orangetoughguy | phone post

Larry squints in the evening light. When that sun starts to dip low over the open desert and ignites the sky it makes driving a little more of a chore. Nevermind that though, he's going home to the casa. A day in the city wheeling, dealing and making what money he can he wouldn't think to spend more time than he should out.

Not when his man is waiting for him.

All their running and the weight of the dollar bill has got them far, farther than he ever thought. The coast could be clear if he believed that hostage situations were just dropped and missing felons were no big deal in the States. They still are. Mexico on the other hand...

Up ahead lies the winding road to their property, he slows and is sure by now if Freddy's waiting, he can see him through the windows. Another day.

Freddy's been keeping himself busy with taped TV shows from the States. He's got an acquaintance in the city whose sole livelihood is making VHS copies of bullshit. The kid gives him a little extra to find old cartoons, 'retro' cop shows, anything that reminds him of the place he left. Not the United States itself but the life he had there. It's not that Freddy wishes he hadn't run with (allowed himself to be 'kidnapped' by) Lawrence Dimick, it's that he didn't see coming the sharp contrast in how he'd live his life once they were in the clear. Freddy's spent his whole goddamn day with the television.

The old man's right about the window. He's sitting there nursing a soda, waiting for something to happen. Larry coming home is the soothing balm to a wound he took a very long time to notice he had.

With years of acquaintanceship and so much more Larry realizes that there's a restlessness in both of them. Something that hasn't yet been said. Their life is so quiet for what it is. Additional absence of noise makes it more jarring. When he's not out in the city making their bread he wonders and wonders.

For now seeing that shadow in the window makes him happy. He wonders if Alba has heated dinner. She does now and then if asked. Usually they find something together or dine on whatever is in the casa. It's not exactly some humble abode. Two stories, large windows, a pool, a large garage...

Even so, it's no slice of the American pie. Having never pined for a picket fence he doesn't know what a nest should be. All he knows is that this is what's theirs. He'll be greeting his man at the door again. And will ask how he is, what he did to day. There's a rhythm or a pattern. That's been known to be a slow acting poison.

Surprise for the old man, Alba's left early, sent off by Freddy himself. Who wants to sit around watching TV while the housekeeper--paid for her time and effort--asks him why he isn't out and about? Not Freddy Newendyke, not when he has no good answer for her. Of course the kid had the foresight to make sure dinner was at least prepared so they can have at it at any time. They've been doing well, all things considered. Maybe the kid's just a selfish prick for not being completely satisfied with it. Maybe dissatisfied isn't the right word either though.

Whatever it is it doesn't stop him from answering the door himself.

"Hey," Freddy nods.

He's broken his habit of triple checking who's out there on the doorstep. No, actually, he's simply honed his ability to tell it's Larry.

When it is just them and this house out of the way he can lean in to give his man a kiss. A hello. No deep, resonating or primal thoughts to it. Isn't that just what they should be? Given and taken like pennies. Larry still feels like somehow it makes something better. His mouth brushes on Freddy's lips and up close he about noses the bullet scar in his cheek. Years have made it another mark, another notch.

Without asking he can tell that dinner is heated. All is well. That saves a few words.

"How was your day?" There he goes on asking. Guns and light jacket are removed as he steps further in. His shoes click over the terracotta tiles. There's the TV on again. It could be their other roommate. He suspects once again that this has been the most eventful happening. All the same he asks.

Figures the best surgeon out there happened to be across the border too. It wasn't easy either, it hurt. It hurt a lot. But his face healed like a charm and it resisted shattering from all their combative arguments so early on the run. How did they not kill each other then? Maybe it's better to ask how did they not kill each other in the warehouse? So far the only proven conclusion was the bullets missed.

"It was okay," Freddy says, lips pursed to receive a shiny piece of copper though to him it's more like a piece of gold and he's got a pot full. It's one of the brighter things he owns.

"I didn't have to do a thing," he shrugs, spinning it after belatedly realizing 'okay' just doesn't cut it as 'good'. "How about you?"

Any time bullets miss with a gun aimed at point blank you count it as a miracle. That's why they lived from that fucking day. A miracle. Lawrence Dimick and his history with religion never goes so far, no as far as Freddy's but he will account that something happened and kept happening that patched up a ruined face and busted gut.

"Alright. There was a raid in town." As though it rained. He sighs a little hearing that okay and not a thing. My. "The cartels are going to be shitty for a little. Then same as always cool down." The delivery is the best he can do to keep the talk about law enforcement at a minimum. Then again, gangs raid other gangs all the fucking time.

As he makes his way into the spacious living room he recognizes figures on the screen. "This again?" The stack of video tapes have grown. They make towers of black bricks arranged just so. Enough of them and there will be a wall. Larry doesn't sit but turns to look over his man.

"You're lucky you came back in one piece."

