Hello!!
I’ve decided to start posting here the fanfics I usually upload on the forum—since I already have them written, I might as well share them here too :) I’d also like to begin uploading some of my drawings. I’ve always felt a little embarrassed about that, but I think it’s about time, now that I finally have more free time.
This fanfic (and many others I have on the forum, which I’ll gradually upload here) belongs to a much larger personal project of mine. The “victim” of most of my fics is always Lamarck, hehe. To recap: they all belong to a criminal gang/mafia that deals with trafficking, bank robberies, etc. Lamarck is one of the leaders of the gang, Leray is his hacker and right-hand man (and possible love interest?). Miranda, Kylie, Mike, Alain, and others mentioned—like Luciano, Xavier, or Galeano—also belong (or used to belong) to the gang. Luciano, in fact, is one of the new bosses in this part of the story.
I apologize if at times it’s confusing or the conversations feel a bit out of context, but I like there to be both plot and everyday life beyond the sneezes.
For a quick character recap:
Lamarck: black hair down to his neck, very blue almost crystalline eyes. (For context, a few days ago he had a motorcycle accident.)
Leray: shoulder-length white hair, badly dyed.
Miranda: short hair, olive-colored eyes.
Kylie: dark-skinned, with dark, curly hair down to her neck.
I hope you enjoy it 😄 (And sorry for any mistakes in English, I’m Spanish ;-;)
It smells like popcorn in the living room. For Lamarck that smell produces a strange feeling, warm on one hand, like home, and distant on the other, as if there were a party he’s not invited to. He doesn’t know if he wants their safehouse to turn into a home. He doesn’t even know exactly what a home is. He only knows his shoulder hurts from the motorcycle crash, that he’s very tired, and that he had planned to lock himself in his room without a word—until Kylie plants herself in front of him and proposes watching a movie together after dinner.
Lamarck hadn’t even thought about dinner.
“Why, do you need company after breaking up with Romeo?” He says, referring to his ex-boyfriend, Alain’s brother.
Kylie was pulling pasta out of a drawer Alain had pointed to. Pasta was the only thing they usually cooked: easy, unpretentious, but once again with that unmistakable sense of home.
“You’re an idiot, we weren’t together and we’re not going to be.”
“Where is he, by the way?” Lamarck asks, more to Alain than to Kylie.
Alain sighs. Lamarck rubs his nose with a curved finger.
“At a hotel. It’s better for everyone.” Alain also seems tired as he opens the package of spaghetti Kylie hands him and drops it into the pot. He’s the only one there who can cook halfway decently.
“I offered to make pizza, but no one lets me,” Kylie says with a shrug.
“Because you don’t have the slightest clue how to make a decent pizza!” jokes Lean, coming out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a Gengar hoodie and his hair tied back in a low bun. Lamarck notices it’s getting longer every time and feels tempted to tell him he should cut it.
“You’ve never even tried one of my pizzas, idiot!” Kylie shoots back.
Lean approaches Lamarck and almost jumps onto one of the chairs by the floating counter.
“How’s the search going?” Lean asks.
Lamarck wrinkles his nose and rubs the bridge of it. It’s been itching since he arrived, and he assumes it’s from the spices in the food. He feels exhausted.
“Same as yesterday, and probably the same as tomorrow.”
“Little by little, I guess. We’ll find him eventually.”
Lamarck nods, crossing his arms. Miranda comes down the hallway and stares at Lamarck, offended.
“Since you don’t want me to help…” she says, not hiding her annoyance. She’s wearing comfy pajama-like shorts and a red tank top. Her hair looks wet, as if she just showered.
“Miranda, don’t nag me, I’ve had a really long day,” Lamarck replies, curtly. He really doesn’t want to argue about Miranda’s insecurities.
She just smiles with raised brows.
“Relax, it was a joke.” Miranda raises her hands and steps into the kitchen. “Need a hand?” she asks Kylie and Alain.
