"Under the guise of a trafficking rink," he drawled, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a slight glower reaching his features. "I'm not sure they understand what they're up against."
He caught the piercing stare through the darkness, stars pulsing above the almost vacant parking lot. The whirring of trucks could be heard as ACs and other electronics were put to work, with the throttle and drone of passing cars, warm air stirring about in waves, otherwise left still and evenly pounding over the mid-august Arizonian summer night. The man's partner, his brother, wore a perfect grin, something so deviously curious that the man began to question whether he was on the right side in this war.
"They know exactly what they're doing, Lud," he laughed lowly, though there was forever a constant tinge of his voice, a croak, as if his vocal chords had been torn to shreds somewhere along prepubescent years. A bright sunburn, scattered across his nose and cheeks, gave perspective how ghastly blond he was; and how the rest of him, under thin garments and lotioned sunscreen, paled, almost luminously, in any form of light. He was a Hollywood vampire. Ironic, really.
"Whether that's true, we can't move in tonight. We better head back to the motel." The man decided, casting a final glance towards the dead truck stop, run by an unsuspecting teen that could be seen through the window. She scrolled through her phone. The man couldn't help but stare.
"We're not able to save her," his brother said. "It's against our policy." In his pocket was a small object, no larger than a common key-chain-similar to the makeup of one, as well-that he now dug out to apply his emphasis. "Stop kicking yourself over it."
The man let off something of a growl. "I know. Kirk would kill us if we went against it—but—"
"But nothing. Come on. We have forty-eight hours to catch these ones."
"Forty-eight? That's it?"
The albino shrugged. "They're playing with us, or testing us, I'm not sure. Their rules."
"Then why don't They-!"
"How they hell am I supposed to know?" Though his tone was laced with seriousness, his face still held the overlying gleam of glee.
The man shook his head, knowing that in the morning they would be back to stake out the property a bit more. Forty-eight hours—what did They have in mind? What was Their end goal? "Then I guess we better read up on it before it happens," he gave.
Two months prior
"Fuck me in the ass," Lovino groaned, rubbing his temple as the whole world a doorway away erupted with mindless consumers who had all decided that they were right. The truck-stop he worked at had a main area with a small open-bar restaurant and convenience store, with a wing on the east made-up to be a shower area, leaving the west wing reserved for backstock. He quickly walked down the east trailer, eyes scanning for whatever-the-hell Dorthey Lynch sauce was, checking boxes, cursing everything from salt to tarter sauce to the stupid ketchup packets his damned coworkers kept dropping and not picking up, before finally finding a bottle with curiously-orange contents that had blinked out at him from the bottom shelf. Taking two of the large bottles up in his arms, he returned to the havoc.
Feliciano grinned at a woman stupidly. "No way!" he gushed. "I have family in Oklahoma. What brings you to Kansas?"
Lovino groaned. Feliciano needed to shut it and just ring the woman up. Send her on her way so that the growing line of disgruntled people would leave. There were two registers, one for the kitchen and one for the convenience store. Lovino was on kitchen tonight, so along with his duties of cooking he also had the immense pleasure of taking orders.
"Penny pincher," Lovino cursed under his breath, referring to his boss who, knowing full well how much work running a store and a restaurant right on Route 66 and expecting showers to be kept and dining areas to be watched, only put two people on shift at a time. Lovino often-times grumbled about being the back that kept the wine on their boss's table. Feliciano would just laugh at him.
Plastering what he hoped looked like a vexed smile—because people would shuffle off with their feathers ruffled quicker if he looked angry—he met the man that had demanded the mystery sauce for his salad. "This it?"
"Yeah, and can we get this to go?"
"You said it was for here—"
"The wait was too long."
Lovino could feel his eye twitching but catered anyway. Fuck minimum wage—he was seriously considering a plan B of prostitution in Las Vegas at this point.
Every minute was slower than the last.
"I'm sorry," he wanted to snap, "but I can't possibly make it cook any faster! Do you want a raw burger, because it's seven-at-night and I decided to cook to-order tonight, kay?"
"My manager's number? Why don't I give you your mother's number—don't worry, she gave it to me last night."
"Well fuck you and your service dog."
"Just because you're not looking at me doesn't mean I can't see you picking your fucking nose!"
"Plummer-a-fucking-lert. News flash, fatass, belts exist."
His head swirled with deliciously venomous comments, but alas he really did enjoy having an apartment and gas money.
