Breaking Point
The second day Lockdown didn't come home, Prowl got the final phonecall from the Nakodo.
After sitting and nodding as though the man could see him, the young officer repeated the time and date he was expected to arrive at the office, hung up and carefully put his cellphone back on the coffee table. He stared at the small black contraption and felt no anger, no resentment: no nothing. He put no thought on the fact that the garage was empty, as was the house, and, when he opened it in a haze to reach for his uniform and simply continue, the top clothing drawer he shared with Lockdown had been messily gutted.
Standing barefoot in the dark bedroom, Prowl had stared at the few wrinkled shirts left on the bottom and felt as though someone could drop a pin in him and hear it echo for days.
But with no emotions to confuse him, logic was once again his only resort. He had an appointment. There was no choice but to go to the Nakodo, and no point in backing out now.
If he were lying in a ditch, the emergency contacts in his wallet would need to be relevant—and the idea of forsaking his family ties altogether was too extreme. One by one (the house sat empty around him and his wrists and head still ached) his ties were dropping away. In the end, the only real assurance someone wouldn't leave you was common blood. He couldn't lose the one real stability he had.
Prowl trudged through every hour with his eyes on Wednesday, five pm; he made himself dinner every night and got into an empty bed afterwards with no thoughts on the matter.
Days, and no word. He didn't know what to think of Lockdown at that moment, so he simply didn't think. Only half of him—the half that had learned—could feel the dangerous weight of the grey wall in his mind, but that half was eclipsed by the urge not to feel. At least not until after the meeting. At least not until his father was out of the city.
The preternatural grey calm only wavered when he sat in the stylish but uncomfortable chairs in the sun-washed 'parlor' portion of the Nakodo's office, where the man himself sat in an opposite chair, describing Prowl's arithmetically-derived match with great vigor.
Her name was Nightbird. She shared his interest in martial arts and hailed from a relatively conservative background similar to his own. Of course, she loved TV, but surely they could work around that. Right? Of course, right.
After a light knock (and a pleased flourish from the Nakodo), Nightbird entered the office. She was dressed in trim slacks and a blouse, glossy black hair cut to her doll chin. Full Japanese, face both regal and traditional. She smiled at Prowl, modest lip gloss shining. Leading her over by her tiny hand, the Nadoko made a few more assurances, putting bows on their arrangement, and suddenly they were alone.
Prowl made no move to get up and greet her. Nightbird watched him somewhat nervously, then moved with over to a chair and sat down, ankles crossing instinctively.
"Hi."
His only response was a nod. He did not trust himself to anything else. After a moment, she bit her lip, trying to reclaim her smile of earlier.
"This is a little… weird, isn't it?"
"Yes," he managed at length, voice strained as he picked at his sleeve button. He took a deep breath, staring out the window. "Arranged marriages in this day and age…"
"Not that you're jumping the gun or anything," she joked, grin faltering when Prowl simply looked at her, face drawn beneath his glasses. "I mean… this is just a date. A really scientific date, but a date."
He nodded. He had forgotten.
"Where do you want to… ah, go for dinner?" she asked, then glanced down and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I'd suggest sushi, but you know. I don't want to make this a theme party."
"I have a pasta shop I'm fond of," Prowl said somewhere outside of himself, as if levers were being pulled and his mouth moved in response. The hard metal bars were not at all connected to the shocked lump of a man under his skin, the man who had sat and fumed as a certain grinning drag racer refused to give himself up to his unimaginable wit and investigatory skill at that same pasta shop. She nodded, brightening.
"Italian, okay."
"Yes. Italian," he said softly, and got up to open the door for her like a polite date should.
They sat inside to escape the February cold: the interior was warm and brown and pleasantly crowded, the yellow lamps hanging low enough to knock their heads on. Once their napkins were settled, it was as though the date had officially begun. Assuming he had a quiet nature, Nightbird started several conversations and finished them by herself, holding up remarkably well with only the occasional positive or negative sound from the withdrawn man seated across the table. He gave verbal answers only when necessary, hidden eyes pinned somewhere beyond her at all times as his mouth thinned further and further.
Prowl made it through three different subject matters and a halting description of his own profession before he stuck his fork into his steaming pansotti—the same thing he always ordered, even when courting criminals--and it all fell apart. What was he doing?
