Ain't found a way to kill me yet
Eyes burn with stinging sweat
Seems every path leads me to nowhere
Wife and kids household pet
Army green was no safe bet
The bullets scream to me from somewhere
Here they come to snuff the rooster
Yeah here come the rooster, yeah
You know he ain't gonna die
No, no, no, ya know he ain't gonna die
Walkin' tall machine gun man
They spit on me in my home land
Gloria sent me pictures of my boy
Got my pills 'gainst mosquito death
My buddy's breathin' his dyin' breath
Oh god please won't you help me make it through
Here they come to snuff the rooster
Yeah here come the rooster, yeah
You know he ain't gonna die
No, no, no ya know he ain't gonna die
-Alice in Chains, Rooster
Ten: Family Business
It was 12:34 AM and Race wasn't done with his homework, and he wasn't getting any closer to finishing it while listening to the Stones on his discman and drumming his pencil on the top of his notebook. It wasn't like it mattered; it was History after all, and he wasn't half bad at it.
But he couldn't sleep. He had too much of an adrenaline high. And he was in a great mood.
Moments earlier, Sophia had rushed into his room and smothered his forehead and cheeks with kisses, thanking him over and over for leaving Itey and her alone.
Race didn't tell her he'd spied on them from his window, staring at the front porch to make sure Itey didn't get fresh with his hands. But Itey hadn't even kissed her, so Race was pretty much content.
Besides, he was too full of...what was it, Spot-goodness, to really be angry at Itey for making his younger sister grow up a little.
He was just so happy he could hardly stand it.
He had the discman up loud enough that he didn't notice the tap at his window. The second one he did notice, but figured it was a tree branch, as he was on the third floor. But then it happened again, and again, like someone was knocking.
He looked up at the window, and very nearly fell off his chair.
Spot was wrapped around a tree branch outside, looking like he might fall at any moment, one arm shakily extended to bang on the window. Race jumped to his feet, tearing off his headphones, and rushed to open the window.
"...Hi?" he said.
"Mind stepping to the side so I can get in before I fall?" Spot panted, and Race did as he asked. Spot managed to sort of half-crawl, half-climb in.
"Hey," he said, once safely inside Race's room.
"Hey. Um...?"
"I need somewhere to crash tonight."
"Okay." Race nodded and gestured towards his bed. "Should I ask--"
"No." Spot sat, then kicked off his shoes and leant back on the comforter. "I fucking hate Jack, is all."
"I thought you two were--"
"We were. We're not anymore, and the guy is a complete asshole and I can't be at home right now, and I don't exactly have a lot of other places I can go."
"Okay. Well, I'm not sure how--we've got a guest room, or..." Race trailed off. "If I get you up early, can you get the first bus back?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Really early. Like, before my parents wake up early."
"Sure."
"Because if we fucking get caught..."
"Thanks, Tony."
Race shut his history text book, and climbed onto the bed, next to Spot. "No problem," he murmured in Spot's ear.
They were silent, and Race let his hand slip around Spot's shoulder. Spot slumped on top of him suddenly, and they fall backwards on the comforter, both staring up at the ceiling. He checked Spot's face, looked for a mood.
But Spot was blank, empty, staring up at his ceiling.
"Spot?"
"Hm."
"You wanna talk?"
"Fuck no." Spot rolled over slightly, and looked down at Race's face. "Trying to forget it happened. You got any pajamas that'll fit me? Or am I gonna get to sleep in the nude?"
Race smirked and pushed Spot off of him, and climbed off the bed towards his dresser. "I got some t-shirts, but you're stuck with boxers, man, my legs are ten times shorter than yours." Spot didn't reply and Race didn't think much of it as he dug around in the drawers. "Where the hell are all those shirts..."
He finally settled on a Simpsons tee, and when he turned to look at Spot saw his boyfriend sitting cross legged, staring out the window.
Race didn't talk; he observed Spot's worn down looking face. He was sure Spot didn't want him to see him like that.
"Spot?"
Spot turned to face him quickly, his expression switching bang on into one of casualness. "Hey. That mine?"
"It is. It has Bart Simpson on it."
"Can't go wrong with the Bartman." Spot took the shirt from him.
He changed, and Race admired him as he did so, but Spot didn't seem to notice. He didn't even smirk, and Spot not smirking as his boyfriend hungrily watched him strip down... Something was up. But Race knew Spot well enough to know talking was probably a bad idea.
So he was fairly shocked when Spot swallowed hard and murmured, "My childhood was really messed up."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Race had been in the process of changing himself, but he usually slept in a pair of boxers, so he was really just shirtless. He sat down on the bed next to Spot. "Can I... Help you? At all?"
"Nah." Spot paused. "You've got great fucking arms, Tony."
"From drumming," Race answered.
"Whatever. They're nice."
"Thanks."
There was another silence.
"You're not, like, using me in some elaborate scheme to get revenge on your father for being a dickhead, are you?"
"Um, no."
"Good." He paused. "I, I didn't think you were. But Jack... Jack's a real piece of shit sometimes."
"Don't worry about it," Race said.
"I really didn't--"
"I know, Spot. Seriously, don't worry about me--you and me--right now. Just let me know if I can help, okay?"
Spot almost managed to smile. Almost. "Okay," he answered.
They shifted positions as Race turned to click off the light in his room, and slip under the covers. Spot, looking more skinny than usual, probably because of how vulnerable he was at the present time, was curled tight under the comforters, grasping them around him.
Race slipped his arms around Spot's waist, pressing his cheek against Spot's back. He felt his foot touch Spot's calf, and noted how cold his boyfriend was, but he wasn't shivering at all.
"You sure you're okay?"
"No."
"Are you..." Race rephrased the question. "Sure you don't want to talk?"
"...no."
"Are you going to talk?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Just...keep your arms around my waist."
"I can do that," Race murmured into Spot's hair. And after a minute, Spot seemed to relax, and after another ten, they were asleep, with Race's alarm set for five in the morning.
*
Spot was awake before the alarm went off; Race was not. So when Race woke up, he had Spot propped up on his elbows over him, nose to nose, smirking. "Hey there, sexy," Spot half-purred.
"Ught. Morning breath," Race answered, but kissed Spot quickly anyway, and went to shut off the alarm before it could rouse anyone else.
"Your bed..." Spot said, falling back into the sheets. "Is like one, gigantic, fucking orgasm cloud."
Race grumbled in response. "Don't talk so much...is mornin', ya ass."
Spot snickered. "You look like such shit."
"So do you."
"I sure fucking don't." Spot rolled out of the bed, yawning, and pawing around on the floor for his shirt. "Jesus Christ, get up. You're like a woman."
"'Mnot..."
"Are too."
"Mnoo...."
"Wake up!" Spot smacked Race's head as he started to doze off again.
"'S early," Race whined.
"Yeah. It's good for you."
"Is not." He sat up, and sulked in bed for a second. "The things I do for you."
"You gonna drive me home?" Spot asked, glancing in the mirror on the back of Race's door. He began to finger comb his hair. He definitely didn't look like shit (though really, neither did Race; the sleepy thing was far too cute), but he didn't look exactly good, either.
