The sides of his thumbs tap absentmindedly at the edge of his steering wheel as he scans the old brick building. By this point in the evening, the lot is pretty much empty— even most of the teachers have gone home.
A few of the other girls had already made their exit, barely paying him any mind as they chattered with each other, leisurely strolling toward the bus stop.
It isn’t all that surprising that Madi is one of the last ones out. She likes to take her sweet time getting ready after practice. Still, today she seemed to be taking even longer than usual.
Finally, a mop of curly chestnut hair comes into view, slipping out the door closest to the gym.
And his heart lifts— the same way it did every time he saw her.
Ever since the day she was born.
His lips curve into an easy grin as he sits up a little straighter in anticipation.
Her backpack lands in the footwell with a heavy thud before she throws herself into her seat, slamming the door so hard the whole truck rattles.
And his smile instantly fades.
Her eyelids are puffy, her cheeks red as if she’s scraped her sleeves across them several times over. For one heartbreaking moment, she reminds him so much of her mother on a fateful day almost 14 years earlier.
But he swallows down the memories before he can get caught up in them.
“Who do I need to beat up?” He tries to joke, forcing his tone to be light.
She just sniffs, turning her shoulders toward the window and folding her arms tightly across her chest.
“Mads—” he tries again, but she stubbornly crunches tighter into herself.
God, he’d forgotten how difficult the teenage years could be.
After a long moment of silence that seems to stretch into an eternity, he turns the key with a sigh and pulls out onto the road, quickly turning the vehicle around toward the opposite direction from home.
Madi doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t care.
But that’s okay, because he has a plan. They roll through familiar neighborhoods until he finally pulls the vehicle to a stop at the end of a short line.
Madi is still absently picking at a thread on the seat when his voice cracks the stillness.
“I’d say you’ve got about 45 seconds before we pull up to the window… And unless I’m told otherwise, you get plain vanilla.”
Her brow furrows for half a second before she sits up straighter and takes in the sight of her favorite drive-in diner. Her lips curl up slightly on one side. “Mom’s gonna kill you. I’m pretty sure they’ve never even heard of vegetables.”
He shrugs. “If you don’t tell, I won’t.” That’s a lie. But he knows Clarke won’t actually mind anyway. “So… what’s today’s concoction?”
She scans the milkshake menu in contemplation, mulling it over until the last second. “Rootbeer, cherry, vanilla,” she finally blurts right as he pulls up to the window.
He tries not to grimace, especially considering that it’s a relatively tame combination. At least this time there’s no licorice or bubblegum involved.
Still, he’ll stick to his boring old strawberry.
Once he receives their order, he hands her her drink and they get back on the road.
After a short drive, Clarke’s homey little row house comes into view and he lets out a breath. Madi is still giving him the silent treatment but he’s fairly certain that’s going to change once she’s had something to eat. It had usually worked with Octavia. He just needs to be patient.
Instead of going inside, Madi drops her book bag and plops down on the porch swing and he doesn’t argue, sidling past her to sit down on the opposite edge.
She eats her burger quickly, then maneuvers around - tucking her legs into the cushions as she leans back into his side. The paper bag crinkles as she takes out her fries then pops off the lid to her shake. As usual, he has to suppress a shudder as she dips a salty wedge into the thick sludge then pops it into her mouth.
His nose still crinkling lightly, he asks her in a dry tone, “What’s the verdict?”
Continuing to chew in contemplation, she shrugs a shoulder. “Shoulda skipped the vanilla. It’s a little too sweet. Root beer-cherry is a solid combo though.”
He just shakes his head, one side of his lips curving up in a smirk that’s equal parts disgust and amusement.
“What?” She laughs under her breath at his expression. “I swear if you just tried it one day you’d understand.”
Bellamy takes a noisy pull of his own drink. “Never gonna happen.”
Her grin widens as she sinks back even further until her head is almost in his lap.
His jaw twitches. He knows he should probably say something. To outside eyes it’s way too familiar of a position for a teenage girl to be in with her ‘mom’s best friend’. But she rests her cheek against his thigh, reminding him of a much younger version of herself and the words die on his lips.
“I’m gonna get benched,” she eventually mutters, swirling a new fry through her shake with her eyes downcast.
