Another day-another fic. :) This was inspired a bit by multiple romance films, and my personal experiences with social awkwardness and helicopter parents. (Yes, they can still exist after the child is way past rearing age.)
The title was taken from a line from Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle'.
Chapter 1
"Here, kitty kitty."
A small number of cats emerged from their hiding places at the sound of Marco's voice, crawling out from behind rusted trash cans and slipping from their prized perches upon the window ledges of the boarded-up building across the alley. The others were far more finicky and would take a bit more coercion, but he knew the secret method to bring them all into full view. As expected, the distinct crinkle of a bag of cat food being ripped apart brought the rest out at once.
Marco stood by the back entryway of the grocery store and watched them devour the kibble he had dumped on the concrete, smiling at how their lean bodies fell over one another as they scrambled for a choice spot in the feeding frenzy. The midday sun bore down on them and highlighted imperfections in their fur, displaying both bald spots and obvious battle scars.
This was his daily ritual. Feeding the strays gave him a sense of purpose, a reason for even bothering to open the shop every morning. His mother wasn't the most receptive of his actions and said it was simply a 'waste of inventory', but he couldn't even begin to fathom how sustaining life, no matter how irrelevant others thought said lives were, could ever be considered wasteful.
It wasn't long before he heard a bell tinkling faintly behind him, alerting him that a customer was up front.
"I'll be right there!" he called out as he re-tied his apron and checked his hair in the mirror next to the back door, darting out of the tiny stockroom before the customer got the wrong idea. It was probably just the Wilson boys picking up items for their mother, or one of his elderly customers who were far too set in their ways to shop for dry goods at the shiny new Sav-Rite a few miles away. Nothing unusual, but with the way the shop was hurting for customers, he couldn't afford to keep anyone waiting.
Marco was surprised to discover the patron was neither party. In fact, he was sure he had never seen the man before — in store or in town. He tried to avoid staring as he moved down the narrow aisles and slid behind the counter, but his eyes kept gravitating towards the other man's face, tracing over his angular jawline and high cheekbones. The man was handsome, dashingly so, with sharp amber eyes and a messy crop of dark blonde hair cut close to his scalp. He drummed his fingers on the cracked countertop, brows furrowed.
"I'll just take these," The man handed Marco some items to ring up, a few chilled cans of cola and a lighter, before pointing to one of the lopsided displays behind the brunette, a small stream of sunlight glinting off a silver band hanging loosely around his wrist. "—and a pack of Marlboro Lights."
Marco took his time retrieving the cigarettes, pretending to struggle with sliding the yellowing plastic shield guarding the inventory over in an attempt to regain his composure, to quell the rising heat spreading over his cheeks. It was rude to intentionally dawdle, but he didn't care to have to explain why his face was probably turning the color of the fresh strawberries from one of the farms on the outskirts of town.
"This year, please." The other man's voice had taken on a brusque, impatient quality, which jolted Marco out of his snail-like pace. He finished the rest of the transaction in record time, keeping his head down in an effort to keep his face hidden in shadow. If the man noticed, he didn't say anything, only grunting a muffled 'Thank You' as he took his purchases and hurried out the door.
The Starlight Diner was deep into the typical dinner rush by the time Marco limped in. He took a seat at the last available table, his usual spot in the back besides a broken jukebox, and nodded to the waitress working the nearby counter, wordlessly transmitting his order. He had been eating there long enough for everyone to know what he was having beforehand.
The dive was abuzz with activity, bringing the usual tolerable noise level to unheard of heights. Both regulars and the waitstaff seemed to be engaged in a single conversation, and it only took a few seconds of listening to the loudest voices in the room, both of which belonged to old friends of his, to figure out what (or in this case, who) had turned the usual docile crowd into a pack of wild animals.
"Did you see the new guy wandering down 8th street? Thought it was a walker at first."
"Con, zombies don't come out in the daytime."
"The hell they don't. Haven't you seen The Walking Dead?"
Marco rolled his eyes. Of course they would be talking about him; it wasn't everyday a new person was spotted in Jinae. It was far more common to discover someone had left town in the middle of the night, only leaving unpaid bills and heartbroken loved ones in their wake. Marco wished he had the confidence to follow in their footsteps. It surely would make his life much easier.
The noise level in the restaurant suddenly plummeted, returning to the usual dull roar of hushed voices and clinking of forks hitting cheap china. Marco didn't bother looking up to see what had caused the loud conversation to cease, simply believing the discussion had reached its inevitable conclusion. He slipped out of his shoes and flexed his socked feet, trying to ease the dull ache coursing through his soles from countless hours of standing up. The extra movement only made the pain flare up more.
"Bad day?"
Marco scrambled to shove his feet back into his worn loafers before daring to look up in the face of the customer from earlier. The man was smirking, one elegant eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. He slid into the chair across from Marco with a dramatic sigh, casually draping an arm over the worn top cushion.
