#!cal

He'd never met the guy, his neighbor, the Neighbor, actually The Neighbor was most accurate because the fuck deserved capital Ts and Ns and giant capitals F and U taped to his forehead because he'd only moved in a week ago and already the surroundings were in uproar. A soldier, they said-- ex-military, scarred and tattooed and pierced and were you even allowed to have piercings in the corps, was that even a thing and oh how far America had fallen, kids these days. That was to be expected, really, living in a primarily middle to upper class all-white cookie cutter suburb with more people in their mid to late fifties than anything else, and from what Dane had heard, the new guy hadn't even been fazed. Had turned down what little help was offered and had whistled at somebody's teenage daughter as she bent over the hood of her father's car, windshield and her own chest lathered in soap and though Dane did his best to avoid gossip, Mr. Declan had been seen spotting a black eye and a split lip on more than one occasion so it was impossible to assume things hadn't worked out in his favor. 

Score one for The Neighbor, Dane supposed-- the Declans were asses and hell, they could get a capital A for it, if Dane thought long and hard enough and really, everybody in the whole fucking neighborhood could've been improved by a harsh right hook because judging by their attitudes, they'd been the bullies in high school. They'd gone to college and university on the coattails of rich parents who could afford it, had gone their whole lives without some of the shit Dane had seen, some of the ways he'd been treated. 

Maybe, he'd thought, maybe this new guy, this ex-soldier or whatever he was, maybe he was just what they'd needed: some untamed external force of nature to come in and blow them all away, knock over the ones who deserved it and spare those who didn't. 

That had been before the sawing started. 

Dane still had a military sleep pattern himself, even though he'd been stateside for almost a decade, hadn't held a rifle in even longer, not after-- after all the shit that'd happened, his unit, all the blood, so much, too much and Dane's still fucked up on some days, a little less fucked up on others and he knows that's as much as he can ever ask for. So he wakes up early, ridiculously early by the standards of Normal People but 4 o'clock in the morning was pushing it. 4 o'clock was just not right and Dane had thought it was gunfire, gunfire and grenades and bombs and he'd woken up sweating-panting-terrified and rolling beneath the bed hadn't happened quickly enough to prevent a panic attack. Forearms braced against dark wooden floor, white muscle shirt clinging to the small of his back, sweat beading down the side of his face and it had taken almost six minutes before he realized what it actually was: 

Construction work. Or-- something, something like that, sawing and hammering and welding and whatever else and Dane had rammed his shoulders up and into the underside of his bed frame with such rage he swore he'd go outside and murder whoever thought this was okay. 

Hell, it wasn't even legal, doing that shit so early in the morning and it'd gone on for too many fucking days and the problem was, anybody who'd gone to The Neighbor's garage had come back more unnerved by the man than before and Dane really was beginning to worry. PTSD could be severe, could be dangerous, could be destructive but he wanted to believe anyone affected by the ailment that severely wouldn't be allowed to live alone, but-- he wanted to go, on his own. Just to be safe, before someone else went and said, did the wrong thing and walked away with something worse than just a bloodied mouth.

It was just a little past noon and he'd had enough, the sound of saw against wood driving him up and over and wall and over and across his lawn, shocked that the most he'd ever seen of the guy had been the back of his head and a peculiar tattoo that laced down his neck and that was it, even if they lived literally atop each other. 

The garage door was rolled up and Dane took a deep breath, steeled himself, balled his fists at his side before walking in because he wasn't the greatest at social interaction, not anymore, let alone open confrontation but if somebody had to, then he'd-- he'd do his best. 

Even if that was rarely, if ever, anywhere even close to good enough.

The guy's back greeted him, broad shoulders and far too many tattoos, more ink than skin and-- yeah, Dane could see why people had a tendency to not want to approach him. He didn't exactly exude friendly. "Hey," he barely heard himself over the heavy metal blaring from The Neighbor's obnoxious speakers, let alone the clang of metal and hiss of woodcutting that had been waking Dane up for the better part of too goddamn long. "Hey, I'm talking to you--" 

Finally, he turned, and Dane was struck dumb.

