Obsession
A Hetalia story.
Chapter Two: The New Beginnings
"I never found life beautiful until after that man helped me back onto my feet. I never saw him again afterwards, because I never needed his assistance," The bloody man sighs softly. An hour has passed since the beginning of the tale, and the veteran of the law does not feel an ounce of exhaustion as he had before. Something about this man enraptures him, makes him continue to listen, even as blood and mud drip from his chin.
"So why tell me this?" The cop speaks slowly.
He is a simple man, with simple-minded ideals, and one of which being he likes getting to the hard facts and answers immediately. He hates it when the accused, or even a victim, skirt around the information he needs. The strange man is sitting there with his hands folded in his lap as though he is telling a little kids story. The dark, bullet-like eyes stare straight at him at the sound of his voice, and a little shiver runs down his spine. Never has he seen eyes looking so dead; even in the victims of a homicide.
"So you don't trust a stranger's face. No encounter is by chance, and if you don't learn that soon you will lose everything important to you," His voice cracks, like a china plate smashing into the floor. The cop couldn't help but wince.
"I'm sorry for interrupting then."
Toris nods his head and adverts his eyes to the table. The story seems lost in his thoughts. Before the cop can open his mouth and urge him to continue, he speaks on his own—more to the table than anything else.
"I got a new job a few days later. I was the manager for a professional hockey team, the Rebels. I liked that job. It was one of the few I was good at…"
As manager for the Rebels, Toris Laurinaitis has a few simple jobs. He would schedule games given to him by the coach. He would call the team ahead of time to make sure they would be coming and sometimes he was also in charge of booking the rink and making sure the ice was suitable for play. He even, depending whether he had the time or not, kept stats at the games for each individual player.
These jobs in particular were incredibly important, specifically on the days when the rivals of the Rebels came into town: the Canadian Maple Leaves. Fans on both ends were diehards, but Toris loved watching it nonetheless. He had made a few friends amongst the Rebels, one of which being the star player, Alfred F. Jones. All around, he was a competitive player, but especially so when they came to play; this is because his brother Matthew was on the opposing team. Although they don't resemble one another very closely, their sibling rivalry sparks up the ice and brings in the fans to pack the stadiums.
It is a great, stable job. Toris wasn't worried about how his family would eat all seven days in the week now, because he has the money to accomplish it. His success even went as far as moving him and his brother's from their ratty apartment in the slums, into a moderately sized house—one that had a bedroom for each of them.
It would seem like finally his life is back in order. That day when he was fired, and on the brink of disaster is just a distant photograph in a forgotten album. Toris is no longer an echo of failure, but the music of success. With just a little hand up, he made leaps and bounds in his life.
It's on one of these mending days that he finds himself caught up by some possible draftee's statistics. He hadn't meant to stay holed up in his office well after his hours were up, but he wanted to impress his boss by giving him the list a few days early—that way, he'll only secure his position more. A few times, his phone buzzes but he chooses to ignore it, assuming it is Eduard telling him he took Raivis home and was heading to work, like he had always done. Nothing could make him tear his eyes away from the computer screen as he adds numbers and rearranges names.
Well, nothing but the knock at the door, which disrupts his vividly fast paced motions.
"Come in!" Toris calls, saving the changes to his Excel document. At first, he thinks it is his boss, curious to why he is still at work, but when the door opens and he sees a face beaming at him, he knows it isn't his boss.
"Hey Toris!" It is the star of the hockey rink, Alfred F. Jones.
The Lithuanian nods his head at him. The man takes it upon himself to grab a chair from the other side of the room, and drags it singlehandedly over to the desk before plopping it.
"Whatcha doing?" He asks, cocking his head like a curious child. Today, he is wearing contacts, which most likely meant he just had practice; usually, he adorned his glasses everywhere he went, but refuses to sacrifice them in the sport. That explains why he's at the rink at the present moment.
"Working."
"You don't work this late usually," His smile fades a little.
"I'm just trying to get some recruiting reports finished before the deadline."
"Well…" Alfred taps his chin, like he is thinking of something to say, before his grin returns, "After you finish, want to come hang out with me and the guys?"
Toris could not remember the last time he participated in a social event, and the thought excites him. Maybe now, after all the hard word and hard ships, he has time for a personal life. He can't help himself but nod his head eagerly, and in response Alfred claps him on the back.
"This will be so awesome dude!" He exclaims, "We've wanted you to come for a while but you're always disappearing after work!" Before he can open his mouth to apologize, the natural-born American continues, "You've never been properly introduced to the family yet."
When Toris thinks of family, he thinks of Raivis and Eduard, his dead mother and convicted father. The broken and dysfunctional family.
"Family…"
"The team bro. We are practically like family, and you're in it, being manager and all."