Bellamy is left blinking for a moment, trying to pull himself back to the present to place the words. When they eventually sink in, he’s left just as confused. “I highly doubt that, Mads. You’re by far the best hitter on the team.”
And he isn’t just saying that. The kid had a knack for finding the weak spot in the opposing team’s defense and nailing it every single time. He has no idea where she’d got talent like that from.
“Won’t matter if Charlotte never sets me up,” she mutters, angrily stabbing at her drink.
His brow furrows. He’d thought that Madi and Charlotte were friends. “I feel like I’m missing some context here.”
Letting out a deep sigh, she sets her food off to the side. “She has a crush on Aiden. She says I’m leading him on, but I’m not. We’re just friends and we like to hang out.”
The defensiveness in her tone makes his chest tight. He’s about to say something when she goes on.
“She’s punishing me - passing to anyone else unless I’m literally the only available option. And if that happens, she purposely makes it totally unsalvageable.”
Frustration on her behalf flares beneath his rib cage. As far as he’s concerned, 13 is way too young for that level of boy drama. But apparently he’s wrong. “Your coaches are going to see that, Madi. They’ll know it’s not your fault.”
“So what? What are they going to do about it? They can’t force her to change the way she’s playing. And we can’t win games without a half decent setter. She’s indispensable, I’m not. The ball is in her court.”
He was about to argue with her, but she isn’t done. Apparently once the floodgates have been opened, the torrent can’t be stopped.
“I get that it’s just junior high and in the grand scheme of things this doesn’t even mean anything. But I’m afraid I’m going to get rusty. And then I’ll suck too much to make varsity next year and then my chances of playing in college will essentially be nil. I wish I could just fix this because it’s all so stupid. But the only thing that’s going to make her change her mind is if I cut Aiden off completely and that’s not fair to him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
He raises an eyebrow. “A lot of people wouldn’t have the maturity to see it that way. No matter how much it sucks, you’re being the bigger person and making the unselfish choice. I’m proud of you, Madi.
Her eyes glow for a moment, even as she lets out a sniffle. “I hate this.”
He brushes his fingers through her hair lightly. “You know… the chances of you getting recruited off of a high school team are pretty slim anyway. If volleyball is something that you’re serious about wanting to pursue, I’ll get you—” he cuts himself off, backtracking hastily. “I’ll talk to Clarke about signing you up to play club.”
She turns further onto her back, squarely meeting his gaze. “Do you think I’m good enough?”
Pressing his lips together, he holds in a quiet scoff. “If you set your mind to it Mads, I wouldn’t put anything beyond your realm of capability. But in terms of volleyball… yeah kid— You’ve got what it takes. And a club team away from all the petty drama of high school will help get you there.”
Her cheeks heat as her lips curve upward at the edges. Finally looking away she grabs a few more fries and stuffs them into her mouth.
He relaxes too, taking another sip of his milkshake and watching the sun slowly start to morph the colors of the horizon.
Madi is nearly finished her meal - only a solitary fry left in her grasp - when she speaks again. She scrapes it around the edge of her cup mindlessly and says the words so softly that he isn’t sure that she really means for him to hear. “You know… sometimes I wish you were actually my dad.”
He can’t help it. His muscles instinctively stiffen as some kind of foreign feeling floods his chest and claws all the way up his throat. He’s incapable of responding even if he knew what words to say… which he most certainly does not.
Madi sits up abruptly, panic filling her own eyes as she scrambles away from him. “I’m sorry. I— I shouldn’t have said that. I’m… shit. I— I didn’t mean to—”
He finally manages to take action, one hand cupping her face while the other steadies her shoulder. “Hey.” There are mortified tears in her eyes when she finally looks at him again. “Hey. You—” He still doesn’t know what to say. “Don’t apologize,” he settles on. “It’s okay to feel that way.” He pulls her into a hug, burying his nose into her hair so that his next words are half muffled. “Don’t ever apologize for feeling that way.”
She inhales sharply, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her mouth opens and he can tell another apology is about to come out, but she manages to bite it back.
Sitting back, she lets out a shuddering breath. “It’s just… you always seem to know what to say and you’re always here. I didn’t mean to cross a line.” She scrambles to explain. “You can pretend I never said it.”
A stone drops in his gut. There’s zero chance of that happening. But not for the reasons she thinks. His skin prickling with words that need to go unsaid, he settles for the one reassurance he can offer. “I’m always going to be here Madi, okay? I promise.”
