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Gate Keeper

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-And so Aesir raised the lip of his helm, gilded irises scanning the carnage that surrounded him as his chest heaved with heavy breaths. The watered field of Milandr lay quiet, her reddened grasses a stark contrast against the endless expanse of a cloudless blue sky. The still sea of bodies made for a gruesome image and victory was a word that rang hollow when so much death encompassed him-

 

Brrrrrring.

 

Lance’s fingers stilled on the keys, the sound of his doorbell cutting through the scene playing out behind his weary eyes.

 

Brrrrrring.

 

His character’s image faded from his mind’s eye as the doorbell rang again, thoroughly destroying the vision he’d been cultivating for the past six hours. With a heavy sigh, he pushed his chair back from his desk and got to his feet. A painful throb echoed around his lower back as he straightened, hours of sitting in the uncomfortable computer chair coming back to bite him in the ass as he made his way through the den and into the living room to get the door.

 

Brrrrrring.

 

“Keep your pants on,” he grumbled as he shuffled over, grabbing at the doorknob to wrench the door open.

 

He pursed his lips and squinted against the intrusive rays of a burning Miami sun and the brilliance of his best friend’s grin. Hunk Garrett, childhood friend and often unwilling participant in Lance’s grade school shenanigans, was always a welcome sight.

 

“Yo, Hunk.”

 

“Hey, Lance-“

 

Hunk narrowed his eyes as he combed over his appearance.

 

“-you look like crap, man.”

 

“Nice to see you too, buddy; come in,” he rolled his eyes as he shifted out of the way to let him inside before shutting the door behind him.

 

“Did you just get off work?”

 

“Gee, what gave it away?”

 

Hunk’s grin only widened at Lance’s eye roll. The blue jumpsuit he wore had been lowered so that he could tie the arms around his waist, baring his dark arms in a white tank top that he always wore beneath his NASA gear.

 

“How goes the Mars designs?”

 

Lance took a spot on the end of his couch while his friend flopped down on the other end with a happy sigh, rolling his shoulders as he leaned into the cool leather.

 

“We put them on pause while we beef up the space station. The Mars designs won’t be going forward until we can make sure the habitability of the station are high enough to decrease dependence on Earth during the mission.”

 

“Sounds like you have some off-time then.”

 

“Pretty much but, hey, at least it’s off-time with pay.”

 

“Can’t hate that. So, what brings you by?”

 

There was a momentary silence as his companion let his eyes roam the coffee table in front of them, scanning the various open books marked with copious amounts of illegible sticky notes sticking out from betwixt their pages like some strange reference-book hedgehog. Hunk eventually let his gaze travel back to him.

 

“You’re kidding, right? I came to check up on you because you missed movie night. Twice.”

 

Lance pushed back his unruly hair and grimaced

 

“Sorry, I’ve been caught up lately…”

 

There was another brief bout of silence.

 

“When did you hear from them?”

 

Unconsciously, his hands clenched on his lap.

 

“What makes you think I heard from them?”

 

Hunk shot him a flat look.

 

“Lance, dude, who do you think you’re talking to? Look at yourself; your hair’s so crazy it looks like you stuck your tongue in a power outlet, you’re rocking a week’s worth of stubble, and the bags under your eyes are so dark I almost mistook you for a raccoon-“

 

He interlaced his fingers and turned his body towards him, resting his forearms on his thighs and softening his voice.

 

“-You never let yourself go like this unless you’re really stressed out, and there’s only one reason that you’d be this stressed out.”

 

Forcing out a chuckle, Lance shook his head.

 

“What makes you think that it’s not work? This novel has been killing me lately and I’ve been putting all of my effort into making sure it gets into my editor’s hands on time-“

 

“Lance.”

 

He paused, knowing his excuse was flimsy at best.

 

“I know you better than anybody, dude. You love writing and I’ve never seen it put you out the way you look right now.”

 

Hunk’s voice hardened and he pressed again, “when did you hear from them?”

 

Hissing a breath through his teeth, Lance crossed his arms over his chest and scowled down at the coffee table.

 

“A few days ago.”

 

“What did they want?”

