#rt fic

Somehow repeating the name in his mind adds to the gravitas of that day’s earlier events.

The Fakes.

He’d been in their company, by complete accident, he’d been put in the company of at least some of the crew he’d worshiped on TV and in the papers all these years.

How many had there been? There’d been the two in the building and the one outside who’d tripped him. Had the others been there too? Sure, no one knew quite how many members there were but it was more than three. Usually there’d be reports of at least five or six.

What’s it matter anyway? Get a grip of yourself.

He hears the door above click shut and exhales in relief. His brother is home and they can deal with the more pressing shit now and keep Alfredo’s mind distracted from the more insane but relatively non-urgent matter.

Denver’s dressed how he normally is. Long white t-shirt, jeans, sneakers and a snapback - like almost every other guy in their neighborhood. He and his brother look remarkably similar, the main difference being Denny was granted the gift of actually being able to grow facial hair.

He greets Alfredo with an amused smile as his younger brother scrambles up the stairs and into the kitchen, and is already busying himself with taking the pre-cooked dinner out of the pot - one that Alfredo had completely ignored in his frenzy - beginning to dish it up.

Alfredo wastes no time in blurting out everything that had gone down in the alleyway after he’d left the club, maybe missing the minor details about how he’d practically pissed himself, but telling his brother of all the important stuff. Namely the money and when they wanted it by.

To his shock, and dismay, Denny seems largely unbothered by it. Well, he’s sure as pissed that they jumped Alfredo like that, but about the whole owing them money? He laughs it off like one would at the silly antics of squabbling children.

“Yeah? Y’know we wouldn’t have this problem if they gave me the good stuff in the first place. Rats are getting smarter - they’re no longer falling for the white chalk shit. Bastards think they can make me submit? I’ll show ‘em what I’m made of, they’ll wish they never met me.” He’s all confidence and lazy grins, and Alfredo starts to think that maybe he’s been freaking out over nothing.

Denny just shoves a plate of food in front of him and orders him to eat. “I’ll deal with it, kiddo. Don’t worry about it.”

It feels like he only blinks and it’s the dead of night, but he can’t sleep. Tomorrow he’s going to have a proper talk with Denver whether his older brother wants to or not. His brother was up late - talking on the phone or his laptop to someone, the quiet murmurings of his voice echoing down the stairs to the basement, and Alfredo could see the hallway light was still on - but since then things have gone quiet and dark and still, and Alfredo assumes he’s asleep.

Unlike Alfredo - the dim glow of the moonlight seeping through the tiny windows that looked more like they were drains once upon a time, reminds him of other later nights back when he was small and he’d wait up in bed for his father to come home after a job, buzzing with anticipation to see the man and hear his stories, or those first few evenings after his father had been killed when Alfredo had been too young to really understand that death meant he’d never see the man again. The word ‘never’ not making sense in his confused and distressed mind. Nights spent staring into a particular space not seeable during daylight. His memories, his pains, his fears.

When he wakes up, Denver’s already gone. Alfredo suspects his brother is avoiding him. That was the thing - Denny could talk a mile an hour about anything to anyone, but when it came to personal issues involving family, he’d rather things just be left unspoken. Maybe they were too similar in that respect. But the main difference was the little voice in Alfredo’s head simply wouldn’t allow things left unsaid, no matter how uncomfortable - never had been as good as blocking out his true feelings as his brother.

He tries texting but there’s no reply. He tries calling but it goes through to voicemail. It’s not unusual. His brother kept two phones on him and unless you called the emergency number he often wouldn’t pick up during the day unless you were one of the top dogs.

It’s Alfredo’s one day off in the week, so he thinks, to hell with it, he’ll wait until his brother gets back. Better try and talk things through today rather than waiting til tomorrow when those Ruski’s will be expecting their money.

He waits. And he waits. And he lies and waits when his Grandma arrives home and questions if he’s been inside all day. And when it begins to grow dark he waits some more.

And when it’s nearing ten he receives a text from Denny simply saying he wasn’t coming home that night - that he was too busy. Alfredo reads that as “going to the strip club”.

So seeing as there’s no point in waiting, and that he’s wasted a whole day, Alfredo does the only thing possible. He goes out for a drink.

It’s getting overly crowded and loud, but Alfredo doesn’t feel like leaving just yet. The Rusty is a bar frequented by all kinds of blue collar, lower class folk of their neighborhood. It’s warm, the staff don’t take any shit, and the beer flows cheap and cheerful.

By all accounts, he’d normally enjoy an atmosphere like this. Drunken laughter, the heavy smell of booze, the old-timey songs being played from the jukebox - he’d spent away many a night here, even before, when he was too young to be in such an establishment - and it almost felt like a second home at times. Never seemed to have as much time to visit anymore, though.

But even the familiar setting fails to take his mind off things - as the evening had worn on, Alfredo had found himself sinking deeper and deeper into thoughts of the events occurring the other night.

Who knows what’ll happen if you run into either of them again, you’re nothing compared to The Fakes, a speck of dust on their radar, and you’ve already shown weakness against those Ruskis. Doesn’t help that Denny brushed you off, but he is the one people have always said is more suited to this life. He probably knows what he’s doing. Still, can’t help imagining all the ways things could go wrong, if something goes wrong…

A hand brushes against his hip, now, and he’s looking up to see a dark haired older woman leaning over him, posturing her figure suggestively against the bar. His stomach churns at the idea of actually interacting with another human being right now, but his natural politeness wins over.

He feels the woman’s eyes on him as he asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She smiles, leaning further forward, her movements unsteady. “Bye me a drink?”

Alfredo side-glances. She’s a regular, he’s seen her around quite a bit. “I uh… maybe another night.”

“What’s wrong? Don’t like what you see?” she purrs, tracing a finger down her neck to cleavage, biting her lip invitingly.

It’s a dance she’s probably done a hundred times over. Actually, Alfredo’s pretty sure he’s given her money once when she tried this before, just trying to be kind, but she took it as an insult, claiming she wasn’t “some whore”.