He could answer that he was fulfilling his father's requirements, as simple as the confessional. But this wasn't just a scientific date: it was an incredibly expensive scientific date. Nakodos were the last resort of the well-moneyed who desired to preserve the tradition, culture and the dwindling Japanese population that had occurred since the American 2031 immigration law came into effect. Sitting there, eyes locked on the table in front of this strange woman who had so much in common with him and yet he could never be with, Prowl was wasting more of his father's money: the only thing the man ever valued.
What was more, his father would approve if he married this girl—why? Just because she was Japanese. Just because she was a woman, capable of producing children, Prowl could decide to marry her this instant, after half an hour in her company--a decision so quick and insane even a rash person would question it--and his father would only nod and give his approval.
Dai did not once think about his personal happiness. As Prowl had proved himself a sinkhole of failed obligations, there was only one part of him that was salvageable to the older man: his genetic material. He was not a person to his father but a strand of DNA and a dislocated surname, shameful and incapable of redemption.
And even then, what would he gain? Even if he crumpled and obeyed Dai until the end of his days, they would never be family. His father had no pride, no affection, only commands and expectations. He would be tolerated and despised for the simple fact that he did not submit naturally, that he was not perfect—and yet, now, he denied himself for sake of that joyless kneeling position.
If he obeyed his father today, Prowl knew this quiet, doomed dinner would only be the beginning. He would bear it, to stay within Dai's circle, then he would suffer another infraction and yet another, and then another. He would capitulate, just like the confessional—he would start to believe, just like after the confessional--only the stakes would cruelly rise every time.
One day he would find himself married to a woman like this, simply because the idea that Dai, his father, was ready to discard him all along was too much to take.
"Prowl? Are you alright? You, uh—look a little sick."
It ended here.
"I have to go. I'm—I apologize, I have to go," Prowl said suddenly, eyes wide beneath his glasses as he stood up so fast the chair screeched. He reached for his wallet and, fingers slipping and trembling, pulled out thirty dollars and flung it on the table. He did not look at the open-mouthed young woman on the other side of it. "This has nothing to do with you."
"Prowl, what?"
"I apologize."
"What do you mean, you apologize? You were supposed to clear your schedule for at least three hours," she exclaimed, standing when Prowl only looked out the door, reaching for his leather jacket. "What could possibly—hey! You aren't even looking at me! What's the matter with you?"
"You would not understand," he said into his collar, pocketing his wallet again. He turned to go and stiffened when Nightbird physically grabbed him across the table, elegant eyes blazing.
"What can you possibly tell me that would excuse your rudeness?" she hissed, low enough that their gawking neighbors couldn't hear. Prowl shrunk slightly under the expert grip, shocked as much by her boldness as the strength of it. "You know how goddamn expensive these matching sessions are, Atlas. You think I'm just going to let you walk without an explanation? I'll tell you right now, the only thing could possibly get you out of this is if you're either Chinese or you're gay, and you're definitely not Chinese."
All remaining color dropped from his face. He looked at the woman, expression growing more nauseated by the moment as she simply waited, glare both ironclad and ruthless.
"I have to go," he said at last, voice horribly faint.
She let go of him immediately, as if the weakness that suddenly flooded him had seeped into her hand. Her face lit with understanding and Prowl, cowed, immediately dropped his eyes. Afraid of what she would say.
"Oh god. I'm—god. I'm sorry. Really," she said softly. She put her hand over her mouth, face white, and all of the anger—something, he would learn, that was easy to rise in the woman and came to be a little endearing after five years of friendship—was suddenly gone. After a moment, she lowered her hand, brows knitting. "Why are you even… here?"
He was about to leave, but the question caught him. Slowly, his hands went slack on the front of his jacket.
"My father forced me. He wants me to get married," Prowl said, swallowing heavily. He felt defenseless and childlike in that moment, consumed with the want of hearing this is wrong from someone else—and, when he looked up, Nightbird's aghast face was just what he needed. "He doesn't… care to whom."
"That is… that's horrible." She stared at him, expression painfully conflicted as if she just couldn't understand it, then swallowed and nodded. Her tight smile told him to be brave and she touched his arm gingerly. "I'll tell them it just didn't work out."