 

“Same old, same old. It’s the quarterly family dinner.”

 

Those three words always tasted like battery acid.

 

“No wonder you look like crap.”

 

“Seriously, dude, stop busting my balls… That’s what they’re for.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Hunk raised his hands, “so, is it safe to assume that you’ve been overworking yourself since hearing from them?”

 

“This is me we’re talking about here, Hunk; I’m just naturally a hard worker.”

 

“Oh yeah, you’re definitely messed up. Even your normal arrogance is falling flat.”

 

“It’s only arrogance if you don’t have the skill to back it up.”

 

“There’s the Lance I know.”

 

Lance snickered, hand rising to physically sooth the furrow between his brows, “I appreciate you coming to check on me Hunk but I’m fine and if you don’t mind, I really need to get this last chapter finished. I’ve been busting my ass on this thing and I’m almost done.”

 

Hunk stood from his seat then and glanced at the watch on his left wrist.

 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right; it is time that we got going.”

 

It took Lance longer than it should have to zero in on the word ‘we.’

 

“I’m sorry, did you say ‘we?’”

 

His friend broke out another wide grin as he nodded enthusiastically, the ends of the orange hair ribbon bouncing over his shoulders with the movements.

 

“I assumed that you’d heard from them already and I figured you’d look like, well,” he waved a hand at him, “this, so I set up an appointment at that spa you took me to in West Palm for my birthday last year.”

 

“Dude, you hate getting pampered.”

 

“Yeah, but you eat it up with a spoon so we’re going. Go put on some clothes that don’t look like they belong to an old lady and then fix your hair, you look stupid. I’ll be outside.”

 
After smacking him on the shoulder with a large hand, Hunk gave him a thumbs up to match his goofy smile and then let himself out. Lance stayed seated for a moment, blinking a few times as he tried to process what had just happened. If he were being honest, he had been pushing himself too hard in the past week and his body was sluggish and slow in response.

 

“Old lady,” he repeated with a shake of his head as he pushed himself off the couch, smoothing a hand over his baby-blue house coat.

 

Knowing that Hunk would never give up once he’d set his mind to something, Lance made his way slowly to his bedroom to change. The moment that he had closed the door behind him, he was met by his reflection in the mirror on the wall just behind the door.

 

“Shit,” he muttered as he looked over the picture that he made, “he was right.”

 

Looking past the ridiculous housecoat covering the black silk pajama set that he barely remembered changing into a few days before, he was still a mess. His tawny hair was mussed in a way that screamed more ‘hurricane’ and less ‘bedhead’, his jawline was covered in several days worth of beard, there were several patches of dry skin around his nose, and his tired blue eyes looked like they were carrying handbags. If he hadn’t been so busy sinking himself into his work, the moment he’d seen his reflection he might have screamed.

 

 

 

 

Hunk was right; he could use this. He took the time to tame his hair and change into a pair of loose light-wash blue jeans that he rolled up his calves and topped with a tucked in, beige linen, long sleeve button up. After pushing the sleeves up to his elbows and unbuttoning the first few buttons, he gave himself a once over. When he was satisfied, he wedged his feet into a pair of brown loafers, tucked a pair of aviators into the V of his button up, and joined Hunk where was waiting outside.

 

“That’s much better,” Hunk appraised as he locked the door, “you don't look like you’re a hobo living under an overpass anymore.”

 

“You’re the last person who gets to give me fashion advice, big guy. With that tank top on, your top half looks like a toasted marshmallow.”

 

“I’m just saying that it’s nice to have you looking like you, idiot,” his companion chuckled as they walked down to the condo’s parking lot.

 

Lance was already feeling a little more like himself as he slid into the passenger side of Hunk’s jeep, the fresh air pulling some of the tension from his limbs. It felt like he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. As they drove through the packed streets of Miami, the smells of food trucks filtered in through their rolled down windows and the sounds of street performers drowned out their music. A smile cracked his face as the feel of the wind blowing through his hair set him at ease.