The eight-hour shift was never over. One moment he was cooking, the next he was doing dishes, the next Feliciano was hissing at him to be nice and watch the front because he really needed to pee, the next he was being rushed in the trailer for more coffee grounds because the pot was empty again—though, to be fair, he had probably consumed at least half of that last batch—the next Feliciano spilled his mop water and was laughing at how angry Lovino looked, the next he was cleaning the counter and finally—finally—Elizaveta, his manager, came to relieve him of his shift.
"Busy tonight?" she asked. She had come in through the backdoor, pulling a bit of the summer air in with her as she walked. It smelt faintly of oil, and the leather jacket she wore—she now shuffled off to set beside her purse—let off a stiff wail every time she moved. As she passed Lovino could only note the distinct smell of dust, from the leather, and soft florals, from her perfume and perhaps shampoo. She was distinguished, sitting at about forty years old, with greying hair that she continuously dyed to keep a vibrant toffee color, but still chill. She had yet to write Lovino up.
"Oh, no, just seven-hundred in snack bar alone." Lovino groaned.
"Must've been a pretty tough dinner rush."
Feliciano perked up, coming out from the coolers, his arms filled with empty beverage boxes. "Elli!" he gushed.
"Kiku is going to be a few minutes late, Feli, so hold off on counting your drawer."
Feliciano dropped his trash, grabbing his water bottle and giving her a sickeningly happy smile. "Not a problem. Can I start taking inventory, though?"
"Yeah, just make sure to note what you sell."
"Okay! Lovino, will you still wait for me?"
Lovino and Feliciano were on-shift together a lot—Lovino suspected it was because no one else worked with him just as well as Feliciano did—and they had fallen into the habit of walking to their vehicles together. Lovino always joked that it was because Feliciano was afraid of the dark, but he never minded it. It was actually kind of nice.
"What?" Lovino demanded. "Wait?"
"Please?" Feliciano whined, drawing out the 'plea' with a fraudulent frown that lifted at the ends.
Lovino, pounding out of his register and collecting the signed receipts and other paperwork, clicked his tongue. "You better hope Kiku gets here soon. I'm out of here the second I'm done counting."
Sitting down in the back, Lovino grabbed at the clipboard with the shift-report. "Lovino!" Feliciano called from the front.
"What?"
"Can you come help me?"
"Ask Elli!"
"…"
He sighed, reaching for his calculator.
"Lovino!"
"What?"
"Elli can't do it. Can you come help me?"
Lovino groaned, scrubbing at his eyes. "With what?"
"…"
"Tch," Lovino scooted closer to the desk, his ass very-much content in the cushioned chair. "What an idiot."
"Loooviiiinooo!"
"Whaaaat?"
"Can you come—"
"No!"
"Lovino!"
Restraining himself with a bellicose groan, drumming his fingers on the desk in a quick, violent succession, he stood and stomped out to the front. "Yes, Feliciano?" he asked in his sweetest voice.
"Be, Lovino," he said in-such-dumb-manner that Lovino could have punched him, "can you open this please?"
"Are you telling me that you pulled me away from my job to open a jar of sauerkraut?"
"It's just," he excused, that stupid-innocent look always apparent, honey eyes gleaming, "we're running a bit low. What would happen if someone came in and ordered a Rueben, and neither Kiku or Elli could open the jar?"
"Then they could—god forbid!—tell the son-of-a-bitch-that-needs-a-Rueben-at-three-in-the-morning that they're out?"
"Oh, but Lovi, they could really be craving one," Feliciano persuaded, stepping closer and offering the jar.
"Then they could just break the fucking jar."
"What! That's dangerous! What if some glass were to be mixed in with the kraut!"
"God's will," Lovino said sarcastically, taking the jar from Feliciano roughly—though his counterpart just blossomed with victory, "is God's way. If some poor bastard dies from glass in his Rueben, then it was only meant to be."
Feliciano pouted at him, "what if you were to die from a Rueben because someone was irresponsible enough to break a jar?"
Lovino, with very little effort—none at all, really—popped the top of the sauerkraut off. Shoving it back into Feliciano's hands, he leaned in and whispered: "Then I guess it's meant to be. Turn around, you have a customer, you idiot."
Feliciano's pout had grown into something sinister, almost even a smirk, but Lovino had turned on his heel and started towards the back before he could figure out what the kid was thinking. He sighed as he sat. His feet, after running around all day, were throbbing, only adding to the throbbing in his back that he couldn't seem to pop out.
