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There's thirty-one seconds left on his microwave pizza. It cost a buck o-seven down at Dollar Tree— the shittier of two Dollar Trees in Promepolis County, with the half-stocked shelves and the crumbling ceiling tiles. The one on the far side of town, where they don't look twice if they recognize you as Burnish, let alone one of their ex-leaders.
Now that he's got food stamps, he's loaded up on frozen shit filled with palm oil and salt. None of it's healthy, and none of it tastes particularly good. The pizza's always been his favorite. When properly melted down all lukewarm and slimy, it's got the texture of wet cardboard, which he really just goes fuckin' nuts for. Really.
He'd brought a few to Thymos' place, because he didn't know if there'd be food. In retrospect, it'd been unnecessary— there were pyramids of deli subs. A table covered in takeout sushi. Three cases of beer, ten bottles of champagne, and forty-eight bottles of water. Happy New Year 2058! someone wrote on a bedsheet, draped from the ceiling like a banner. It's not a large apartment; the bedsheet takes up half the living room.
It's been nearly ten years. He should feel safe here, but he doesn't. He should trust everyone here, but he doesn't. Gueira sticks to his Dollar Tree pizza, because it's his, in a roomful of things that are not.
(Last week, Meis showed him an old news article about a class-action lawsuit against Dollar Tree. Apparently, most of their shit's been filled with lead since 2006.)
To good health.
Gueira carries a lead-filled plate up to a pizza-filled microwave, and with thirty-one seconds left on the countdown, he sees it through the window. Six meaty legs and long-ass antennae, crawling all over his fucking dinner. He chucks the plate down, knuckles the STOP button, and stares at the roach in confusion.
"How the fuck are you alive?"
When the roach offers no input, he jabs at the window with his middle finger. "Yo, you hear me? Get your feet off my cheese! How the hell—"
"You good?" Galo Thymos interrupts, already tipsy as he bobs into the kitchen— Gueira's been stuck babysitting until Meis and Lio get back from a cigarette run.
"Hell no!" he huffs, hunching down against the counter to get a better look. "Here I am, no smokes, no dinner, and there's a big-ass bug in your microwave! How's that thing not dead yet? Don't its insides get cooked?"
Galo takes a moment to do nothing. That's normal when he's drunk— the guy needs a hot second to process words, like his brain's still booting up. Gueira's never had to deal with that, because his brain never shuts off in the first place.
"There's a what?"
"There's a roach—"
"In the microwave?"
"Yeah, look—"
Gueira taps on the window again. Sweaty, glittery hair gets in his face when Galo scoots down next to him. The roach doesn't seem as bothered by the company.
"Uh oh," Galo breathes, slapping at the side of the microwave. "We gotta toss this thing ASAP. Wanna go chuck it in the dumpster with me?"
"What? Why?" Gueira grunts. "Nothin' wrong with this one."
"It's a warm appliance! There might be more bugs in there. Probably sleeping up against the wires. So like, deffo one big fire hazard." He runs his fingers through his hair, raking long, frustrated rows against his scalp. "Man, I hope you don't think I'm gross. Promise I wash the dishes and stuff. Apartments just get roaches sometimes!"
Gueira feels something in his throat knot up. "I mean, ignorance is bliss, right? You been livin' with this bug motel for years now. Just clean it out real good?—"
"Lio's gonna kill me if we don't trash this thing," Galo says, shaking his head. "I don't think he wants roach poop on his food— I don't want anyone getting sick either." He reaches over to unplug the microwave, but for some reason, Gueira's body moves on its own. His arms make a shield, and before he knows it, he's bent over against the counter, hugging the damn thing against his chest.
"Wait. Gimme a sec. I'll take care of it for you, yeah? Just gimme a sec," he hears himself say, for some reason. His arms don't feel real, but he's got 'em wrapped tight against the metal siding. Galo gives him a weird look, right before Aina calls him back into the living room.
"Dude, don't eat that pizza," he warns. "There's a shit ton of food here! You're welcome to any of it! Don't be a stranger."
And with that, Gueira's left in the kitchen, leaning butt-out and sober against the granite countertop. He barely feels the cold against his chest or the anxiety in his fingertips. He stares inside at his dinner, where the roach has made a bed for itself.