 

He loved this city, he loved the bustling and the movement, the cultural mixes and the nightlife. Miami was a city of movers, a city of adventurers and opportunists. Refugees, immigrants, and all manner of people looking for new dreams filled the city and spread their vision. There was nowhere else like it and this was his home. He settled comfortably into the seat as they drove to West Palm Beach.

 

Nothing was as relaxing as enjoying an occasional pampering and Lance sighed happily the moment that he was leaned back in a chair with a deliciously scented mask being applied to his face while a beautiful blonde bathed his feet in preparation of his pedicure. The dimmed lighting set a soothing tone as the warm beams shifted through the damask cutouts in the shades and set the patterns dancing on the stucco walls around them.

 

“I’ve never seen anyone look so happy,” Hunk muttered from his left as he shifted in the small reclining chair, huffing as one of the attendants used a band to push his hair further back so that they could begin his own mask, “you’d think you won the lottery.”

 

“My best friend comes over to kidnap me away to the spa on the day of what I’m sure will be just another excellent experience with my family? AND I didn’t have to pay for it? I did win the lottery.”

 

“Wow, you do sound like a good friend,” the woman brushing the clay mask over Hunk’s cheek said quietly, flashing him a pearly smile.

 

“Well I, uh- what can I say?”

 

Stifling a snicker, Lance added, “oh yeah, he’s a great guy and he works with NASA, how cool is that?”

 

Winking over at his friend, Lance closed his eyes and listened to Hunk sputter for a few minutes while the brunette asked him about his work. Wingman Lance strikes again, he thought to himself as he focused on the cool brushstrokes on his forehead. At some point, amidst the feel of practiced hands on his feet and scalp, he fell asleep. It felt like a split second of time had passed when he was being shaken awake, an amused grin on his friend’s face when Lance squinted up at him.

 

“You must be worse off than I thought. Have you been sleeping at all?”

 

“Enough,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder as his hand fell away, “but it’s been a while since I was so comfortable. How long was I out?”

 

“Like forty-five minutes or something. Well, come on. We have a massage to get to, unless you’d like to continue your nap.”

 

“Ha-ha.”

 

His nap nearly did continue when he found himself on a massage table on a balcony overlooking the Atlantic, the gentle sounds of waves and gulls nearly lulling him right back to sleep. It was a miracle that he managed to stay awake and he spent the time thinking over the most recent developments in his novel and making mental notes about how to leave the ending. He was suspended in a trance-like state, overwhelmed by relaxation and lost in thought, for nearly two hours. For the first time in over a week, Lance forgot about his anxieties and simply basked in the moment.

 

The internal mace of apprehension began rebuilding itself, however, at the end of the massage. He donned his clothing and met Hunk in the lobby after thanking the staff, forcing a smile that Hunk immediately noticed for what it was; false.

 

“I was hoping it would take your mind off of it, but it looks like it was only a temporary fix.”

 

“I appreciate the thought man, but you’ve got to remember that I still have to see them in an hour or so. Honestly, I’d rather stick my junk in the everglades and see what it catches.”

 

Hunk wrinkled his nose at that as they climbed back into his jeep.

 

“Why do you even bother going? You know what’s going to happen. You don’t need to impress them and you have a lot to be proud of. They’re just going to tear you down like they always do and make you feel like a snail. You’re a good guy Lance, and you don’t deserve how they treat you.”

 

Lance wrestled with himself as he formulated an answer. Hunk was entirely right, they were going to tear into him and he was likely going to be left feeling like an insect; or a snail, as Hunk put it. He didn’t know how to explain to someone whose entire family was so unconditionally supportive and warm, he didn’t know how to say, ‘I just need them to accept me’ and he wasn’t sure he could get the words out if he did.

 

“They’re my family, Hunk,” was all he could manage.

 

“Well, they suck,” Hunk muttered, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he slid a look over at him, “just promise me something?”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t take whatever they say to heart, okay? And if stuff gets crazy, just leave. If you need a quick getaway you can always come over to my place and I’ll grill up some of my should-definitely-be-famous coconut mango shrimp!”

 

“That sounds great, I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

His response seemed to satisfy Hunk and he was thankful for the silence as they trekked back towards home. He hoped, as he foolishly did with each trip home, that maybe this time would be different.