"Ught. Caaaaaan't. School..."
Spot nodded, he'd expected that. "Is it safe for me to sneak out the door, or am I back to the window?" he asked.
"Lemme check." Race managed to actually get to his feet. "An' get coffee. Want 'ny?"
"Sure."
Race nodded and wandered out of the room, bare feet cold against the wooden stairs. Only to discover that his father was already awake, reading the earliest addition of the financial times section of the paper, and sipping a cup of coffee.
"Racetrack." He looked up quizzically. "You're awake early. Feeling all right?"
Figured. His father would try and be funny first thing in the morning. He shrugged. "I..." His brain wasn't working well enough to formulate excuses correctly, but as he caught the scent of his father's coffee, it began to work. A stroke of genius hit him. "David left his bus pass at school yesterday, so I said I'd pick him up. But it means I gotta go early..."
"He can't pay the bus fare?" his father asked.
"Well he--I mean, he tutors me all the time, I figured it would be nice to... y'know..."
"Fine." His father nodded towards the kitchen. "There's a pot of coffee on already."
"Thanks."
He wondered if his father was always so... normal... during the mornings.
Race started to make two cups of coffee, but remembered that his father would probably wonder why the hell he'd be doing that. So he just made one big one, and hoped Spot liked black. He nodded to his father once the coffee was finished and he left the kitchen, cursing in his head, but also kind of laughing.
Spot got to climb out the window again it seemed.
He entered his room and handed the cup to Spot. "Dad's downstairs; window."
"Fuck, 'cause my leg hurts. I twisted it climbing up last night or something." Spot wiggled his toes. "Seriously, I'd fucking fall."
Race swore under his breath. "Uh...I could...sneak you out. Or get Izzy for help."
"Isn't she at college...?" Spot asked.
"Yes, but a well placed phone call... I mean, if it'll keep dad in the dining room for a few minutes..."
"She won't mind?"
"If I wake her up at five in the morning to help me sneak my boyfriend out of the house after he was never supposed to spend the night to begin with? She'll be furious." He grinned. "But she'll help." He handed Spot the coffee and reached for his cell.
"Is this... Fucking designer coffee?" Spot asked after a few sips.
"Yeah." Race hit Izzy's number on speed dial, and after a few minutes of muttered conversation in Italian--very repetitive Italian, as apparently Isabella didn't function much better when awoken than her brother did--he hung up. A minute later, the phone rang and his father answered it downstairs.
Both boys were dressed by now, half heartedly, and Race grinned at Spot who was still sitting blissfully in the soft sheets.
"You're off," Race said, grabbed his hand. "K, gotta show you which stairs are the least creaky."
"You richies have creaky stairs?" Spot mumbled as they left his room. "You really are just like us."
"Shut up."
They snuck down the stairs, quietly, Race glancing about every two seconds to make sure none of the girls were out of bed.
As they started towards the front door, Spot turned to face him with what was almost a pout on his face.
"Walk me to the freaking bus stop, man."
Race just smirked.
"Come on, I fucking hate being alone this early in the fucking morning."
"Keep it down." Race pushed his hand to Spot's mouth, and then pulled back when Spot licked his palm. "Eew, fucker."
"Come on, walk with me."
"...."
"Come ooonnn."
"I'm not walking with you," Race finally said, relenting, and smug that he had such a good plan so early in the morning. "I'm fucking driving you. Because I'm the best boyfriend ever."
He shut the door behind them. "Wait in the car; I'll be out once I've grabbed breakfast. Lie down in the backseat or something in case Dad looks out a window."
"Wait, how did you--"
"Because I am the best boyfriend ever." He smirked and let himself back into the house; when he reappeared five minutes later he had his backpack and a box of cereal to munch from. Spot was nowhere in sight, so he let himself into his car.
"You're there?" he asked softly.
"Yes, I'm fucking here." Spot's voice was muffled from the back.
"Good. Once we're a few blocks away..."
"Then fucking hurry. This is not comfortable."
Race pulled out of the driveway, chucking the cereal box at Spot, and drove off, giving a wave to the doorway, where his father was standing and still drinking his coffee. Specifically, drinking out of that mug.
It was the one Race had made him when he was like...four. It was the ugliest mug the world had ever seen, and Race hadn't even noticed that his father was drinking out of it this morning.
It gave him a weird, warm feeling inside. He had to wonder how could something so small and pointless make him almost want to pretend his family was normal again, like he used to do.
Race shook his head. It was early; all he'd had was coffee, and he'd spent the night with his boyfriend. Of course he was a little out of it.
"Can I come up now?"
"Not yet."
"For fuck's sake..."
"What?"
"You are fucking paranoid."
"People keep telling me that."
"And people also tell you that you're stupid, and they're both true."
"I have every reason in the world to be paranoid. And I'm not stupid, I'm a drug addict. There's a difference."
"Could've fooled me."
"Shut up." Race aimed for the nearest pothole, which lead to a loud "OW!" coming from Spot in the back. "Heh."
"Asshole."
"I'm an asshole who let you crash at my house at great personal risk, risked my sister's wrath to sneak you out of said house, and managed to bullshit my way into having a reason to drive you home."
"...But you're still an asshole. Can you pull over yet?"
"Yeah; I need gas anyway. There's a station at the next corner."
He heard crunching in the back and then Spot said, "Fuck, this is good cereal."
"I know."
"Is it like, some weird Italian shit?"
"Of course."
More crunching. "It's good."
Race turned a corner, and quickly reached his hand back. Spot dropped a few pieces in his hand, and Race threw them in his mouth as he drove into the gas station, to the nearest pump.
He looked back at his boyfriend. "Coast is clear."
Spot looked hilariously uncomfortable, his feet up on the seat and his back and head scrunched on the floor; he was still snacking on the dry cereal. "You are such a dumbass."
"You look like a noodle." Race smiled, and Spot flicked a piece of cereal up at his face. "Come on, you can get up."
"Maybe I don't want to, now."
"Suit yourself." Race got out of the car--this time he bothered to open the door and everything--and pumped his gas; when he turned back around, Spot had climbed out and was leaning against the car, eating cereal.
"I need a shower," Spot commented.
"Yeah, me too." Race finished with his gas, put the pump back in it's cradle, and headed into the attached ExpressMart to pay. Also to buy a bag of Skittles. "You want anything?"
"Get me a doughnut?" Spot asked.
"Yeah. What kind?"
Spot hesitated, then decided it was easier to just go with Race and get himself a doughnut. Race paid, tore open his Skittles, and dropped four in his mouth at once.
"I can not believe you're having Skittles for breakfast."
"Craving," Race said, his mouth full of candy. "Sugar."
Spot started to make a comment about licking sugar off of Race, and stopped short. A gray van had pulled up next to Race's car, blocking the view of it from the store, and there was another one on the other side of the pump.
Odd. But Race didn't seem to notice, and kept walking.
Spot raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and followed him, glancing at the vans with an odd expression. "Tony?"
"What?" He raised his head, mouth full of Skittles.
Spot grinned, and took the few that were in Race's hand and plopped them in his mouth. "Have I mentioned that you can't eat by yourself?"