She still looks skittish as a wild animal, afraid of a trap. And there’s nothing more he can say to fix it… At least not yet. He sighs, rubbing a hand over the rough stubble on his chin. “Do you have homework?”
She looks almost relieved at the opportunity to escape the awkward moment. Already scrambling to grab her backpack, she gives him a quick nod.
Bellamy tries to paste on a decent attempt at a reassuring smile. “Probably should get on it then.”
She hesitates half a second longer, expression still tight with concern. Then she disappears into the house.
#1 thing I miss about LiveJournal: having a writing filter to torture with my stories as I wrote them.
So have a preview of this auction fic that I think I finally found a way into.
Summer, 2006
Clint is deep in the engine of a 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado when the bell above the door of the shop rings.
Normally Clint doesn’t talk to customers - Mr. Fury knows better than to let him do that - but it’s half past four on a Friday on a crack-sweatly hot summer day, and he’s the only one around. Everyone else took their good sense and found some air conditioning when the heat started to set in around 11 am.
“One sec!” he calls out to the customer, who he can’t see. If they’ve managed to find their way into Shield Tuning, then it’s either an existing customer who knows that this place comes with a wait and an attitude, or someone who is looking for that exact service experience.
Clint takes his time making sure the spark plug he was replacing is seated - he’ll have to check the gap in a second - and stands up, wiping his hands on a ratty towel he keeps in his toolbox, and then on his navy coveralls, as if that will get the oil from between his fingers.
“Hi, how can I help you?” he says, putting on his best customer service voices as he rounds the corner into the little front office.
And then he can’t breathe.
Because that’s not a customer. That’s a short, lovely, red-headed goddess and Clint has been in love with her for at least ten years, and she has no right to be in his shop, or in his city, or in his line of sight.
“Clint?” she asks, her voice high in a way that says she is equally as surprised, exactly as taken aback as he is.
She looks utterly incongruous with the gray tiles of the waiting room, looks too clean and beautiful to be in this place. He steps up behind the counter, sliding the plexiglass window open with a grace that he hopes doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.
“Hi, Natasha,” Clint says, letting his eyes meet hers over the counter, his fingers grazing the colorful folders the receptionist uses to organize work orders. He has to glance away from her face after a second, and he reaches down and fiddles with the key of a 1980s Mustang that someone dropped off this morning as if it was more interesting than the woman in the room with him. “What brings you in today?”
“I have a flat tire,” Natasha says, which should be an explanation for what she’s doing at a garage, but Clint can’t seem to metabolize how it explains anything. All he can think is that she drowns out the world, her existence is loud and oppressive and her white tennis shoes are far, far too clean to be standing in this dingy room.
“You have a flat tire,” Clint repeats. “And you came here?”
Natasha shrugs, a movement of grace that tells of her time dancing, her days as a ballerina when they were in middle school. The movement ripples out of her like a wave. “I was down the road a bit, this place was close. I didn’t know you– I mean, no one told me you worked here or anything. This isn’t a ruse.”
It had better not be a ruse, Clint thinks, but he doesn’t say it. No need to act like she’s unwelcome. She’s allowed to spend her money just like any other customer. Because that’s all she is. A customer.
“Okay,” he says, swallowing around the lump of emotion that’s heavy in his chest and turning to open the door that separates the neat front desk booth from the waiting area. “Let’s go take a look.”
There he went again. How many hours had Viktor spent in this room by now, and how many evening sessions had they conducted in which Yuuri sat in that overstuffed chair, plucking out questions and statements that he would then wield with surgical precision, until he could peer into Viktor’s mind? He’d lost count by now, although he could have probably done the math if he’d tried hard enough.
Still, that was something: even after all this time, for better or for worse, Yuuri never quite failed to surprise him. “Getting all philosophical on me tonight, Doc?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Well, we’ve already discussed all of your past cases under Mr. Feltsman’s employ, as well a few other topics I’d planned to go over with you when I first started charting the course of your therapy.” Yuuri paused, and glanced up at Viktor over the rims of his glasses. “Save for one, as you know.”
“Save for one,” Viktor echoed in a murmur.
