Chapter Text
To live and thrive here in Daly City, there are two mantras that one must hold close to their heart.
Firstly, for one to stay of clear and of sound mind, an area abundant in cool tranquility is key to achieving true mental serenity.
And secondly...
How could anyone be expected to do any of that gay shit without any decent AC, man?!
It gets hot as BALLS here in this damn hellhole more often than not, and relying on the Tenderloin power-grid for anything more intensive than a couple of shitty fans and reliably pirated cable TV pornos when the summer heat was this unbearable was just begging to be butt-humped by bad luck.
...Which is how you ended up in your current predicament.
Okay, so it’s like... one thing to wake up first thing to no power. Dwayne is as good at basic apartment upkeep as any other wrinkly-dicked old fart shamelessly addicted to Viagra and Pinay nudie-mags, so 20-odd years of living in this damn place has made you at least... aware of the fact that on some days?
Shit will just not work.
But waking up to no power while sweating your nuts off in muggy, mid-90s weather?
With half the block screaming their asses off in your tiny-ass unit?
Now, that?
That just wouldn’t do.
Twenty minutes and way too much fucking shouting later, it turned out that Jacker and Horat did... something to the co-op power supply.
Jack claimed he was trying to “make some improvement” to the “power flow” or some shit to help everyone in the building get decent AC, but between that happening, and the entire block’s power supply getting totally FUBAR’d, something happened, and knowing Horat, he probably stuck his dick in something he wasn't supposed to, and thus ended up frying everything within a five-mile radius.
Now, Jack and Horat were stuck playing handy-men, and Dickman was trying his damnedest to calm Dwayne down along with the rest of the angry mob, so armed with nothing but a dimebag of Pinoy Green and the lightest admonishment from Tito Dick to “try to not go fuck anything else up today like your caousin, BOY,” you’re out on your own trudging down the block; sweaty, cranky, and not to mention pissed off.
“Stupid blackout... stupid fucking HEAT...”
Where the shit were you supposed to cool down at a time like this?
You knew LIT was a no-go this week; something about the place being closed down for, ahem… Renovations, but knowing her, “renovations” was Chita-speak for “Fairfax booty call”, so there went that idea.
Maybe you could go hang out at Cherri’s?
Listen, for as... extra as she could be, you were still begrudgingly fond of the older woman, all “trans solidarity” and “respecting your queer elders” along with all that other hokey-ass, gay-ass community building shit. It wouldn’t be... too bad to hang around under SWEET, working AC and watch her work her magic, but you had a rep to protect, and playing cháu trai in front of her gossipy customers would be more of a hassle than it was worth.
Sanjee?
You pause in the middle of the sidewalk.
A little ways away down the street, a couple of kids managed to pop open a fire hydrant and were currently frolicking through the probable sewer water, their joyful shrieks filling the air all the while you truly weighed that option in your mind.
“... FUCK NO.”
And with that, you continue on your merry way.
After what felt like hours of aimless, miserable ambling, (at most, it was maybe ten minutes of it,) the sun beating cruelly down onto your back, (maybe committing to baggy black Ts in 95 degree weather wasn’t one of your brightest ideas,) the thought suddenly occurs to you:
“Wait a frickin’ minute... I could have just stayed in my damn CAR!”
Decent seating, banging tunes, actual fucking air conditioning; CHRIST, guess your brain got fried by the heat too.
You’re bristling, looking deranged enough for some nearby pedestrians to wade around you just in case, what stupid fucking bullshit-
“Wait... dude. Issat you, Phil? Hey man, over here, man!”
With a fresh spliff in hand and the gentle enthusiasm of someone far too baked to even be able to stand upright, you’re waved over by none other than-
“Ed? What the hell are you doing here-”
You look up at the logo on the wall behind him.
DC Customs.
Ah.
“Actually, never mind,” shaking your head, you go in to dap him up. “Wassup man?”
