Remember The Name

“Okay!” He voiced happily. Lloyd always just preferred it. He almost preferred being called Lloyd over nicknames. He didn’t always say that, though. “Oh. Nice. How old are your little rugrats?” He was interested. He was also curious if he heard husbands or just one husband, but he didn’t ask. “Oh, you should come over one of these days and I’ll cook you something. I’m an excellent cook.” He offered. He remembered first moving here and eating out for almost a week before he got settled in. Lloyd smiled and placed his order with the waiter as well. “What do you do?” He smiled to Sal, trying to think of things people talk about on a date. Although his dating experiences were all with people he already knew. 

“Logan is nine, Olivia is five and Maddox is two,” Sal answered simply, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet to show off a picture of himself with the three kids and his two husbands. Pocketing the wallet once more, he lifted his shoulders as he leaned back against the booth. “I’m an MMA fighter.” He had a feeling that the other male didn’t know who he was, given the fact that he didn’t recognize his name, but he truthfully didn’t care - he wasn’t the type of celebrity to get up in arms about someone not knowing who he was. “My fighting style is more ground-and-pound.”

Mickey’s brows rose as the man revealed his arm. He licked at his lips and finally forced himself to meet the man’s eyes again as he began speaking about where he’s from. “The Bronx is nice.” Mickey smiled softly. “As is LA. I lived there for a while as well, but I had wanted a break.” he chuckled. “I’m originally from Sheffield in England…if ya couldn’t tell by the awful accent.” he smiled, sitting back against the booth. 

The older male only lifted his shoulder in a shrug - while he did like the Bronx, as it was where he grew up and where his family was at, he couldn’t say he particularly enjoyed it. Not when he had to watch his parents worry about making enough to feed him and his family. “Awful? Hardly. I’d say it’s charming. Better than mine.” His accent was a blend of New Yorker, Italian and Armenian - his immigrant grandparents, on both sides, having raised him and his brothers and teaching them their languages. “So, mind if I ask what made you decide to move to Chicago?”

“Right.. that makes sense,” He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. He missed Oklahoma but not what he left behind. “Why Chicago?” Rooney asked. “I thought Los Angeles was nice.. Isn’t that where everyone goes to be a star. Is that why you were there?” He asked again. “New York.. I’ve never been–”

There was a reason that Sal had paused before he asked the next question, knowing that some answers tended to invoke conversation like this one. A low chuckle left his lips and he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Los Angeles is where people go to be a star, but it’s not why I went. It just felt better to be on the west coast since most of the fights in the UFC happened out that way, and then after I met my husbands... well, it fit. We moved to Chicago, though, because one of them earned a role that filmed here, and we decided to move here together so that we wouldn’t separate the family.”

“Tomorrow then, I insist. Either my place or the garage. You pick.” He hummed, though nodded his head, “Yes, Sal.” The man laughed, finding a bit of humor in it. “I um..wow. I couldn’t accept..” He then turned to the waiter, “But i’ll be having the same thing. Thank you so much, Sal.” Jess looked at the other and smiled so widely.

He knew that it was probably too much to offer to buy a meal for a stranger, but it was his way of saying thank you for someone sitting down and having a meal with him. That was why he only waved off the other’s words, glad that he ordered - even if it was the same thing - before the waiter gave a nod and walked away. “No need to thank me. Consider it my thanks for choosing to sit with an old man and making a new friend.”

Pulling into the long driveway of the large house that he and his family would call home, he quickly got out of his jeep and headed to the door. Quietly, he opened it and crept inward until he saw one of his husbands and their three children focused intently on the television. Walking behind the couch, he let his hands find the shoulders of Olivia, who nearly jumped, before she turned and squealed. “Papa!” she squealed, loud enough to wake up Maddox, and all three immediately moved to jump over the back of the couch to attack the large male.

“I missed you guys,” he stated, holding onto the three little monkeys before he leaned down to kiss Cyprus’ sweetly. “I missed you too.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Rooney shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, walking forward with the signal started to blink at them. “That’s easy… Blue.. like a crystal blue river.” He replied. “Are you from Chicago? I moved here less than three weeks ago, I’m originally from Oklahoma.”

Blue. It was a good color, really, and Sal could only smile lightly as he pictured a crystal blue river. Eventually, though, the male was asking him if he was from Chicago and he chuckled before he shook his head. “No, I’m not... that’s why I asked if you knew where the mall was.” Hearing that the male was from Oklahoma, though, had him feel a pang of sympathy for the boy’s parents... He just hoped that the boy at least told them goodbye. “I moved here from Los Angeles just the other day, but I’m originally from New York. The Bronx, to be exact.”

Rooney was cautious about opening up, afraid others would judge him on how he was raised and the lifestyle. That’s why he left, because it wasn’t something he could see for himself. “That sounds fair to me but you go first. I’ve never played the game before.”

“Alright, well, let me explain the rules. For every question we ask, we have to answer it ourselves, and we each get three passes so if a question is too uncomfortable for our tastes, we don’t have to answer it,” he stated before he smiled. “Let me throw a soft ball for the first round. Favorite color? I happen to enjoy the color orange, especially in a sunset.”