“Relax.” Yuuri crossed one leg over the other, a single, fluid motion that was as graceful as it was entirely distracting. The action ended up raising his notebook a few inches, making it easier to write down the few short lines he scribbled in the meantime. “We won’t be talking about that tonight.”
Viktor frowned. “But you just said - ”
“I’ve decided to change my approach a little bit.” Yuuri met his eyes with a small smile. “Instead of pressing, I’ve decided to wait until you are ready to broach the topic yourself. Until then, we will discuss only the things that you want to talk about.”
Viktor turned those words over and over in his head, as if doing so enough times would help him to find the awful, gaping loophole in them. There was always a catch, right? Not that he wanted to think that Yuuri was treating these sessions of theirs with any malice; at this point, and after all they’d been through, he sure as hell hoped he wasn’t.
But if last session had been anything to go by…
“You know you’ll probably be waiting a long time, right?” Viktor muttered.
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“You might end up waiting forever.”
“And so we would end up being ‘forced’ to see one another like this, every week, forever.” Ever so slightly, Yuuri tilted his head. “Would that really be so terrible?”
I knowww… it’s been forever ;_;
Expect 14 to drop late at night on the 23rd/just barely before the 24th of Feb (EST)!
Part Two of this dang thing is FINISHED, beebs! Now to sit with it for a few hours, reread it in the morning and see if it’s post-worthy.
Until then, here’s a little preview to wet your whistle (or whatever you want to wet, I don’t judge.)
——-
You’re distracted for a moment by the ridiculous length and thickness of the fan of his eyelashes. It’s almost enough to forgive him for the painstakingly slow pace at which he’s undoing your buttons.
Almost.
You clear your throat lightly as your nails drift into his thick hair. “Still pretty chilly over here, pal.”
Andy stops as he plucks open your last button, the one right between your breasts, and lets out a quiet chuckle. He shakes his head. “So mouthy…”
“Always,” you agree with a grin. His thumbs slip beneath the open sides of your top and he peels it away from your skin, letting it fall to the floor behind you. Andy’s arms fold around your hips, pulling you in close enough that you can feel his warm exhale on your belly before he presses a kiss just beneath your sternum. You let out a little hum of encouragement. “Okay, getting warmer…” You feel his laugh more than hear it before he kisses you again, a little lower. “Warmer…” Your throat runs dry when he finds the clasp and zipper at the back of your skirt and opens both the moment before he slides it to the floor, letting you kick it away to join your top.
“Come here,” he says softly and sits back on the bed to pull you into his lap, your thighs spread over his, your knees pinned on either side of his narrow hips. You’re pretty sure he can hear your heart pounding as his arms wrap all the way around you, his large hands spanning the width of your back. In the dim light from the window, you watch him lift his eyebrows again. “Still cold?”
There he went again. How many hours had Viktor spent in this room by now, and how many evening sessions had they conducted in which Yuuri sat in that overstuffed chair, plucking out questions and statements that he would then wield with surgical precision, until he could peer into Viktor’s mind? He’d lost count by now, although he could have probably done the math if he’d tried hard enough.
Still, that was something: even after all this time, for better or for worse, Yuuri never quite failed to surprise him. “Getting all philosophical on me tonight, Doc?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Well, we’ve already discussed all of your past cases under Mr. Feltsman’s employ, as well a few other topics I’d planned to go over with you when I first started charting the course of your therapy.” Yuuri paused, and glanced up at Viktor over the rims of his glasses. “Save for one, as you know.”
“Save for one,” Viktor echoed in a murmur.
“Relax.” Yuuri crossed one leg over the other, a single, fluid motion that was as graceful as it was entirely distracting. The action ended up raising his notebook a few inches, making it easier to write down the few short lines he scribbled in the meantime. “We won’t be talking about that tonight.”
Viktor frowned. “But you just said - ”
“I’ve decided to change my approach a little bit.” Yuuri met his eyes with a small smile. “Instead of pressing, I’ve decided to wait until you are ready to broach the topic yourself. Until then, we will discuss only the things that you want to talk about.”
Viktor turned those words over and over in his head, as if doing so enough times would help him to find the awful, gaping loophole in them. There was always a catch, right? Not that he wanted to think that Yuuri was treating these sessions of theirs with any malice; at this point, and after all they’d been through, he sure as hell hoped he wasn’t.
But if last session had been anything to go by…
“You know you’ll probably be waiting a long time, right?” Viktor muttered.
