Archive of Our Own

Theo Cappelletti hates Fridays.

Fridays are meant for hanging out with friends—presuming, of course, that you have any friends in the first place—eating pizza, playing video games, talking, laughing, having fun…

But while all of his not-actually-friends are chilling at their not-crappy houses eating not-crappy pizza, Theo Cappelletti is alone, holed up in his dank, dinky room in this dank, dinky dump.

Don’t believe what you see in the movies: growing up Italian in NYC isn’t ritzy or edgy or badass. It’s dangerous, sure—but that’s because you’re getting beaten up at home, in your own living room by your own father, not in an abandoned warehouse by some menacing thugs in Armani suits and sunglasses. The only bugs and rats are the ones creeping and crawling across the filthy, barely lit halls. And all those stories about Nonno—about the honor and the feuds and the heists—turns out Dad made all those up. Still, you’d think it might count for something. A faraway dream of luxurious weekends filled with expensive wine or fancy cigars or a penthouse party.

But no.

Instead, Theo is here. A dirtbag hole in the wall on Broadway, technically just outside Little Italy.

There’s nothing ritzy or edgy or badass about Theo’s dad, either. All of the brutality and none of the class of an actual mobster. When he’s not calling out sick, he’s a deadbeat mechanic. Most Fridays, he comes home stinking of oil and exhaust, already tipsy. And proceeds to spend the rest of the weekend drinking, and drinking, and drinking… and screwing hookers.

Three nights of misery. All weekend long, Theo hides in his room, headphones dialed up full blast. They still can’t disguise the noise. Every vibration. Every thrust. Every grunt. Every moan. Theo can even smell them through the paper-thin walls.

Sweat. Musk. Lust.

It’s a quarter till two, this Friday night, and finally seems it’s dying down.

It will all be over soon. He hopes. He prays. Dad seemed pretty drunk when he stumbled in earlier. Hopefully it’ll be the kind of night where he just passes out afterward—and not the other kind of night…

When had it all started? Forever ago, it feels like. Way, way back; back to the…

How long has it been, now? Months? A year or two? Everything after the divorce blends together. Mom managed to hold onto Theo during the week, so long as she sticks with mandated rehab. But between that and the two jobs—days, nights, doubles—he barely sees her anyway.

Really though, things had gone to shit way before then. Probably even before Theo was born. Dad’s been more faithful to cheating than he has to anything else—except maybe the booze. Over the years Theo got used to the strange women coming and going. Most of his “babysitters” were probably hookers. But back when his parents were still together, at least it was easier to just ignore.

Now, though, there’s no one around to protect him.

And no one to speak up when his dad starts yelling, “Hey kid, get your ass in here!”

The first time that it’d happened, Theo’d assumed—naïvely, stupidly—that something serious was wrong. He knows what Dad is like, from the bruises that he’s always left on the women, on Mom, on Theo himself, whenever he’d tried to defend her. Maybe this time Dad’s done something extra reckless. Visions flash before his eyes: Blaring sirens. Blue and red. Black and blue. And red, red, red, splattered everywhere—the floor, the walls, the… (Maybe his life is a freaking Mafia movie…)

That Friday, Theo had rushed inside, prepared for the worst. Or so he’d thought. Turns out that he had no idea just how much worse it could get.

He sees it now, as clearly as he had that night:

Dad’s reclining on the bed; stark naked, except for his grubby off-white tube socks, the gold chain and cross dangling against his hairy chest, and the wedding ring that he still wears under the delusion that he and Mom are ever getting back together. His gut bounces as he rolls his hips and thrusts up.

Above him, a blonde—frizzy hair; spray-tan skin; cherry lips; full breasts and thick thighs jiggling as she rides him.

Theo stumbles to a stop and freezes awkwardly in the doorway.

“C’mere son,” Dad slurs, “Stop lettin’ flies in. Get over here. C’mon, don’t be shy.”

Theo just stands there.

Dad continues: “’Bout time you start figurin’ how to get the ladies like your old man, eh buddy? Why dontcha join us? You can take a turn. Or”—Dad slaps the woman’s ass, then starts laughing—“the backdoor’s open. It’s what you’re into anyhows, ain’t it?”

Theo wants to melt into the filthy carpet.

