Far From Home - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Late September
September had brought along with it a new sense of normalcy. Jake had begun to worry less and less about the little things and accept the fact that he was falling into a new pattern, a new routine, a new life that he didn't hate as much as he thought he would. The change was good. He felt good.
He joined the House of Dobovic—a term coined by Kris to label their mess of a group—at least once a week for lunch, carrying on cheerful conversations with Rose about the birds and the bees (quite literally), relishing in any moment Camilla would honor him with one of her famous death stares, or when Kris would punch his shoulder. Nat would drag him along to coffee study sessions or to some random trip to the grocery store every couple of days, and while Jake cursed himself for always agreeing to go out with her, he enjoyed their time together more than he would doing his homework anyway. The four of them had become a sort of comfort Jake didn't know he needed. Rose with her nurturing soul, Camilla with her ever-present reminder of his sister, Kris with her roughened edges that made conversations a bit more honest, and Nat with her guiding light through the trials and triumphs of his first semester of college. They were four people who were absolutely nothing like each other, yet fit together like the colors of the rainbow. A little family of sorts. Just as much as they drained him, they replenished him all the same.
He had been in the dining hall with them when Ricky had texted. The two of them had developed a lax friendship at best—texting only when one or the other needed something—but Ricky was a friend Jake decided was worth keeping. It was one more person in their hall that didn't hate him, and Jake managed to convince himself such relations were precious. Reluctantly, he had sent back a Yeah sure to Ricky's Dude, I'm so fucking sick. Can you grab me something when you stop by the dining hall? It was the least he could do. Jake still didn't know what had happened at the party, but he couldn't help the lingering feeling that Ricky might have saved him from making a big mistake.
Walking through the hallway felt like walking through a hospital ward. Jake was afraid to touch anything for fear of catching what he had stealthy avoided so far this semester: the campus flu. Nat had warned him that living in the dorms was like living in a Petri dish, but Jake hadn't believed her until Tyler sent out a warning text at the beginning of the month that the dorm hall adjacent to theirs was starting to fall ill. Connor had sent back a snarky text reminding everyone that they were capable of washing their hands which, at the time, had made Jake smile, but he wasn't smiling now.
Eleven out of their twenty were sick—excluding Jake and Andre, but not Ricky and Connor. The hall had been a pitiful sight, full of whiny boys that should have been old enough to take care of themselves, but the capabilities of which had obviously been overestimated. A floor full of mostly eighteen and nineteen year old's had turned into literal children in the course of a week. It made Jake scared to leave his room for fear of finding someone on the bathroom floor incapable of getting back up.
Jake had knocked on Ricky's door as lightly as he could, not knowing if maybe being sick had made the two boys inside more sensitive to sound. It was a foolish thought, but Jake didn't know how to respond to people being sick—the Holmes very rarely ever fell ill, most of which happened when Jake and McKenna were small children. Aaron never admitted when he actually felt anything other than A-Okay, and Katherine was plenty capable of taking care of herself. That left Jake standing awkwardly in front of the Cobella-Morgan door, wondering what the appropriate greeting was.
He didn't get time to figure it out.
"Hey." Ricky mumbled, his voice low and crackly.
Jake looked up to him. He looked like shit—all of that golden glow somehow dulled to beige. His hair was a curled catastrophe, the bags under his eyes were darker than his eyes themselves, his sweatpants fell loosely around his waist, and his baggy t-shirt even more so around his shoulders. Ricky Cobella had never looked more like a mess.
"Hey. They had Chinese... and uh, I also got a soup in case either of you wants that."
"Thanks..." He yawned. "I've been up doing work all afternoon, but Connor's been sleeping. I'm sure he wants something light."
With that, Jake's eyes drifted into the bedroom, lit only faintly by Ricky's desk light on the left side. It was a bit messy, but given their current circumstances, Jake didn't feel like he was in a place to judge. Ricky was enthralled in some kind of serious homework given the myriad of papers he had spread out along his desk and the textbook opened on the floor. Connor was curled up on the bed on the right side, his face turned into the wall—dead asleep through the sound of their talking.
Connor sleeping wasn't a rare sight. It wasn't the fact that he had caught Connor asleep that was so surprising... it was what he was wearing. Jake's eyes caught the numbers first, his face flushing at the sight of the 43, and then the name printed above them, Holmes. He's wearing my sweatshirt. Why is he wearing my sweatshirt?
If Ricky noticed, he didn't say anything. A part of Jake hoped he hadn't so it would avoid an awkward conversation, but the other part wished he had so Jake could have asked him any one of the questions he was holding back. Why did he keep it? Is it because of me, or does he just value a good sweatshirt too much to give it away? Did he tell you about me? What did he say?
"Um..." Jake swallowed, trying to look away. "Yeah, no problem."
"Is Andre sick yet?" Ricky etched his eyebrows in question.
"Uh, no. No, we're good. How is Co—how are you guys feeling?"
"Eh." He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had it for a couple days so it's on the outs, but it's hitting Connor pretty bad, he hasn't moved today."
"No shit?"
"Yeah."
Jake didn't want to admit that worried him. Connor would be okay, and he certainly didn't need his help. Ricky would know what to do if something went wrong, and it was absolutely none of Jake's concern anymore, but he still felt it like an annoying fly in his ear telling him Connor was his responsibility. Nope. Connor is Connor, and I am me. He takes care of him and I... take care of me.
"If y'all need anything, let me know." He offered anyway.
Ricky forced a pained grin. "Connor wouldn't admit to needing anything even if he was starving in the woods."
Jake's tight lip smile said exactly what he was thinking. I know he wouldn't. He wanted to say 'sounds like Connor,' but something about it seemed too personal.
"I'll uh, see you later." He nodded.
Ricky returned his nod with another. "See ya. Thanks, Jake."
Jake turned back to his own door with a smile that faded the moment he was facing away from Ricky. His mind was running circles around the image of Connor in his sweatshirt to the point where he couldn't see anything else. So many of his favorite memories were of Connor in that sweatshirt. That night in the abandoned Dollar General parking lot where 'Shake It Off' played through a phone speaker and they danced like no one was watching. Their first kiss later that night, where Jake was too scared to make the first move, but Connor didn't seem to mind. Rainy days at Connor's house where they laid around watching movies and tried to survive off of whatever was in the cabinets. The Fourth of July when Jake held his hand for the first time, and later kissed him in front of all those people like they had nothing to lose. Little did he know, they had everything to lose. And while Connor was wearing that sweatshirt, they lost it all.
Fuck.
Jake fingered through his keys until he found the one to his room. Alongside it was a key to a house he didn't know if he would ever return to. That house was the reason he lost it all—the people inside that haunted him more than losing Connor ever had. They followed him around like a guilty conscience, reminding Jake of what he sacrificed, and what he would continue to forfeit for his right to walk through the door. He didn't know if he wanted to return home anymore. His lust for home had been stained with the blood of his identity, cut out of him with a dull knife that set out to inflict the most pain while watching him bleed.
Fucking home.
What the hell was that supposed to mean anyways?
Jake didn't know.
He pressed the key into his palm until he could feel each ridge as it cut into his skin. When he thought he knew the pain enough to have memorized it, he flipped his fingers back over to his room key, taking ahold of the metal salvation carved into brass and unlocking the door with it.
Is this home?
Is this where I belong?
The question had weighed on his mind from the moment he first unlocked this door, but every time he felt the key underneath his fingertips, it offered no more of an answer than it did the first time.
Where do I belong?