“Sorry.” Lamarck rubs an eye and sobs softly. “Uh… will you wait for me while I shower? Well, start eating if you’d rather not.”
“We’ll wait for you, king, don’t worry,” Kylie answers from the kitchen, smiling.
Lean closes the laptop he had been looking at on the table, and before Lamarck leaves, he grabs his arm.
“Hey, if you need help with something… I know you said you didn’t, but I wouldn’t mind looking into the facial recognition tracker.”
Lamarck looks at him thoughtfully for a few seconds before nodding.
“Yeah, maybe.” He turns and starts walking down the hallway. From the kitchen bar, Lean sees his back hunch slightly before he reaches the bathroom, his hand coming up to his nose. “Tnxch! ngtxh! haa…” Lean hear two small muffled sneezes and the faint exhale Lamarck lets out just before stepping into the bathroom.
He comes out fifteen minutes later, hair damp and a bit messy. Dinner is almost ready, Miranda announces. Lamarck, Kylie, and Lean set the table while Alain and Miranda serve the food. The door opens and Mike walks in just before they start eating, sighing, wrapped in a white leather coat that fits him perfectly, as if it were made of ice.
“Mike, have you eaten?” Miranda asks after some greetings.
“Ramón y Cajal said, Lean, that there are infinite kinds of fools, but the most deplorable are the chatterboxes obsessed with proving they have talent.” Mike speaks as soon as he enters. Lean widens his eyes and points at himself. “Remind me again why you give Lui Galeano permission to mess with the clubs?”
“The clubs… oh, oh, no, not me.” He points at Lamarck. “I left the clubs alone ages ago.”
Lamarck clicks his tongue and sits down at the table, rubbing his neck.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, it was me. I just don’t get it, damn it, why Galeano has to meddle at all.”
“Don’t delegate to useless people,” Mike reproaches, taking off his coat and folding it neatly. “Is he a trafficker or a businessman?”
“Are you a businessman, Mike?” Alain teases, filling glasses with water. “Sit down, I’ll serve you a plate.”
“Sorry. You should’ve called me, I’d have handled it.”
Mike clicks his tongue and sits. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, a vest, and beige jeans, like he was a literature professor and not a bank robber.
“No worries, really. Galeano’s just super passive-aggressive, you can’t talk to him, ” Mike says.
“He’s an asshole,” mutters Lean.
“He’s not an asshole, it’s just that you guys are all cockerels,” Miranda scolds them. They all sit around the table and start eating spaghetti with tomato, too soft, with parmesan and sausages.
“Can someone tell me who you’re talking about?” Kylie asks, a bit offended. She just recently rejoined the gang, and she still doesn’t really know what’s going on.
“No one,” Lamarck answers, before coughing several times and clearing his throat.
“One of Luciano’s men,” Alain explains. “He doesn’t like taking risks.”
“Mike, I’ll go talk to Galeano later, okay? If Luciano approved the guidelines I don’t understand why…” Lamarck says, but Mike cuts him off.
“But Luciano’s flying to Indonesia the day after tomorrow to close the deal.”
“Fuck, Indonesia, I forgot.” Lean complains, groaning out loud. “Day after tomorrow?” Mike nods. “Screw it, I’m not sleeping tonight.”
“Is Aurora in charge?” Lamarck sobs softly and rubs his nose with a curved finger. “What the hell… I’m the one in charge.” He smiles, shaking his head with raised brows. “What a bastard…”
“You going to tell us what’s up with you and Luciano or do we have to beg?” Miranda asks.
Lamarck clears his throat and shakes his head. He looks at Mike.
“I’ll take care of it all, don’t worry.”
“No, it’s fine.” Mike waves it off. “I’ll handle Galeano, really. I overreacted. He just got under my skin.”
“Happens. Kylie, this Galeano guy, we’re talking about—he’s the kind of person…” Lean makes a crushing motion with his hand. “Who’s either right or right.”
“Well, you lot are stubborn enough,” Kylie shoots back.