“Poor kid,” Dad now addresses the prostitute. “Such a finocchio. Only woman the boy’s ever wanted to bang is his mother—and that ain’t sayin’ much, ugly as she was.”

Theo feels sick.

“I knew since he was four, the way he looked at ’er.” The blonde woman smiles and laughs, too, undulating against Dad as he speaks. “I’ve been tryna get through to ’im, but he’s impossible.”

Theo hates Fridays.

“Eh go on, ya little fag,” Dad suddenly jeers. “I know ya don’t got it in ya. Get outta here.”

(Theo hates his father.)

He’d hoped that it’d been a fluke. A one time thing. Just his dad being extra drunk and extra stupid.

But from then on, Dad seems more and more convinced that the best way to straighten out his son is for him to fuck the gay away.

Friday after Friday, Dad gets bolder and bolder. Dragging Theo over by the ear. Yanking down Theo’s jeans and boxers to reveal his limp dick.

“You believe this kid?” Dad mocks as he grabs him up, jangling his parts like a trinket. “He’s never gonna fuck a broad with this thing.” Dad tugs on his balls, too. “Worthless, empty as that head’a yours. How’m I ever gonna get a grandson outta you? Gotta carry on that family legacy.”

Over time, Theo finds ways to cope. He laughs it off. Claims he’s tired from school. Tells Dad “Next time, next time…”

Dad isn’t having it. So he tries harder.

He plays along. When Dad asks what Theo thinks of his latest catch, Theo says all the right things about her body, her breasts, her ass.

Then, at Dad’s urging, Theo touches that body, those breasts, that ass, and everywhere—everywhere—else. His hands. Her hands. Her mouth. His mouth. Mouth on mouth. Mouth on… not mouth. Even then, he doesn’t respond. He tries and he tries. Anything and everything that he knows to get himself in the mood. All week long, he forces himself to watch porn, to jerk off. Then he tries not jerking off, any time the rest of the week, hoping that maybe, maybe it might help him perform. (It doesn’t.)

All the while, on the sidelines, Dad sits and watches. Scowling. Smirking. Sneering. Nodding. Chuckling. Stroking his own—much bigger, much harder—dick.

Sometimes Dad will walk over as Theo hovers above the woman below him. He stands behind Theo. The big, hard dick brushes against Theo’s hip, or jabs him, between the asscheeks, and—at last—Theo’s own pathetic dick twitches.

“Jesus, kid,” Dad scoffs. “That what you fuckin’ like? Fuckin’ hopeless…”

He likes girls, he does. In fact, his best—only—friend is a girl. Makayla. Theo had met her in freshman bio, and they’ve been lab partners ever since.

Mac is smart and kind and funny and pretty.

Really, objectively, she is. Caramel colored hair. Long eye lashes. Nice… uh, lips. And, fingernails, she always has such cute fingernails; short, but painted a rainbow of colors. (One time she’d even done Theo’s; he’d been so excited—until it earned him bruises more colorful than the polish…)

The truth is, Mac probably likes girls more than Theo does. That’s probably why they’re such good friends in the first place.

Theo won’t—he can’t—ever admit it, but Dad is right about him:

The only crushes that he’s ever had have all been on boys. And on the rare occasions that he does think about sex—or watch porn or jerk off, like it’s not an assignment—he doesn’t think about girls. When he lines up behind these prostitutes, he doesn’t think about their bodies or their chests or their asses. When Dad guides Theo’s barely-hard dick between their legs, Theo doesn’t think about what he’s making contact with. He’s thinking about his classmates, in the locker room.

About their hard, tight chests and asses and—

About himself, bent over the benches…

Friday night again.

Another cheap, greasy pizza. Another nameless, faceless hooker.

This one was hot and heavy, but efficient, too. Half past eleven and already the grunting has been replaced by snores. When it’s this fast, sometimes Dad will wake back up and want round two. But Theo decides to risk grabbing a snack anyway. He sneaks out to the kitchen, careful to avoid the creakiest floorboards.

She’s sitting at their kitchen table. Jet black hair, layered in loose curls around her neck. Dark, catlike eyes. Razor red nails. A violet corset top, burgundy leather miniskirt, and black fishnets. Theo doesn’t even have to like girls to see why Dad picked her. He’s surprised that Dad could afford her, actually. She leans back, stilettos up on the table, absently picking at the cold pizza.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Theo blurts. “You’ll piss him off.”