 

 

 

Lance arrived at his childhood home nearly a half hour early but he sat deathly still in the driver’s seat of his sedan in the driveway for ten minutes. The drive from Miami to Key Biscayne was short and yet it had simultaneously felt like it had taken a lifetime. He flipped down the visor and checked his reflection in the mirror for what had to have been the hundredth time, checking that his hair wasn’t too messy and that the spot on the underside of his jaw that he’d nicked whilst shaving looked alright. His gut felt like it was full of coked up rottweilers; butterflies were far too fair and soft for the feelings he had butting heads within him.

 

He had changed his clothes once more, opting for a thinner white button up and a pair of charcoal slacks, but the longer he sat outside the house the more he questioned himself. The home rose up to two stories high, its sleek monochrome lines both modern and cold. Flat white with raised black accents, it stood as an impassive structure looking down upon those who passed. Did he really want to subject himself to this again? After a few minutes of psyching himself up, he finally forced himself out of the car. Maneuvering between the twin black cadillacs and his brother’s ridiculous two-seater hybrid, Lance made his way slowly up the painstakingly symmetrical cobblestone path to knock on the front door.

 

He knocked twice before a thin woman with sharp, pinched, features opened the door. Her dark hair had been pinned back from her face in a regrettably tight bun that had him picturing a fox in a wind tunnel and Lance had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. Her dark brown eyes canvassed his appearance, quickly sliding from his hair to his outfit and then back again.

 

“Hello, Lance.”

 

“Afternoon, Mom.”

 

She made a sound in the back of her throat, something like disapproval at the familiar word, before she slid back and pulled the door open wide enough to let him inside.

 

“You look terrible. Have you been sleeping?”

 

“Thank you for candy-coating it mom, tell me what you really think.”

 

“Don’t get smart, Lance,” she reprimanded as she closed the door behind him, raising a perfectly penciled brow before breezing past him and leading the way through the hall, “and answer a question when it has been asked.”

 

The interior was an equally cool mixture of glass, white marble, and mahogany. It was upscale and beautiful, though one would only fit in if they were a Grecian statue. Lance found it, as he always had, an unwelcoming place that always made it clear that you were merely a visitor.

 

“I’m not one of your students, mom; you can’t send me out of class for getting ‘smart.’”

 

“Maybe not, but I can send you home.”

 

He didn’t doubt for a moment that she would ask him to leave if he didn’t speak to her the way that she preferred.

 

“I’m sorry,” he forced himself to say through a clenched jaw, “and to answer your question, no, I haven’t been sleeping.”

 

“Hmm, maybe all of those silly books of yours are keeping your thoughts busy. Are you still writing?”

 

He’d never heard anyone say ‘writing’ like it was a plague before, but Helena Alvarez was a special case. Trying to ignore it, he focused on the fact that she acknowledged his career at all.

 

“Yes, I’m working on a new novel right now-”

 

“Oh! George, no!”

 

In a flash she was striding away from him to smack at the hand of his father as he pulled down her china from the cabinet.

 

“We’re using the other set tonight! Marisol is coming home from Juilliard; we have to have everything look nice!”

 

Shaking his head for thinking for a moment that she would care enough to listen to what he had to say, he edged around them to take a seat at the dining room table where his older brother was already seated. His long, black, hair had been tied into a ponytail at the back of his neck and been left to hang over his right shoulder. He wore his usual navy polo emblazoned with the ‘StE’ logo on his pocket. Like his sister Marisol, Oliver had dark eyes fringed with long, dark, lashes and a flawless golden bronze complexion. With his own lighter bronze skin tone and blue eyes, Lance had always stuck out amongst them.

 

“Hey, Oliver.”

 

“Lance,” he greeted with a polite smile as he took a seat, “how’s it going?”

 

“Not too bad. How are things with work?”

 

“Not too bad,” he parroted, “we’re making some real progress. I recently came up with an idea that we just finished implementing down at the conservatory-”

 

Lance listened politely as Oliver droned on about how amazing he was and how he was single handedly making a dent in the effort to save the Everglades. It was the same conversation that they had during each dinner and he was always patting himself on the back when their mother wasn’t doing it for him.