“No, but he’s unilateral. He doesn’t get that you’ve got to take risks.”
“Guys, that’s not true, you’re kamikazes and then shit happens,” Miranda defends him.
“What happens is Miranda’s into him.” Lean points.
“Shut up, that’s not true! God, do I have to like anyone with legs, it’s just…”
Lean suppresses a laugh. The conversation shifts to Alain’s brother, who preferred sleeping in a hotel instead of the safehouse. Lamarck, who’s been fairly absent through the whole talk, grabs a napkin and presses it to his nose. He turns slightly away from Miranda, at his side, and inhales desperately.
“Hhh… Mmtgsst… agh!” The sneeze comes out muffled and very wet, and the effort to hold it in makes his head shake. He can’t stop a vocal exhale, almost a moan, which he tries to mask with a throat-clear. He doesn’t apologize this time, but Miranda blesses him anyway. “Thanks.”
They finish dinner after a while, people getting up gradually. The idea comes up to watch a movie together since it’s been a long time since they were all, or almost all, at the safehouse. The idea gets a wave of acceptance and chatter about the movie, the genre, Lean’s terrible taste in B movies, or how awful the last film Miranda made Mike watch was.
Lamarck offers to load the dishwasher, and Lean joins him, knowing his real motive is to get some alone time with Lamarck. He hasn’t been very open since the motorcycle accident, and Lean knows something’s wrong. But Lamarck is as hard to read as an ironing board, and Lean has learned not to press him or he’ll shut down even more.
“Truth is they’re piling on the work. All that paperwork’s useless, a complete waste of time,” Lean says while putting the dishes Lamarck hands him into the dishwasher.
Lamarck seems distracted, staring at the water running over the dirty plates.
“He is screwing with me,” Lamarck blurts out instead. He looks at Lean and passes him another plate. “Luciano’s screwing with me.”
“I can’t say much if you don’t tell me why. I could even talk to him if you wanted, but if not…”
“I don’t want you to talk to Luciano. Talking to him is useless because Luciano doesn’t listen. He doesn’t listen.” A plate slips from his hand, clattering loudly in the sink. He clenches his teeth. Lean checks it’s not broken before drying it with a towel.
“Look, one thing Luciano does well is listen. Whether he then does what he wants, that’s another story… But the two of you being like this is just wasted energy.”
“Sorry we’re draining your energy,” Lamarck snaps back with his trademark ironic bite.
“I didn’t mean me, I meant you guys.”
“You care a lot about Luciano.”
“I don’t know if I do, Lamarck, I don’t know. Should I? Until two days ago you cared too,” Lean says, not realizing the reproach in his raised tone until he sees Lamarck’s furious expression and knows he’s messed up.
“Look, you’ve got no fucking clue. Luciano won’t listen to you or Christ himself because he doesn’t give a shit about anything but his own.…” Lamarck stops scrubbing and shuts the faucet off sharply. “But if you want heart-to-hearts with him, I’m not stopping you, suck his dick for all I care.”
“I just said I’d try talking to him!”
“You don’t have to get involved!” They’re shouting now, and Lean knows the others in the living room are hearing.
“If you don’t tell me things, I can’t help you!”
“Maybe I don’t want your help, Lean. Maybe all I wanted was to vent so I wouldn’t explode because you told me not to keep shit inside—not for you to play fucking Gandhi and try to fix my life.” He spits it out fast, then turns the faucet back on and goes back to scrubbing.
Lean freezes, torn between drying a plate and banging his head on the cupboard because somehow he always manages to piss Lamarck off. He clicks his tongue, lowers his head, and says nothing, just takes the next plate Lamarck hands him. Only a few glasses remain, and he knows after that they won’t talk for the rest of the night. So instead of drying, he sets it on the counter and steps closer. He almost touches him, but stops at the last second, afraid Lamarck’s too wound up.
“Lamarck, you’re right about everything, I’m sorry. I’m one of those ‘I can fix him’ people, and that’s no good.”