He was just grabbing at his pencil when it started again. "Lovino!"
"No! Do your job, Feliciano."
"Lovino! Lovino! Lovino I need your help! I forgot how to do the truck-card thingy!"
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lovino ground his teeth. No, Feliciano did not forget how to run truck-cards. He had been running them all fucking night.
Angrily he stepped out again, ran the man's card through the computer, asking him the various questions he needed to, before slamming the slip that the trucker needed to sign onto the counter and spinning to catch Feliciano's face inches from his. "Now," he said, his best glare pointed at the kid, "stop bothering me and let me do my drawer."
"Thank you so much, Lovi! I really don't know what I would do without you!"
Lovino shook his head, muttering as he walked: "you're either the biggest fucktard or the cleverest shit I've ever met."
"Hey, Lovi," Feliciano said just as Lovino was turning the corner, having sent the trucker away with a grin. His tone was mild.
"Yes?" Lovino snapped.
"Please wait for me."
"Good ridden," he growled, tramping to the chair and plotting himself in it. He waited for some stupid cry, but it didn't come. Sighing with relief, Lovino was finally able to get his chore done.
It only took him thirty-two minutes because he miscounted a couple times.
"I swear!" Lovino promised. The early-morning air was still stifling, a burning eighty-four according to Lovino's phone (that he hadn't checked a million times, thank you, because he had been very busy); the clear skies did nothing to relieve fears of the drought continuing. It was the hottest May Kansas had seen since the turn of the century. With each step the gravel of the truck parking lot crunched. "I was missing like fifty dollars no matter how I counted!"
Feliciano giggled. "And you found it?" he asked, a flirting skeptic.
"Finally, yes. I wasn't going to have the fucking boss thinking I was a thief! I ended up misplacing a damned check."
"A check?"
"Yeah—I—remember that one Mexican family that came in? The one with like eight kids?"
"Sure," Feliciano played.
"Well, they paid with a check. It was that one. I ended up dropping it on the way to the back, I guess." Feliciano was quiet, and feeling that he needed to prove himself, Lovino continued. "Yeah, it was a weird check. Most people just have one of those standards ones, but this one had some Spanish shit written on it. Well, I think it was Spanish. I don't know Spanish, so I wouldn't be able to tell you. It was…it was brown. The color, of the check—and the writing. Yeah, and—well I'm sure you could imagine how relieved I felt when I found it!"
The pace had slowed as they neared Feliciano's Kia. Beneath the void it was black, almost indistinguishable against the horizon that stretched along the Interstate. Lovino's was a few lots over, ruby red in the sun, crimson here.
"Lucky for you." Lovino finished, nodding his head and believing his lie the more he spewed about it. A soft dinging ticked off as Feliciano opened his door, the soft light above his dash illuminating the driver's seat through a tinted window. The boy seemed to hesitate.
"Lovino?" he asked timidly.
Lovino frowned. Shoving his hands into his pockets and turning around—as he had already started walking away with a "Night, idiot" on his lips, responded suspiciously.
"Do you remember how I told you my grandpa was in the hospital?" He wasn't looking at Lovino, his features had dropped considerably.
"Yeah? Is—he alright?"
Feliciano played with the keys in his hand. "I—No, he's dead. I got the call this morning." He laughed, shaking his head, though Lovino could see that the kid was close to tears. "Yesterday morning, actually. Sorry about that!"
Lovino was at a loss for words. "Fuck, I'm sorry," he offered lamely. "I—" he really didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to say? He never knew the man, Feliciano talked about him sometimes but knowing someone through someone else was a ludicrous version of knowing someone. Still, Lovino tried. Feliciano looked so torn up over it. "D'you know what of? Like, you said he was only going to be in the hospital for a couple days…" he really could have kicked himself right there in the parking lot. How did he die? Yeah, Sensitivity of the Year goes to the fucktard.
"He was supposed to be released on Monday. I guess there was some problems with his heart that the doctor found. I don't know the whole story," he almost insisted, shaking his head again with a sad smile, "but I guess that they put him on some medication and the next thing they knew he was getting worse before…" he trailed off, blinking quickly. He shook his head again. Lovino could only imagine what he was feeling. "It's just—I don't know!" he laughed. "I've been thinking about it all day. I can't really do anything about it, I know that, but, it's just, I—I," he took a deep breath, swiping at his eye and seeming to calm down. Finally looking at Lovino he exhaled. "I don't know. I just can't stope thinking about it, I guess." He giggled. "Doesn't help that the news was so spontaneous, but I guess that's Death for you!"