He swallows, rushing to think up an excuse, and then purposefully looks away, muttering, “I’m gay.” What? Where the fuck did that come from? That was a new one when it came to excuses. Usually his natural awkwardness would ward any lady off after a while.

The woman snorts, haphazardly standing up straight again. “So?”

At Alfredo’s silence, she sneers. “Whatever, don’t bother me.” And then she’s staggering off, to a man sitting just a few stools down from Alfredo, leaning over him and proceeding to ask the same question.

Alfredo finishes his drink and stands up. He had hoped that maybe he’d find some answers to his problems at the bottom of his glass, but he’s three drinks down and starting to feel tipsy, and there has been no such grand eureka moment yet.

He heads outside, squeezing through the crowds, avoiding drinks being waved precariously in the air. He doesn’t know if he’s going to head home but he… he just needs some fresh air for a minute.

There're two men smoking outside but they leave pretty soon after, leaving Alfredo leaning against the wall. The city always feels strange at night, alien. This part of town, one that wasn’t particularly glamorous or touristy always fell into a sort of slumber. The streets deserted. The only sound coming from establishments like The Rusty, the occasional shouting and dogs barking, and the age-old sound of gunfire, followed - sometimes - by police sirens.

He’s interrupted from his daydreaming by shouts, or grunts, that suddenly begin echoing from nearby. It sounds unmistakably like a fight breaking out. Either that or a couple are very violently making out in the back alley. It is probably something Alfredo should steer well clear of.

Still. He’s always been too curious for his own good, and it’s not like anything too bad can happen, not if he keeps hidden.

Edging quietly along the wall and peering cautiously around the corner, he freezes at the sight of four men engaged in a fistfight. At first he just assumes it’s a normal drunken brawl, but the actions are too precise, too well-balanced, and he realizes it’s more than a common scrap.

At first glance it looks like a very uneven match. Two brutes of men, both with buzzcuts and tattoo filled arms, going up against two smaller, scrappy dudes. But on closer inspection, it looks like something completely different. One of the smaller ones, a skinny guy dressed head to toe in black, with his hood up, isn’t even bothering to throw a punch of his own. Instead, he is simply ducking and diving under every fist thrown his way. His movements are lithe and sleek, like a cat, perfectly timed and graceful. He doesn’t even seem to be that invested in the scrap.

And the other man, slightly shorter with curly hair, in just a t-shirt and jeans, is just as unconventional. The man he may going up against may be double the size of him, but again, each time the big man tries to attack, he performs some reversal, ending with the big guy trapped in some hold, only to release him a moment later. He was toying with him, that was clear, looking like he was enjoying it too, because after a few more rounds the smaller man starts laughing.

Perhaps it’s his laughter that causes him to lose concentration for just that split second, because a devastating right hook to his cheek has his whole body spinning backward.

The man slowly raises his head, bringing up a hand to touch at his face, and Alfredo’s heart doubles its speed without him knowing why.

Do I… know you? He can’t quite see him properly, there’re too many shadows falling across him.

He doesn’t have long to take in his face anyway, because the man suddenly grins, sneers, and is quickly spinning back and landing a punch of his own, one that sends the huge guy crashing to the ground. He spits red on him, and Alfredo can’t quite hear but he’s pretty sure he says something like, “You had to go and ruin the fun, didn’t you?”

Again, there’s that twinge of recognition in the back of Alfredo’s mind, as the man then saunters slowly down the alley, towards his accomplice.

The other man is left blinking in a daze on the ground, but after a second his attention is grabbed. Alfredo wanders if he’s had his senses knocked from him as he starts leaning towards a pile of trash stacked up against the wall - squints as the man reaches behind one of the trash bags and slowly pulls on something. His eyes narrow as the gleam of metal shines under the dim street lights. The dude had somehow found and was pulling out a fucking metal pipe! Now that would certainly spice things up, although he doubted it would change the outcome much.

The shorter man stops, hearing the footsteps as his foe struggled to his feet and staggered behind him. Alfredo sees the figure's shoulders sagging, as if bored. But he didn’t do anything else. Surely he would turn now to face his attacker? No matter how amazing you were, that was generally a good idea.

As the brute grows closer, Alfredo finds himself stepping slightly around the corner.

“Back for round two?” the man snidely asks, still without turning around.

Turn around dude! Alfredo wasn’t quite sure why he was on a side all of a sudden.

The man doesn’t turn, only his fists clenching. The oncoming attacker has his grip still firmly around the metal pipe.

Alfredo bites his lip. Again, it’s that same compulsion he felt when he’d ran inside a burning building - back then he’d thought it was because of some complex of wanting to be a hero for once instead of a criminal. Now though, there was no reason like that. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to let this brute of a guy hit the other with a solid chunk of metal.

As the man raises the pipe, aiming for the curly head, Alfredo charges forward without so much as a pause to think, launching a surprise attack on him. He’s kept himself strong, lean, all his life, but he was nothing compared to this mass of a man. Jumping on him had seemed like a good idea at the time, not so much when the curly haired man aims a powerful kick to the brute’s crotch - although he can’t see properly but honestly, it’s the only thing that could have occurred.

The man doesn’t even scream or shout - his whole body just goes rigid, like he’s been electric shocked, and then slowly, almost comically, the man falls backward - and naturally, because he’s an idiot, Alfredo goes with him. He isn’t sure the black dots that appear in his vision will ever go away, as he struggles under what feels like three hundred pounds of human.

Well… that was successful. You. Fucking. Idiot.

He hears more shouting, and the sound of another body hitting the deck, and then… it’s quiet again. Other than the low rasps of pain coming from above him. No lie - you hit a man where it really matters and he’s reduced to a whimpering baby.

Alfredo’s world shifts and rejoices at once, as eventually the weight is hauled off him and chucked into a wall nearby. There are a few mutterings and then someone is approaching him quickly.