It's been too long since the Lithuanian has been talking to someone outside his family on something nonbusiness related and he loves it; it makes his heart swoon with the hope that maybe now his trials are over and everything would be okay.
That everything is now okay.
Alfred flashes a look at his watch, "I hope you can get done soon. I bet the guys already want to eat."
"Actually, I'm done now."
The reports can wait. He still has a good three days before the boss expects them. Maybe just this once, he can have a little self-indulgence.
When Toris told the hockey player he has no car to drive, the American offers him a ride without hesitation. The manager never realized how much professional hockey players make until he is seated in the slick black Challenger, his back sinking into the leather seats. Alfred must have caught his stunned glance, because he lets out a chuckle as he pulls out from the parking lot.
"I'm going to be paying for all the food too, so you don't have to worry. It's my treat to the family."
"You're really nice…" Toris complements, causing Alfred to grin.
"I just like doing nice things."
Despite being grateful and rather eager for the night ahead, Toris pulls out his phone to reply to his brother's messages, only to find out they aren't from Eduard at all. Whoever the unknown phone number owner was has spammed his phone with seven hellos. Toris deletes them all, not sparing it a thought. His number is a simple one, and is always confused for another. He sends his brother a text explaining what he is doing, just as Alfred parks his Challenger at a restaurant.
"Here we are bro."
They both get out of the car, and the Lithuanian nearly lets his jaw drop. It is the most expensive place in town; somewhere Toris didn't even dare step foot in the parking lot. Only people with special connections get into it, and for a moment he's overwhelmed.
Maybe I'm a little too over my head… He thinks, following the American inside. He tries to twist his head in every direction to see everything; the high swooping arcs, the detailed columns, the dim chandelier that only gives off enough light for Toris to see where he is going; the famous art work, some small and framed, other taking up the entire wall; even the marble floor is extravagant, polished so many times it glistens and Toris can see his face reflecting off the surface.
"Pretty cool, huh?" Alfred remarks, smiling when he sees the expression the manager is making; he looks like a kid in a candy store.
"It's beautiful…" Toris breathes.
He wants to touch everything, to feel it and to know it's real because at the moment, he feels like he's walking through a vibrant dream that he never wants to wake up from. It's how he always imagined having money to be like, and he is close to being there. His heart thrums with the excitement of that thought.
"Hey!" A voice call, a hand waving above the crowd.
Alfred grabs Toris by the crook of his arm, and leads him over to the table, allowing him to sit down first. The Lithuanian is still absorbing his surroundings, and isn't paying much attention to the other men sitting at the same table. When he finally has traced the outline of every shadow fanning across the walls, he turns to face them with an apologetic look at his distracted-ness. The first thing he notices is the entire team isn't there. Having been manager for several months by this point, he knows this small get-together excludes some hockey players. Toris's chest swells. Maybe they do consider him family.
"Hey lookie there! You got Toris to come!" He gasps softly when someone slams their hand into his back. He offers up a small smile to hide his discomfort.
"You know everyone right Toris?" Alfred nudges him. The Lithuanian couldn't help but shake his head no. He only recognizes their jersey numbers. Truth be told, the only reason he knows Alfred is because he sees the same ahoge curling up from under his helmet.
"Alright, well that over there is Gilbert," Gilbert grins at him and waves, his eyes striking compared to the lightness of the rest of him. It is the first person he's seen that could be considered albino, "And beside him is his brother Ludwig."
Unlike his smaller brother, Ludwig is bulker with more muscles. His eyes are a light shade of blue, and he wears his blond hair slicked back, like a soldier ready for battle.
"They look nothing alike," Toris whispers to Alfred, feeling slightly intimidated by the larger man. The manager can only guess that their heritage is something along the lines of German.
"I know right! But it's true bro. They are biological brothers! I bet you couldn't guess Gilbert is the older one!"
No, Toris couldn't.
"It's nice to meet you Toris," Ludwig nods his head to him, glaring at his brother when he gets punched in the arm.
"Stop being so uptight West!" He mocks, smiling from ear to ear. Ludwig can only roll his eyes.
Alfred decides to continue his introductions, "That's Vash. He usually doesn't talk to anyone, so don't let that bug you. He's actually pretty cool." He, like Ludwig, is a blond, but he has vivid green eyes in comparison.
"Right next to him is Berwald. I know he looks scary, but the dude can be like a teddy bear sometimes." Toris nods his head, avoiding the hard gaze of Berwald as he repeats the names in his head mentally, hoping he wouldn't forget.
"Lastly, see that guy over at the bar getting drunk? The one with the spiky hair?" Toris's eyes immediately pick the man out of the crowd, a mug of beer teetering in his hand, half his body strung over the bar requesting more, "That's Mathias, our goaltender. Dude sure knows how to party."