“Same old, same old,” he replies with a cough, squinting at you behind his shades as he takes another hit.
“... the fuck’s up with your hair, man? You goin’ for the Pinoy Soul look or somethin’?”
The fuck is he-
You then feel at your very un-braided and very un-gelled hair.
“What—?! UGH, y’know what man, don’t even worry about it. The day’s barely started and it’s already been some BULLSHIT!” you groan, taking off your cap to wipe the sweat from your brow as Ed nods sympathetically.
“How the hell can you even get anything done in this damn heat?!”
Pausing mid rant, you take a better look at him. He’s stoned off his ass, sure, yet he’s not actively sweltering under the Patented ‘Frisco Sunshine like you are.
Then, like a drugged up golden retriever, Ed tilts his head at you.
“Dude...” He jerks his thumb someways behind him.
And, right behind him, are the telltale flutterings of a working AC unit.
Ah.
“So... you mind if I bum ‘round here for a while? My block’s completely fucked while Jacker ‘n’ Horat fix the power, and I’d rather not get my nuts deep fried to the pavement out here.”
Ed deliberates for a second, idly puff-puffing out a smoke ring or two as the rusty-ass cogs in his brain chug along to make sense of your words.
“Huh? Oh yeeeaaah man, it’s all good!” He says brightly. “Fuckin’... Mi casa es su... however-the-fuck it goes, man. But yeah, I think Angel’s still workin’ on shit in the back or somethin’, he’s been wondering where you’ve been lately.”
Ah?
You get a little jolt from that, for some reason.
Not to say you’ve been ducking your homeboy on purpose, life ‘n’ shit gets in the way ‘n’ all that, and yours has a habit of getting real hectic, real fast, and for no real goddamn reason, but hey, it’s at least... nice to know he’s been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about-
Well.
He’s been thinking about you. That’s cool, or whatever.
“Well,” you say with a flourish, clasping Ed on the shoulders. “Lead the way, man! Gotta make sure Angel didn’t stick his dick in the exhaust or some shit while you were gone.”
“Duuuude...” Ed laughs, waving you off as the two of you walk towards the nice, cool interior of the garage. “Fuckin’ gross, man.”
“Eyyyyy, jefe!” Ed hollers, rapping his wrench against the garage door as the two of you duck under it to enter. “Looks like we got another farmhand for today, man!”
“Yo, Ed? Izzat you, holmes?” A familiar voice hollers back.
“I swear, we gotta get you an alarm clock or some shit, man, I think the mota’s gettin’ you too dank on company time, ese!”
And, out from the back and wiping his hands with a scrap piece of rag, walks Angel.
“Awwww shit, now look who it is!”
“’Sup bitch?” You call out, face breaking out into an easy grin. “It’s been a while!”
“Been wonderin’ where you’ve been at, Matibag!” He laughs, striding over to meet your dap with a hug and a firm clap on the shoulder.
“It’s good to see you, dawg!”
Pulling back a bit, with hazel-green eyes not too rimmed by red, Angel gives you a closer appraisal.
“... The fuck did you do to your hair, though? You tryna rock the fucking Rico Suave cut or some shit?”
He cackles as you casually flip him off, double birdies locked ‘n’ loaded.
“Fuck off, man,” you chide lightly, swiping a screwdriver out Angel’s front-pocket to fiddle around with.
“It’s a long fuckin’ story, but Jacker ‘n’ Horat basically fucked something up in the building, so now the block’s basically Kentucky Fried ‘til they can get the power back up and running.”
Calming down a bit, Angel hums in thought.
“They could’ve overloaded the circuit breaker? Y’know, you got Jack-in-the-Box tryna fuck around with wire placement ‘n’ shit, get the currents channelling power more efficiently, then swap out the breakers for a higher capacity, right?”
Lost, you nod along, all three years of high-school Physics having been blissfully absent from your long-term memory up until this point.