There’s a pause as Alfredo blinks blearily up at the man, who stares back down at him silently, and Alfredo remembers that shit, yeah, he wasn’t exactly on this guy’s side. He’d just decided in his idiotic brain that he should help. For all he knew, this guy was some fucking murderer or something!

Great… you’ve really done fucked up now. You should -

“Hey, it’s the kid again!” The voice doesn’t sound angry, but excited. As his vision comes back into focus, he can see it belongs to the curly haired man, and Alfredo recognizes him, and he remembers that voice. And his eyes nearly pop out of his skull.

“What the fuck are you looking at? Get the hell outta here!” An angry British voice snaps. Alfredo isn’t sure if it’s directed at him. “And if he’s not dead, get that guy outta here too!” Guess not.

“It’s alright, Gav, I know him, he’s the kid me and Geoff ran into - or he ran into us…”

There’s a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, Michael, we shouldn’t have come here anyway. I bloody told you it was a bad idea, bloody told you, but noooo, oh it’ll be fine you said, what’s the worst that can happen?” He squawks out in a high pitched imitation.

The man leaves Alfredo, who manages to push himself up into a sitting position, breathing heavily.

He looks over at the two, who are standing over the two brutes, who in turn are even more dazed than Alfredo. “You think these are the guys?” the curly haired man asked, vaguely hopeful sounding.

Alfredo doesn’t know what they mean by “the guys”. He’s more concerned with the fact that they’ve both just addressed the other by their names - their first names - in front of him. That’s not right, his fuzzy mind told him, you’re not supposed to know that. This could be really bad.

Fortunately they seem to have forgotten about Alfredo for the time being. The one called Gav inspects the two men, left slumped against the wall in their daze. He eyes them fiercely, like a big cat mulling over its dinner. “Nah, I know these two psychos - they’re no hardened criminals they’re just stupid, and desperate.” He emphasises the descriptions with a firm kick at each guy, before stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “C’mon, Michael let’s go. You two, fuck off.”

The men don’t need to be told twice - scrambling haphazardly to their feet and scampering off down the alley like kids running from a school fight.

“You wanna go, you go. But I’m not leaving until I’ve had at least one drink.”

For a moment, Alfredo thinks the British man is going to argue, but then he looks away, resigned, and kicks at an empty beer bottle. “Fine, you go in. I’ll stay out here and keep watch.

A moment’s silence - perhaps an unspoken argument, but then the attention’s unfortunately back on Alfredo. “Hey,” the man asks, crouching down in front of him and snapping his fingers in front of his eyes. “You okay, dude?”

“I –” Alfredo falters, thinking over his word choice carefully. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse,” he assures. His ribs aren’t broken at least - he hadn’t heard or felt a crack. Maybe just a little bruised - and he’d dealt with those before.

The man nods, offering his hand, and slowly Alfredo accepts it. “Tough guy, huh?” he says, as he pulls him to his feet.

“Nah… just a soldier,” Alfredo replies through gritted teeth.

The corner of the man’s mouth tilts upwards, where a bruise is already forming. “Thank you, soldier. I owe you one. Made my day with that little stunt you pulled there.”

“Everything okay?” Alfredo surprises himself by asking, and the guy, Michael - he now knows this guy’s name is Michael - raises his eyebrows, also seeming surprised by the question, amused even.

“Yeah, I’m fine, not the first fist fight I’ve been in and sure as hell won’t be the last. Hey, you sure you’re okay?” He asks as Alfredo doubles over again as he tries to stand up straight, and he places a hand on Alfredo’s shoulder. He frowns as Alfredo flinches away instinctively, his brain still partially screaming at him to get away as quick as possible.

“Just winded. That guy was built like a fucking football player.” Alfredo looks down, biting at his lower lip. After a moment he blurts out, words tripping over each other in his haste. “I don’t wanna cause any trouble. I’m not gonna do nothin’. I won’t say nothin’. I can just go and forget about everything. Did before, I didn’t mean to run into you again, it just happened. I’m sorry.”

Michael looks confused for a second, but then his face softens as he reads between the lines. He moves a hand under Alfredo’s arm and helps straighten him up - a gentle but strong touch - slowly enough this time that Alfredo doesn’t flinch. He must think you a weakling, Alfredo thinks. Getting into such a state after something as small as that. Alfredo knows he wouldn’t normally act like this either, but it’s… well, it’s been a hectic couple of days.

“Hey,” Michael says, with surprising tenderness. “Let’s go inside - I wanna drink and I owe you at least one too. Those guys may have spooked Gav, but to hell if a couple of brain-dead thugs are gonna put a dampener on my night. And about the whole, you know what we look like so now we’re gonna have to kill you thing, don’t worry about it, it’s just a scare tactic -  well, sort of - and by now I think I’ve gotta pretty good idea about you. Far as I’m concerned this is twice you’ve gone out of your way to help someone you thought you saw in trouble. Thank you.”

He sounds sincere, and Alfredo peeks up at him.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, with a little smile. “I think I was just trying to feel like I was doing something good for once.” Even as he says it the words don’t quite sound true, but it’s the closest he can get to it right now.

“Well, consider your good deed of the day done. Not saying that I wouldn’t have handled that dude, cause I would’ve, but I appreciate back up in any form.”

He begins to pull Alfredo back into The Rusty - which is a strange atmosphere to return to - with a grin, and Alfredo fights off his rabbit in headlights expression. It’s insane. What’s happening right now is insane. Only two nights ago he’d been witnessing this guy - one of the Fakes, people he’s been idolizing for years - pull off some sort of heist, or at least escape one that had somehow gone wrong. And now here he was, being pulled into The Rusty by the same dude, who was now offering to buy him a drink.

Just stay cool. He won’t try anything dodgy in here, with all these people around. Just gotta be careful. This guy almost seems like any normal person - there’s no need to freak out. But he wasn’t like any normal person, that was the problem.

“My Grandma used to raise me on your news clips,” he whispers, and Michael shakes his head while Alfredo’s cheeks burn. What the hell did I just say?

“Y’know, you’d be surprised how often we hear that.” He chuckles lightly. "Hell, I was kinda the same."