"Hey, pal," he says, tucking his chin against his wrists. "You like it hot too, huh?"
How long had it made Galo's microwave its home?
The living room explodes into noise. Someone calls his name— mentions something about a countdown— but he ignores them.
One minute, guys! Lucia shouts.
But the roach survived two-and-a-half minutes of radiation. It twitches its feelers. It gives Gueira the fuckin' creeps, but he can't stop staring at it. He thinks about how his dad once told him roaches live through nuclear blasts. He thinks about his dad, who did not survive a Burnish blast, though he certainly acted like a roach at times. He thinks about Florida humidity. He thinks about what it must be like to live inside an appliance. He thinks about being twenty-five— ten years ago— and he thinks about spinning around in a microwave on a plate made of plastic and lead.
He stares at the roach inside on his one-dollar pizza.
Thirty! Twenty nine!—
His hand, which he no longer has control over, impulsively presses the START button.
The microwave lights up again, and he sinks into a squat, all the way down to the linoleum floor. He dry swallows, the thickness of his tongue taking up too much space in his mouth. He stares at the tiles underneath his socked feet. He feels like a murderer, or maybe something worse.
—One! Happy new year!
When it beeps— when the pizza is cooked, and the timer finally reads 00:00— Gueira can't bring himself to check on the cockroach inside. He can't seem to stand up again.
How are you alive?
Are you still alive?
***
Time passes. He ends up on the patio. How long has he been out here? There are bottle caps on the ground, from Varys or Aina or Remi drinking outside in the cold. Maybe they were here before the party even started.
"Sorry," Thymos offers, taking a seat next to him. "Didn't know the guys would be gone so long. Bummed they missed the countdown."
Gueira nods, too embarrassed to admit he forgot about Lio and Meis. "Yeah."
It's nice out. There's a breeze, insistent and chilly, but Gueira doesn't mind winter these days. He guesses that's what it means to acclimate.
Galo offers him a beer, which he declines. "You feelin' okay? You're kinda—"
"What?"
"Out of it—"
"Yeah, well," Gueira shrugs, kicking his feet up on the railing. "Kind of lost my appetite earlier, y'know."
Thymos nods, like he understands. Big whoop. Sure, he's engaged to Lio. Sure, he's mankind's fuckin' savior, or a leader, or whatever.
Gueira was too, once. For a little while.
Neither of them say anything. Maybe it's the alcohol in Galo's system— maybe he'd snuck an edible— but he's quiet, now. It's chill. Gueira's been trying to like him more. He's not too bad when he's willing to be real. No grandstanding, no bullshit. He's grown out of the need to be noticed, or maybe he's just better at hiding it. Gueira gets it. He knows what it's like to squash down your worst traits— he's been having to do it every time he's interviewed. Every time he's on camera, or at fundraisers, or begging for aid. He's a regular fucking poodle, and he knows how to dance.
So he puts up with Thymos, because the guy's trying to be better. He treats Lio with respect— only fought with him once, a year or so into their relationship. Never gets jealous when Meis or him take the Boss out for dinner, never says much about the way they all share clothes. Thymos learned to sit down and shut up, and honestly? Gueira's still learning to do the same.
But then, he has the gall to open his mouth and say:
"I wish I'd known sooner."
Gueira's throat constricts.
"Like. In retrospect, it should've been obvious. What he was doing, I mean," Galo admits, nervously scratching the side of his nose. "Every day, I wake up and wonder how things could've been different. If I'd, like. Paid better attention, took a different job— gotten away from him earlier—" he cuts off, voice thin. "You know?"
Gueira doesn't have to ask who he is.
There are fifty fucking things he'd rather be looking at than Galo's sorry face right now. He ends up staring at a potted plant. "Man, don't," he scoffs, with a sick grin.
"Don't what?" Galo frowns. "That's what you're thinkin' about tonight, isn't it? You don't gotta be in party mode if you don't want to."
"Don't— you know what, let's talk about something else," Gueira shakes his head. His heartbeat feels fast. "Football. You a football guy?"
Galo swallows, embarrassed. "Uh. Sorta, sure—"
"Who's your team, 'Niners? Chargers?" Gueira asks. His eyes are hot, and his sinuses sting. "I'm cool with everyone. No Raiders fans though. You know how it goes. Used to shit on the Cowboys too, but that was before Meis came along—"
"Gueira," Galo says, and there's concern in his voice.