The bright smile he wore hit Lovino with a pang of—well of something. Lovino was never good with emotions, so all he really knew was that he didn't like it. He was worried for the kid, he decided.
"Yeah," Lovino agreed quietly. "That's Death. But, I—it's alright. That you don't know. You're grieving, and that's okay," Lovino cringed, looking upwards to try and find something to abduct him. "Just, hey, if you need anything, call me, okay?"
Feliciano hummed his response. "Okay, thanks Lovi! Well, I'm beat. Goodnight! Do we work together tomorrow?"
"No, I'm off tomorrow."
"Oh! I hope I work with the new girl!"
Lovino rolled his eyes. Grieving one minute, lost in a head full of flirting and pretty girls the next. He really would never understand him. "Be careful," Lovino teased, "I hear she's pretty dominant."
Lovino almost died when Feliciano winked at him. "I don't mind."
"Fuck, goodnight, you idiot." Lovino yelled, starting a quick pace towards his car. He was never good with emotions, but he knew he didn't like this one either.
Throwing his car door open he groaned, fishing his keys from his pocket and slipping in. Trash littered the passenger side floor. He had promised himself last week that he would clean it, but, alas, today's mail and Cheeto bag seemed to have added to the mix. He ran his fingers through his hair with a deep sigh. The car's heat was strangling him. He had to get his AC fixed.
Fuck minimum wage.
He continued to whine to himself internally as he reached for his keys. Suddenly his phone started buzzing. He morphed into his true acrobat-self as he twisted to grab his phone from his back pocket while, at the same time shove his key into the ignition. "Speak," he said, shrugging the phone between his shoulder and ear as he gave life to the vehicle.
"Lovi?"
It was Feliciano. From what Lovino could tell the kid was full-on crying at this point. "Fuck, Feliciano?"
"Can—Can you come help me?"
Lovino's car settled in its unofficial parking spot of the apartment complex. Anytime he and Feliciano had the day off together Feliciano would find someway to wrangle Lovino over, so, naturally, other people in the surrounding buildings had assumed the space right outside the park belonged to the red car. Most of the time Lovino came over was to simply leave again—though they would take Feliciano's car, as the kid's AC actually worked—because Feliciano was never one to sit in one place for long. In the past year Lovino learned more about Kansas amusement parks, museums, and other attractions than he had in the twenty-four years he had growing up in it. Stepping out and locking the door, Lovino walked the block-an-a-half to Feliciano's portion of the complex. It was mostly quiet, taking up about four blocks to house 150 apartments, but Lovino never felt safe walking to and from Feliciano's at night. So, hiding his insecurity behind a strong face, he hastily sought out Feliciano's parking space and walked (very quickly) to it.
Feliciano was locking his door. "Thanks," he giggled at him, wiping his eyes.
Feliciano turned on a film when they got up to his apartment. The living area was clean, spotless, even. Lovino eyed the dustless bookcase and organized CDs and dishless coffee table. He must have cleaned before work. Even now as he fiddled with the coffee pot in the kitchen Lovino could hear him busying himself with something else.
"You alright?" Lovino called.
"Yeah! I just left a mess earlier."
Lovino tapped his foot, uncertain. He had heard something about people cleaning when they grieved. He wasn't sure if he should stop it or encourage it. He made his way to the kitchen to help.
"Movie's about to start."
"Do you want some popcorn?"
"Sure?"
"Microwave or stove?"
Lovino shook his head. "I don't care?"
Feliciano beamed brightly at him, digging out kernels and oil. Lovino sighed. Sitting himself on top of the counter he leaned back against a cupboard, listening to the coffee pot whirl and spurt.
It wasn't long before Feliciano started talking. He always seemed to be talking. He told Lovino stories of his grandfather. How the man had been a truckdriver and had taken Feliciano cross-country with him on multiple occasions; how he quit his trucking job when Feliciano's mother became ill and had essentially adopted him when she died. He talked about some adventure at a zoo when his grandfather saved him from falling into a lion's den, and Lovino didn't have the heart to tell him that he had already shared that story—five times—and another at an art museum when, upon marveling what he thought to be a display, he was laughed at for gushing over a pair of glasses. He told of his grandfathers 'misadventures' with women, of his religious background, of all the family they had that were tied to the mob in New York.