The casual ease in the way Michael replies to that quite frankly creepy admission, makes it a little easier to breathe. Michael must notice the relief on his face; he looks amused suddenly, but doesn’t say anything about it. Just eyes out a couple of free seats and pulls Alfredo over to them, pulling out a chair and practically forcing Alfredo into it.

“I’m gonna get one of their craft beers. That good for you?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Alfredo assures him, and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, checking his ribs over once again. Ouch, yep definitely bruised. When he opens them again, Michael has already closed in on the bar, and once again Alfredo’s brain seems intent on reminding him of the absurdity of this situation.

This isn’t something that just happens. This isn’t something that just happens to a guy like me. And yet it had. And as Michael returns, drinks in hand, it becomes that more real.

Michael sits, setting their drinks down, and immediately takes a gulp of his, letting out a satisfied sound as the liquid touches his lips. “Needed that - this is what I came for, a good drink with good company. Well, Gav was my first choice but seeing as he’s decided to go on watchdog duty, you’ll have to do. There’s many other nights for me and Gav.” Michael’s smile is fond and Alfredo feels a tinge of something almost like jealousy. It must be nice, being part of such a tight and trusting crew, having people you relied on that closely.

Don’t get him wrong, Alfredo was tight with his own guys, but that only went so far. Most of them are only kids, he doesn’t know how many he could truly count on in a life and death situation. And outside of work, if they weren’t family, he barely saw them at all. It was purely business.

“Holy shit!” Michael exclaims, breaking Alfredo out of his reverie. The older man’s staring at him likes he’s just discovered something amazing. “I just realized I’ve been talking to you all this time, and I don’t even know your name. My mother would be absolutely horrified by my lack of manners.”

Oh, that was right, wasn’t it? Somewhere in his mind, Alfredo had assumed that Michael didn’t want to know his name, to at least keep some sort of distance between them. “It’s uh… I’m Alfredo,” he replies, quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Alfredo. I mean it. In my line of work you often find yourselves working within the same small circles, rare you actually just get to meet a normal dude who isn’t involved in my sort of life.” There’s something in the way Michael says it that makes Alfredo wonder what exactly Michael assumed he did; that Alfredo had already unintentionally given enough hints for the other to realize he didn’t exactly have a normal day job.

But then maybe that was the point. Maybe Michael just wanted someone to talk to someone who wouldn’t balk at his mere presence - no matter how in awe Alfredo was - but wasn’t high enough in the chain that they’d ever normally run into one another in their day to day lives. Not significant enough to be an ally. Or a rival.

“I guess I owe you too,” Alfredo murmurs. “You did let me use your little escape tunnel after all, even if I was only there thinking I was trying to save you. Most crews wouldn’t have let me walk out of there alive.”

“We aren’t most crews,” Michael replies, but raises an eyebrow at him. “But why do I get the feeling you’re speaking from experience?”

Alfredo shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. He knows Michael’s prodding for answers is most likely out of pure curiosity - that Alfredo’s own problems probably seemed so minuscule to whatever had been going on with that heist and that fire - but something about the smile on Michael’s face makes Alfredo want to share everything, he wants Michael to know. To hear what’s going on, to offer some words of wisdom.

Here’s someone who’s been there and done it all, he thinks - surely he might have some idea on how to deal with a rival crew. And what the fuck, if he kills you after this, at least you’ve got something off your chest.

“I… I ran into some trouble,” he says hesitantly, keeping a firm gaze on his drink rather than at Michael. “Before I ran into your lot, I was walking home. There were these guys - rival crew, I know ‘em, or know of them - and they jumped me. Only two guys, I know it sounds dumb, but they took me unawares and suddenly there’s this knife at my throat. Said my brother owed them money, that he’d taken a package and hadn’t paid ‘em back. Said if they didn’t get that money back by tomorrow night there’d be trouble.” Alfredo sighs. “But when I talked to my brother he told me that the stuff they gave him were bad, that it wasn’t selling for enough and that there was no way he was payin’ them back. Said he’d sort it all out, but I dunno…”

“Shit - so this is all over some heroin? Coke?”

Alfredo’s lips twist, wryly.

“It must seem… very trivial. Probably something you deal with loads, right?”

“You think?” Michael asks, and his eyes narrow in thought. “No, not really… I ain’t been alley jumped since I was a kid. Now you could say the violence and danger is upped significantly, but so’s my team and all the weapons and technology we have behind us.”

This is a weird conversation to be having.

“Yeah… different worlds. Sorry for rambling.”

“No, no, no - don’t apologize. I may be older now but don’t think I don’t remember how scary and personal local gang scraps can be. But I gotta few questions for you.” Michael sounds genuinely interested, and it’s gratifying - that someone cares. “What exactly is your role in your crew? What would be, say, your day-to-day schedule?”

It’s so strange - having the question presented in such a professional and normal way.

“Um, well I just run one of the corners. I’ve got guys who keep the packages in a safe place. I’m there to hand out and collect the cash in at the end of the day, and to deal with any trouble with the police or other crews who come on our turf.” He finds it’s embarrassing to admit, thinking how mundane it must sound, but Michael nods.

“So… you’re like a Lieutenant?”

Alfredo nods at the familiar term.

“And your crew, it’s drugs only?”

“Yeah, strict rules on that. Had a few guys get into some serious shit when they tried to deviate.”

Michael takes a long sip from his beer, placing it back down with a thud and spinning the half-full glass in one hand. “How long you been doing it?”

Alfredo shrugs, smiling uncertainly. “Forever. Was born into it. Kinda on and off during elementary and middle school - did a few months of high school but dropped out after uh… after my girlfriend dumped me. Been school-less and girlfriend-less ever since.”

“So you never really had much choice, I mean, in the career department, I’m sure you get a lot of offers with the other issue,” Michael scoffs, so matter-of-factly that Alfredo blushes. “Good looking kid like you, you must be more of a hit it and quit it kinda guy right now, I’m guessing.”