"Ah, yeah." Marco hated how nervous he sounded, how his voice wavered at the end of each word. He ran a hand through his freshly-trimmed hair, broad fingers becoming slick with the sweat trapped near his scalp. The man's smirk twisted into a full-fledged grin.
"Must be real tough with all those customers clamoring to get in there," His eyes widened as soon as the words left his lips. "Shit, sorry. That was rude."
It was Marco's turn to smile. "It's not rude if it's true." The store had been losing sales for the longest. In fact, the man who sat across from him had been the first—and only—customer of the day.
"But still. I- argh," The blonde drummed his fingers on the table, seemingly at a loss for words. It took a few seconds before he extended his right hand across the table, stopping just short of clasping Marco's hand.
"Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I know I can be a bit off an ass," The tips of his fingers faintly brushed against Marco's knuckles. "My name's Jean—Jean Kirschstein."
Marco mouthed the pronunciation of his first name. Jsh-ahn. Jshahn. It was a nice name—like something from one of those foreign movies he sometimes caught on television in the middle of the night.
"French?"
"Nah. Mom was just a big fan of Van Damme," The name didn't ring any bells. Marco must've been showing some iota of cluelessness in his expression because Jean leaned in close, thin brows furrowed, lips turned downward in the most adorable near-pout Marco had ever seen. "Big action star…? Was in a shit ton of films in the nineties…?"
Still no bells. Jean shook his head and chuckled, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light. "You know what—never mind. What's your name?"
"Marco." Marco leaned back in his chair, growing slightly uncomfortable with the other man's close proximity, and not trusting himself to remain in such intimate contact without his face flaring up like a lit firecracker.
Jean looked like he was going to open his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when one of the waitresses—the one who had previously been gossiping about the details of Jean's arrival in town—brought Marco his order, carelessly plopping down his plate and drink on the wobbly wooden table before she pulled up a stool from the counter and sat down.
"Well, well, well!" There was a teasing lilt to her voice as she leaned towards Jean and looked him up and down, brown eyes sparkling mischievously. "Gonna introduce me to your friend, Marco? He's cute."
Marco shook his head, feeling the corners of his lips twitching downward in an unexpected frown. It was obvious she was trying to fish for more gossip material. He was sure she had a bet going with Connie, the diner's lead cook, over who could dig up the juiciest detail about Jean, and he didn't want to contribute to the town's rumor mill.
"Sasha," Marco didn't have a chance to finish his response before Jean took the bait; and as much as Marco desired to learn more about the blonde, he found he couldn't focus on the words coming out his mouth. He could only observe the way Jean interacted with Sasha, all wild hand movements and exaggerated expressions. It was as if he had been friends with her for a long while and had not just met her only minutes before. He longed for his ability to fraternize with strangers without any semblance of awkwardness, with no blushing or stuttered words. It was yet another social skill he sorely lacked.
Marco managed to tune back into the conversation when he saw Jean fish out his wallet and slide a few crumpled bills to Sasha, who grinned as she slipped them into one of the pockets of her lightly=soiled uniform.
"Put his meal on my bill," Marco's protests were shushed by Jean's raised hand. The blonde smiled as he plucked a French fry off of Marco's plate and popped it into his mouth, not taking the time to finish chewing the food before he spoke again. "It's on me."
"You're late."
Marco sighed as the scathing tone of his mother's voice hit his ears once he stepped foot inside his home, an old shotgun-style shack in obvious disrepair. She stood near the narrow entryway to the kitchen with a large wooden spoon in hand, dark brown eyes burning like hot coals. It was going to be one of those evenings.
"Do you know what time it is? You were supposed to close the store at five, and it only takes ten minutes to walk home," She tapped the cat clock to the left of her with the spoon, briefly interrupting the ticking of the clock's swishing tail. "It's nearly seven. Where were you?"
Marco marched past her and yanked a bottle of cola from the antique fridge, nearly popping off the top with his crushing grip. He wanted to tell her about his trip to the diner, but knew she would probably use that spoon to thwack him on the head if he did.
"Ma, I'm nearly 30. I think I can afford to stay out an extra hour without phoning home," He leaned on a bare expanse of laminated countertop and took a gulp of soda to wet his dry mouth. "I'm not E.T."
He instantly regretted his choice of words after noticing the way his mother's shoulders had fallen, the way her plump face had become creased with frown lines, nearly looking deflated. It was one of her more obvious guilt tactics, but he couldn't resist scooping the smaller woman in his broad arms and whispering an apology in the crook of her neck before kissing her on the cheek. She rested her soft chin on his collarbone before burying her face in his chest.
"I was worried…" she murmured, frail voice trailing off into nothingness. She didn't need to finish her statement; Marco knew the meaning of the words that were left unsaid.
I was worried you had left—like the others.
And in that moment, as he held his mother and rubbed soothing circles down her back in an attempt to stop her from shedding more crocodile tears, he wished he had.
I'll try to update this every 1-2 weeks. Feedback is always appreciated, but not required. Feel free to point out anything you believe is off or wrong. I won't bite.