"I can t-tell," Toris stutters. He hadn't considered how intimidating some of the hockey players were. It makes him shiver with dread. This is probably a bad idea after all. However, he can't help but think of how, aside from himself and Gilbert, they are all blonds. He wonders if the rest of the team is this way.
"You play any sport?" Gilbert isn't one to let the conversation fizzle, so he picks up right where Alfred leaves off.
"I p-played basketball in high school."
"You've never stepped foot on the ice?" Toris shakes his head no, "We are changing that later, isn't that right boys?"
The manager looks up and smiles when he sees the others nod their heads in agreement. They seem to actually tolerate his company. This relieves him greatly.
The night goes off without a hitch. Finally when Mathias returns—strangely not a drunken mess, despite having ordered alcohol so heavily—they get to order their food. The savory flavor of whatever Toris had chosen explodes in his mouth. Never has he tasted something as divine as this food, no matter how small it is portioned.
Despite the permanent glare etched on most of their faces, they all made conversation with Toris; even Vash tries. At some moments, the Lithuanian finds himself laughing. It is one of the best days ever. It is so good in fact that he ignores the buzzing in his pocket in order to engage Mathias in an interesting conversation about basketball, and then about the family. It reveals a few facts that Toris hadn't known before.
"You all heard what happened to him right?" Mathias idly swirls the glass of water in his hands. Luckily, the team has convinced him to stop ordering beer since they had a game the next night.
"Him?" Gilbert asks.
"You know, Ivan Braginsky," There is a prick in the Lithuanian's stomach, so small it is nearly undetectable. Did he know that name? Yes, he actually did. He saw the name on the team roster once before, with a big sharpie slash through the name. That's more than likely where he remember it from.
"Besides the fact that he quit?" Ludwig raises an eyebrow, and the goaltender shakes his head.
"He got kicked off the team man," A hushed silence falls over the table, one that makes Toris squirm. He doesn't understand what is so bad about it.
"Why was he kicked off the team?" The manager pipes up, making everyone turn their heads and stare. He gulps softly. As manager, he probably should already know. His boss never breathed a word about it however, and when #83 never stepped on the ice, Toris never kept stats on him.
"He was getting creepy."
Toris furrows his eyebrows together in confusion. He isn't sure what he means by that.
"I think you mean the incident right?" Vash questions, only deepening the Lithuanian's confusion. Perhaps being holed up in an office all day is a bad thing.
"Incident?"
"Ivan hacked the computer after practice one day. Got all the phone numbers stored there," Berwald explains.
"So the dude literally has everyone we've been in contact with and he starts spamming their messages," Alfred shakes his head.
"What does he say?"
"Hello. Things stupid and immature like that," Vash glares at a nearby wall.
"He started spamming coaches of opposing teams before games. When our coach found out, he kicked him off the team, but made it sound like he quit," Mathias finishes. It didn't sound like a good story.
"He was always strange," Gilbert plants his feet on the table, reclining in his chair. His brother swats his leg, "Just something about him is just… weird."
"Least he's gone," Toris points out, taking a sip of water.
The albino shrugs, "Guess so. He's someone else's problem now."
The manager nods his head as the other's pick up a livelier conversation.
Ya… Someone else's problem… from the sound of it I feel sorry for them, whoever they may be. He thinks.
Toris didn't realize how late it was until Alfred drives him home, and he sees all the lights out. Even Eduard, the boy that would stay up well past three o'clock on a daily basis is asleep. Quietly, he slips his key into the lock and eases the door open; luckily, it doesn't creak loudly, like it is prone to do. Sighing softly, he walks to the kitchen to get a glass of water and retire to bed. Something stops him however. His phone is firmly vibrating against his thigh, very aggressively. Someone is calling him. Pulling out his phone, he recognizes the unknown number from before.
Frowning slightly, he ignores the call. Toris doesn't like answering the phone when it's someone he doesn't know. In retaliation, his phone buzzes again—this time as a text.
Can we go out tomorrow?
The Lithuanian thinks nothing of it. They have the wrong number obviously. He types in a reply.
You have the wrong number. I'm sorry. I don't know you.
The answer is almost immediate.
You do know me. Will you go on a date with me?
Toris raises an eyebrow, and sits down on the couch in the living room. Still in the dark, with only his screen as a light, his thumbs click across the letters.
I don't know you.
Will you go on a date?
This person…they won't give up! The manager rolls his eyes at the thought and sends another text. He probably should stop soon. He is near his limit of messaging for the month.
Sorry, I'm away for business. I can't.
Toris locks his phone and gets up to go to his room. Finally the person will leave him alone. But by the buzz in his hands, the mysterious person isn't taking the hint. He glances down at his screen and freezes, dread crawling up his spine.
No you aren't. I can see you Toris Laurinaitis.
Dun dun dunn!
-Soul Spirit-