“And so what if I do?” A cool, confident voice. Defiant.

“Take my word for it, there’s been about a hundred like you. I’ve seen what they all look like when they leave. My dad’s a, uh… not so gentle kind of guy.”

“A hundred ‘like me’ you say, hmmm?” the woman asks. “And what might that be?” Her winged eyes narrow, but she smirks, clearly amused. “I don’t know what you’ve seen before, but I promise you this: I can take care of myself.”

Bold, this one. Far bolder than any of the others.

Intrigued, Theo pulls up a chair and sits down. He reaches over and grabs a slice of the pizza, flicking off the banana peppers—Dad’s favorite, yuck. “What’s your name?” he asks her.

“Marcella Donato—but they call me Marcie.”

“Benedetto Teodoro Cappelletti, il piccolo—but they call me Theo,” he echoes playfully, extending his hand. She takes it, and they shake, both laughing.

“A junior, huh?” Marcella—Marcie asks.

“Yeah,” Theo sighs. “Did you know Italy’s actually made it illegal to name your kid the same as his father. But Dad doesn’t care. Says he wants to start a whole line—like that’s ever gonna happen! Anyway, you know him; never been one for following rules.”

“No kidding,” she chuckles, clear and bright, but darkened by understanding. “Well then, Theo, since we’re both here. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

They talk and talk. About anything. About everything. About nothing at all. Minutes turn to hours but feel like seconds. The once miserable night melts away. Dad never does wake back up. By five, he’s still snoring soundly.

Marcie glances at her phone. “Shit,” she mutters. “I better get outta here.” She stands and heads for the door. Turning back to Theo, she smiles, dark eyes glimmering, “ But maybe I’ll see you around some time, huh?”

“Maybe,” Theo smiles back.

A few more Fridays. A few more pizzas. A few more hookers.

The crisp fall air tightens. Rain changes to snow.

One night in early December, it’s one of Dad’s more lucid homecomings, and Theo takes a chance.

“Hey, uh, Dad?”

“What, whaddya want?” he grumbles. “I’m tryna watch the tube.”

Theo takes a deep breath. Remembers the confidence. The defiance. “”It’s uh, just, do you remember a month or two ago, the girl with the black hair? What was her name again, uh, Marcella?”

“Hmm… Oh, oh yeah, good ol’ Marcie. Hadn’t seen that one for years, but she’s good as ever, huh? Anyways, what about’er?”

“I, uh, I liked her.” When Dad doesn’t react, Theo emphasizes, “You know, liked her. I uh, actually while you were asleep, I got to know her some, I hope that’s alright? And I was wondering if we could, uh, maybe talk some more some time.”

Dad’s face beams with approval that Theo hasn’t seen in—well, ever, really. “Oh yeah? Oh son, this is great! Finally gettin’ through to ya after all. I’m proud of ya, son.”

Dad is proud of him. Dad is proud of him.

“Dontcha worry,” he continues. “I’ll call’er up for ya.”

She’s as beautiful as Theo remembered. Jet black hair ironed razor straight tonight. Orchid lips and matching nails. But those same catlike eyes, studying him curiously.

Dad assaults her with nuzzles and gropes, his typical greeting; she takes it in stride, flirtatiously whispering, “Benny, darling, you miss me so much, huh? Usually don’t hear from you years at a time, and now it’s twice in two months. You know I always love your calls, though, Daddy.”

“Oh yeah, baby, you know I do too. Plus I had to find ya, my son, you see”—he gestures to Theo—“I bet ya remember him from what he’s told me, huh? He asked for you, and you know me, I always take care of my boy.”

From the side, Marcie eyes Theo. But she plays along.

“Mmm, oh yes, I do remember him, quite well. While you were snoring away, Benny, he was keeping me up all night long.”

Dad roars with laughter, delighted. “He was, was he? Man kid, you really turned it around. Whaddya say the two of yous give your old man a show, then?”

“I, uh…” Theo stumbles.

“Maybe just the two of us, these first few times, hmm Benny?” Marcies steps in for him. “I’ll have him ready soon enough.”

“Sure you will, you minx. Eh, alright, still shy, this one. But go on, have fun. You’ll just be sure to tell me how it goes after, huh?” he finishes. Not a question. An ultimatum.