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“You might end up waiting forever.”
“And so we would end up being ‘forced’ to see one another like this, every week, forever.” Ever so slightly, Yuuri tilted his head. “Would that really be so terrible?”
I knowww… it’s been forever ;_;
Expect 14 to drop late at night on the 23rd/just barely before the 24th of Feb (EST)!
Today (well, yesterday in some time zones, but today in mine!) marks the one-year anniversary of @iruutciv’s and my Yuri On Ice + Detective/Noir AU, But Monsters Are Always Hungry, Darling♥♥♥
Gosh, but how did this even start? I’d tried my hand at writing noir before, in another fandom that I’m now no longer a part of. I didn’t finish it, but the idea of wanting to play with that universe never really went away, even chasing me through the next couple of fandoms that I flirted with. Well, I remember talking to Iru about it on tumblr, though I had absolutely no plans of actually writing it out at the time. Iru then thought it was a good idea to bribe me by basically saying: ‘if you write it, I will draw it!’
Well - long story short, here we are, 12 chapters (soon to be 13!) in, a little over halfway through this story that’s kind of morphed into a monster of its own. We can’t thank you enough for all of the support that this story has gotten, and the love that we’ve received from the readers who’ve connected with us, yelled out speculations and predictions to us, and just kept urging us to press on. I can’t speak for Iru, but I don’t think I could have continued to undertake such a huge project without you all, so thank you. Thank you so, so much! We love you, and we hope the rest of this story - which will probably take us to the end of 2019 - will live up to all of your expectations, and be worthy of your love.
Anyway, without further ado: here is the official preview for BMAAHD Chapter 13, scheduled to go out on either the 29th or 30th of December, to close out 2018. ^_^
“You didn’t have to gamble like that at all.” Viktor glanced up to meet Yuuri’s eyes, curious to see if he could guess what the other man was thinking. This usually wasn’t so hard for him. But Yuuri was an anomaly that way. Maybe he’d always been. “Twenty’s a hell of a good hand.”
“You could have still beaten me,” Yuuri said. “If your other card was an ace.”
“And what do you think the chances of that were?”
Yuuri shrugged. “I suppose that’s something I really ought to work on, then - knowing to quit while I’m ahead.” A soft, lazy smile stretched out across his face, as he leaned back in his chair, and pulled out his cigarette case from an inside pocket. “Take the win, Viktor. Claim your prize.”
He watched, silent as Yuuri lit his cigarette. It took him three tries to do it, and Viktor wondered at that moment if that was yet another testament to his luck, or lack thereof. Then again, three tries for a light to take didn’t quite equate with three cigarettes lit from the same match. But there was an eerie symmetry there, completely lost in Yuuri’s calm, sated expression.
Yuuri raised an eyebrow, and - right. His prize.
What would he ask about, at a time like this? With the honesty of Yuuri’s answer guaranteed by his promise, Viktor was of course tempted to ask about that orphanage - what had set off that fire, perhaps? Or he could ask what exactly had happened to Yuuri after his days there, because from the documents he’d found that sketched an outline of the rest of the doctor’s life, this was only blind spot that spanned years. Then there was a question that had been sitting unanswered since they’d first met, the simplest one no doubt, but also one that carried the most risk of coming out to be in poor taste: how had Dr. Yuuri Katsuki, who’d abruptly aborted his own career as a surgeon before it could have even begun, and slotted himself into a field of medicine that was relatively new and unknown around these parts, amassed such a massive amount of wealth?
Viktor could have gone with any of those questions, or any of a hundred more. But instead, he found himself asking, “Would you really leave everything here behind - your practice, your friends, your prestige - and run away with me? If I asked you to?”
Yuuri, without even batting an eyelid, murmured, “I would leave in a heartbeat if I could.”
“But…” And he’d remembered as much from their first visit to the beach house. “You can’t yet.”
“Not now. Not until I’ve repaid all of my debts.”
Of course. Viktor knew a thing or two about unpaid debts, albeit only his own. He had no idea what Yuuri had still hanging over his head, and who or what entity might have been holding the other end. And maybe he would find out one day, but for now, he only hoped it was nowhere near as bad as the debts Viktor had on his account. He hoped, earnestly, that Yuuri had not done anything so foolish as he once had, and made a deal with the devil of his own.