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Wipe your face, you have purple on your bottom lip."
Race flipped him off and rubbed his lip with his thumb. Spot forgot about the vans.
Until the door of the far one opened and someone grabbed his arm as he started to get into the car.
He moved to pull away and yell, but a hand covered his mouth. He twisted and saw a man in a suit, and another by the van with a gun in his hand, and then he noticed the strange scent coming from the man's glove. The world began to go fuzzy, he felt oddly dizzy and then... Black.
*
Racetrack opened his eyes. There was a very dim ceiling light in the room, which buzzed and flickered annoyingly. The room was small, with no windows and cement walls, and a cold cement floor. Race knew the floor was cold because he was lying on it, his upper back slumped against a wall, with his hands and feet tied and a lingering sense of dizziness.
Spot was draped next to him, tied and gagged--Race wondered for a moment why he hadn't been gagged--and still unconscious. He wondered where he was and what had happened. But he had a sinking feeling he could guess.
With dread, he allowed himself to look around the room, which wasn't empty. In fact, there were two other men in it; one skinny, and very much Italian, the other Mr. Paperelli.
Race stared. "Mr. Paperelli, what the--"
"And the little Valentino man's awake," the skinny one said. "Tony, how ya feelin'?" Race raised an eyebrow, and cast his eyes slightly to the right to look at Spot. Then he looked back up at the two men staring at him. "Your friend? He ain't so bad. Little guy, he went down pretty easy."
Race still didn't say anything. It was like...some sort of dream. Things like this weren't possible. Right?
"Your daddy's a little too trusting," Mr. Paperelli said. "He went into this without a care in the world, it was really very easy."
Race didn't say anything. He could feel the panic rising; he didn't know where he was, but his dad was involved, which automatically made it dangerous. His father had said Mr. Paperelli was... not in their Family, but someone he trusted, but...
His father was too trusting.
Somehow, Race had never imagined that. But then, he'd also never imagined he'd end up here, where ever here was.
He was suddenly very shaky, the craving he'd had that morning back with a vengeance, and he wondered what time it was. Had more than an hour passed, would someone be looking for him? Would his father be allowed to look for him?
He searched the two men with his eyes, his expression pleading and frightened, and finally the skinny one smiled. Race was familiar with that kind of smile; it was the one his father used when he was sure of himself and talking to someone who'd messed up. It had been turned on Race himself countless times.
Finally, he spoke. "If you're old enough to be running errands, you're old enough to deal with the consequences."
Then he left, leaving Race alone with Mr. Paperelli and Spot, who showed no signs of stirring.
"So." Mr. Paperelli straightened up. "You can bet I was a might surprised when your daddy told me that you'd be running this errand. After all, it's no secret that you were in a bit of trouble two years ago. Oh, wait," he put a hand up to his mouth. "That's supposed to be ancient history, isn't it, Little Valentino?"
"What are you getting at?" Race asked, pushing himself further into the wall.
"Just a little irony, that's all." Mr. Paperelli smiled. "Your daddy doesn't know that his own son, his own little fucked up, cokehead son..." He leaned closer to Race; his breath smelled like the pharmacy. "Was delivering drugs. Don't ya love that?"
"Wh-what?" Race asked, his voice shaky. Well, really, he was shaky.
"Oh, don't feel bad. Your dad didn't even know. He's been a bit squeamish about drugs since your incident. You caused a fucking lot of trouble for us, Little Valentino."
It had been a long time since anyone had called Race by his real last time. He'd never heard the whole story about why it had been changed--or any story at all, really--just got the impression that his father had had a problem with work, his real work, because they had moved halfway across the country and changed names. He'd just been starting school at that point, Sophia barely remembered it. He wasn't sure Maria had even been born yet.
He didn't know how to react, so he just waited.
"You and your father." Mr. Paperelli sounded disgusted. "Well, you'll both be taken care of soon."
Race didn't say anything--he was paranoid he'd give something away, get his father in even more trouble than he was probably already in. By the sounds of it, Mr. Paperelli wanted them both dead.
What about...but what about Spot? Race glanced once again at his unconscious boyfriend, and Mr. Paperelli snorted.
"Your fault for driving buddies around at five thirty in the morning," he ruffled Race's hair. "He'll just have to go too, won't he?"
"No, he, he didn't fucking do anything, he wasn't part of anything and he didn't--" Race started to babble, and then quickly bit his tongue to avoid making an idiot of himself. These kind of guys hated idiots. A lot.
"I guess he'll think twice about who to make pals with in his next lifetime, Little Valentino." Mr. Paperelli checked his watch and whistled. "Well, I've got an appointment in less than an hour. You get comfortable; Little Caesar will be your new friend this afternoon."
Race made a confused face. Little Caesar?
Mr. Paperelli grinned. "His mama makes good pizza."
Race shut his eyes and slumped against the wall. He heard the door shut again, and when he opened his eyes he was alone with the still unconscious Spot. Except Spot was starting to roll over, vaguely straining against his restraints, and after almost a minute went rigid. He twisted and rolled over and was facing Race. His eyes went wide, and he'd probably have said something if it wasn't for the duct tape over his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Race murmured quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
Spot struggled to push himself into a sitting position, hard to do when he could barely move. Race didn't know what to say, but he knew he needed to explain somehow. Finally, he just let it all come out.
"You shouldn't be here, you weren't involved, but you are here so I guess you deserve to know that my dad is a hitman for the mafia and last week I ran an errand for him even though I didn't want to, and the guys who I was dropping things off for kidnapped us and I think they're going to kill us and I don't know why or what's going on other than that, and I'm really really sorry you're involved and if I can get you out of this, I will."
He didn't pause for breath during the entire run on sentence. And Spot just stared at him.
Spot snorted, and let out a muffled sound, that Race took for a phrase along the lines of 'Are you fucking kidding me'?
"I'm serious, Spot," he said, feeling like he was losing his breath. "I wouldn't fucking joke about that. Well, I would, but this time I'm not. I really wish I was."
Spot let out another muffled noise, and finally succeeded in getting into a sitting position. He opened his mouth, causing the cloth that was held in with duct tape to fall inside it. He coughed, and Race raised an eyebrow as Spot seemed to be attempting to push the cloth away with his tongue.
"Spot, you..." Race sighed. "No, I probably don't want to hear what you have to say to me, so I'm not gonna help."
Spot made another noise, but Race was pretty sure it was a swear. He looked at Spot again, and shrugged. "I'm so fucking sorry..."
Spot continued to strain against the duct tape, and finally spat out the cloth. The tape was still attached above his top lip, but he could speak now. Though the area around his mouth looked bright red and sore.
"This is insane," he said.
"Yeah."
"Your dad... Your dad kills people?"
"Yeah."
"Fucking..." he trailed off, and finally muttered, though it was muffled by the tape, "You really are a goddamned walking stereotype."
"I'm a goddamned walking dead man is what I am. Except I'm not walking, I'm tied up in a fucking basement somewhere."
Spot didn't say anything, until finally, "I'm claustrophobic. Just so you know. When I start screaming."