“Not really,” Alfredo mumbled, knotting his hands together. “I haven’t really been with anyone since then. Just sorta kept to myself and played video games in my room in my free time.” He wonders when this conversation had switched to his love life, or lack thereof.

Michael barks out a laugh, in a sort of disbelief. “Jeez, how old are you, kid?”

“Twenty-eight… I mean, almost.” It’s embarrassing, and it must show on his face, because Michael smiles.

“Hey, no shame in that Mr, Almost Twenty-Eight. I mean, I can’t really talk, I’ve only been in one serious relationship myself, I’m just lucky enough to still be in that same one. And I can see how your line of work doesn’t allow for many opportunities to hook up with someone. Heck, that’s why I wanted to buy you drink, not for um… I mean, I just wanted to meet someone new for a change, like I said.” It was the other man’s turn to blush, and it was such a human reaction that it catches Alfredo off guard, as if he didn’t expect a member of The Fakes to express such emotions. In a way, they’d always seemed to mythical, so inhuman, growing up and watching them in the news, perhaps he had started to view them as characters, rather than as people.

But then here was Michael, admitting to being in a quote-on-quote, serious relationship, and then getting all flustered.

“Married to your work, right?” Michael asks, the red still present in his pale cheeks.

“Something like that,” Alfredo says, and smiles a bit ruefully, finally relaxing a bit. The more time passed, the less he felt he was actually in any danger. Also the three and a bit beers could be helping. “I feel like I owe it. I’ve been told I owe it, to my family, and to the other members of the crew who looked out for me when I was small and both my parents were gone. Some days I dream of… something else but then I remind myself that that’s not real life, that that ain’t gonna happen, so I might as well make the most of what I got. And I am grateful for what I got. For my grandma and my brother. S’why stuff like this puts me on edge - anything to do with family, it makes everything that bit more real. And I’m not the guy who can cope with it. I’ve gotten better over the years but I’m just… I’m just not like the others. I’m a soldier, but I don’t enjoy it. I don’t take pride in what I do. I just do it cause it’s my duty.” He lets out a long breath, admitting quietly, “And I fucking hate killing - seeing a body hit the floor after you’ve… that’s a sight you I can never forget.”

He glances back up at Michael, expecting ridicule or amusement from the man. Instead, what he finds shocks him. Michael nods. There’s a gentle understanding in his eyes, a look of empathy, Alfredo thinks. He supposes, if anyone knows what it was like to kill someone, it would be a member of The Fakes. He can’t even imagine how high their body count must be, individually and as a whole crew.

“I know it sounds dumb. And I know the guys I killed weren’t good either. But I take no pleasure in it, cause at the end of the day, when I look in their eyes and see the life leaving them… at the end of the day, I just find it’s my own face I’m staring into. That the guy I killed could have just as easily been me. Or my brother.” He looks to Michael again, almost desperately. “I can’t lose my brother, Michael.”

“Okay,” Michael breathes, and Alfredo huffs out a bit of a laugh, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Sorry, you didn’t come here to hear all that.”

“Not true. I came here for some company and some company you have provided. And believe it or not I know what you mean.” He gives Alfredo a hard stare. “We kill, you know that. It’s part of the job. But it is and always will be, a last resort. There’s a reason I run with the crew I chose and that’s one of them. If, for whatever reason, that were to change, then I’d be out. Quick as a flash, I’d be out. But luckily I don’t have to worry about shit like that.” He offers Alfredo an apologetic look. “I would help you with your problem, I really would, but there’s other stuff going on that we’re still trying to figure out ourselves - that little million something robbery you might’ve seen on the news the other week? Well, that’s all gone, and that’s not even the start of it. At the moment, the best I can offer you is some advice.”

Alfredo shrugs a bit, scratching his nails into the indents on wooden table, thinking over what Michael had just said - wondering what exactly had occurred. “That’s more than I could ever expect anyway,” he says, “You’ve taken me more seriously than members of my own crew would. When he looks up Michael’s eyes are genuinely concerned - genuinely angry, but not at Alfredo. On his behalf.

How could he care already? He barely knows you. Your problems are none of his concern and sounds like he’s got enough of his own.

Right?

He shakes it off. Their glasses are nearly empty now - he hadn’t even realized he’d been drinking.

“I think you should go with your brother tomorrow night - fuck what he says. If you’ve got a bad feeling about this, you trust your instincts. Bring back up if you want, who cares what they might think of you if it turns out everything’s fine.”

“Is that what you would do?” Alfredo asks, a little shyly.

Michael just shrugs. Apparently he’s got no qualms about sharing his secrets too, now.

“Yeah, that’s kinda a code I’ve always lived by and always tried to encourage others to follow. Gav, out there, he was more like you when I first met him - always unsure and second-guessing himself.” He leans forward, a strange smile on his lips. “Let me tell you right here and now, for all of his joking, that man out there possesses one of the most brilliant minds in this fucking city. I’ve lost count how many times his quick thinking has saved my sorry ass.”

“I see,” Alfredo whispers - maybe too quiet for Michael to hear him in the rowdy atmosphere. He feels a bit like an imposter. Hearing Michael talk about someone else in The Fakes, someone he was obviously very close to, felt like a privilege he shouldn’t be entitled to. There’s a deep something in Michael’s eyes, an emotion or memory that doesn’t quite seem to be going away. “And what if it does go bad? What if I find myself with a fight on my hands?” He’s had to deal with minor gang wars before, but never over something his brother had done. He’d never been directly linked to one before.

Michael’s spine stiffens.

“You fight tooth and nail with everything you’ve got,” he replies, voice deepening. “You do everything in your power to protect those around you and you won’t give in until your dying breath. You lay your life on the line if it means saving those you love.”

Alfredo shivers suddenly, even though it’s nowhere near cold. He has a feeling Michael is not only talking about Alfredo’s problems now.

“Is it bad?”