"— Still think Miami's gonna take it this year, though. Playoffs start next week, I got money in a betting pool. Put down a hundred. Ever since they traded McInzey they've been sucking less." He says it all in one breath. He feels his hand come up to wipe his eyes, which are wet now. "You catch pre-season?"
And it's all he manages to choke out, before he breaks— he laughs, because he doesn't know what's happening. His chest feels shaky. He tastes wet snot.
Galo lurches forward to help, but Gueira puts his hand up to stop him. It's wobbling like a fuckin'— like. A fuckin'—
"Gueira," Galo says again, but he's handwaved outta his personal bubble.
"Stop— shut up," he heaves, knees tucked up to his chin. "Don't talk to me."
So he doesn't. To his credit, Galo knows how to listen when it actually fuckin' matters. He sits there while Gueira falls apart, while the party inside yells out "cheers!" and "get together, everyone!". It sounds miles away, deep underwater, and Gueira doesn't hear anything after that; he's busy doing math. He thinks about the geometry behind chucking the microwave off the balcony. The dumpsters are close enough; he can probably make it from here, if the ground stops spinning. He struggles to breathe, feels the life ripped from his chest— once for an engine test, again for the warp drive, constant and agonizing and surely enough to kill his sorry ass for good. He hopes it does. He feels awful for wanting it. He tastes vomit in his mouth. He's Mad fucking Burnish, he's deathless, he's an icon; he's on all fours, elbows against the balcony concrete below him as he wretches up bile—
And that's it.
He feels confused.
He feels a hand on his shoulder.
He feels someone wipe his mouth.
Lio's hair falls in his face, soft and tangled from a night in the wind. He says nothing, just cleans the puke with a napkin and brushes the sweat from Gueira's eyebrows. Galo passes him a water bottle, which he's too ashamed to admit he needs help opening.
"Is the shower free?" Meis asks someone in the background.
"Is Gueira drunk?" someone else asks.
And of course that's what they'd think. Why else would he be so sick? They shouldn't have to understand. It's a good thing they don't understand.
He's propped up between Lio and Meis, carefully made to hobble his way into the bathroom. He makes eye contact with Galo, who doesn't say anything. Just sits there and looks apologetic. Maybe even worried.
You know what? He almost looks like he understands. Gueira feels bad for him.
Poor sap.
***
"Gargle," Meis instructs. Gueira gargles.
"Spit," Lio tells him, so he does. It dribbles down his chest.
The heat from the shower feels nice. He's sitting on the floor of the tub, shirtless and cross-legged. His pants are soaked, but he doesn't mind; he vaguely wonders where his phone went, or if it's still in his pocket. He hasn't used it in hours—
"What time is it," he asks, throat raspy.
"Two-something," Meis answers. "Got back a while ago."
"You missed the countdown," Gueira jokes, and even manages a chuckle. "Had to kiss my hand."
Neither of them say anything, which makes Gueira feel like shit. He shuts up while Lio washes his back with a cupful of soapy water.
Honestly, it could be worse. He hadn't had anything to eat earlier, so he didn't blow chunks on his clothing. Galo's bathroom is much cleaner than their own, so he isn't sitting in mildew and bundles of hair. The party's gone quiet. There are gentle hands working against the knot in his shoulders.
"Tell Thymos I'm sorry," he says, directly to a shampoo bottle.
"What for?" Lio asks. "We walked in, and he was apologizing to us."
Gueira shrugs. "Think I made him feel bad."
"He made you feel bad," Meis counters, before handing him a capful of mouthwash. "Dunk it."
Gueira shoots it back like tequila. He swishes and spews it out between his legs.
"He wanted to talk, I guess," he tells them, after spitting again for good measure. "He just said all the wrong shit."
Lio hums. "That's nothing new. Should I dump him?"
"Nah, it's no big deal," Gueira snorts. "Doubt he meant any harm. He just doesn't get it, you know?" He cranes his neck to the side, and something pops in relief. His body hurts, he realizes. "You'd break up with someone on my behalf?"