The popcorn was done, buttered, and half-way gone by the time he finally started recollecting himself. Lovino had gone from counter-to-chair-to-couch-to-floor-to-couch again as his friend talked. When Feliciano was excited he would throw his hands in the air, get up and act out the story, laughing and looking at the wall as if he were telling the story to someone other than Lovino. Lovino didn't mind, though. If it was silly or sad, for Feliciano he would rather silly.
Feliciano's smile was settling again as he sat next to Lovino. "It's just," he sighed, "he was such a good man. His death, it was just so dumb."
Lovino chuckled. "Dumb?"
"Well, like, it wasn't meant to happen, you know? A doctor's accident!"
Lovino shrugged, taking another handful of popcorn. "It is what it is," he decided. "Accidents happen all the time. You could be hit by a boss tomorrow."
"But, in the grander scheme of things what's the point?" Feliciano cried. "Why would God let this happen? Is there a reason I'm missing? Something better?"
If the situation hadn't been so inflamed with emotions Lovino might have made a sarcastic comment, or a mean one, but he settled with a shrug of his shoulders. "Dunno."
"There's people that die every day; children, lovers, parents! What's the point of their deaths?"
"Dunno."
"Is there even a point at all?" Feliciano's eyes had started to water again.
"Du—"
"If you say 'dunno' one more time I'm going to kick you!" Feliciano threatened weakly, wiping his cheek with his sleeve.
Lovino sighed. "Listen, Feli, I don't know what to tell you," he admitted. "All I know is that if—if—there's some grand scheme I'm sure you'll figure it out one day." Lovino held back a joke that the reason was so that Feliciano would finally clean his apartment. "Just, if you have faith have faith. There's not much else you can do."
"Yeah," Feliciano agreed weakly. Lovino hated the feeling in his gut that told him he had said something wrong. Sighing, the younger of the two reached for the remote and reactivated the dull television screen. The intro music to the movie had been droning in the back, looping from mellow to dramatic and back throughout their whole conversation. Feliciano pressed play on the title screen.
Sitting back Feliciano pressed into Lovino's side, staring at the screen with a reflection frown on his face. Lovino had learned long ago that when Feliciano was in a state of…well, anything, he would become some sort of clingy. Hugs and handholding and attempts-at-something-along-the-lines-of-cuddling. He was too intimate a person for Lovino's taste, and it had taken the better half of the year for Lovino to stop being so stiff. Even in this situation Lovino fought back the urge to push the boy away.
Lovino sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head and propping his feet up on the coffee table. He watched the movie quietly—Saving Private Ryan—getting caught up in the story enough to end up watching it through. Feliciano had fallen asleep long before they even found Ryan, his head resting what Lovino deemed uncomfortably on the arm of the couch and his heels digging into Lovino's side.
Lovino turned off the television and DVD player. Before leaving he made sure Feliciano's alarm clock was set and a window propped open, as it looked to be growing into another hot day.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
This story is turning out to be the cutest (read: rambled) thing (read: piece of shit) I have ever created. Appreciate that as you will.
This is a side story, so it will prolly be updated a fuckton as I procrastinate the pain that is Sacrificial Surrender. When you switch out insanity with reflection you end up hating yourself, turns out :)
Unrelated Itacest because I'm trash with a conscious
Warning: I am in the process of enlisting in the military. That means I could be leaving in two weeks or two months depending on whatever happens. So, if come end of October and this isn't finished, I'm sorry, it may never be finished. I don't know how my fanfiction career will continue while I'm in the military. I may decide to keep writing out my first-draft ideas as fanficitions (as it is easier and comes with the community I grew up with) or I may decide to just skip the middleman and go back to writing original fiction; or perhaps I'll be too fucking busy to even write (very, very possible). I'll come back and edit this when I decide, so if you're reading it I'm either inactive or it's still before I've decided.
Whilst I'm still here, though, let's see how far we can get. (This story started out as Itacest trash, but somewhere it picked up a plot and honestly, I like the plot more than I do the pairing.)
COMMENT! If you don't want me to respond because you're anxious or hate me (same) (jk, you the only one) just put three asterisks (***) at the beginning of your comment. And, if you're commenting as a guest, put some creativity into your name! Tell me your life's story in the how-ever-many-characters they give you.