“I want your help.. I need it and… the attention is nice. No one has ever done anything like this for me before, especially since up and leaving home.” He answered softly, “I don’t think that at all.. the reason I moved here was to start a new life– I can’t thank you enough for offering your help.”

The younger male’s words only had Sal nodding lightly, because he knew how difficult it was to try and get out on your own without any help from anyone - he was just lucky that his old trainer saw the promise in him, saw his dedication to fitness that had him working out for at least six hours a day (and thus led him to his nickname of ‘The Machine’) because otherwise... he wouldn’t know where he’d be. “Just your kindness will be thanks enough,” Sal said as he and the younger male began to walk. “I feel, though, that if I’m going to help you... I should know a few things about you, and you a few things about me, too, right? What do you say we play a small game of twenty questions to get to know one another?”

That excited Jesse and his face showed that. Nodding his head, he said, “Any time you want to, i’d love it, sir. It would be amazing. Thank you.” He smiled widely. “That’s so sweet. I’m happy for you guys and I hope his gig goes well.” Jesse added softly. 

“Thanks. It’s just around the corner and up a few blocks.” Rooney stated softly. He had been there only once, and it was for a pair of work shoes. Between working as a barista and secretary for a dancing company, he would be off and on his feet most the day. The young man wanted to shy away from Sal’s touch, feeling his cheeks darken just from the contact. Instead, Rooney lightly leaned into the touch. “Okay,” he murmured softly.

Tall, gorgeous and tattooed? It was a miracle that Devon wasn’t openly salivating right there in the gym, and somehow he was managing to control himself. He just hoped that he wasn’t coming across as a creep. He moved to lean against the wall by the treadmill, trying not to openly stare at the other man, but admittedly his gaze kept coming back to Sal and those muscles. “I mean… striking up a conversation is inevitably going to end up with me hitting on you, so… as long as you’re fine with that…” A playful smirk tugged at Devon’s lips as his eyes rested upon the other. “Though, your name might be a good place to start?”

With the treadmill going at a reasonably moderate pace, Sal began to walk along the track at a pace that kept his heart-rate up but didn’t push it too far, and he chuckled at the other’s words. “Considering that I’m quite used to being hit on, go for it,” he mused before he glanced over his shoulder. “But it’s Sal. Salvatore Bellini.” He would have offered his hand, but it would’ve been awkward given his walking on the treadmill, so instead he offered him a smile. “Thanks again for letting me use this treadmill, too. I don’t feel right without my cool-down.” 

“Really?” Gerald asked with a soft laugh. Gerald knew how fond of the man Mickey was, especially when Gerald did tune into an MMA match, the man’s husband always made it a point to say how attractive Sal was, or how the man could probably fuck him better than Gerald could just to get a fight out of the man. “Right,” Gerald said as he looked around at the crowded place himself. It really wasn’t his cup of tea, which was ridiculous considering the man was a musician and was around ten times as many people that were in the club now. “It’s a pain to even get a drink in here, which is wild. I haven’t seen it this crowded since I’ve been here. But then again I haven’t been around too long,” he said and shrugged a shoulder.

“Ohh. I like it. Can I call you Salvatore?” It was on the long side compared to Lloyd’s one syllable name, but he liked it. It sounded like a fitting name for someone that looked so strong and powerful, like the guy in front of him. But Lloyd asked if he could call him that because he preferred calling people by their longer names over nicknames. “I was hoping we could get dessert at the bakery down the street.” He admitted. He leaned forward on the table, smiling. This kind of felt like a date in a certain way. “Thank you for inviting me to sit with you.” He countered. “Do you normally eat alone?” He asked with a curious nonjudgmental tone. He was just hoping to learn more about the older male.

“Oh really?” Mickey asked with a big smile as he leaned his cheek into the palm of his hand, listening interestedly to the fighter. He couldn’t help himself as his brown eyes traced over the man’s arms.  “It is weird, huh? I suppose all us WeHo gays are just fleeing to Chicago.” he said, attempting to mimic a Californian accent, which he happened to be quite good at.  He hummed as he looked over the menu again, seeing what he wanted. “It’s a lot different than Malibu. There was peaceful and there were the beaches that were always too chilly to swim in and I had to drive everywhere.  Here is fast and dirty and I sorta like that too. Reminds me of a few of the cities I’ve lived in before. Queens, and London, you know.” he shrugged, putting down the menu and smiling to the large man. “What part of California are you from?”

‘Sal.’ Victor nodded, ‘Nice to meet you too.’ he said, taking the other’s hand and shaking it lightly. Victor was rather impressed by this guy - he didn’t think he’d met anyone this muscled before so he knew he was staring a touch more than he should have right now. ‘Uh, not long.’ he said, letting go of Sal’s hand, ‘About a week or so now. You been here long?’

A low chuckle left the older male’s lips as the blond explained that no, he hadn’t been there long - roughly a week, in fact. It was certainly something that he didn’t expect, as he figured that most of the people he’d come across would have been those that had lived in Chicago for awhile, but he supposed it was his luck. “Even less than you... Today is my second day,” he admitted with a hearty chuckle and a lift of his shoulders. Slowly, though, he shrugged out of his jacket, revealing the full-length sleeve tattoos on his arms, as he let the jacket move to sit on the side of the booth closest to the wall.