Lio gives him a serious frown, all sympathy and concern. "In a heartbeat," he promises, leaning forward to press a kiss to Gueira's forehead. His stomach threatens to puke again, but he hears himself say "thanks, Boss".
Meis kisses him too, just as gently, on the side of his mouth. It's a little too sweet, too different than usual— it makes him feel pitiful.
Maybe he is.
He ducks away, still hot and defensive. It takes a second to realize he's even done it. Gueira pauses, head quirked sideways. "Sorry."
"Don't be," Meis sighs.
"I feel like shit," Gueira says, steepling his fingers against the bridge of his nose. And then, with both eyes screwed shut, he admits: "I microwaved a roach. I think I killed 'im."
***
Sixty miles out from the county line, a big, broken windmill catches fire.
There are hundreds of 'em out here. Tall, white stick figures on the horizon, leftover from a time when wind and solar energy was still new. They don't get used much anymore— their blades still rotate when they're pushed by the breeze, but they've long since been abandoned by the state.
Meis slaps a hand on Gueira's shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
"You ever look at somethin' and think, 'now that's art'?" he asks, jaw pointed up at the blaze. "Check that out. It's like it was meant to be on fire."
"Yeah? You dig it?" Guiera snorts, draping an arm around Meis' neck. "I don't really think about that sorta stuff. I just light shit up for the hell of it."
The wind drags a flame out sideways, long and trailing like a sun flare. Gueira guesses it looks good, but he's preoccupied with Meis' smile. It's just as nice to stare at.
"You're a natural, then," Meis hums. "Shame they keep puttin' out your masterpieces. They don't deserve to be extinguished like that."
Gueira hears himself chuckle, and he feels as bright as the fire he'd just set. He steals a sideways glance at his buddy, and wonders if he realizes how romantic that sounds. "Aight, Banksy. If you say so."
***
Naturally, the fire attracts attention.
The windmill's over twenty stories tall. Of course it's visible from the city— if the flames aren't obvious, then the smoke surely is— and the city sends their "best" out to investigate. Gueira figured they'd show up. Mad Burnish is long gone by then, but they've parked their asses on a distant dam to keep watch. He sees the convoy pull up to the windmill, and when they all file out in tactical gear, he feels an uncomfortable twitch in his muscles.
"It's better this way," Fotia tells him. "If we minimize the chance of a confrontation, we minimize the casualties."
"Remind me why that's a good thing," Gueira grunts, legs dangling off the edge. The turbines below are turned off today.
"I don't want you indicted for murder," the kid answers.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Gueira shrugs.
"You're funny."
"I'm serious."
Gueira leans back on his hands, head tilting up at their new "leader". He runs his tongue along his molars, trying to fish out some leftover granola. He hasn't been able to brush his teeth in a week. "You think you got a good strategy? Think we got it in us to hold back against these clods?" he asks. He chews on something old and gritty. "Out here, you can't say shit about what's right or wrong. You ain't god. You don't know what I'm cool with doing."
Lio's quiet for a second, like he always is. Is twenty-one old enough to understand desperation— is it empathetic enough to forgive violence?
In a perfect world, twenty-five shouldn't understand those things either.
Gueira starts to stand up, too impatient for an answer. But then:
"Okay. Then tell me about yourself. What are you cool with?"
***
As it turns out, Gueira is cool with three things: theft, homicide, and kissing two people at the same time.
***
"So," Meis asks, massaging shampoo into the roots of Gueira's hair. "What was that about."
He's too tall for the bathtub, and his knees knock against the rim. He readjusts. The shower's started to run tepid— just as Galo's started to run around the block at 2am, in an effort to jog off his guilt.
Lio joins him.
It's kind of funny in retrospect, Gueira guesses. He closes his eyes. "Dunno. I'm a murderer," he says nervously, staring at the faucet by his feet.
"You mean the roach?"
"Maybe," Gueira answers.
"Doubt it," Meis says flatly. "Those suckers survive in microwaves for weeks. They thrive in there. Plenty of food, nice n' toasty—"
"Well, whatever. I tried to kill it, and that's all that matters."
Meis stops moving. He pulls back, just an inch or two, before carefully tilting Gueira's chin up to face him. "Why's that an issue?"
"I don't know."
"Gueira."