Lamarck raises a brow at him, like he doesn’t get it. Lean can’t help laughing a little.
“I can fix him,” Lean repeats.
Lamarck smiles, shaking his head. Lean is about to speak when Lamarck, with both hands wet under the tap, opens his mouth to take an uneven breath. He raises one of his wet hands, but stops halfway and instead covers his mouth with his forearm.
“Hep'tCssh… hh-hhha… there.” he says, out of breath, handing him the last plate.
Lamarck nods before closing his eyes again and, this time, turns away from Lean and sneezing toward the floor.
“H-Ha’AtSchu!” It’s probably the least stifled, most desperate sneeze Lean has ever heard from him—and also the first he’s seen uncovered. A shiver runs through him. “Excuse me.”
He looks utterly drained afterward, rushing to dry his hands and shut off the faucet.
He rubs his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling softly.
“Want me to finish up?” Lean offers. Lamarck nods, stepping aside, swapping roles. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Lamarck shakes his head with a sigh.
“I’m not mad, sorry, I’m just exhausted.”
Lean looks at him with a tender smile and takes the first glass. He washes much faster.
“If you want, I’ll spray-paint Luciano’s fucking limo or something, just to cheer you up,” Lean jokes, earning that long-awaited smile from Lamarck, who slowly dries the glasses.
“Hey, they found the motorbike.”
“What?” Lean says. It’s the first time Lamarck’s mentioned the accident. “The police? Want me to check what they’ve got?”
“No, it won’t leave a trace, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, but just in case.” He offers, and Lamarck nods. “You gonna buy another one?”
“Supp-h-ose so…” Mid-sentence, he sets down the glass on the counter and grabs a paper towel, pressing it to his mouth with both hands. “Hha-Ngt-tchi… hhh-TScshu! gha…” He exhales vocally, almost like a moan.
Lean remembers he’s heard him sneeze quite a few times tonight.
“Bless you,” he says softly.
“Thanks.” Lamarck stuffs the paper towel into his pocket.
“Did it have a name, the bike?”
Lamarck blinks, swallows.
“Yeah.” He smiles faintly. “Camilla.”
“Camilla, seriously?” Lean bursts out laughing and finishes washing the last glass. “Why?”
Lamarck shrugs, arms crossed now.
“You just know the name of a bike, or you don’t.”
“You name your consoles.”
“Don’t you dare talk shit about Desiré!” he says, referring to his recently acquired collector’s Nintendo DS, which he had absurdly paid 2000 euros for on eBay.
Lamarck turns to put the glasses away in the cupboard, but seconds later he’s forced to bury his face in his elbow, curling slightly.
“HH’Png-haa… Fuck,” he sobs, still putting glasses away.
Lean pats his shoulder gently.
“You’ve been sneezing a lot.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah…” He sighs and rummages in the drawers, pulling out a brown bottle. “I’m gonna pour a whiskey, okay?”
“You’re gonna pour a whiskey?” Lean raises his brows.
“You trying to drown your sorrows in booze?”
“One or two whiskeys won’t floor me, Lean, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to.” He takes a long swig. “It relaxes me. Want one?”
They head back to the living room together, where the debate is on what movie or series to watch on Netflix, which keeps putting out worse and worse stuff. Kylie’s sitting on the floor with an elbow propped on the couch, Miranda next to her, while Mike and Alain are on the other side of the couch.
“Any consensus or can I give input?” Lean asks, sitting beside Alain.
“The consensus is that culture doesn’t seem too relevant here,” Mike complains.
“You ever heard of relaxing and not thinking about acquiring knowledge?” Alain jabs.
“Put on a heist flick, see if it inspires him.”
Miranda keeps scrolling through movies with the remote. Lamarck sits down next to Lean on the couch, sniffling lightly, and sets his whiskey glass on the table.
“What, a stiff drink?” Kylie teases, first looking at Lamarck and then at Lean with a playful smile. “And not sharing?”
“You want some?” Lamarck ask.
