in a terribly sour mood and soaked in a layer of sweat after managing to push his car a dozen blocks from the middle of nowhere to his brother's house, marcus shoves his hand through the window of his car and honks twice, full force into the middle of the car's wheel. the image of the face of his mechanic telling his car is all good, all done flashes through his brain, and his hands itch to punch something. he grabs a rag from the car and wipes his face, before heading to the porch, ready to slam the front door until someone popped up, but his nephew's already opening it. makes sense; middle of the day, middle of the week, his parents are working. his little bitch ass of a brother wouldn't be of much more help than the teen, anyway. "hey kid, c'mere, help me push it to your dad's driveway." and he's heading back to the car.
if his mind was any cooler, he'd realize how similar he was behaving to his own late father; military background, spitting orders and growling commands at his poor sons. but his mind is far from cool, because too much fucking money went into fixing that fucking motor, and he knows dylan will obey, no questions asked. he would've raised him differently (too much screens and not enough outdoors, if you asked him; in fact, he told it to his brother despite him not asking), but the kid wasn't a complete brat, though a bit spoiled and sheltered. soon his car's on the driveway, and marcus approaches the front of it. with a sigh, he takes off his shirt, drenched in sweat and sticking to his torso, throwing it to the ground and barking another order for the boy, who's just staring at him, like a lost puppy: "move, go grab the toolbox." he hears the garage door open, and hopes his bum brother will have something that'll help him at least put this thing back to the mechanic. but, as he pops open the hood, he realizes he'll be needing no tool at all; it's all fucking fried. no tool is gonna help him. "jesus fucking christ..."
and yet, there's no toolbox beside him. where the fuck is this kid? it'd be of no use, of course, but the incompetence still gets to him. taking this long to do what he was told? that'd be a beating from his father, and those were never easy. kid's probably never had a beating, or he wouldn't be taking so long. he marches to the garage, feeling the same itch in his hands to hit something, and sees his nephew: standing, facing a fucking shelf, empty expression. "what- what the fuck's taking you so long, dylan? don't know what a fucking toolbox is?" he approaches the boy, an open-hand slap to the back of his head, his chest burning with something besides simple anger. "your dad don't teach you what a toolbox is, huh? tryin' to raise a fag?" a slap to his shoulder, biting his lip as he takes in the new expression on the boy's face. he can't remember ever seeing it on the kid's features; the look of someone learning a lesson.
his eyes dart to the metal shelf, and immediately find the red and black plastic box among the other items. with a grunt, his hand bolts to the boy's head once again; not a slap, but a grip of a handful of his hair, directing his eyes to the box, pulling him much closer to snarl, sharp and primal, right against his ear. the other hand points it out: "that's a fucking toolbox, dylan, can you see that fucking toolbox?"
@obcdient .
