Page 4 of Pippin & Nacho

After one of his more horrific nightmares one night, Sam finally confessed to me why he got them. All that time, I’d assumed the abuse from our foster parents was the reason, but it was so, so much worse than I ever imagined. Sam told me stories about the months he’d spent in a facility dedicated to conversion therapy for queer kids. It was an effort to get him to tell me even that much, and I was sure he left some details out. I struggled to believe that such a thing was even real or legal. That wasn’t abuse. That was literal torture of children.

Fuck, no wonder he always hurt or forgot shit.

Later that night, after he’d been nearly choked to death, I’d packed up our things, stole some food and drinks, and we snuck out, never to return. We were better off alone together.

Sam and I lived on the streets for nearly two years, shuffling around in abandoned buildings or living under bridges. Sometimes, we’d stay with a homeless community who helped us. I took jobs where I found them, like at restaurants that needed a dishwasher or someone to take out the garbage. The jobs didn’t pay enough to actually save any money or rent an apartment, but they kept us fed, and sometimes, we bought clothes at this thrift store that sold stuff for under five bucks. It was where I bought us a couple of old skateboards so we could move around a bit faster, living in our nomadic life.

Sam also tried to find work. He didn’t have as much luck as me, but he always did his best to contribute. He wasn’t helpless, but staying on task while working wasn’t easy for him. His efforts only made me love him that much more.

Our friends knew how I felt about Sam, and I made them all vow never to tell him. He needed me, not my damn pining. I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship. If we didn’t work out or ruined our friendship, I wouldn’t be there to help him, and he wouldn’t be there to meet my clingy needs. And in the almost seven years we’d known each other, Sam had never shown any indication of being interested in me. Just because we were gay didn’t mean we suddenly fell into each other like in some romance book. Life wasn’t a fucking fairy tale. It was hard, gritty, and it hurt.

While I loved Sam and wished we had more, I accepted this life. I’d rather have him in it as a friend than tell him how I felt and lose him. And I couldn’t be upset about him not reciprocating my feelings because he had no idea. I’d stay with him as long as he needed me.

Kingston, or Alpha, as we liked to call him, clapped me on the back as we got ready to open the bar that night.

“How are things going, Nacho?”

I wasn’t a fan of my nickname, but what’d you expect when I ate nachos as often as I could get my hands on them? I was addicted to them. It was something I made myself often while in foster care because they were cheap and easy to make. Sam was the only one who didn’t call me that.

“It’s going good.”

Alpha ran a hand through his cropped, dirty-blond hair and scanned the bar. “You’re going to be twenty-one soon. Do you want to help out more with serving tables? I could use an extra hand. You’d still be doing what you’re doing now. It’ll not only bring in more hours, but it’ll also bring you more money and tips.”

My smile grew wide. “Fuck yeah, I would.” God, Sam and I could really use the extra cash. “Thanks, Alpha.”

We shook hands before he grabbed my shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “You work hard. I wish I could do more for you guys.”

I huffed a laugh and shook my head. Was he fucking kidding me? “You’ve done enough. You’ve given us all jobs when most of us don’t even have an education, and you gave us a family and good friends. In all my life, I never expected to find such a thing, man. We’re all eternally grateful to you.”

Alpha’s turquoise eyes glimmered as he rubbed his neck. “I love having you all in my life, too.” Before things got too emotional because that wasn’t Alpha’s style, he walked off to get ready to open.

It had been almost four years since Sam and I were practicing on our cheap skateboards at the skate park when we first met Alpha. He was a fantastic skateboarder and taught us all his tricks. It didn’t take long to form a friendship.

Alpha was only twenty-eight, just a little older than us. He’d been abandoned himself, so it was inspiring to see him come this far and own his own business.

When he opened Alpha’s Rejects, he brought in those of us who needed a job and a home—a safe place to work and make friends. He called it Alpha’s Rejects because all of us who worked there had been rejected in one form or another, and we were all part of the LGBTQ+ community, though the bar welcomed everyone.

I did menial tasks like keeping tables clean, washing glasses, and mopping floors. It wasn’t exciting, but it was a job, and I did get to see some pretty awesome bands.

Despite Sam’s struggles with working, he took a shine to bartending. He was fucking good at it, too. I couldn’t begin to explain how happy and proud I was of him to find something he loved and made money at. As long as he had his sound-canceling earbuds on while he worked, he was good.

I headed to the employee lounge to grab an apron, because working here could be messy, when I walked in on Stix and Stone eating each other’s faces. Well, they were kissing, but it seemed like they would die if they didn’t kiss harder. A flash of loneliness stabbed through me before I squashed it.

They must have noticed my presence, prying themselves apart.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “Just grabbing an apron.”

Stone’s face turned crimson as he rushed out of there, making me chuckle. I hadn’t been a fan of Stone at first. Despite working here, he’d been an outsider, and even worse, he’d hated Stix for the longest time. It turned out he had internalized homophobia and took it out on Stix because Stone had a crush on him. Stix had always been outgoing, and he was the one who pulled Stone out of his shell. They worked their shit out, and now you couldn’t pry them apart.

It made me so happy they found each other, yet I drowned in envy.

Stix laughed at Stone’s retreating back before pulling out his drumsticks from his back pocket and sitting down to tap out a rhythm on the bench's worn wood. His mullet, shaved at the sides, looked like he’d cut it himself and had it freshly bleached. “What’s up, Nach!”

“Hey, Stix.”

I grabbed one of the black aprons, hanging on a hook, draped it over my head, and tied it around my waist. I side-eyed Stix, who was entirely too quiet. That man could talk your ear off, so something was definitely up.

“What?” I asked.

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