“But mix up Jack’s big-ass beautiful brain with Dwayne’s chafa materials and FWIP-”
You jump at that.
“Whole block’s shot, todo se oscureció, we’re talkin’ like... some real stone-age shit, eh?”
“Sounds... about right, man!” You vaguely remember Jack explaining something to that effect over all the goddamn commotion earlier that morning.
“... kind of like YOUR FUCKED UP HAIR, ¿EY VATO?”
You squawk indignantly, which only seems to make Angel cackle even harder.
“I KID man, I kid! It’s all jokes here, you know that,” he reassures you, except in that way where you know he’s not really all that sorry.
“But yeah, Phi, me n ‘Duardo here are gonna be workin’ on shit all day so, feel free to chill here ‘till whenever, eh?”
Part of you debates keeping up some of the bitchiness, but you’ve always found it hard to stay too mad at Angel. It’s just normal homie shit, guy’s like a giant teddy bear, so it’s hard to really get too pissed off at him when he’s just so...
Y’know... Cool ‘n’ shit.
Yeah.
That’s the word.
“Much obliged, my man,” you say smoothly, clapping him on the shoulder before heading over to the racks to grab an apron.
(Angel has always been anal about “workplace safety” and all that other “responsible business owner” bullshit, so the habit kinda stuck.)
“Though speaking of work—HEY ED!”
...And out of his waking coma startles Ed.
“I ain’t payin’ you to stand around, dawg,” Angel chides firmly. “Back to work!”
“But dude... aren’t I just an apprentice?”
“Not when you get a damn salary, you joker! Now, ¡andale, cabrón! Time is fuckin’ money and we got SHIT to DO!”
And for the next few hours, you had the dubious honour of hanging around while the duo did in fact, do their shit.
It wasn’t anything too elaborate today, no tricked-out decals or complete vehicle revamps, just the kind of basic maintenance and tune ups that would be infinitely less entertaining to watch had it not been your two homies at the forefront doing them.
“... I’m tellin’ you dawg, something’s gotta be in the air right now, cuz we’ve been getting some real locos dropping their shit off lately,” says Angel, hands deep in the guts of a real piece of shit grey Sedan that had absolutely seen better days.
“How loco we talkin’, man?” You ask, peering over his shoulder at the mass of cylindrical bullshit he was methodically screwing out. “Can’t be as bad as frickin’...”
Your voice takes on a dramatic tone.
“El Chico Burro... Owner of the filthiest carucha sucia in all of Meh-hi-koh.”
Angel laughs at that, while opposite to him, poor Ed lets out a mortified shudder.
“UGH, don’t even remind me, man...” he groans, nudging over the plastic tub so whichever lug-nut Angel took out could land safe and accounted for.
“Took for-freaking-EVER to hose off all the donkey shit from the seats... never again man, NEVER AGAIN.”
Snickering, you’re currently holding up one of those industrial-grade flashlights over the hood of the car just to help both of your homies get a better view of the engine.
You got bored of fucking around with the shop radio after maybe an hour or so into your arrival, and after a few choice threats from Ed over a few too many “accidental detours” into the world of Adult Alternative, the overhead speakers have since been left on some Oldies station playing nothing but Reggaeton songs you hadn’t heard since... shit, probably high school, at the very least?
After that, you decided, in all of your boundless generosity to, y’know, lend a helping hand while you were here. It was the least you could do, right?
You did the same shit back in the day when you either couldn’t be fucked to or felt too fucked up to go to the rest of your classes, so it’s at least... nice that that much hasn’t changed between the three of you over the years.
Lost both in thought and at the sight of sure, calloused and masculine hands weaving expertly through the tangled mass of engine bullshit, you startle when Angel lightly hip-checks you; not enough to knock you off balance and off of the stool you were currently kneeling on, but enough to get your attention.
Shit. Guess that hadn’t managed to change over the years either.
“Naaaah,” he drawls, not missing a beat. “But same barrio batshit, though.”