"Thank you," he whispered, staring at her for a second before giving her a nod and pushing out the door into the cold Detroit air—towards his hiccupping motorcycle and towards home.
Lockdown woke up to the slam of the front door, immediately sitting upright in a pile of dusty work clothes and rumpled sheets.
After a moment, he laid back down in his bed. He knew who it was; the sharp footsteps said it well enough. It was practically the reason why he'd been sleeping. Sleeping was the only thing that kept him from tearing his mind in half over the kid.
He could sleep well enough on the gal's couch, which was where he'd been bunking for the past few nights, but he still managed to think about things. He'd never been one for thinking, simply because it made shit so much harder. Lying awake in the silent chai-scented apartment, Lockdown had to think about what was going to happen next—and what he was going to say when it did.
He was not imaginative, so he couldn't mentally render the inevitable argument in the painful detail it deserved, but he also could never come up with anything to say that would make—or let--Prowl stay. Every scene ended with him storming out, if he hadn't already packed his bags. If he didn't already hate him. More often than not, when faced with an empty second, Lockdown just relived that eviscerating moment when the kid started shaking like a leaf and asked him that awful question. Or the way Prowl reached for him. The ghost tremors were enough to sap the older man of anything, even hunger. Now he was out there.
When the silence in the house reached a deafening level, Lockdown forced himself to his bare feet and walked into the living room, rubbing one hand over his face. When he reached the doorway, he breathed out and actually looked—but where he expected to find Prowl on his feet, sunglasses glinting above a sneer with a full cardboard box in hand, the kid was doubled over on the couch, breathing too fast to be healthy.
His glasses sat on the table, harmless-looking as ever.
After a long, watchful silence, Lockdown stepped around the magazine-strewn coffee table and slowly sat down next to the younger man, who showed no sign of noticing him. The dockworker put a hand on Prowl's back as gently as he could, bearing his immediate flinch as though it were just penance. Kid deserved to be afraid of him, after what he did. When Prowl made no move to jerk away or speak, Lockdown took a deep breath and bowed his head.
Had to make use of all that thinking.
"I was outta my head the other night," he began roughly, speaking into his lap. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment as something like nausea gnawed at his empty stomach. "Didn' mean t'yell at you. Didn' mean t'…"
Beside him, Prowl took a shuddering breath and shook his head. It could have meant no—indeed, Lockdown braced to get up and leave him alone, realizing that tears were actually worse than the screaming match he had anticipated and his courage had limits—but it was not. While Prowl's memory of fear was still strong and still intimately connected to big white hands, it was bulldozed by the aftershocks of a realization twenty-four years in the making.
To Lockdown's shock, Prowl grasped for his big hand as if he couldn't stop himself, a half-sob slipping out. After a short scramble, Prowl fell onto the older man's muscled side and simply struggled not to cry, remaining hand pressed hard over his mouth.
"No matter what I do," he murmured into Lockdown's shoulder, small hand shaking in his, "No matter what I do, he will never… never..."
"What the hell are you talking about?" he grunted, unnerved by the desperation in his grip and the disconnected words—and how he could have provoked them. Of all the things Prowl could have screamed at him, this was not it. Equal parts urgent and confused, Lockdown took the young man's chin and raised it from his shoulder, looking into his pink-stained face. "Who'll never what?"
"My father."
"What?"
There was no more. Prowl hid his face again and shivered underneath the older man's hand, trying to hide every sniff and choke. Lockdown's face went blank and, as he finally realized this wasn't about them in the slightest, he reached over and shifted so he could press Prowl tightly to his front, murmuring something gruff and nonsensical into his hair.
The young man's arms looped around his neck and Lockdown held him for the first time and let him cry quietly, as he should have five nights ago. Sheltered, Prowl cried for the second time in a week, more than he had in five years, because strength would come later—and yet this was strength in and of itself, admitting a truth that had been hanging over his head since he was born.
Dai would never love him, no matter what he did. To deny the truth was to give it the power to conquer. Now, for the first time, Prowl was being completely honest with himself—and once he started, he found he couldn't stop.