 

“-and you wouldn’t believe how harmful it is to the environment. What kind of mileage does your car get? Are you familiar with its level of emissions?”

 

Lance was saved from answering when a knock sounded on the door. Immediately, their mother was all smiles, practically prancing away from her husband to rush towards the hallway. He watched his father sigh and felt a flicker of kinship; he couldn’t imagine being married to that woman.

 

“Oh, Marisol! It’s so good to see you! Come in, dear- Lance! Come get your sister’s bags!”

 

As much as he loathed playing pack mule, he was thankful for the opportunity to get out of listening to Oliver rant about carbon footprints and turtle conservation.

 

“Hey there, Mari,” Lance smiled at his litter sister as he met her in the doorway, taking in her long, free flowing hair and the modest black dress, “it’s good to see you again.”

 

“It’s Marisol,” she corrected him with a frown that was so like their mother’s that he practically felt the frostbite, “I’m not a child, Lance, and I suggest you not treat me like one.”

 

He pursed his lips as he turned to watch their mother wrap an arm along her shoulders and send him a pointed glance before turning to herd her towards the dining room and leaving him to close the door with his foot and heft her bags to the foot of the staircase. He took a moment to stretch, wondering if it was cement blocks or bodies that she was hauling in the black duffle bags. He cringed as he turned, coming face to face with one of the paintings that his mother had situated through the house of Odysseus’ journey via Homer’s epic, ‘The Odyssey.”

 

“Ma’am,” he muttered with a snicker as he nodded towards the painting of a topless representation of Circe, the nymph.

 

He was seriously contemplating taking Hunk up on his offer as he entered the dining room again and took his seat at the table, watching their mother flitter around like a moth as she placed the china and brought out a series of steaming bowls heaped with what he prayed wasn’t her own cooking. Lance waited until everyone had finished heaping their plates before he helped himself.

 

He remained quiet as they talked, trying not to roll his eyes at the constant bragging and circle jerking that always managed to take center stage at their dinners. It was always Oliver talking about how useful he was to the environment, Helena fawning over Marisol, his father remaining quiet but for a few nods and affirmations, and Lance not being able to get a word in edgewise. It was like he was a pet, there to be seen but not heard. Dinner went on like that for some twenty minutes, conversation about their various accomplishments only pausing so that they could actually eat.

 

“How’s school, Marisol,” Lance asked, looking over to the head of the table where she sat to the left of his father.

 

Her lips quirked the smallest bit as a single brow raised.

 

“It’s called Juilliard, Lance, and it’s wonderful,” she answered, her attention turning towards him only momentarily before she was beaming at their mother, “and I have a large piece that I’ve recently finished working on. I’m planning to debut it to my instructor when I get back.”

 

“Sounds like it’s going well for you; I’m happy to hear that,” he responded.

 

“You should really try furthering your own education Lance,” Marisol responded, “maybe things would turn around for you.”

 

Pausing in the middle of chewing a piece of overcooked broccoli, Lance laid down his fork and swallowed. He was aware of all the eyes around the table focusing on him as a familiar tension wound its way through his shoulders. It was futile to beg himself not to react when he could already feel himself becoming defensive.

 

“What do you mean ‘things would turn around for me?’ Things are going just fine my way.”

 

Marisol chuckled a little before her expression sobered and she looked around the table for support.

 

“Well, I mean, you never even looked into colleges after high school. I assume you’re writing those books because you don't have anything else lined up…”

 

“I just thought you were too lazy to do something worthwhile,” Oliver added with a shrug.

 

“I write those books because I enjoy writing and I’m good at it. I make a decent living and I like what I do. There’s nothing wrong with not going to school and,” Lance turned to look at his brother, “my writing is worthwhile; it gives people an escape when things get hard. Just because I don't have a hard-on over sea turtles doesn’t meant that what I’m doing isn’t worthwhile. I’m a bestselling author- hell, I just did an interview for local radio last week.”