Not because a man like Lawrence Dimick needs his two hands among other things but because had he come back wounded Freddy Newendyke himself would finish the job. Well no, that's temper talking. He just holds his old man to their word; no one does anything fucking stupid to make all this worth nothing.

"Uh huh." He sips his soda. It's his first after a couple beers, evident as empty bottles on a table. "What do you mean again," Freddy asks.

The kid's not confused. He knows a judgment when he hears it.

Smart decisions over the years have kept their peace. At least physical. Too late for Larry to take back any words so he answers. "When's the last time you went on out? I feel like you don't go to your shop no more." The comic book shop. Did he finally decide to have issues mailed? The delivery is soft. Tactful.

Now he's seeing those bottles. There was time to arrange those too. Or maybe it was Alba, passive aggressively lining them up for Freddy to put away himself or for Larry to see. Now he takes a seat.

"I go out. And for your information 'my shop' can't import shit lickety-split," Freddy snaps his fingers for emphasis.

The bottles are standing upright. Empty. Dry. It is what it is.

"I know you go out." The question was when. Freddy didn't answer. Larry rubs his chin and takes a few seconds to count. One. Those are angry words. Two. He's got his own. Three. That's not what he wanted to talk about. Four. They've been here long enough maybe he should have an idea of when the imports do get in.

The TV doesn't overpower his throat clearing.

"Would you be interested in going out at all tonight?" After their meal. He's not sure if this is the right approach. There may not be one.

Does he sound angry? Does he look angry? Freddy doesn't mean to come off as furious, shit he doesn't mean to come off as mad...it doesn't mean he doesn't have those feelings of frustration though. Either the kid can't find the words for it or the kid doesn't want to admit what it means for him. For them. He shakes his head, wanting to dismiss the whole subject altogether.

"Sure," Freddy says, "sure we can eat out. I gotta get ready."

He adds as he looks over himself, just jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing special. Will Larry believe him or think he's only trying to placate the man.

"You don't gotta if you don't want to."

Have them go out. Dress up as any thing different. Freddy famously dresses down. The old man loves that about him. Except given the choice of a dapper kid to a dressed down, he would take his time to consider each carefully. It's the same man under those clothes.

"I like going out more with you," he admits. It's more comfortable. They know one another. Once bitten, twice shy. Larry plays his cards closer to his chest than ever before out in the city. Never too friendly, never too eager to talk. He never stays long to have drinks. Miracles only get you so far, the rest you have to work for. Next time bullets won't miss, he's sure.

He stands up and reaches for the other man's arm.

"I want to, damn," Freddy argues, already resentful less so because of Larry and more so annoyed he isn't better at hiding it when something's wrong. Whatever it is.

"I wanna spend some time with you," the kid asserts.

His caramel green gaze falls low and to one side but he doesn't pull away from the touch. Instead Larry's hand on him comforts him, a reminder of why he's still fucking MIA in Mexico. Sometimes he wishes they would rule him killed in action and close that chapter of his life for him. He's careful not to dwell on it too long, knowing his family has no official closure is a killer. Knowing they'll never get to meet Larry Dimick is a heartache he shuts far far away. Freddy Newendyke's no domesticated sap, no way no how. He's living in luxurious hiding with his career criminal boyfriend. That's no fairytale.

"Gimme five minutes to change," Freddy nods, wanting to reassure the man they'll head out for the night.

"Don't rush."

His touch keeps going to be around this man until his arm ends up on the kid's hip. They live here and somehow he feels like there's a distance that's not closed yet. Another wound wouldn't be surprising. Would more time help it heal? Larry said it before and he'll say it again, he's no doctor.

"I just got here, take your time," he speaks softly close to Freddy's ear before patting his hip and pulling back a little. The man can't do what he needs to do all tangled up in the old man.

"I'm not gonna rush," Freddy shakes his head, cheeks slightly flushed because fuck Larry knows him so well he was going to rush before he mentioned it.

"Okay. Get a drink or something,"

It's a casual suggestion. It's one the kid doesn't seem to realize sounds a little bit like treating one as a guest in his own home. He pats Larry's hand and tilts his head as if wanting to brush those lips with the edge of his ear. When they separate Freddy gives him a brief look, apologetic, then he turns towards the bedroom. His bedroom. The one that has everything uniquely his even though he sleeps in the master bedroom that has everything uniquely Larry's.

He's going off to the kitchen. "In case you were thinking of it," he calls over his shoulder to Freddy. A drink sounds nice. There's enough still in the refrigerator, the one man mini-binge didn't wipe out the supply. He waits nursing the cold beer, trying to think over exactly what this state or state of their relationship is. They share a home, they should by all rights be dead or imprisoned. At least Larry would be. The kid, the cop would be in for a mean probation period. Both fates seem like shit. Here they are, despite odds living comfortably.

Two bedrooms with no one to fool under this roof. Not even Alba. She wasn't told but she knows through and through. Señor and Señor both pay her well. She has nothing to complain about. The house is somehow a home.