Marcie drops the act as soon as they get to Theo’s room:

“So what was all that about, hmm? I get this call from Benny Cappelletti, gushing about how his…” she pauses, debating, then lands on, “fruit of a son is finally a man? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I doubt he said ‘fruit’,” Theo mutters.

“Probably not,” she admits, and they both chuckle. “Still, you want to tell me why he did call me?”

Theo shrugs sheepishly, rubbing his arm. “I’m just trying to get him off my back, okay? I’m sure you know how that goes. Thought maybe you’d, you know, get it; know what to do—And I don’t want to actually do anything, really, I promise! You can do whatever—sleep, work. I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to. I’m not like him. I just… need help.”

Marcie gazes at him, sadness and understanding softening her sharp eyes. “I do get it. And I can help.”

They spend the next several Friday nights talking, in hushed whispers, as Theo pulls up and plays random PornHub videos out loud in the background.

They talk and talk and talk some more.

Theo tells Marcie about his mom. How she used to be, in the earliest years, before the cheating and the arguing and the beatings. Before the drinking and the drugs. Before the arrest, the lawyers, the sponsor, the ankle monitor.

Then Marcie tells Theo things that make him conclude that if his life is a movie, it’s the feel-good comedy of the year, compared to hers.

Friday after Friday.

Winter turns to spring.

Talking turns to musing.

Musing turns to plotting.

Mid-March.

A balmy, starlit Friday night.

The time is right.

Theo’s sitting at the table picking at his pizza; he’s been far too nervous to eat all evening. The clock strikes eleven, and Marcie arrives as usual. Tonight she’s dressed almost identically to when they first met—same top, same skirt, same fishnets. Same wicked lips. Same fearsome claws. Same dark eyes, glimmering sinisterly. She dots each of Dad’s cheeks with playful kisses, elegantly accepting when he forces them deeper, swiping her cheek with his tongue. She leans into his ear, whispering something.

Dad turns to Theo. “Eh, is that right kid?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Theo nods vigorously. “I’m ready. I wanna show you just how far I’ve come.”

“Well alright then, boy, let’s get to it.”

Theo casts his mind far away. Just as they’d discussed. They hadn’t practiced—both agreeing that it’d be best to allow whatever came naturally—but had enumerated, arranged, choreographed all the general sequences.

She is a lovely woman, Theo thinks, as he kisses her. As he touches her mouth, her face, her body, her breasts, her ass, her everywhere. Made all the more so by the most beautiful part of all: her mind. Her spirit. Her grit. Perhaps things were different—if he were different—it might even be something more. As it is, Theo doesn’t feel desire as he touches Marcie’s body. As his dad touches himself through his unzipped chinos, watching the both of them. But Theo doesn’t feel repulsion, either. Nor fear. Not any longer.

Marcie kisses Theo, slow and deep, then parts from him, waltzing over to Dad. She grabs him by each end of his loose belt and lassos him toward them. “C’mon Benny, how ’bout we add some spice tonight? To celebrate.” She leans into his ear, murmuring silkily, “I know it’s your favorite, Big Daddy.”

“Oh, filthy she-devil this one,” Dad chortles. “You see what I mean kid,” he addresses Theo, “If they don’t got you by the balls it’s by the neck. But alright, alright,” he assents, turning back to Marcie. “Anything for my favorite slut.”

Just as they’d discussed. Theo had been shocked, at first, upon Marcie’s revelation. If he had pictured anyone looping a belt around anyone’s neck, it’d been the other way around. He certainly never would have guessed that his dad—always such the tough guy ‘big man’—would ever let a woman treat him that way. But then again, Dad has proved, time and time again, that he’s not such a big man after all. Not in any of the ways it counts.

Marcie undresses Dad in short order, then manhandles him onto the bed, climbs atop him, and sinks down. All the while belt in hand.

Theo watches, spellbound.

Whether it’s the glee of seeing his dad finally put in his place, the anticipation of what’s soon to follow, or simply desires that he can’t yet name, his body responds. Good. The final piece of the plan.

He lines up behind Marcie as she’s already bouncing, hot and heavy. “So whaddaya think, Dad, can we share? Not too gay if it’s both in the pussy, right?” he laughs, playing to his dad’s crude humor.

Dad cackles, “Fuck yeah kid, c’mon in—if you can fits. She’s tight as fuck up in here—ain’t ya, bitch?” he growls, slapping Marcie’s ass.