"Uh, screaming would probably be a bad--"
"YOUR GODDAMN DAD KILLS PEOPLE FOR THE MAFIA AND WE'RE GOING TO DIE AND YOU THINK SCREAMING IS A BAD IDEA?!"
Race winced, as much as he could while tied hand and foot. Spot had a valid point, really.
"You didn't fucking tell me that..." Spot glanced around the room, and pushed himself further into the wall. "That you fucking had a fucking Mafia DAD. And you fucking didn't tell me that you did shit for him either!"
Race paled. "No, Spot, I swear to fucking God that was the only time I did!"
"Like shit!"
"Would you calm down?" Race snapped. "I wouldn't LIE about that, I only did it once, and I didn't want to do it anyway, I HAD to!" Spot was staring hard at him now, glowering. "I fucking had to, okay? I couldn't get out of it."
More silence passed between them and Spot adjusted his position, still looking fairly pissed and very much uncomfortable. "How am I supposed to believe that?"
"Because it's the truth," Race muttered.
Spot kicked his heel, trying to remove his bonds. It didn't work too well. "You have a mafia dad and you only did something for him ONCE?"
"Yeah."
"Even if that IS true, why would you go from not being involved to being involved in one fucking instant? You just woke up one day and went 'Good gosh, I feel like being a mobster! What a coincidence! SO IS MY DAD!"
"Stop shouting!"
"NO."
"Spot, please, I--it wasn't a fucking easy decision, okay?"
"Fuck you."
"I mean that, Spot! It wasn't--I spent my whole goddamn life trying to not be my dad, not get involved in his life, making sure I knew as little about it as possible, and then--"
"Then you got high as a kite and changed your damn mind, right?" Spot spat.
"Half right." Race glared at him. "I got high as a kite and when I came down realized that Dutchy was in a lot of trouble and--"
"Holy shit."
"Spot--"
"Holy--you mean his community service is--he got off light because of--of this?"
"...yeah," Race said quietly. "I had to do that for Dad, after I'd fucked up so badly with Dutchy, I--"
"He doesn't blame you," Spot interrupted. "You didn't owe him anything."
"Yes," Race said firmly, "I did."
"Jesus Christ..." Spot fell back against the wall. "Jesus goddamned Christ..." He glanced at Race. "So...what, your old man made you do it?"
"I couldn't ask for a favor and not expect to do one in return. It's how it works." Race explained. "You do it for the Family, personal relationships have nothing to do with it. I would have had to pay him back sooner or later."
"...so you weren't lying? That really was the first time you've done anything for him?"
"Yeah."
Spot started kicking his heel again, for lack of anything better to do than at least attempt to free himself from his bonds. "Dutchy would have been at Juvie if it wasn't for you." Race shrugged. "Jesus, fucking Mafia Dad...no wonder Jack was suspicious."
Race started to retort, but saw that Spot was joking. "Yeah...I'm a real bad influence."
"God, I can't fucking believe this."
"You get used to it."
"No you fucking don't."
"I got used to it."
"You had a life to get used to it."
"Yeah, but..." He trailed off. So Spot was right.
"So this is it," Spot mumbled. "We're going to die. In a fucking basement."
"Yeah."
"I hate basements." He shuddered. "I hate them."
"Uh...?"
Spot hesitated, then said quietly, "My dad locked me the basement for awhile when I was, like, seven. Like, for a month." He shuddered. "I fucking hate not having windows."
"Oh, God. Spot..."
"Y'know, you're the first person I've ever met whose dad was more fucked up than mine."
"He's not fucked up, he just..." he trailed off. "So he is fucked up, this whole thing is. God, I'm so sorry you were in the car..."
"Well, whatever. Always figured I'd die young, anyway."
"Spot, man, I don't want to die." Race coughed, maybe to hide how much his voice was vibrating.
"Me neither." Spot paused. "You got any of those Skittles left?"
"How can you..." Race trailed off and adjusted his position a bit. "Fuck me, they stole my fucking Skittles!"
"Bastards."
"They kidnap us, they're going to kill us, and they don't even leave my Skittles."
"Yeah."
Race let out a long sigh. "You're taking this really well."
Spot shrugged. "I've seen some crazy things. Have you heard about Dutchy's mom?"
"Only at the trial."
"Well, she's like, a few tones bellow our dads. She's nuts."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Like, out of our whole group of friends, only Itey and Dave have normal families. And Sarah isn't exactly normal." He snorted. "Poor Jack."
"Mush's family is... Well, they were normal. And then he told them he was gay and now his mom is constantly on the brink of a nervous breakdown and just wants to know where she went wrong as a mother."
"Heh."
"Honestly, it's amazing any of us are as well adjusted as we are."
"Um," Spot said. "We really aren't."
Race laughed. "We are...so fucked up considering, but for fucked up kids, we're very well adjusted."
Spot opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, reconsidered, and grinned. "Hey, that's true. Now I can tell Jack and Denise that I'm not that bad."
"Denise?"
"Foster mom."
"Ah...so, uh...now that we're gonna die and all..." Race started scraping patterns in the floor with his finger nail; considering the posture he had to get in to do it, it would probably kill his back. "You might as well tell me what you and Jack were fighting about anyway."
Spot shrugged. "It feels kind of stupid now." He paused. "But not really."
"Only YOU could find a daily argument still relevant when you're about to die."
"Did I ask you?" Spot groaned. "Goddamnit, I have an itch... uh, well... Jack doesn't... like you. At all."
"Yeah, I got that feeling. So?"
"So he was trying to convince me to dump you and I got kind of angry and, uh, said some kind of mean things. And so did he, and he brought my dad into it and I just lost it and... You know, I'm way better adjusted than I used to be; I didn't even try and hit him. I just left."
"Good?"
"I'm sure my shrink would say so."
"Oh."
"Of course, my shrink also thinks that being gay is a phase I'm going through to change and control something in my life."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. He forgot one detail with that theory though." He paused. "He forgot how fucking hot boys are."
Race laughed. He actually laughed. Which, given the circumstances, was impressive. And it was hard to tell, but he suspected that Spot was smiling behind the duct tape.
It was weird. He should have been freaking out and terrified, but with Spot there he was just... Content. Nervous, but at least he was with someone who could make him feel better. Even the craving was starting to lessen.
He wondered how the hell Spot could have such an effect on him, but no answers sprang to mind.
"So you and Jack got in a fight because of me?"
"Yeah." Spot paused, and then seemed to consider what he had just said. "Yeah, but don't give yourself too much credit. We fight all the time. Well, we used to. Goddamnit, I want this fucking duct tape off my mouth."
"You could try like...scraping it against the wall," Race suggested. "But then you'd end up probably scraping off half of your face and we wouldn't want anything so ugly to happen to something so pretty."
"Thanks for the concern," Spot said, turning over, and Race stared.
"You're not actually going to DO it, are you?"
"You see a reason not to?"
"I just said!"
Spot shrugged, and pushed his face up against the wall. Race couldn't watch. He shut his eyes and looked away, expecting to hear shouts of pain emit from Spot any second now.
"OW! Godfuckingdamn--ahHAH."
Race opened his eyes as Spot was struggling to get back to a comfortable sitting position, the duct tape now stuck to the wall next to him, and a scratch on his nose. "Cute," Race muttered.
