2019-11-15 - King of Queens: Battle for Dominion

Sitting up in his room looking at the same four walls he's always inhabited all the memories from youth sit around him. The box sits open on his bed as he flips through old photographs. He can hear it from the other room when the front door opens downstairs, that thick Toledo Spanish that sounds of his own voice in thirty years. "Has my prodigal son returned then? Where he is?"

The memory of a dozen summers learning at the hand and spatula of his hero, the man he looked forward to tarnish with the reality of the very man's inflexibility. And here is Ignacio, still in the middle. Turning and looking up as the man fills the door frame with his lean form. He worked his way up from nothing and all he's wanted to do was start a business with his son. As warm as the words are, Ignacio can feel the weight of the underlying expectation in every word. "Mijo, you're home! What's with the box?"

Ignacio tries for the life of him to reach out to the glimmer that isn't just there like he's grown used to. The world feels heavy, pensive, and quiet here. He prepares for the inevitable fight that isn't usually his. His fathers not stupid, but he lies anyways. His phone buzzes in pocket. He doesn't answer it yet He knows who it is, and that right now is enough. His heart, racing and afraid of the fight he doesn't want to half, roots in chest again as somewhere a fifth around the globe a woman in his blue hoodie with the Mets NY on it, leaves him an update with a <3 on the end of it. "Just cleaning up, papi." The easy lie.

It's enough. The words from his father blur as his old man grabs his head complimenting his apparent sobriety and drilling him with a dozen question, and a hug he missed. It'd e ruined in short order. Here it is: You look healthy, clean, you look like my son again. Every praise heaped on him he can feel, even though the veil is thick like paste he can feel it; the intent. Approval. Stay. That he an slam the door and leave the state completely fucked in the head and come back to this hug, the approval, this immediate forgiveness? It hurts. he should be happy, but every bit of it is a reminder he can get away with murder and all the affection his brother has fought so hard to earn and has been denied. Raf can't even do everything right and make this man happy. And he can't help but think Why?! Why's it got to be this way?

His heart holds no joy being the favored son, and guilt takes root all over. He hears the words, "Come, I'll make you a sandwich." this isn't going to be a simple sandwich.

He checks his phone on his way out.

(Meanwhile...)

What is to follow can only be painted in brushstrokes of emotional watercolor. Small talk of How are things going? You look clean, you look healthy, mijo! and interest in what he's doing quickly denotes a wall and an absence. Ignacio helps himself into the fridge limping over to it digging out a tomato and lobbing it over where his father plucks it out of the air. "Ahhh, mijo, this is good see? I made a mustard, grab that you have to try this."

And for a while everything is about food and Ignacio and his old man light up in a grin talking how much onion and how much cumin belong in anything and OH!! let's talk about what someone did with a Cubano sandwich by changing the pickle recipe- Si, si, This is what they did different! He admits to the question, "Eh, yeah I've been cooking a bit. Helping out at a restaurant on the boardwalk. Mostly cooking for Raf and Pajarito."

There is a pause and the old man arches an eyebrow, back of his knuckles to the side of the chopping knife, fingers pulled back to shove the onion forward as he dices it. "Aaaah my son cooks for a girl now, hmm?" Miiiiiierda. Yeah that's going to turn the conversation off food. Brace for impact, Iggy. "Nacio, does this little bird have a name?"

Iggy sets his jaw steeling himself knowing this is one of two topics he will go to war with his old man over and God help him he didn't want to lose control of his aptitudes and zap his own family...again... Itzhak really sort of counts. (sorrynotsorry on that one, pal) "Si, si. Uhhhh her name is Finch Celano, aaaand she and Raf haaaave been helping me stay... ya know... deal with the pain management stuff." He's still not saying 'sober'. his NAME is on the SIDE of the damn label.

Oh sure now there's the interest in his personal life and without ready access to glimmer being all-the-fuck-over he finds himself uncomfortably unable to decipher if his dad is happy for him actually coming out of his dark night to actually try to have a relationship or because it's simply with a female ins crazy homophobic joy that he's not following in Raf's footsteps or maybe they are somehow really hard up for grand-kids. He really can't fucking tell and he fears all three. Given how abruptly thrown away Rafael was, his money was that it was in there somewhere and Iggy had no desire to feed that beast.

He can't even be proud of what he has without some sick guilt that it's somehow arming pops against this brother he left to protect. He stands to reason there's got to be some psychological name for this condition other than reason I stayed on the Vicodin. And then it comes, the gruff, warm tone curious at him, "What kind of name is this Feench Celano? She is Italian?"