 

“Don’t snipe at your siblings, Lance,” Helena broke in, reaching across the table to pat at Marisol’s hand before leveling a firm look in his direction, “Marisol and Oliver are right. You could be doing so much more than playing pretend. You should put your talents towards real careers instead of soaking up useless trivia all day long and helping dull the mental faculties of others.”

 

His patience for that tone had run its course.

 

“You know,” Lance finally said, wiping his hands and crumpling up the napkin before tossing it on his plate and turning in his seat, “for someone who thinks so little of my occupation, you really don't have any room to talk. You teach classic literature; what do you think literature is, exactly?”

 

“Don’t you attempt to lecture me, brat,” Helena huffed, lifting her chin without even sparing him a glance, “my work is focused on important works of cultural significance. They’re classics for a reason, Lance, while your drivel is just silly little boy daydreams pandering to Neanderthals and layabouts that still live with their parents.”

 

“Silly little-”

 

Lance sat like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing a few times as he absorbed her words.

 

“Are you kidding me?! Cultural significance? Tell me about the cultural significance of Homer’s plays. Go ahead.”

 

“Any classic literature is a key to our history, smart mouth. It’s a living memory-”

 

“-of the nation? No, I asked you about the cultural significance of Homer’s plays; I didn’t ask you to plagiarize a lecture from Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.”

 

“I don't have to listen to this idiocy in my own home,” she sputtered, vein in her neck prominent as her frown deepened.

 

“So, you can’t tell me the significance of Homer and yet there is framed artwork behind me of a cyclops, with his dick out, chucking a rock at Odysseus’ boat. Brilliant.”

 

“How dare you reduce the work of Annibale Carracci to some childish, crude, depiction!”

 

“Play as indignant as you want, mom, but you’re the one that put a giant with an exposed penis in the dining room.”

 

“I’ll tell you all why he never uses that eidetic memory towards anything useful,” Helena stated, slamming her fork down on the table, “it’s because he’s still a child who doesn’t want to be an adult.”

 

“Helena-” His father tried to butt in but she immediately sent him a glare that made him wither.

 

“Don’t you encourage him,” she growled before turning her sharp eyes back towards Lance, “throw your tantrum all you like but you will not do it in my home. Get out.”

 

“Gladly.”

 

He quickly got to his feet and crossed the dining room, but his hand lingered on the archway and before he could leave, he found himself looking over his shoulder.

 

“I don't know why I come here and sit through this degradation. I think I just kept hoping that, somewhere, deep down in your self-centered hearts, you gave a shit. Don’t worry though, I think I’m over it.”

 

His fingers clenched around the molding and he stood there for another fraction of a second, some part of him hoping that someone, anyone, would tell him to stay.

 

No one did.

 

His lip trembled and he pulled it between his teeth as he forced himself to move through the house and out the door. He didn’t, couldn’t, stop. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he quickly fell into the driver’s seat and peeled out of the driveway. The road began blurring at some point, the hurt that he’d been trying to stomp down finding its way out. Lance could only think of one place to go.

 

 

 

He pulled into a parking spot at the edge of Crandon Park and wiped his eyes before he let himself out, slamming the door closed on his Kia so hard that the entire car rattled. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began the walk along the beautifully lined walkways towards the beach. The towering palms cast their shadows over the path as he walked, pausing just before the wooden deck came into view that led out onto the sands. As a child, when he’d felt just as useless and worn down, he’d always made his way towards that beach. Something about the gentle waves and uncrowded shores soothed his weary soul.

 

Lance trekked through the sands as the evening sun continued its slow descent behind a menagerie of wispy pink and orange clouds, the sky painted like sorbet as he unceremoniously flopped onto the shore just beyond the reach of the tide. For a long while, Lance just watched as the water rolled in and receded, and he wondered absently how his recent character, Aesir, would have handled things. A snort tore past his lips as he thought of him ruining dinner by brandishing a sword.

 

“Silly boy,” he muttered to himself, repeating her words.

 

He let himself lay back against the shore, hands falling to his side. He turned his head to look at his right hand as it fisted in the sand, raising it to watch the grains sift through his open fingers.

 

“I've got to fit somewhere.”