When he calmed enough to speak, Prowl finally purged the reasons why he had become so ugly towards his housemate—his lover--beginning with his father's arrival and spiralling with the confessional. He told Lockdown everything, down to the surges of causeless revulsion he felt, the self-hated and the confusion. He couldn't bear to see the older man's expression, but Prowl felt the shame of it double once Lockdown's arms tightened around him, human and trustworthy and the only thing he had ever found worthwhile—something he had been twisted into poisoning and fearing.
Lockdown simply let him speak until he was finished, rubbing his back if the silence stretched too long. At last, Prowl shook his head, tears gone, voice weak.
"He simply wants me to get married. He doesn't care to whom."
Lockdown's tongue was nearly bleeding from biting down all of his angry demands, riling at the idea of it as more and more details came to light. All the events and horrible stifling changes of the past week fell into place with awful immediacy. Lockdown could hardly keep the fury from going straight into his tight white arms, from crushing Prowl even as he held him. But the skinny, shivering weightlessness of the young man in his lap sapped it from him quickly enough, leaving him only with regret and an iron direction.
One man had wrecked Prowl, nearly ruining them in the process, and Lockdown wanted nothing more than to take a rifle to that man's temple. He kept from saying so only by taking a deep breath, steadying himself. Anger wouldn't help Prowl now.
"Thass' alright, kid," he muttered softly, more softly than he ever had. He kissed the young man on the mouth and held his face close, one hand heavy and protective on his back. "F'he wants you to get married, that means you'n me can get hitched and it'll be fine. Then I can kill him and we can bury the fucker together."
"D-don't say—don't," Prowl said tensely, tightness of his throat threatening tears again. The sheer tone conquered the older man in a way he couldn't fathom and, as he held Prowl closer still, he knew where he stood in the world for the very first time. He knew where he was needed.
"Mean it, kid. Quit it. It's okay. It'll all be okay."
They were just comforting murmurs, something to get him to quiet down and quit hurting, but then he kissed the young man's cheek and dragged his hand through the hair at the back of his neck and said it, pressing their foreheads together.
"Love you."
Prowl froze against him. The first thing to regain movement were his hands, quivering on his shoulders; the second was his head, which he shook insistently, shrinking away from Lockdown. Lockdown caught his chin, half-wounded by the fear and disbelief radiating from him.
"Naw. I mean it," he mumbled, knowing even as Prowl drew a tremulous breath that he still needed to pay his dues for what he'd done in the bedroom. He braced himself and nosed into his lover's neck. "M'sorry about yellin' at you. And I lied about wanting to kick you out. I was just… nuts. Said stupid shit. So don't leave. Stay. I'll do… fuckin' anything to make you stay, kid. Mean it."
Prowl finally drew back enough to look at the other man, and what he saw in Lockdown's tattoo-marred face was enough to drive him back into his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Lockdown's barrel chest twice as tightly.
"I never intended to treat you that way," he managed, last of the putrid shame finally fleeing him as Lockdown shook his head.
"That wasn't you. That was your old man."
A hesitant nod was all it took, and there was silence between them—the old, comfortable kind of silence that could be sat in for hours at a time, void of expectations or judgment. Relief eddied through both of them as though they were a circuit, finally allowed to connect with one another again and blast through the dark obstructions in their hearts and minds. Body heat was once more the balm for any wound and Prowl's very skin was honest, asking him why he had ever doubted this.
After a while, Lockdown nosed his face up; Prowl sniffed and looked down and away, already self-conscious about his total loss of control. Then, once he caught himself thinking it, he forced himself to face Lockdown and smile slightly, even if the other man's expression was anything but happy.
"I'll fix it. Gonna fix it all for you, darlin'," he rumbled suddenly, tone so serious it made Prowl still.
After a moment of nothing more—no explanation or sudden lightening of mood, just reddish eyes staring into his--Prowl curled into his lover and let himself be held again. He was so exhausted by the day's events that it took little more than an arm around his shoulders to get him to close his eyes, finally feeling safe and anchored to his life and everything in it... regardless of who he had to be rejected by to achieve such bliss.
Dozing off, he could not see Lockdown staring out at the porch door, a look equal parts dark and determined on the older man's face as his hand trailed protectively over his shoulders and neck.
"You just wait. I'll fix it."