"Shut up. Why the hell didn't they gag you?"
"I think so they could talk with me. I don't know, though. It's not like I've done this before."
"Yeah." Spot's stomach rumbled. "God, I'm hungry enough that... That I could actually finish a meal."
"You? Never."
"Fuck you, I'm hungry."
"Yeah, hi, I'm the one who actually eats on a regular basis. How do you think I feel?"
"Bitchy, obviously," Spot answered. "So... What happens now?"
Race started to answer that he had no idea, but was cut off when the door opened again, and Little Caesar returned. He was holding a cell phone and speaking rapidly in Italian, threatening someone, offering a warning that he'd better do exactly as told or else. He crossed the room and nudged Race's side with his foot.
"Your father wants to know you're safe," he said, and crouched so he could hold the phone up to Race's ear.
"Dad?" Race asked hesitantly.
"Tony--Anthony--Jesus, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm... Uncomfortable, but... Not really hurt."
"Oh, thank God. You just hold on, Tony, I'm going to get you out of this."
"Dad, Sean's here, too."
There was a pause, and finally, "What?"
"He--It's a long story but he was with me when--"
"Later, Tony. When you're safe."
"Okay."
"Don't worry, Fante, I will get you out safely."
"Be careful, Dad, I think--" he started to try and warn his father with his suspicious that it was really his father who was in danger, but the phone was pulled away from him.
"Valentino," Caesar continued, "Now listen here, mother fucker, you'll follow our instructions exactly or else youÕre fucking dead and your kid's gonna pay for..." He walked back out of the room without a word to the boys inside it and shut the door behind him.
"You okay?" Spot asked after a short pause.
"I think they're going to kill my dad," Race answered quietly, the panic returning. "I think they--when he tries to save me--oh, Jesus..."
"Hey, no one can kill your dad, he's like...some sort of fucking apocalypse."
"Don't fucking..." Race let out a worried whine. "Jesus Christ, we're all going to fucking die."
"Then it is an apocalypse."
"Would you cut it OUT?"
"I can't help it, I joke when things suck. Or else I would've shut down, like, four fucking years ago. I swear to god."
"Yeah," Race mumbled. He understood that; his life wasn't as chaotic as Spot's had been, but humor as a defense mechanism he was all too familiar with. Well, that and acting like a jerk. And taking drugs.
He could really, really have used drugs. Or at least his Skittles. Or something.
"I wish they'd just fucking get it over with," Spot said after a surprisingly long quiet.
"Hey, look, uh... My dad said he'd get us out of it; things'll be okay." He tried to sound optimistic, and failed.
"Yeah, sure." Spot sounded about as cynical as Race felt.
"Well...at least we know that someone's trying to do something." Race pulled his knees up to his stomach and leaned his chin on top of them. "I dunno, I always thought when you died, you'd know it. I don't feel like we're going to die."
"I sure as hell do," Spot said, and twitched his nose. "Fucking scrape...owww..."
"That was your own fault."
"Shut up," Spot snapped. "But seriously, I didn't expect to actually look forward to the rest of life and all that shit, but I don't want to die. I mean, shit, I'm fucking seventeen. I don't want to die. And the last thing me and Jack said to each other was just a bunch of shit I can't even remember."
Race raised an eyebrow as Spot continued, the tone of his voice nearing closer and closer to panic. "Spot, don't--"
"No, seriously, he probably thinks I hate him," he continued. "And I fucking don't. Everyone thinks I hate them and I don't. I don't hate you either, okay?"
"I know."
"No. You don't." Spot stared at him. "You have no idea."
Race and Spot stared at each other as the realization of Spot's words sort of sunk in. He hadn't said anything really, but then again, he'd said more than he usually did. Spot avoided sentimentality. He'd told Race he liked him that day at Race's house, and Race was sure that was as close to romance that Spot ever got.
"There's a lot of shit I haven't told you," Spot mumbled, looking down at the floor. Race shrugged.
"I haven't told you everything either...well, I pretty much have now, but not everything." Race leaned his cheek against his knee and turned to face Spot. "Stuff about your dad?"
"Kind of." Spot shrugged. "I dunno, I could list all of the crazy shit he'd do, and you could analyze it all you want. But I've never had a shrink who told me they thought I'd get better. Because I never will."
Race breathed out some of the bad air forming inside of his throat. "He fucked you up pretty good, didn't he?"
"Yeah." Spot kicked the ground. "Fucking bastard...I don't usually care, but I...Jack just told me that everyone was my friend because they felt bad for me, and all that. And I already knew all of that, but--"
"That's not why everyone's your friend," Race broke in. "Take my word for it. I've been there, I worry about the same thing all the time, but you just have to take your--"
"Jack fucking SAID it, Tony."
"So?" He was leaning towards Spot now, wishing more than anything he could move his hands. "So, you said a lot of stuff to Jack that you didn't mean either. You should know better than anyone that Jack sometimes doesn't think before he talks."
"...still," Spot mumbled. "Still, I wouldn't be such a fucking asshole if my old man didn't..."
Race watched his boyfriend's face. An overwhelming surge of emotion was starting to build in his stomach. The more he looked at Spot, the more he listened to him, the more he wanted to be with him, the feeling just got bigger.
He couldn't stand how down Spot was now. All because Spot was with him.
This was his fault.
"Spot," he mumbled. "Look, I--fuck, when this is through if you never talk to me again--I mean, if you don't want to, that's... It's cool. I mean, not... I mean... Fuck."
"Tony?" Spot murmured.
"I--I just fucked your life up beyond belief and--I mean, if I was you I wouldn't want to... Jesus."
"Are you dumping me?"
"Shh!" Race hissed. "There are--fucking people listening probably..."
"Well, are you?"
"No! But I, I just don't want to see... I mean, if you and Jack are fighting and it's my fault.... I don't want to make things worse, if Jack's your brother and all..."
"Tony," Spot said, sounding partly annoyed and partly embarrassed. "Don't, okay? Just don't."
"But--"
"Don't!" he snapped, and kicked Race's foot; well, attempted to, really. "Get it through your head. You're one of the first good goddamned things to happen to me in like...forever. Or a long time. Whatever, if you fucking dump me, I'll kick your ass."
"Spot--"
"I'll kick-your-ass."
Race stared at him, slightly open mouthed, but then laughed again for the second time that night. Again, the emotion swirled around in his stomach. Pushing at him. Making him want to say things, but he didn't know quite what it was he wanted to say.
"You got that?" Spot asked.
Race nodded, still laughing a little. "Yeah, I got it."
"Good." Spot slumped against the wall. "So, tell me, what other secrets have you been keeping from me?"
"What?"
"You know." Spot winked at him and Race felt like blushing even though Spot and he had gone far beyond winking by now. "Small stuff that you've got no reason to keep from me now."
"Well, uh." Race trailed off. "I stole a bag of candy from Isabella when I was, like, eight."
"You're a natural for the mob thing then, huh?"
"Apparently not. What about you? Something you won't tell anyone else."
"Me? Hmm." Spot thought for a second. "When I was living with the homophobes, I--I was way more fucked up than I am now, then--I actually jerked off on their daughter's Barbie car, and when she asked I told her I'd been washing it."