Alfredo doesn’t know why he asks. Curiosity, maybe. Or again - maybe a tad close to jealousy. That here was a man being very open and honest with his emotions and feelings towards his crew, an example of why The Fakes had stuck together when so many high-risk crews had disbanded, or disappeared or simply died out. Again, he was reminded how different their lives must be.

Michael looks down. Alfredo worries that he’s gone too far and he’s upset him, or angered him - but after a moment Michael starts laughing. Low, humorless, scoffing chuckles.

“I don’t know,” he replies, and reaches up, rubbing his hands over his face. As he tilts his head back, in the warm glow of the lights, Alfredo suddenly notices how young he looks. Soft cheeks, one darkening by the minute from the earlier punch, and feathery hair, the freckles on his face. “We don’t know who, what or why. The stuff that’s been happening to us recently is… concerning, but we’re working on it. That heist you caught us on the other night was actually a little test, we were expecting it to go wrong, ready for it to go wrong, had surveillance and guys all around to see if they could spot anything, but nope. We got nothing. Whoever these guys are, they’re good.”

“But you’ll be fine, I mean, you’re the most powerful gang in the city.”

“Yeah? We weren’t always. There was another lot who came before us. Powerful crews fall just as easily as small ones. The only difference being, they fall harder.”

Alfredo stares at him, confused, and after a moment Michael lowers his hands and stares back at him. His eyes aren’t angry, but there’s still that something in them - something deep and unsettled.

“Having power doesn’t mean you quit worrying. In fact, quite the opposite, cause it feels like everybody’s out to get you,” he continues. “And I’m not good at worrying, I leave that to Jack and Geoff. Let them handle things while I come out and try to drink my worries away.”

“You… you worry because you care,” Alfredo manages, and Michael gives a heavy sigh. His hands are braced against his knees.

“Of course I fucking care,” he says roughly, and takes a deep, shaky breath. “You’d understand if you were with us. Those guys… they’ve seen me at my very lowest and my very worst and yet somehow, for reasons I still struggle to understand, they stick by me, through it all, they’ve got my back. It can just send my head into a spin sometimes, y’know? Trying to make sure I got all their backs covered as well.”

“You sound like a good friend,” Alfredo says softly. Then, “Thank you, Michael. Not just for the whole not killing me part and offering me advice. But just for talking to me and for being honest. I haven’t… I don’t remember anybody talking to me like that. It was nice. I only wish I could help you the same way you’ve helped me.”

Michael’s face brightens a little. He shakes himself, seeming to attempt to regain some of his former bravado.

“It’s no problem,” he says, and turns away for a moment, shoulders heaving as he takes a deep breath. “Look at me. I came here to try and forget my problems with Gav, and instead I’ve laid them all out on the table to a complete stranger.” He smiles a little, regarding Alfredo. “Or maybe I should be calling you an acquaintance now, after all, you’ve sat here and listened to me spew shit,” he announces, and Alfredo chokes out a startled laugh.

“I think we’re even on that front,” he says.

Michael shrugs.

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to be the wise old-timer, parting knowledge onto a scrappy young upstart like yourself - not unloading all my problems onto you.” He grins then, a fond smile shining towards Alfredo.

“Gavin’s gonna say I shouldn’t have told you any of that, in case you do turn out to be a piece of shit. But I’ve been around a lot of pieces of shit in my day - and you smell like roses compared to them so - thanks, for listening.”

Alfredo doesn’t really know what to say to that - some part of him still believes this is a dream he’ll wake up from at any moment - another part realizes that at some point in their whole conversation, they’d both finished their drinks, and he was also now completely relaxed. Michael’s smiling so warmly that he can’t help but return it.

“Tell you what, I might be otherwise occupied now, but what you said got me thinking,” Michael began, pulling something out of his pocket. “You got a pen on you?” Alfredo shakes his head, tilting it in curiosity as Michael snatches one off another table. “This here,” he says, scribbling down something on the scrap piece of paper, “this here’s my own personal number. You get in any trouble, you call that number. This is my favor to you for being such a good drinking buddy. It’s a one-time thing though, don’t think I can just go around helping you out whenever you need it.”

He stands up then, gripping Alfredo’s shoulder for a second, regarding him with a strange expression, and then leaving without another word.

Alfredo watches him leave, then turns back. The piece of paper sits in front of him. The digits on there staring back at him - never had he thought he’d be so hypnotized by a set of numbers.

Alfredo lets out a shaky laugh of disbelief, grabbing the note and stuffing it deep in his pocket.

Well, fuck me.

Everything was wrong the moment he entered the building - an abandoned warehouse near the docks, in a section guarded by one elderly, half-asleep guard who didn’t give a damn what went on during his watch. Alfredo was just glad his brother had let slip where the meet was in the first place - after that initial talk, he hadn’t seen his brother since.

He’d woken up late after the previous night, and had then needed an extra hour or so to try and comprehend what had happened and convince himself it hadn’t all just been a dream. In the end, the piece of paper, still in his pocket, was all the confirmation he’d needed.

His brother was already gone, working, and it was where Alfredo should have been a few hours earlier. Surprisingly, his grandma hadn’t woken him up, but all made sense when he went upstairs and saw an angry note saying that she’d tried to wake him up but failing that ordered him to tidy the house from top to bottom before she returned home.

There was also a voicemail from Angel calling him a “lazy ass sonofabitch” but also saying he’d cover for him and offering him any help if he needed it. Yeah, that kid was alright. But Alfredo didn’t want to drag the teen into this. He’d called up a few of the boys, but none of them saw the point of accompanying him. They were all busy. Alfredo would have to be enough.

He was going to the meet early, in order to not miss it. He’d called Denny a few times as well, but again there’d been no answer - his brother was just going to have to get pissed that Alfredo had turned up uninvited.

As he stepped into the warehouse, though, an unnerving sense of dread had descended upon him. It’s growing dark, evening closing in. His shadow casts long - looming and vanishing into the dark building. His ribs still give off a dull ache. He's wrapped them tightly but it'll take them a few weeks to heal up. He just hopes he won't need to do any fighting today.

He walks further in.