Larry crosses the room to stare into the TV. He's not paying attention. It illuminates the room from it's corner. The lights play out over the floor. Some sort of car crash is happening. All of the stage blood is too gratuitous with it's strawberry jam color and consistency. When he starts to pay attention the image disgusts him. A deep sip of his beer and he stops the tape.

Edited 2012-10-17 06:32 (UTC)

A saint, that Alba, a real fucking saint. Freddy's always believed his mom would love the woman and his dad would love her cooking. They'll never meet her. They'll never meet Lawrence Dimick. Shit they might never meet their son again either. It figures the last fight he had with his old man (the patriarch one) about being a cop had everything to do with him being sent home behind a motorcade. Now they can't have even that.

But look at what you do have, Newendyke, he tells himself.

Freddy has everything he once wanted which isn't necessarily the same thing he wants now. It's what they say about being careful what you wish for. He doesn't understand how it could even be like this when he knows for certain he hasn't stopped loving Larry. He's never stopped loving Mr. White.

Finally he emerges, face freshly washed, shirt and trousers without a single crease. Freddy wants to look good for the man he adores, the man he followed across the border. He notices the TV and nods. He doesn't have to say thanks for shutting it off, it goes without saying. He's unaware of the old man's disgust.

"What place you got in mind," asks the kid as he searches for a pair of shoes. The polished leather kind.

There he is breaking Larry out of his thoughts. Appreciation is plain on his face as he looks over Freddy from head to toe. Simple clothing choices for other people come off so fucking well. He's still a young gun, younger than himself. Jesus Christ does he look good.

"San Domingo's," he is able to answer as he studies. Mr. White has not stopped loving and caring about Mr. Orange who has become a far more complicated person than he had ever thought. A kid in a leather jacket is never just a kid in a leather jacket. "We haven't been in a while. They're the one that's got the outdoor seating with the fountain."

They have been there before. Their dining habits could map out their neck of the city if they tried. Larry recalls them liking that place the best. Revisiting would cheer them both. Familiar haunts aren't the same here as in the states. How many years will it be since they've been on home soil? The old man balks at his own mental question. All they have is here. That's what matters.

"Sounds good," Freddy nods.

He notices the way Larry's eyes roam over him too so he gives the guy a quick casual wink. See? All's good in Freddy's hood. For now. That brief time alone to change his clothes sort of helped--or maybe harmed. His freckled hand hovers over the various keys they have hanging.

"Which car?"

Because they have more than one. Never could he have imagined a life like this on home soil. Appreciate it, Newendyke. People died for it.

"Hmmm," Larry actually has to think about it. "Let's take the Mustang." American metal might comfort the kid more. Fuck, he can drive too. The old man feels more at ease with the wink and being game to pick a different ride. Everyone has their moments.

"Take it easy though, will you? I think it needs the oil changed one of these days." Except Freddy would know about that more so than the old man. So many cars means so many projects to undertake if he's up to them.

They could have died for this.

Freddy loops the Mustang keying over his finger.

"Relax. I'm a professional."

Again he smiles, wanting to have nothing more than a pleasant evening together. One of many. One after the other for the last couple years. He leads the way to their garage. It's a warmer sunset, that means they'll take off with the top down.

The sky ignites Freddy's hair. Oh fuck is it all so beautiful. The light, the cars and Freddy standing there. He cant loop his arm around him immediately but Larry does reach to touch his hair.

"Okay, Mr. Professional." Fucking Professional like way back when... "I'm entrusting you."

He licks his lips and doesn't say much more. Now isn't the moment but in this moment he realizes what he wants to do. What he should do. It's simple and somehow an obvious decision to most. That would tie up an important end. His own thoughts paint a stupid grin onto his face.

"Thanks," Freddy replies, giving a boyish smile that betrays his age of--oh fuck he turned thirty with Lawrence Dimick. What a milestone. His hair flopping this way and that with his fingers is still as butterscotch as ever.

The drive to San Domingo's is easy. Everything's easy when you live nearest the good side of the city, the affluent edge. It's not the same affluence of the Hollywood hills but for a place like this, they are somebodies. Enough to be left alone. Their arrival is without ceremony, just the way Freddy likes it. Valet? You bet. Larry's the big tipper after all.

Cruising in the passenger's seat lets his mind drift. It's going to happen. Yes. Such grand gestures for the future are best when you've got the right symbolic jewelry except words alone count. Never in his whole damn life did he think he would be the type.

Larry's own hair goes this way and that. He colors it now and then. Freddy's thirtieth only throws into sharper contrast his own age. Let's not even speak of it. He's already old.

"Do you have money to get a table?" he asks while getting out some cash for the valet. They could have called to reserve a table but they have enough pull to get a table almost any night of the week. Life has not been filled with numerous trials. It's just the drug dealers, gangsters and secrets.

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