”
He meets Sibrand’s gaze, hard and unyielding, cold and unemotional, and Sibrand’s eyes flicker back to the scars. If he suspects something, he says nothing, just turns back to Sef’s homework, watching him work.
“What are we having?”
Altair rolls his eyes and turns to the cupboards. “My boys want casserole, but I think I’m going to have to go to the store.”
He hears rustling behind him as he digs through the shelves, making a mental list of things to buy. He roots around until he finds a pen and paper, scrawling down everything on the tiny pad. He checks the fridge, writing down more.
“Boys, you’re going to have to come with me.”
“I can drive you,” Sibrand says. “Then we can get you set up with the checking account, so I don’t have to feed you money when you need it.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s of little problem to me. I’ll trust you—especially with all the stories I’ve heard about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maria always boasted the cleanest house and all sorts of things. She was proud of your work.”
Altair scoffs as he walks out of the room. “I doubt that.”
no subject
And despite the hurt he feels at the thought of Maria, he still has this unbidden happiness blooming in his chest. All his life, he’s been worried that he hasn’t raised his boys right and that he’s pushed them too hard, but here they are, admitting that he’s done a good job. And he feels happy that his sons prefer him enough to enjoy spending time with him. They’re teenagers, the age where kids are supposed to hate their parents. They enjoy being with him. He feels proud that he’s raised kids that enjoy adult company.
And they’re trying to care for him. It’s almost funny. He’s always been the one to care for his boys. Ever since he was picked off the streets by Maria, he’s realized the importance of a family. He’s learned to enjoy touch and cuddling, and Maria thought it was wonderful. His boys loved it when he would wrestle with them, or when Desmond would come over and they would pair off and have Nerf fights. And now they were trying to take care of him. It’s admirable.
He lets that thought fuel him long enough to get the fridge clean. His sons are back in the kitchen, Sef working some form of math that all looks like a foreign language and Darim reading a textbook with confusing looking diagrams. He’s proud his boys are still in school. He’s proud that Darim is in college and Sef is going to be applying soon enough. Darim’s first year is paid off, but this year, he’ll have to apply for government aid. He won’t ask for Sibrand’s help.
He puts everything back in as Sibrand comes walking in, looking at his boys’ schoolwork.
“Did your maid never clean the kitchen?”
Sibrand glances at him briefly as he watches Sef work the problem in his math book. “No. I always cooked. Never very well, but I don’t like someone else preparing my food.”
Altair quirks an eyebrow, and Sibrand points at the problem.
“Check your work.”
Sibrand continues watching him, and he sees Sef’s eyes narrow when he discovers his mistake. How he even understands what he’s doing is beyond him. “Yet you trust me?”
“You feed your boys from the same dishes you’ll feed me. I can trust there won’t be poison or a razor in it.”
“Paranoid?”
“A little. I’ve had problem with contract killers before.”
Altair scoffs. There’s no reason for him to fear with him here. Of course, he doesn’t know that.
“You doubt me?”
“No, I doubt the skill of the killer.”
“I fear someone—Robert—will hire another. Someone more skilled.”
“You are safe.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that.”
“How can you?”
He meets Sibrand’s gaze, hard and unyielding, cold and unemotional, and Sibrand’s eyes flicker back to the scars. If he suspects something, he says nothing, just turns back to Sef’s homework, watching him work.
“What are we having?”
Altair rolls his eyes and turns to the cupboards. “My boys want casserole, but I think I’m going to have to go to the store.”
He hears rustling behind him as he digs through the shelves, making a mental list of things to buy. He roots around until he finds a pen and paper, scrawling down everything on the tiny pad. He checks the fridge, writing down more.
“Boys, you’re going to have to come with me.”
“I can drive you,” Sibrand says. “Then we can get you set up with the checking account, so I don’t have to feed you money when you need it.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s of little problem to me. I’ll trust you—especially with all the stories I’ve heard about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maria always boasted the cleanest house and all sorts of things. She was proud of your work.”
Altair scoffs as he walks out of the room. “I doubt that.”