There's no one about. It’s quiet, strangely so, ominously so - he can’t see or hear anyone.

But that’s not why he’s frozen to the spot.

It’s largely empty and filled with an old, rusty smell, and there’s a cold draft flowing through the open space.

That’s not why he’s shaking.

Specks of dust, illuminated by the hole in the roof, floating down slowly, swirling into various patterns, descending to the floor in their little dance.

That’s not why he’s staring.

That’s not why his heart's thudded to a stop.

The figure was lying with his back to him, but Alfredo knew, with his heart in his throat, he knew who it was the second his eyes laid eyes on them. Long white t-shirt, jeans, dark hair.

His legs were stumbling forward, as his lungs constricted under the shock at the sight.  

He collapsed to his knees next to his brother, not bothering to question why the floor felt damp when it hasn’t rained in weeks. He can’t take his eyes off the back of his brother’s head.

“Denny…”

He reaches out and grabs the shoulder. He pulls until his brother falls onto his back.

Cold, pale skin. Open, soulless eyes. Throat slit.

He’s dead.

“Denny, c-c’mon…”

No. It can’t be.

But it is. He’s dead. His older brother is dead.

He shifts and his knees nearly slip. Only now does he notice there’s so much blood; everywhere he looks is red. He’s breathing too fast and it’s a struggle to stop it.

Not dead. Murdered.

He hears the sounds of footsteps approaching, tap-tapping on the concrete floor. He tries to stand up, but can’t. His knees are rooted to the ground and he can feel a sickly dampness seeping through the denim. He can’t bring himself to stand, though - all the life has been drained out of him, just like his brother’s had.

“What have you done to him?” he hisses, although it’s painfully obvious what had been done to his brother. Not just the method of death, such a cruel way to go - struggling for air and choking on your own blood -

Alfredo doesn’t want to think about it but he can’t help himself. Can’t begin to imagine his brother, a man he’d always idolized and looked up to, more than anyone - even The Fakes - who’d always been so strong and outgoing - can’t imagine his last moments being so… helpless.

“Take a good look at him, boy.” It’s the same guy he met before, the smaller one. He’s wearing a fedora this time - decked out in a suit like an old-school gangster. This time he’s also accompanied by not just one, but half a dozen henchmen, all clones of each other. “He came to us earlier than scheduled, demanded to talk to us, demanded that we be the ones who apologize. Threatened us. Pulled a gun on one of my men. Well…” he scoffs. “This is what happens when you don’t meet our demands. Your brother did this to himself because he had the nerve to go back on his word. He was in the wrong here, boy, and you can’t say I didn’t give him a chance to pay his debts. I am a reasonable man after all.”

No.

This was more than a petty squabble over money.

Alfredo’s fists clenched, his fingers sticking to his palms.

This wasn’t things were done! Was this guy insane? Alfredo knew that this horrendous act only meant one thing. An outright declaration of war. And a war was bad for all crews involved. Nothing good ever came of it. Just more death and destruction.

“But a man can only be reasonable for so long,” the man carries on, as deadly calm as ever. “Your brother’s actions have bought you some time, but now it’s up to you to pay up.” He crouches down, breath tickling Alfredo’s ear, and it takes every inch of Alfredo’s self-restraint not to grab at his throat. “You don’t bring me what that shit head owed me by Saturday and it’ll be your dear old grandmama next. You got that?”

When he pats Alfredo on the back, every fiber of his being is screaming at him to kill. To take his revenge. To make him pay.

He wants to do something. He wants to make things right. But the only way to do that is go back in time. Doing anything now would only get himself killed, and that wouldn’t do anyone much good.

So he lets them go. Still knelt in his brother's blood, hands lying limply on his knees, tear-filled eyes staring into his brother’s own lifeless ones.

They leave him there, struggling to breathe properly, eyes blurry, stinging; muscles constricting painfully, whole body shaking.

The coldness in the warehouse, and from the oncoming night, claws into his bones. Suddenly he can’t be near Denny anymore, can’t bear to look at him. That’s not his brother anymore. His brother is gone.

He runs - in no particular direction. Just runs as fast as he can away from that warehouse and the body of his brother, ignoring the pain in his chest. Runs through the old dockyard, blinded by sorrow and rage. Ran until there was no more ground and all that was ahead of him were the metal railings that blocked him from the sea. And only then does he stop. Stop and double over, before throwing his head back and screaming to the heavens.

His cry of anguish echoes around the empty dockyard.

He’s out of breath, shivering even more now he’s facing the full force of an ocean breeze. His clothes still stick to him uncomfortably, sickeningly.

He pulls out his phone. He knows he has to act in some way. First of all he has to make sure the… the body is taken care of. He needs people he can trust. Who can he trust?

What was the point of being in a fucking crew if none of them had responded to his earlier requests for back up?  What was the fucking point?

His fingers slip, leaving smears of blood on his phone screen, making it hard for him to read the contacts through his damp eyes. He realizes he doesn’t know who to call. His Grandma? No, he couldn’t bear to speak to her. Couldn’t bear to tell her that another one of her family members is gone. He should call… he should call his Uncle - but he knows the man would be on the warpath immediately, blinded by rage and hatred. Alfredo doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want a war. He wants to make them pay - he will make them pay, but not like that. He just needs - he needs a moment, that’s all. A moment to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do.

More tears spring to his eyes as he remembers who exactly he would call at moments like these.

“You promised you’d always be here…” he whimpers under hushed breath. “You promised you’d always have my back.”

And he had done - to the very end. Or at least that’s what Denny would have believed he’d been doing. Alfredo had no doubt, his brother’s idea to go and confront them earlier was due to them threatening his own baby brother.  

If you weren’t so helpless…

Now though, Alfredo was in even deeper, murkier waters, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength or stamina to stay afloat.

They’ll kill Grandma, and then you’ll be all alone.  

His fingers hover over the contacts for his Lt, but he stands his ground on that one, still not wanting to bring the kid in on something like this. Also he doesn’t want the boy to see him in this state.