Without looking up he takes a deep breath. He can feel himself getting defensive, but tries to keep it casual, "Uhhh no. Greek-Mexican actually. She's from the west coast. Went to Cornell for ornithology." He can feel himself already thinking that's all you get. Cristo mio , why is he already setting up battle lines. Is he instigating this now he has to wonder.

"Ahhh, So she's a little bit Spanish. Bueno." He works on the green pepper and looks over, "Ahhh, good school. Is that the, um thing withthe teeth?"

He sighs, "Not... everyone is, pa. Maybe. I know. You told me." This shit again. He might joke with Rico about it but somehow with her as the person discussed? Not funny. "Yeah I thought that too. Turns out it's bird studies. She's a scientist. I was thinking of saving up and getting her one of those bags for her camera and stuff. She likes hers but it's been wearing out and thought I might go see Clear at his shop and see what they got while I'm here." He doesn't look up but he does stop prepping food leaning on the counter.

There's a long uncomfortable silence and the chopping gets slower. And the band-aid comes off, "So you are moving out there for a girl?" Ignacio's molars set and the nod follows. He can feel the judgement and disappointment in his sigh, but at something more different. It's disappointment in his dream getting further out of hand. Quietly he says "You are getting older, mijo. Time to think about starting a family. Should come here and do this. We can help you. With your skill you should open a restaurant. juuuust saying."

His fingers curl and really, he's not wrong and that? That is the problem. And in his head he can see it and he doesn't even realize he's pushing the image out and sharing it but he can see the whole picture, the house in a better state of repair slowly, wide porch, her curled up next to him on a porch swing with her binoculars and kids running after the chickens in the yard on an improv egg hunt. Ease that is denied and a family he can never ask her to have. They've never even talked about it because it's not even been a choice. And jsut like that the whole mental image gets a dark storm cloud, fingers pull into fists against the counter, and the amperage of the light overhead bows just a bit. And like that the neuropathy in his leg shoots up making his unaffected eye twinge. How'd he get so tired this fast? "Yeah, pop maybe I will. Maybe I'll do something else."

This father looks not up at the light but outside for signs of wind and rain and pauses; face unreadable. Ignacio learned it from him, really. The suggestion comes, "Be easier to do that here where I can help. What you are to do if you are not cooking. You have a gift. You can't go back to racing the cars. If you are not thinking about your future think about hers. Women do not want to be with a man that can only make left hand turns, mijo."

Iggy considers how many times he could have gotten laid reaily on zero effort street racing and the unshared guilty truth brings a chortle, "I assure you your math is wrong." Taking a deep breath he says clearing his throat, "You... you know I'm a writer."

"What have you written exactly?"

"Pop, I'd been published six times!" Now the pride burns in his chest with the hurt of his life truths shared, but here dismissed.

"Nacio, you get very angry and think it is amusing and someone publish you. This is not writing. You cannot even pay your brother rent. I hear him tell Marcela this. It is not stable. You cannot build a future on this."

Unshed tears sting his eyes and he knows his father wants the best for him. Tight words come through his teeth, "He's your son you know. Rafael is not just our brother."

And there's the brush of the hand and the dark look and he twitching mustache. "Now you want to make this about him. He is disappointing, but he has a real job and can afford an apartment. You could do more, Ignacio. I want you to be happy."

And the calm snaps, "I'm WRITING FOR THE PAPER TOO! It's a real job, pop! Okay? And ya know what? I'm... I'm actually good at it. All the bullshit I've had to deal with I can use to actually fucking help people!" He shouldn't have raised his voice, or swore. it wasn't going to win any points or get him to listen but fuck it.

Hardened his father, heart heavy smooshes the bread from the toaster carefully atop the prepared meal and tries to find the words, "You are throwing your gifts away. You can't... you can't take care of your family like that-" And before he's done Ignactio is speed limping out of the kitchen like a lopsided storm grabbing his jacket off the hook. murmuring something that might be watch me. Behind him with a sigh his father opens the door that is pulled harder by the backdraft than it should, less from glimmer and more from dust coming off of him. "Mijo, you forgot your sandwich!"

Did he have his phone on him? Yes. God yes. He hit the concrete in front of his parents' place and he started the several blocks walk to his sister's. He'd stop for food and call her half way. He thumbs through his messages for an update on how Finch's lunch with her dad went. There is a message left with a <3 at the end of it. He kicks off one last message. <3 Love you. Home tomorrow. 'Deep breaths, just... keep your head up and keep walking' is the thought he holds onto.