“You said to ask you again, once you finish your case. Do you remember?” When Viktor nodded, Yuuri asked, “If by that time, I still haven’t completed my… obligations…” He hesitated. “Would you wait for me?”
“Of course,” Viktor said. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”
“Or when you are. Whoever finishes last, the other waits.” Yuuri smiled. “We’ll leave together.”
“It is a shame to see you here as well, Detective. And to think that I went out of my way to warn you.”
Viktor narrowed his eyes. As far as he could remember, the only warnings he’d ever received from anyone in the Triad were those infuriating half-baked riddles in teacups that Phichit Chulanont had crafted for him, so he had no idea what this was supposed to be all about.
…Or maybe not. A cold, lonely night from weeks and weeks ago, by now long forgotten, resurfaced in his mind. He recalled the mountain of paperwork, the dim lights, the stale air of his office a merciful reprieve from the frigid breeze outside.
And silence. Until…
“It was you.” The realization hit him like hoar frost, a slow but deep chill, all the way down to the bone. “You called me at my office, and you threatened me. You told me to drop the case.”
“I told you to think of who you have left.” The reminder came punctuated by a stream of smoke, mercifully directed to the ceiling instead of straight into his face. “A part of me, if you will believe it or not, actually meant well. But it seems those words did not make a difference in the end, did they?”
==========
So… how bout dem plague times, huh? Hope everyone is coping and/or doing okay, this cursed year will be over soon.
Ch. 18 goes up around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, December 4th5th, 2020. Orchids cannot handle dates. (Usual disclaimer for personal emergencies, world-ending cataclysms, etc., etc.)
Sometimes he dreamt of Mama in the sea, floating alone in a tiny, beat-up boat that looked as though a single sour look would make it fall apart. There was no motor as far as he could tell, or anything else in the boat that she could use to steer it; she was at the mercy of the wind and the tides, every time.
As for Viktor, he would always find himself on the shore, not too far from their house. He would be six, sixteen, twenty-six, anything else in between. Sometimes barefoot, sometimes not; sometimes in uniform, sometimes not. Sometimes draped in a flimsy hotel blanket, from his latest horrible lapse in judgment; sometimes, wearing spatters of blood on his clothes and hands.
But one thing was always the same: he would be standing on the beach, as he was now. And he would always know, as he knew full well now, that she’d left him once before.
And yet -
“Vitya!”
No matter how much the sea churned that night, he could always hear her voice, inexplicably clear as a bell.
“Vitya! Come here!”
She would always be floating the same distance away, her hands cupped over her lips. Viktor jumped into the sea without thinking, as he always did, the frigid water shocking him to his bones, but not enough to paralyze him. He swam and swam, until his limbs ached and his lungs burned.
“Keep going! You’re almost there. Just a little bit more!”
But no matter how hard he tried - no matter how fast or how desperately he swam - he could never close the gap between himself and Mama’s boat, not even by an inch.
“I love you so much.”
==========
Yes, I’m alive, we’re alive!! ^_^;; So, so, so sorry for the radio silence! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, happy ‘we survived what was almost WWIII’, etc. Hope we’re all staying safe and healthy and sane throughout this pandemic crisis (I feel like March 2020 has lasted 10 years…)
In any case, barring any disasters (*knock on wood*), Ch. 17 goes up around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, April 4th.
The city wasn’t as frantic as it usually was during the workweek, but its heartbeat was the rush of air and the clanging of metal as the weekend trains ran along, and it was no less alive. The somewhat sedated state of downtown threw him a bit, only for him to remember that he hadn’t spent a proper weekend in the city in… almost a month, was it? God, but it felt like it had been forever, and yet also felt like the blink of an eye.
And there was a conversation to be had, now that those weekends in Long Island would need to stop. A trip to Brooklyn, an ending, an apology -
But not yet. Not today.
Chinatown was a writhing mass of congested criss-crossing roads, abandoned construction projects, and clogged alleyways, almost as organic as it was chaotic. He wasn’t too surprised to find that most of the laundromats from Yuri’s list were actually open on a Sunday. What he was surprised to find - although, after giving it some more thought, perhaps a cynical part of him might have seen it coming - was how all of the boisterous greetings and friendly smiles he was welcomed with shriveled up and died the moment he asked about ‘The Silk Umbrella’.