“Just picture this: tiny-ass abuelita, white as snow, barely up to my fuckin’ hip and looking ‘bout this close to keeling over, just bursts through the door, screaming her little fuckin’ head off over her car, right?”
You nod along, snorting at the visual of some withered old hag clinging to Angel’s shit for dear life and swearing up a storm over her prized jalopy.
“So I’m thinking, “Ay wey, ese, who do I gotta go fuck up TODAY, man?” ‘Cuz any asshole willing to start shit like that with a lil’ old lady just ain’t good news, man.”
“So I head out with the piece; Ese huevon to my left over there off doing God-knows-what at the time—”
(“Hey man, I was on BREAK... ‘all work ‘n’ no play’ and... and all that other shit.”)
“Runnin’ out there like my life depended on it, right? And you know what crazy shit I walk out to see? Just guess, man!”
You take a second to think.
“Lemme guess, she went and dropped a fat one on the sidewalk and wanted a discount, right?”
“Oh shit...!” Ed exclaims, a rare moment of lucidity for the dude. “I think I remember this one, dude,” he coughs, definitely masking the few strategic tokes he took while Angel wasn’t looking. “Didn’t she hit the curb and-”
“¡Aye, cabrón, soy EL que cuenta la historia aquí, man! Shit...” Angel barks back, playfully exasperated.
“Anyways, it wasn’t any of that thankfully, but not only did this crazy-ass woman hit the curb, but PHIL, if you saw her fuckin’ set up, man... picture the most vintage Beetle on the market, I’m talking some real Herbie: Fully Loaded shit, dawg-”
“Wait... that frickin’ Lindsay Lohan movie?” You ask, the perfect picture of incredulity. “You actually SAW that shit, man?”
He actually takes a second to flip you off before going right back into the engine.
How sweet of him.
“No mames, pendejo,” he groans as you continue to snicker. “my little nieces fuckin’ love that movie, man! Every time they’re over, they camp out in front of the TV like little zombies begging me to watch it with them.”
Heh, now ain’t that a visual.
Two tiny little Mexican girls, doe-eyed like their uncle, having the power to bully their hard-ass gangsta tío into watching some shitty talking car movie, curled up all safe and content and chattering on about their favourite parts and if “uncle can make them a car like Herbie some day-”
“Awwww...” Ed coos, and not too unkindly either.
Wait, was he...?
“Inspiring the next generation of the Automotively Enlightened... I tip my hat to you, bossman.”
How the fuck can he still DO that-
He finally cracks up after that, much to Angel’s chagrin.
“Alright, alright... laugh it up you damn comedians, now lemme fuckin’ finish my damn story, eh?”
“So yeah, the old witch pulled up in a tricked-out fuckin’ Volkswagen; custom hydraulics, thick-ass headlights, wheels so big they pop out the fuckin’ frames... it would have been some real-ass, hard-ass gangsta shit...”
He pauses for dramatic effect.
“Except for the decals. No bullshit... Digo la neta VERDAD, holmes, but the crazy woman rolled up in the fuckin’ Lynchmobile, man! No joke, she had the Confederate Flag paint-job and everything man, “Don’t Tread On Me” bumper stickers; shocked the damn thing didn’t come with a white hood.”
After a two-man chorus of “that’s fucking CRAZY, NO WAYs” and “dudes....” from both you and Ed, Angel continues.
“But you know what was even more loco? She looks me dead in the eye and demands I buff out this tiny, nothing, barely there scratch on the front of the hood... for half price too, because-”
His voice goes all light and airy and holy shit, is he really doing the fucking ‘White Woman Customer Service Voice’— “This happened on your property, young man, so I EXPECT that this unsightly blemish to my dear family heirloom be seen to AT ONCE!”
At this point, the three of you are all breathless and doubled over with laughter.
Never a dull fuckin’ moment in the Tenderloin, eh?