Who then? He can’t fucking just linger here covered in his brother’s own blood for the rest of the night! The place might be quiet but it wasn’t completely abandoned. If he didn’t get things sorted soon who was to say a wandering dock worker or trespassing teenagers wouldn’t stumble across the scene and get the cops involved in something they had no business in.

You could have prevented this… somehow…

He should have been here. He should never have let his brother come alone - never let him out of his sight. He should have trusted his instincts more. He should’ve been here, he should’ve been here, he should’ve been here -

Pull yourself together! Denny deserves better than this! Better than you!

He sniffs, and wipes an arm across his face, trying to avoid coating himself in blood any further. God, he’s always hated how it feels. How blood can dry so quickly and turn sticky, impossible to rub off. How it would cake under your fingernails, turning black and flaky. Dead.

He scrolls through the list of names in his contacts, not really taking any of them in. He hovers over his Uncle’s name again - supposes that’s the best option, word would get around quick enough anyway.

He goes to call him, but as if attached to some invisible wire, his hand jerks away last moment. There was always…

He digs into his pocket, praying it was still there.

It is, and Alfredo plants a permanent red fingerprint on the corner of it as he haltingly keys in the number.

He calls it.

It rings for about ten seconds.

And then… “Yo.”

His mind blanks.

“… anyone there? Jeremy I swear –”

“Michael?” he whispers, shakily.

“Oh… yeah? Sup.” The man sounds like he’s in the middle of eating - Alfredo can hear other voices in the background, laughter, a joyful atmosphere. “Who is this?” Michael asks, but Alfredo finds his tongue as gone numb. He only emits a quiet, nervous breath. The tone on the other end shifts, and the background noise quietens, as if Michael is walking away. “… Alfredo?” he says after a moment.

A strange calm settles over him, although his blood begins to simmer in his veins as he sets one very clear goal in his mind, and fuck if he’s ever going to get a better chance than this to see it through.

“As in... I’m moving out troubles” he finishes lamely, sloshing the tequila into the glasses before pushing one towards you. “Oh man, I’m so sorry” you say, watching his eyes shine in the dim lights. He shrugs, removing his apron and passing it to the next shift worker in line, stepping away from the bar to move closer to you. Trying not to pull a face, you lift up your shot, holding it out to him. “To being single” you say sadly, clinking your glass against his before downing it; letting your insides burn.”That’s one” Neil jokes harshly, “ready for two?” bringing the bottle he’d left on the bar back to your now empty shot glass. This time, you can’t avoid the disgusted expression that works its way on to your face. “Oh god, please; if we’re gonna be doing this all night I’m going to need something nicer”. He smiles at you teasingly, a little more genuine, before topping up your glass. “Fine, last one” he says, filling up his own glass and passing the bottle back to the new bar attendant, “then I’m heading home”. You toast your glasses together, raising and eyebrow at him as he quickly tips his shot back with a shudder. “Well, heading to Robs” he corrects himself, his voice husky from the burning. You finish your drink with what little grace you can muster, before reaching for your coat.

“Let me walk you there” you offer, but he shakes his head. “Nah, I just need time to think is all. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.” He laughs a little, staring off behind you distractedly. “You’re a good friend, Y/N” he continues, returning his gaze to you, “which is why I’m gonna tell you the signal again.” You stare at him blankly. “Wat?” you say shortly, confused. He holds his hand over the bar, looking at you, then tapping it once. “This signal”, he repeats he motion before explaining further. “Everyone who works here knows that signal to mean ‘holy fuck help me’ when it comes to bad dates or annoying patrons.” You laugh a little, but let him keep going. “There’s a man over there, looks like he’s been punched in both eyes cus of how tire he looks, that hasn’t stopped checking you out”. You mouth opens slightly, surprised. “What a description” you joke, smiling widely, “you’re really selling it”. You throw your arms into the air in exaggeration “cus, like, dating is totally what’s on my mind right now.” “Good” he says, ignoring your sarcasm and nodding as he picks up his coat and moves to leave “cus he’s about 10 seconds away from heading over to buy you a drink”. Before you can protest, Neil has already moved away and out the door, “I’ll be fine!” you hear him yell from outside; leaving you with nothing but his smirk and your utter confusion.

With a deep, aspirated sigh, you lean back against the bar, the new tender smiling sweetly at you as she continues to serve. Before you can move to leave to escape what you expect to be a soon awkward social interaction; you hear the stool next to you squeak across the wooden floor. “Hey” says the voice of the man now occupying the chair to your left, though you have yet to look up and greet his face. “This is gonna sound weird cus I was coming over here to tell you that you’ve got, like, rocking boots on and stuff but now I swear to god you look familiar and I have no idea why so I thought I’d come over here to try and figure it out and – oh my god.’ He stops suddenly, breaking the quick stream of his stumbling words when you turn to look at him, certain you recognised his voice. Your eyes settle on his face, and immediately you’re overwhelmed by the warms of his deep set eyes nestled in their dark circles, as well as the lines that cease his face and that shock of wild hair.

“Y/N?” asks Joel, incredulously; his eyebrows knitting together and mouth hanging open. Your face splits into an uncontrollable beam as he exclaims your name again, happily standing up with his arms open. “Oh my god, Joel!” you reply, bouncing into his arms and hugging him tightly, joining in his laughter. “Jesus Christ,” you manage, pulling away and touching his arm, staring up at him, “what the hell are you doing here?” He laughs again, running his hand through his hair, the look of surprise still clinging to his features. “I could ask you the same thing” he retorts, leaning against the bar. You look to the attendant, who is watching you both closely; and you offer her a smile before she returns it and turns away. “Last time I saw you, you’d abandoned ship to chase your dreams” says Joel, rubbing the back of his neck. You nod, pulling yourself back on to your stool so you were at eye level. “Yeah,” you reply, nodding “that was, what” – you pause to think – “five years ago now?” “Oh god, way to make me feel my age” remarks Joel, and you laugh. “Five years...” he mutters, staring at you with an attentive, yet distant expression.