"I don't know!" he bursts, throwing his hands up out of the tub. "Don't you ever wish someone would come along and zap you to death? Ain't you curious if it would do anything at this point?"
The bathroom fan sucks in the silence that follows. Meis' face softens, dropping down into something that looks like pity. Coming from anyone else, Gueira would hate it.
"No. We lived through something that should've killed us," Meis starts, voice low. "But flames or no flames, I think we'll outlive every motherfucker we know, G. Wouldn't be surprised if we lived forever."
There's a puff of hot air— Gueira shakes his head, laughing at nothing.
"What? I'm serious," Meis frowns. He scoots a bit closer, arms awkwardly hanging over the rim of the tub.
"You're sick if you think I wanna live forever," Gueira says. "After all we been through? Really fuckin' sick."
"Never said we wanted to," Meis shrugs, reaching over to scritch Gueira on the jaw. "Just that we will."
"Oh yeah? Says who?" Gueira feels himself duck away again, even though he doesn't mean to. Something unreadable flashes across Meis' face.
"Don't know. God. The universe. Something with a bad sense of humor," Meis explains, dropping his hand. "But I can feel it. You're strong. I can't imagine you dying."
He says it like he believes it. Like, really, really believes it.
Gueira stares at him, trying not to blink too hard. His mom always told 'im he's got long babydoll lashes that look wrong for his face. He must have one stuck in his eyeball, 'cuz he feels himself tearing up. He squeezes his eyelids tight when he leans in to kiss Meis, who grabs ahold of him and doesn't let go.
It feels familiar; their first kiss had been just as painful. He remembers leaning against him in the dark of the desert, cold wind whipping against his forearms, heart exploding out of his chest. Back then, they'd been high on power and fear, acting on screaming compulsions and overwhelming neediness.
Not much has changed.
When Gueira pulls back, he bites Meis on the lip. "If I kick the bucket before you do, you're throwing a kegger in my honor," he tells him, wrists tangled behind his neck. "And I want a cake and a taco bar and a big fuckin' bonfire. Toss my carcass right on top. If I gotta die, you're watching me burn."
Meis chuckles in the back of his throat. "Lil' dark, don't you think?"
Gueira nods, but there's snot coming out of his face again. He squeezes it away from his nostrils with a single wet hand.
"Yeah. Look. I don't wanna— like..." Gueira shakes his head. "I don't wanna burn alone. Never again."
"You won't," Meis promises. He refills the plastic cup from before, the one Lio'd been using to clean Gueira's vomit.
"I swear to god," Gueira laughs again, choking. "I mean it. Never again. Not without either of you, you hear me?"
"You won't," Meis repeats, as he carefully dumps water down the back of Gueira's head, rinsing out the last of the shampoo.
"Fuck you. You're just telling me what I wanna hear," Guiera snorts again, rubbing his eyes dry. "You always do this."
"Always will," Meis says, as he abandons the cup on the rim of the tub, shuts off the shower, and begins to towel off his boyfriend. "Whatever you wanna hear. Everything and anything. Maybe some stuff you don't wanna hear, too. For starters," he pauses, leaning down to lock eyes with Gueira, "You're real cute with your hair all wet like this."
"I hate you," Gueira says, but he kisses Meis on the cheek. He kisses Meis on the mouth, on the jaw, on the tip of his nose. He weaves his damp hands into his hair, strokes it back out of his face so gently and purposefully that Meis starts to turn pink. "I love you so much," Gueira whispers, and he can't remember if they've admitted that before.
It feels like it doesn't matter. It doesn't have to be some big fuckin' revelation.
"Yeah? I love you too," Meis says simply, peacefully, like he's already said it a thousand times.
***
In the morning, there are bodies on the floor.
Lucia's stuffed herself under the coffee table. Aina groans against the light of her cell phone, too hung over to read her messages.
Lio's curled up around Galo in the hallway, bodies tangled together in a complicated sort of forgiveness. Gueira wonders if Thymos deserves it.
(As to what Gueira deserves, he can't speak for himself.)
But when he gathers the courage to pop open the microwave, he's grateful— elated— to discover three roaches now, alive and well, feasting on the remains of his microwave pizza. His buddy must've survived, and brought friends.
He leaves them alone. They've earned it.