Tall, taller than Dane and thicker, more muscular, the kind of build that frightened people in street fights and wrestling matches and that wasn't even what hit Dane the hardest; eyes so pale blue they might have been grey but that wasn't, still wasn't the thing he noticed most because it was what was behind the ex-soldier's gaze that had Dane's chest seizing up. 

There wasn't even a hint of really anything behind his eyes. Not surprise, not annoyance, not regret. Nothing. They weren't the eyes of a dead man, but the eyes of a man who'd seen too much death, too many dead and the fire of war still burned inside of them, not snuffed out, not for a moment, not even when he blinked and even without a piece of equipment in his hand that could've easily been turned into a weapon, Dane still would've been intimidated.

That still wasn't the thing, though. The intimidation part of it because Dane spent too much time being scared of everything to focus much on it because he was fixated, drawn to the guy, to the tanned skin barely hidden by a tattered old t-shirt, to the centipede tattoo (so that's what it is) that wriggled down from the back of his ear to god knows where else, to the barbel in his left eyebrow and the rings that lined both of his ears, to the patchwork of scars from forehead to jaw and back again and Dane knew he was staring and fuck it, he couldn't stop. Couldn't much remember why he'd come here, either, except he knew he'd come back, just-- just for another chance to look. 

"Yeah. I can see that. S'that a trick you just learned?" 

"What?" Dane snapped out of it, if only for a second but oh shit, his voice was like the sweet side of sandpaper and it was the way he spoke, on top of it all, the rude, cold intonations that had Dane fighting back every single urge to just turn and run because he was in over his head, this was not going well.

"Talking. Is that a new trick the old dog just learned that I'm supposed to give a fuck about, or did you actually come here to say something to me?" He dropped the saw, wiped grease onto his brow and down his neck and Dane would've given his left testicle to just stop gawking oh my god just stop he's probably gonna come beat you up--

"I was--"

"You came to say something about the noise, right?" The Neighbor stepped forward and Dane stepped back, just a little, just enough to make the other guy grin at him in a way that made Dane feel sick and hot all at once. "You aren't the first. Not gonna be the last, either. You can take it up with the mayor or the governor or the president-- climb as high as you want, if you think it'll help. This is my therapy, alright? It's either this, or I go shoot pigeons in the neighborhood kiddie park, and I don't think that's gonna go over too well with all the sweet little mommies and daddies. So, yeah, I appreciate you coming all the way over here to tell me to stop waking you up at the ass crack of dawn but I do this when I'm halfway-fuckin' tempted to go wring somebody's neck because of the shit I went through overseas. Long story short, asshole," he finally paused, so close to Dane that his breath ghosted across the shorter man's face, "get the fuck off my property before I hang you up on a hook and call you my pretty new punching bag."

He smelled like cigarettes and whiskey and sex and Dane wanted to bite him, to bite his lips, could hear a click-click-click of something metallic tapping against his teeth (pierced tongue holy fuck--), wanted to say something clever, say anything at all, to egg him on and cool him off all at once and Dane couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this much of anything and he was-- shit, he was overwhelmed, needed to leave--

"-- I just came over to ask if I could borrow some sugar."

It was out of his mouth before he had the chance to think, the chance to not say it and it was a lie, a lie right through his goddamn teeth and the laugh he got in return was borderline warm, the man leaning back to rest against a cabinet, tattooed arms folding across his chest. "... Is that so. Sugar. You came here to get sugar."

"Yeah."

He snorted, hand digging into his pocket to fish out a set of keys. "Okay, you fucking weirdo. Let's go get you some sugar." It was only a few steps to the door, to the inside of The Neighbor's house and Dane had no idea what he was doing or whether or not he should even follow or if he should take the chance and just run the opposite way, put his house up for sale and forget the entire thing ever happened-- "Name's Cal, by the way. Nobody in the neighborhood's bothered to ask, so I figured I might as well tell the person who seems least retarded. What's your name, sugar boy?"

Sugar boy, Jesus Christ. Save me. "Dane."

So The Neighbor's name was actually Cal and he really was ex-military and he actually did keep sugar in the cupboard and Dane stayed for a beer that turned out to be seven and Cal kept him awake all night not for the first time but for the first time that involved Dane being the noisy one.