"Oh my GOD that is DISGUSTING."
"Yeah, so? Your turn."
"Uuh..." Race bit his lip, scanning his mind, then he grinned. "Well, one time, when me and Sophia were clowning around the house, she broke this super expensive vase we got from my grandmother, right?"
"Yeah, not impressed."
"I'm not DONE," Race snapped, then continued. "So anyway, neither one of us knew what to do, so we just put the thing in a box and left it on my bedside table."
"Okay."
"Then David came over and he knocked it over by accident and started freaking out because he heard the broken glass."
"...and?"
"And so then when my dad asked what happened..."
"...you asshole."
"Yeah, that's mainly why dad can't stand him. And the reason he calls him all those different D names, because when my dad doesn't like somebody, he writes them off to the 'non-exist' side of his brain."
"Asshole."
"So? Your turn." Race smiled.
"I lied in confession, like, every week the religious family made me go."
"I do that every week, Spot."
"Yeah?"
"'Hi, Father. I'm not gay. Really.'"
Spot snickered. "But I, like, would talk about stealing people's wallets on the street and random shit that... You know, the sort of thing people think I do, even though I... Well, I did, but not then. But I'd tell him about all these awful things..."
"Why?"
"Fuck if I know."
"Well, if I was a shrink I'd probably say something about feeling a need to be punished to make sense of your own life--"
"If you were a shrink you'd be a self righteous idiot who really has no idea what he's talking about."
"Oooh, bitter?"
"Wouldn't you be?"
Race considered, then grinned. "I'd be worse than you. Not that you're so bad, but considering all the shit you've been through, you turned out pretty good."
"Oh yeah, I'm a regular Homecoming King."
"No seriously." Race let his eyes travel down Spot's body and then he cleared his throat. "Seriously, you're...amazing."
Race turned the atmosphere surprisingly serious, and Spot cleared his throat, not ready for the switch. Especially since his hands were tied up.
"I'm not anything," Spot replied. "You're the one who's--"
"You're like..." Race continued. "I dunno what it is, but when I'm with you, things don't seem so bad anymore."
Spot stared down at his legs and wrinkled his nose, trying to do something about the feeling of the cut on it. And finally he mumbled towards the floor, "Yeah, I get that too."
Race looked away, because he figured Spot wouldn't want him to stare. But he realized that was the sweetest thing Spot had ever, probably to anyone, and likely the sweetest thing he ever would say.
"Thanks," Race eventually said.
"Whatever."
"You know Spot, you..." He trailed off. "I really... I've never felt this way about anyone before." He leant his head back against the wall, but could feel Spot's eyes on him. And when he turned around he caught Spot's eye, and Spot was smiling.
"Yeah?" Spot asked.
"Really."
"...thanks."
"Spot I..." Race swallowed. "I think...I might..." He stopped, realizing what he just might be saying, or coming close to saying, without really knowing at all.
Spot watched him, and raised an eyebrow. "You might...what?"
Race didn't get a chance to answer because Little Caesar stormed through the door, two men behind him, both huge.
"Little Valentino," Little Caesar said, kicking at Race's foot. Spot growled up at him, and Caesar shot him a grin. "Your friend woke up, did he? That's a cute little scratch you got on your nose there, girly."
"Fuck you," Spot spat back. Race winced. Spot really needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut.
"Big words." He nodded his head at the two men behind him. "You see them?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So, they don't have much of a liking for talking things out, so you better hope Little Valentino does everything we ask or we just might rip your fucking balls off, then kill you right here and now."
"Don't touch him," Race said in a low voice.
"You do what we tell you." He reached for the inner pocket of his suit and produced a gun, stepped forward to stand between Spot and Race, held the gun almost straight down, which left it no more than six inches from Spot's skull. "Do you understand, shitface?"
Race nodded.
"Good." He moved the gun away. "I'm going to ask you questions; youÕre gonna answer with as much information as you have. Some of them I know the answers to, so if you lie to me, I'll blow your friends brains out. Understand that?"
He nodded again.
"How much did you know about the errand you ran?"
"Not much." Race swallowed hard and continued when he didnÕt ask another question. "I was told where to pick it up, where to drop it off, what to say and what route to take. I... I didn't know what it was or... Or anything like that."
Little Caesar raised an eyebrow. "What was the name of the Judge who got you off two years ago?"
Race made a confused face. "What?"
"You fucking heard me, Little V," he snapped, bringing out the gun again. Spot was looking, to be truthful, like he was about to piss himself. "Your judge's name when you got off two years ago."
"How am I supposed to know?" Race replied. "I was drugged up during the entire fucking trial. No, really--" He leaned forward as Little Caesar brought the gun up to Spot's kneecap. "I'm fucking serious, I have no fucking idea!"
"You understand your daddy is screwing us over with his 'no drug' policy, Little V," Little Caesar snapped. "So you're not too popular around here."
"His what?"
Caesar rolled his eyes. "Never mind that; I ask questions. You answer. What do you remember about your trial?"
"Not much. I--I was still really in rehab, I remember the lawyers coached me what to say--"
"What was the lawyer's name?"
"Uh, Ericson? Jeremy Ericson."
"Very good. What was your dealer's name and number?"
That, Race knew without thinking. "The name he gave me was Alan Michaels," he answered flatly. "Doubt it was real."
"I don't care what you doubt. The number?"
He provided it, and wished that after two years he could have forgotten. But he'd dialed it so many times, it was burned into his memory... And it always came up in his mind when he was craving, and his cravings were worse when he was stressed. And he'd never, ever been this stressed. At least, not when he wasn't getting high on a daily basis.
"How much do you know about what your father does?"
"All I know is that he's a hitman."
"Where does he get his orders?"
"No idea."
"Who does he work with?"
"No idea."
"Do you know why your Dad changed your name?"
"No," he said quietly.
Little Caesar snorted, and stood. For a moment, Race was sure that the horror was over; for awhile at least.
Then the large man to the right of Little Caesar kicked Spot violently in the stomach. Spot let out a huge yell, that turned quickly into a cough, and doubled over, hacking away.
"Spot!" Race exclaimed, then turned on Little Caesar. "I fucking told you the truth! I fucking did!"
"You're a useless rich kid, that's what you are," he answered. "At least we got the phone number outta you. That's what you get for knowin' so little about the family business." He turned and nodded at the two men with him. "Come on, we probably broke the little girly's ribcage anyway."
Race shifted over as much as he could to the still coughing Spot, and swore. "Jesus, I'm sorry..."
"OOowwwww fucking godshitdamnitoow..."
"I am SO SO SO sorry..."
"Tony--"
"I swear to God, Spot, I told them everything I knew, I wouldn't--I wouldn't hurt you, let them hurt you--are you okay?"
"No." Spot slumped against the wall. "Bastard," he added.
"I am so--"
"Shut up, wouldya?" Spot interrupted. "Not your fault they're assholes. And--And Tony, you're not a useless rich kid. You know that, right?"
"I am."
"You're not. I thought you were, but then I got to know you and you're not what they said, okay?"
