Mal squeezed Nico’s hands once again, ready to tell him it was okay if he wasn’t ready to talk about it, but before he could, Nico started to speak, his voice monotone.
“When I was little, there were always guys in my house. From the time I can first remember until I was almost thirteen years old. My mom always had a man in the house. And that man wasalwaysa monster.”
Mal’s stomach churned. He could see Nico attempting to dissociate himself from the words, the memories, could see him trying to tell Mal his history without reliving it. He’d watched Shiloh do it one too many times. Nico sniffled again, cheeks wet, tears dripping onto Mal’s hoodie he wore.
“I’m listening. I’m right here,” he said softly.
Nico swallowed audibly, shaking his head, his expression pained. “Every single relationship she had—and there were so fucking many—always went the same way. She’d meet some random guy, usually at the club, and would instantly fall for his bullshit. One day, she was still heartbroken from X, the next she was gushing about her new love.”
Nico gave a shuddery sigh. “That was when things were best in the house. When she was happy and still in the love-bombing stage. Before he would move in. She would be nice to me. She’d hug me. She’d watch movies with me. She’d bring home pizza or candy. I got her attention, her love. And all I had to do was listen to her repeat all the lies she told herself. This guy was definitelytheone. He was ideal. This time, everything was going to be different and I’d have a ‘real’ dad.”
Mal wanted to hug him, to tell him he didn’t have to go into all this if he didn’t want to. But that wasn’t what Nico required. So, Mal let him talk, the quiet rocking of the washers giving him something to anchor to so he didn’t lose it and start ranting about how much he hated Nico’s mom.
This wasn’t about Mal.
“Obviously, the honeymoon phase never lasted long. She’d move them in right away. They’d start ordering me around, pushing me around, trying to find any excuse to get me out of the way.”
Mal released one of Nico’s hands, curling his hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer just to press their foreheads together. Just to be near him. Nico’s knees squeezed Mal’s sides, his free hand bunching in Mal’s shirt, connecting their lips in a chaste kiss that lingered. Mal could taste the salt of Nico’s tears on his lips.
When they broke apart, Nico kept talking like nothing had happened. “Within two weeks, they’d be fighting every day. He’d be slapping her, punching her. Some of my earliest memories I have involve watching my mom sit on top of the bathroom counter, mixing a concoction of concealers to hide her different colored bruises, giving me these reassuring smiles, like it was no big deal. Like the fact that she had to be some kind of fucking makeup artist to hide what they did to her was totally normal.”
“It sounds like, maybe to her, it was,” Mal said.
How many times had Mal watched Shiloh do the same things after Micah had gotten to him while Mal was gone? How many times had Shiloh given him that same reassuring smile, the one that was meant to assuage his guilt? Some rational part of Mal had known he couldn’t be with Shiloh twenty-four seven. But he could have killed Micah much sooner. Could have taken him out of the equation before he’d done so much damage to Shiloh.
Nico nodded. “Sometimes, it seemed like she…craved it. Like she didn’t know how to function without it. I know that sounds so fucked up—like I’m victim blaming—but it was like she couldn’t equate love with anything other than violence.”
“I don’t think you’re victim blaming. You were a victim, too.”
More so than Nico’s mom, surely. Nico was a child. He’d had no way of protecting himself. Since they’d met, Mal had managed to glean many things from Nico’s childhood just from passing comments and disturbing jokes shared in the group chat. Jokes that are only funny to anyone so traumatized they don’t even realize what they’re saying shouldn’t be funny.
Nico’s friends hadn’t come together by accident. Jericho had rescued them—all of them—from one form of hell or another. Kids were tragically resilient. Maybe if Mal felt things like normal people, he’d make jokes, too.
“Once they were comfortably inserted into our lives, once they knew she wouldn’t fight back, then the manipulation started, stealing her money, stealing her car…anything of value they could get their hands on. That was when her excuses started. To me. To her friends. It was always the same thing. ‘He only hits me when he’s drunk. I shouldn’t have kept arguing. It wasn’t stealing because we were a couple.’”
Mal nodded. It was all depressingly commonplace.
“You know she started turning tricks just to make more money for some guy whose name I don’t even remember? I don’t think she remembers either.” His expression grew broody, his words bitter. “She has a real selective memory.”
Mal froze, searching Nico’s face. “What do you mean?”
Nico chewed on his lip for a long moment before finally saying, “She swears…like, hand-to-God swears…that she always protected me from them, no matter how bad it got.”
His laugh was as bitter as the words falling from his tongue.
“She tells anyone who will listen how she was all mama bear about keeping me safe. How even if they’d hurt her, she’d kept me safe. But it’s all fucking lies. She didn’t protect me, not from anything. Not when they hit me, not when they touched me, not when they whispered that they could get real money for turning me out, too.”
Jesus Christ.
“Baby…” Mal breathed, not sure if he wanted him to stop or keep going.
Nico hiccuped on a sob. “She made excuses for them. Said I was lying. Said I should keep that stuff to myself because it could ruin their lives. It’s like she’s just…re-written history with herself as the heroine of the story. And I try to play along. I really do. It’s in the past, right? She’s moved onto…whatever it is she has now. This…way of controlling her own narrative. But what about me?”
Nico’s voice broke on the last sentence, destroying Mal’s already tentative hold on his rage. He pulled Nico into his arms, crushing him against him as he cried, maybe harder than he did the night before. Had Mal stirred all this up with his spanking last night? Was this really all about Degas, or was this something far deeper coming back because Mal was pushing him beyond his limits?
Mal caught Nico beneath his thighs and brought him back to the uncomfortable plastic chair, cuddling him in his arms while he let him cry it out and Mal spun increasingly violent scenarios in his head about what he’d do when he inevitably came face to face with Nico’s mother.
Mal had always had his suspicions about Nico being molested as a child. Levi had talked about similar situations from growing up with an alcoholic mother. A mother who was still out there somewhere, waiting to make herself known once more, like some horror movie monster. Nico and Levi had relied heavily on each other as kids; there was a bond there he hadn’tshared with the others. Mal hated that this was the string that tied Nico and Levi together.