She only smiles mischievously, tugging gently on the belt. “That’s right, Daddy.”

The moment of truth. It takes two, three tries, but he’s in. God, Dad wasn’t kidding. It’s tight. It’s wet. Theo is now officially closer than he’s ever been in his entire life to a pussy or a dick. His mind doesn’t know what to think, but he lets his body decide for him, trusting his instincts. He follows Marcie’s pace and rhythm, attuning himself to her. Just a little longer now.

From this angle, Marcie’s body hides his dad from him, but Theo listens as she leans down, crooning to him in a honeyed voice, laced with poison:

“You know, Benny, when I first met your son, I saw what you saw. A sad, pathetic little boy. Such a little pansy, he was. Desperate for help and attention, like a stray puppy.”

Theo catches sight of her knuckles, clenching the belt. Growing tighter, whiter. Coughs start echoing from the head of the bed.

“But just like you said, all it took was a feminine touch—the right woman—and I straightened him out.”

“Babe—Hon—What you—Doin—?”

“And you know what, Benedetto Teodoro Cappelletti, il grande?” she fawns, dripping irony.

“Hnn—hngh—”

Wheezing. Hacking. Gurgling.

“As it turns out, your son is far more of a man than you will ever be.”

One final, hard yank. A strangled cry. Explosions booming alongside, inside his body. Everything goes hot white, then black. Distantly, Theo is falling, stumbling, sinking down the wall.

He’s sinking. He’s drowning. His head’s pounding. He can’t breathe. He can’t see.

It’s all black.

Black. White. Black. Blue. Blue. Red. Red. White. Splattered everywhere, everywhere, everywhere—

Everywhere, everything.

Nowhere.

Nothing.

Something.

Someone.

A voice, soft and tender.

Dark eyes, full of concern.

“Theo! Theo! Come back Theo. Shh, shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. You did good, Theo. You did it.”

Her hands, just moments ago wielding such vicious power, are cool and gentle on his shoulders.

“Is it—Is he—Did we—?” Theo splutters.

“Yeah,” Marcie nods. “We’re free now—both of us.”

Gradually his body returns around him. He gathers his bearings, looks around and down. Notices the sticky mess in his lap. Not just his own… stuff, but tarnished with a rank, indecipherable smell, even worse than this apartment’s typical perma-stench.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “I-uh… is that me or him or…?”

“Some of both, I think.”

“And the-the… oh god…”

“It happens, sometimes, at the end,” Marcie responds nonchalantly, like this is a typical Friday night and she knows exactly how something like this goes.

She does know.

He holds his breath and steals a glance over toward the head of the bed. Dad’s garbled face. Mottled purplish blue. The whites of his eyes now red, bloodshot and bulging. Slack jaw. Tongue protruding between his lips, spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth.

“God…” he repeats, like a prayer. For forgiveness or praise, he doesn’t know. “Oh my god-god-god-g—” The panic swells again, but Marcie squeezes his arm, solid and grounding.

“Hey now, Theo, it’s okay. You did exactly right, didn’t overthink it, let whatever happened happen. What matters now is that it’s over. Now let’s get cleaned up, then I’ll take care of the rest.”

Marcella Donato has friends all over town. Friends in corset tops and miniskirts and fishnets. Friends in blue uniforms and service caps. In teal scrubs and hair nets. In white wigs and black robes. She makes a few calls, and immediately over a dozen women line up, all willing to testify that Benny Cappelletti was a sick, kinky bastard who was bound to end up pushing himself too far one of these days. It was only a matter of time.

Ruled accidental. Open and shut. Case closed.

And now—

It’s the first Friday of April.

A cool, quiet night.

No grunting or moaning or banging through the walls.

Instead of a cramped, grubby apartment, Theo’s at the new place, with Mom. They’d qualified for a spot in the new co-op, thanks to a glowing letter of recommendation from an anonymous source.

He hasn’t seen or heard from Marcie ever since.

He looks out the window and gazes at the city lights, and wonders: How and where might she be spending her Friday night? What will she do next? What tales is she weaving? What notches has she added to her belt?

Wherever she is—whatever she’s doing—Theo knows that she’s okay. After all, she can take care of herself.

And now, thanks to her, Theo can too.