"Whatever."
"Tony."
"What? Since when do you care, anyway?"
"I care since I love you," Spot said matter of factly.
Race stared at him for a second, and Spot looked away and banged his head against the wall. "Owwwww."
Race blinked. Then he cleared his throat. Then he blinked again.
Spot was busy hissing out swears. So Race wasn't really sure if he'd heard correctly or not.
"You what?" He asked, his voice very high pitched.
"You heard me."
"No, I--"
"You fucking heard me." Spot curled his knees up, and leaned forward. "Oh my god they totally broke a rib."
"You love me?"
"I said they totally broke a rib!"
"And I said, 'you love me'?"
Spot glared up at Race. "Do I say things I don't mean, idiot?"
"Yes. You tell people you hate them all the time when you don't mean it. You say you hate me a few times a day. Which is a total lie because," he actually crowed the end of the sentence, "you love me!"
"I wish you'd shut up."
Race grinned. "I'd totally do you right now if we weren't tied up."
"You could stay tied up. We could have fun with that."
Race laughed and wished he could at least lean in closer to Spot, put his head on Spot's shoulder, or kiss him, or... Well, or do exactly what they'd been discussing.
"I'm so gonna jump you the second we get out of this," Race decided.
"Yeah? For real?"
"Well, uh..." Race trailed off. "We'll see. We have to get out of here before anything else."
"Pussy."
"You love me."
"Virgin."
"Shut up!"
Race, doing the best he could, shuffled over and leaned slightly on Spot, back to back. It was all they could do, but any form of contact from Spot was...well, incredible.
"There, I have another question," Race said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He craned his neck. "Have you really had sex?"
Spot paused. "Yeah. Technically, I had sex twice."
"With guys?"
"One guy, one girl."
Race snorted. "YOU had sex with a girl? I bet that didn't work out too well."
"It didn't."
"Soooo...come on, tell me what happened."
"I don't like thinking about it. Girls are so... ugh." Then he nudged Race. "'Cept for your sisters. They're okay."
"Har dee har. Come on, level with me."
Spot shrugged, or the closest he could while tied up. "It was when I'd just moved into Jack's. And most of the school is pretty fucking homophobic, you should see the shit they put Blink throughÉ But there was this guy, on the basketball team."
"Wait, guy?"
"Yeah, guy. Let me finishÉ And, let's just say this guy was... Hot. Like, jack off fantasy hot. I didn't have a crush on him or anything, I just wanted him."
"Was he...?"
"No, and heÕs a total fuckhead, and gets his kicks beating the crap out of skinny gay guys who make easy targets. He's been making Blink's life hell for, like, two years, and when I showed upÉ Well, yeah. I got to share the ritual torture."
"Oh, God--"
"No wait, I totally got back at him for it."
"...Yeah?"
"Yeah, 'cause his girlfriend is, like, the hottest girl in school, and sheÕs a lot nicer than he was. And she felt bad for me when he started being an asshole, and there was a party that weekend and we were both really drunk, and, well." He shrugged. "I was thinking of him the whole time."
"You fucked his girlfriend to get back at him for beating you up?"
"Fuck yeah." Spot smirked.
"I can't decide if that's incredibly awesome, or really skeevy."
"Both." Spot decided. "I'm awesomely skeevy."
Race nudged him, smiling. Wishing he could kiss him, and hold him. "Soo...the guy?"
Spot breathed. "Uh, that was like...I dunno, not long ago."
"...so wait, you had sex with this girl when you were..."
"Seventeen."
"And you had sex with a GUY when you..."
"Fifteen. Would you shut up?" Spot leaned back, putting more weight on Race. "He was my first kinda...you know, he was a nice guy."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah...but he...I dunno, he was confused. And he was my best friend at the time. And we were always together, went everywhere together, and he didn't care that I was gay. So we...he kissed me one time and we had this weird, sort of relationship. That only we could see. And no one thought he was gay, so no one bothered us."
"And did you love him?"
Spot paused and Race really didn't want to hear the answer, but on the other hand, he really needed to know. "Yeah, a bit."
"Oh." He tried not to be disappointed. "What happened with him?"
"He realized he was totally, totally straight. God, Tony, if you do that to me I'll fucking kill you."
"Trust me, I like boys."
"Good, 'cause... Yeah. We, uh. Well, after a few weeks he gave me the goddamned, 'I hope we can still be friends,' speech, like a goddamn woman, and the friends thing didn't work out. Fucker."
"So he was your first love?" Race said, sounding very very stupid.
Spot snorted. "Oh god, don't YOU go girly on my ass. I loved him a BIT. He messed up, we broke up, it was a long time ago. I already told you how I felt."
"Can you say it again?"
"No," Spot snapped. "I already said it."
"Please?"
"Why?"
"Becauusse...."
Spot rolled his eyes. "So anyway. Yeah. I've done it twice. And really close another time, but his parents walked in."
Race laughed. "Are you kidding!?"
"No." Spot grinned. "They threw me out, it was hilarious. You have a funny laugh."
Race immediately stopped laughing. "What? What, no I don't!"
"You so do." Spot cleared his throat, and let out another cough. "It's kind of...really loud and odd. Like a laugh you only hear in the movies."
"Shut UP."
"Not like David, though. That's a horrible laugh."
"It's cute."
Spot stopped smiling. "Shut up."
"Then stop making fun of my laugh!"
"David's laugh is not cute."
Race grinned. "And Mush has a really nice chest."
"Not funny. You know he had a thing for you, Tony? Not funny."
"Mush never had a thing for me." Race rolled his eyes. "He's my best friend."
"Mush was in LOVE with you," Spot snapped, "since you're so fixated on the whole love thing. So don't joke about liking Mush."
"Mush..."
"And Blink would totally kick your ass."
"Blink wishes he could kick my ass. I could take him."
"Whatever."
"Hey, wait; if Itey and David are the only ones with normal families, what's with Blink's?"
Spot shrugged, to the extent he could with his wrists tied. "He was in a car crash as a kid, it was really bad. His eye got totally fucked, and his mom had been driving and a couple months later she freaked out and split."
"Ouch. So that's what's with the patch?"
"Yeah."
"He's pretty well adjusted," Race mused. Spot seemed confused, and then nodded.
"Yeah I guess so...he's a grounded guy."
"...was Mush seriously in love with me? Because that doesn't make any sense."
Spot sighed. "Tony...you are the most clueless, hottest, most unconditionally loved person I know. Everyone is fucking in love with you."
Race beamed. "God, it's so true."
"I'm not serious."
Race pouted. "Ass."
"And to set the record straight, I like your stupid laugh. If I didn't I wouldn't make you laugh. I shouldn't even have to tell you this shit, because I already said..." Spot coughed again. "Yeah."
Race felt jittery--a happy kind of jittery--as couldn't stop grinning. Spot loved him. Spot loved him. And it didn't matter that for all they knew, they'd be dead in an hour, because he had Spot. Really, really had Spot; it wasn't just that they were attracted to each other, it wasn't even just that they liked each other.
When they got out of this, assuming they survived, Spot would still be there. A month later, when life was back to normal, Spot would still be there. Half a lifetime later, when this all seemed like a dim memory, Spot would still be there. Because Spot loved him.
