He's An Arrangement

Call From Home

I woke up with my legs slamming against David's. All the boys took the bottom floor, Robin claiming the bed due to "back problems". So, that left David and I throwing out the pull out couch and some old blankets.

We've known each other since we were little. His father had just died. Mine had just left. We were both in group therapy for kids. Neither of us were too good at conversations. Or sharing our feelings to strangers. We found comfort in just being with one another. Once a week, when we went, we'd pull some prank on the kids. On the instructors. It was the best way to heal. A new friendship. A new start. A new life.

"Morning, mate," I groggily rose from the bed. He responded with only a snore. I rolled my eyes and headed to the kitchen. A pot of coffee had already been brewed. Black coffee. My favorite. I grinned, pulling out a mug from the cabinet.

It was sad, sometimes, that I knew this apartment more than my own home. That I know Emma better than my own wife. That I know these friends instead of knowing them across the water. That my accent has more and more of a tint of American with each passing day.

The mug must have been Mary Margaret's. It read "I'm a Teacher With a Crown. My Classroom is My Kingdom". I couldn't help but chuckle. Too bad these children don't know how she acts outside of school.

I didn't meet Mary Margaret through David. In fact, I introduced him to her. I was a rebellious teen. One day after school, I was at the local drug store. Shoplifting. A granola bar, a dollar and 98 cents, and a water, 49 cents. She caught me, but had no intention of turning me in. Instead she helped me. Taught me how to steal better.

That's why I call her "bandit". David sees it differently. He turned her around. "Made her a better person", he says. "Turned her to a princess", he says. I just smile and nod.

She's still a bandit to me.

My phone vibrated, moving to the edge of the counter. I reached out, not bothering to check who it is. I slid my thumb against the screen, accepting the call.

"Hello?" I made sure to thicken my accent, incase it was Milah. Or someone else in Ireland. I'm good at it. On command, I can change it. It's a skill. Of course, I can't change it very much. But I can loosen it, elaborate it, make it elegant, strong, thick. It comes in handy.

"Killian! My brother!" A peppy voice sounded back. Liam. My big brother.

It took me by surprise. I hadn't thought about him for months. Haven't talked to him for years.

Ever since he found out about me and Emma.

He thought I was disgusting. That she was a whore. That I was being horribly rude to Milah. I had to threaten him into not telling her. Then we stopped speaking.

"Liam? Why... why are you calling me?" I ruffled my hair and began to fidget in worry. My blood boiled, just hearing his voice. Even through the static of my phone.

There was a pause, but soon enough he responded, "I just stopped by your apartment, but only found Milah. Care to explain?"
I gulped, "You know where I am."

"Don't say you're still fooling around with that slut," his words brought me to the tip of my anger.

I slammed my fist onto the brown counter, "She's not a slut, and don't ever call her that again," I turned the phone off, throwing it aside. My eyes traced to my fist. It was balled up and bleeding. I groaned, turning around and grabbing a rag.

I flicked on the faucet, cold and hot blending into one another. Without the extra "t", we must add. The extra "t" is meant for the most arousing of subjects. Yes, the extra "t" has been put on me. Many times. I wouldn't say I'm that worthy of it, but guess I can't be the one to decide for how people feel of me.