Kylie shakes her head, amused.
“Got that mafia flow, just the way he likes it.” Kylie jokes, swirling the glass with two floating ice cubes.
“He loves acting all vintage,” Miranda teases. “Alright, Lamarck, decide—mystery or action?”
“A slasher. I feel like watching people die,” Lamarck says, taking the whiskey back from Kylie for a sip.
They take another while to pick a slasher worthy enough, settling on an old teen one, with Stranger Things-but-weirder vibes, according to Lean, who’d been pushing for horror or zombies.
“Can I?” Miranda asks Lamarck, gesturing for him to rest her head on a cushion on his lap. The movie had already started. Lamarck hums an assent and waves for her to wait until he finishes his drink. Then he leans back slightly on the couch, and Miranda leans on him. “Am I bothering you?” she asks, already lying down.
“Don’t worry,” Lamarck sniffles softly.
Lean gets up shortly after and returns with a chocolate-honey bar and a roll of paper towels, which he sets on the table. He eats slowly, making occasional snarky comments about the useless dialogue. Then he leans slightly, his elbow brushing near Lamarck. When they touch, Lean whispers an apology.
“Want to lean on me?” Lamarck offers.
Lean looks confused. Lamarck isn’t usually one for random displays of affection.
“Sometimes I’m just too complicated.” It sounds like an apology, and Lean can’t help but look at him fondly.
He accepts, of course, resting his head on Lamarck’s shoulder. Lamarck also reclines languidly, and Lean thinks he’ll fall asleep soon—he’s hardly spoken, looking utterly drained.
The movie is worse than expected, but a warm, homely calm fills the room, a welcome contrast after so much stress lately. No thinking, just sharing space with people bound by natural complicity.
Lamarck rubs his nose once, Lean noticing the movement of his free hand. Then again, this time keeping his hand pressed under his nose. He knows he’s holding back a sneeze, and he seems to succeed when he lowers his hand, sniffling and swallowing hard. Again, then breathing through his mouth, congested. A few minutes pass until Lamarck pulls away from Lean, forcing him to sit up, and cups his nose with both hands, turning slightly toward Miranda.
“S-sorry… hhh- h’tch.” The sneeze is so silent it’s lost under the movie’s sound, barely audible to Lean and Miranda beside him. He exhales between his teeth, almost noiseless, and Lean figures it must hurt.
Miranda glances up at him but says nothing. Neither does Lean. He figures no one else heard, and Lamarck surely doesn’t want to be noticed.
But seconds later, Lamarck turns from Lean again, covering with his wrist.
“Hh’txng…hh-hh…” Stifled to the extreme, though his whole body shakes. Lean pats his arm lightly. Lamarck nods a faint thanks, wrinkles his nose again, and tries breathing through his mouth until—“hhh… Mxng!” He pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, followed by a faint exhale. The sound is barely audible, ragged, congested. Lamarck looks the same, his nose redder, wearing an uncomfortable and slightly desperate grimace, his mouth slightly open to breathe.
“Hh– mngt… hTSCh-H’TsSChu! HHha…” He can’t stifle the last ones, sneezing into his hand, turning from Lean.
“Achoo,” Kylie mimics softly, tapping his leg playfully where her elbow rests.
“Bless you,” Miranda adds, looking up at him.
“Excuse me,” Lamarck says quietly.
Lean stretches for the paper roll, sure Lamarck knows it’s meant for him, and hands it over. He nods thanks, tears off a sheet, and dabs his nose lightly, keeping it in hand. Lean tilts his chin at him, a silent “You okay?” Lamarck sniffles in reply, shaking his head with some frustration. He shifts on the couch, and presses the paper to his nose.
“Hh’ MNgtshi! aah…” Softer through the paper, but freer, louder than before. His exhale sounds like a complaint.
“You okay?” Kylie asks, amused but a bit concerned.
“It’s fine, don’t die on us.”
He sniffles louder this time, then clears his throat.
“You catching something?” Lean whispers.