“No. No idea what that is,” was what he heard from a man whose laundromat sat on the exact same street as the tea shop. He could even see it from here, the sign with the umbrella sticking out, if he squinted hard enough.
“I can’t help you,” said the next shop, before shooing him away without another word.
“We don’t handle silk,” the next one insisted. “We never handle silk."
It was already dark by the time he got to the last three on Yuri’s list, all of them right on the border of Chinatown. The first one had already closed for the day - they closed early on Sundays, it seemed, which was a problem that Viktor had thought he would have run into sooner. The next one was populated by staff who insisted that they spoke ‘no English, no English’. No Russian, either. No French.
Viktor didn’t have high hopes as he let himself be all but shooed from the second-to-last laundromat, and caught sight of the last one from Yuri’s list right across the street. He was also down to his last cigarette, as it turned out, and he forgot to savor it in the frustration of knowing he was very likely about to hit a dead end. What other avenues could he explore, really, after this? With any luck, Otabek’s translation team might have uncovered a case-winning clue in the ledger book since the last time he’d checked in with them, but when had he ever been that lucky?
Screw it, he thought as he tossed what was left of his cigarette, after fleecing it for all of the warmth and comfort it could offer. He was already here, after all.
Among the laundromats he’d visited, this one sat on the smaller side. A whopping six strides separated him from the front door to the counter, where a middle-aged woman sat filling out paperwork, stopping only to look up when he walked in. Bags of folded laundry, clean if he had to guess, were stacked high and lined both walls. A dozen or so suits of various colors and sizes hung on a rack on the other side of the counter.
A small blue lantern hung from a hook mounted high on the back wall.
“Good afternoon! How can I help you?”
There was a young man peeking out from the back room, about Yuri’s age. As Viktor introduced himself, and asked the usual questions, the lady at the counter exchanged a glance with him that she must have thought Viktor couldn’t see. She also must have thought that he didn’t notice the almost imperceptible flinch on the boy’s face as she plied him with more or less the same response he’d been hearing all afternoon.
“Sorry. We’ve never heard of the Silk Umbrella.”
Viktor let the silence hang in the air, and waited for her to break eye contact first. “You want to try that again?” he asked calmly.
==========
It’s been awhile ^_^;;
Ch. 16 goes up (barring personal emergencies, end of the world, etc.) around midnight-ish Eastern Time on Saturday, September 7th :D
What could he even promise, from this point onward? Perhaps before tonight, even though he’d made himself a target of the Triad from the very beginning, he’d been able to bear that burden somehow. The Triad was a far smaller presence in the city, and he wasn’t new to glancing over his shoulder while walking down the streets at night. And maybe a part of him had clung to the notion that - despite everything it had cost him - while he didn’t have or want La Cosa Nostra’s protection, he at least had been spared from their wrath.
But all of that had changed, in just a few measly hours. Sara had marked him for death, and at the end of the day, it was all a numbers game, wasn’t it? How many guns on this island fired at the whims of the Crispino family, and how many times could you sidestep death before using up all of your luck? He’d already done it once, twice, a thousand times it seemed. Most of those times, someone else had paid a price.
He recalled Yuuri’s words, all of a sudden, from the night they’d first met: careless, weightless words, dropped in the haze of cigarette smoke and the sweet aroma of liquor, after Viktor had followed him into the phone booth only to become trapped by his arms, his lips, his smoldering eyes. At that time, those words had been meant to convince him to stay, let his guard down for once in his miserable life. But they still somehow rang true now.
What if Michele kicked down his flimsy door - it really wouldn’t take much, after how many years’ worth of wear and tear - with a dozen of his lackeys, and made it rain bullets on them both? Or what if Viktor were to slip on the last of the ice still coating some of the lesser-traveled sidewalks from the last snowstorm, cracked his head on the pavement, and never woke up again?
That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?
–
After an eternity… this is finally happening ♥ Thank you so much for waiting!
BMAAHD 15 will drop (barring death, armageddon, the usual) late at night on June 8th Saturday Eastern Time ^_^
… Gerald, my bro. You need to dial it back like at least 2 notches.
if the above concentrated and heavily (but futile shh spoilers) directed POV is something that you’d like more of, make sure you check out @bakarinafanovelpre-orders which are open till Dec 20th (all proceeds go to charity).