"I'm so going to jump you as soon as we're out," Race said again.
"You serious about that?"
"...yeah, I really really think I am. I want to right now, you have no idea."
Race didn't have to see him to know that Spot was smiling. He'd never seen Spot truly smile before until today, when he'd told him he'd never felt this way about anyone before.
Spot was usually gorgeous, but when he smiled, he actually looked happy. It didn't occur to Race until now just how unhappy Spot looked half the time. Sulking, slouching, pouting, glaring...it was all he did.
"I wish you'd smile more," Race said.
"I wish you'd drum for me more."
They were on the same wave length and Race loved that. "Hey hey, what's your favorite thing about me?"
Spot snorted. "Arrogant much?"
"No serious, I wanna know."
"Hm." Spot chewed on his lip for a minute, then finally said, "You're confident."
"What? Be serious."
"I am being serious. You know that you're hot and that you can drum and cook and you aren't even really a jerk. And just... I mean, there aren't a lot of people who know, like, who they are and what they're doing. And you do. So, yeah."
"Huh." Race absorbed that. He didn't feel confident, and he did feel like a jerk. And most of the time his confidence was totally fake anyway. But, he supposed, he was a good actor.
"Your turn," Spot demanded.
"Uh. Well." And for some reason, his mind went blank. He could name a dozen things he loved about Spot, but actually trying to figure out what the one thing that he loved the most was... It was a lot harder than he'd figured.
His head was filled with images of Spot once again, like he was filing through a book he loved, trying to show everyone his favorite page, or chapter or...even sentence. Was it the arrogance? No, not most. Was it how absolutely gorgeous Spot was? No, that wasn't it. It wasn't even his writing.
Finally, he said what was in his head.
"You...are the only Sean Conlon on the entire planet. And you will be the only Sean Conlon to ever walk the planet. No one in the world is like you, was like you, or will ever be like you."
"...is that a good thing?"
"I like you for it, don't I?" Race cocked his head to the side. "It's...wow. Do you know how many artist-types try to accomplish that? And you don't even know. You're so you. "
"Um, thanks?" Spot mostly sounded confused.
"Trust me, it's... It's fucking amazing. And a turn on. Yeah, it's a real turn on."
"God, you are not getting turned on in this damned basement."
"I kind of am. God, I want you..."
"Figures; you're finally ready to screw me and we're going to die."
Oh, Race remembered. Right. The dying thing was still a problem. And if they did survive it would be back to hiding from his father, and he didn't want to do that. He wanted the whole world to know that he was dating Spot Conlon, the only Spot Conlon.
"You just had to bring that up, didn't you?" Race muttered.
"Hey. My rib still fucking hurts." But Spot didn't seem to be in as bad of a mood as he was pretending, really.
"I'm sorry about that," Race said. "These guys... They mean fucking business. I don't know much but I figured that out."
"Yeah, I managed to get that somehow too, when the guy had a gun to my head."
"They shouldn't have... There's no goddamn reason for you to be here, they never should have even taken you here--"
The door slammed open, which Race hadn't realized doors could even do. He thought that slamming was strictly a shutting action. There was the sound of gunshots somewhere not far away, and Little Caesar ran into the room, slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it from the inside before turning around. He had his gun back out and reached down to grab Race's collar and hauled him to his feet. Then shoved him back against the wall, stood between him and Spot again, and held the gun to Race's head, one hand holding Race's arm.
"What...?" Race asked quietly, afraid to move, trying not to shake.
"Shut the fuck up, Little V," Caesar hissed, and produced a second gun with the hand that had been holding Race. "You, stand," he instructed Spot. Which Spot did, though it took him a minute to get to his feet.
And they stood there like that for a few minutes, Caesar holding a gun to either boy's head, not speaking, just glaring at the door, like he was daring it to open.
The weapon fire outside seemed to get closer. People were yelling, mostly in Italian, and it was clear that something very important was going on. A shot hit the door and someone began to shake the handle from the outside.
"If either of you moves, I'll shoot you both," Caesar said quietly.
"You're fucking dead, Caesar!" A pause. "FUCKING DEAD!"
Race knew that voice. God, he knew it so well. It sounded different, though, because no matter how pissed off he'd heard the voice, it now sounded like something out of a movie. Not real life.
Not Race's life, where his father belonged.
But he could hear him now, his father, screaming obscenities in both English and Italian, and when he caught Spot's eye, he could see that Spot had figured out who it was, too.
The door was being shot at, and finally, was pushed open when the hinges were violently and impossibly broken off. Race didn't even know these kind of things were possible outside of movies either.
In the doorway was indeed his father. His father and three other men, two of whom came to their house for dinner frequently and he knew very wellÑhe was related to one of them.
"Valentino, I'll blow their fucking heads off, I swear to god..." Caesar breathed. "You can watch your little brat's brains splatter all over the fucking wall."
More yelling followed, and the next thing Race knew, everyone started shooting again, and he heard his father yelling for him and Spot to hit the floor.
So he dropped to the floor, and when he saw Spot staring stunned at the dilemma, still standing, he kicked at Spot's feet, trying to kick them out from under him. Spot tripped more than anything else and hit the ground face first, not able to catch himself with his hands tied, and after that for a minute there was nothing but noise and yelling and chaos, and abruptly it felt like the world stopped.
It was like being in a movie. He looked up and he could swear he saw the bullet moving, which was impossible. But it hit his father in the shoulder and his father jerked forward for a second and was bleeding, but his aim didn't falter and he fired the gun, and Race couldn't see Caesar fall, but felt the man behind him take a short step forward, and drop.
The body landed on top of him and he screamed and rolled out from under it and then realized it was a corpse, Caesar was dead and--and his father was--
He looked back up and saw his father was leaning heavily against the wall, his gun still trained on Caesar's body as though the corpse was going to start moving again, but he was panting and there was a large and growing bloodstain on the front of his father's perfectly tailored suit.
Then time went back to normal, and he reacted the way any normal human being would have.
He screamed.
*
F: B, is this...is this an UPDATE?? Is this what they look like??
B: I dunno... It's been so LONG... why is that again?
F: My lack of editing?
B: Or perhaps those dreaded things called "finals". Who can say?
F: But alas, here we are, and let me tell you, we have far from forgotten about EYDW.
B: It remains our darling and we love it so. -pets the story- Heh. We threw everyone off with the clues last chapter; sorry about that. But not really, because the Spot-girl-sex is important later.
F: It creates something all new and special.
B: But not for, like, 200 pages. Anyway, coming up next time we've got... Oh, let's see. Some more mafia-ness, some backstory, and my very favorite OC in the whole thing. -grin- He's dreamy. And dumb.
F: Yes, it's quite unhealthy. She pets him. She TALKS to him.
B: He's my preciousssssss.
F: I could name several of mine. Like a kiss. Of the public variety.
B: But aaaaaaanyhoo, we'd like to wish everyone happy holidays and thank y'all for being patient with us and reading the story. We love you.
F: -pet-
-this chapter celebrated with latkes, 'cause hey, we're Jewish and it's Chanukah!-