“Shit, Angel,” you say in between chuckles. “You didn’t actually fix the wrinkly bitch’s racist shitcan, right?”
He shrugs, a little too casually to your eye.
“Well... ¿lana es lana, eh?”
He grins slyly at Ed, who slyly grins back.
“... But if her brakes just... happen to give out at the Tijuana border, that’s like... totally a shame, man.” Ed laments, bumping Angel with his elbow when he can’t keep up the act.
“Lo que será será… ‘n’ shit.”
Angel nods, solemn.
“Such a shame she never asked us to check, eh?” Angel concurs, the very picture of schoolboy innocence.
They keep up the pious act for maybe a few more seconds... until Ed cracks first and the duo start cackling again, and not for the first time, it hits you just how thankful you are to still have these two crazy assholes in your life.
From the hectic bull-fuckery of middle-school to now, Ed and Angel have always been a constant stream of support and laughs over the years, and if you had been a little more baked, you’d probably tell your main hombres all the mushy-ass gay shit running through your head at the moment… y’know, all that “you mean the world to me” kind of shit.
“You guys are fuckin’ nuts, man!” Is what you reply with instead. Not too affectionate, but still directly from the heart.
Because…
Like...
They are just... so fucking cool, man.
It’s a little after two o’clock when the three of you decide to break for lunch.
Ed went off to god-knows-where to toke up after helping with cleanup on the latest jalopy-
(It seemed like a normal enough Jeep Buggy at first glance. Vintage-as-fuck model, but otherwise well maintained… until Ed popped open the hood and the fucking thing started gushing cold, sludgy motor oil; picture the nastiest, grimiest post-gangbang creampie just in terms of excess!)
Which left you and Angel shambling out of the work area and towards the garage entrance, all kinds of sweaty and messed up from trying to mitigate that shit-show.
His work shirt got hit with some gnarly splash-back, and even after running it under cool water and excessive amounts of pumice soap, you could still catch him fiddling at the dark patch still left over at his side.
You however, in all of your apron-ed glory, came out relatively unscathed, save for your sneakers.
Guess that “workplace safety” bullshit really did come in handy, who knew?
“... No, P-dawg, I’m serious. I feel like the fuckin’ guy had to get his shit changed at the fuckin’ La Brea for the oil to get that level of fucked up, man!” Angel groans, running a (relatively) clean rag over his forehead in frustration.
“I oughta knock the FUCK outta the pinche bastardo willing to fuck up such a pristine antique model like that, dawg, shiiiit!”
“I’m betting it was those two butt-humper kids from down the street,” you suggest, tossing your apron off to the side somewhere. “Of course they’d resort to vehicular bukkake of this calibre to get back at you over the Baby Dolphins shit!”
Angel blinks.
“...Vehicular bukkake— where the fuck do you get this shit from, man?”
Snorting, he tosses the rag onto a nearby bench, still absentmindedly rubbing at the oil stain.
“Only from the finest of top shelf e-rrrrrrrr-rotica, my good man,” you reply, all posh ‘n’ shit, and you don’t even have to see his face to know that Angel’s rolling his eyes.
“I wouldn’t trust any shelf that that old pervert’s stocking, but hey, you do you, ese.”
Attention directed back to his side again, he kisses his teeth.
“Shit...” he mutters, beginning to fiddle with the buttons. “And my momma got me this damn shirt too...”
You sigh loudly, catching his attention.
“Y’know Angel, there was one way you could have saved your poor, precious camiseta...”
He turns back to look at you.
And you, now seated at the bench, point rather mournfully at the rack of workplace regulation aprons, completely untouched by all the oil and grime.
Y’know.
Unlike your boy’s work-shirt.
“MAN, if you don’t fuckin’ GO SOMEWHERE-”
Gottem.
“Mind I turn you out like the fuckin’ shit-mobile out back, you damn huckster!” He yells in response to your spirited cackling. “Way better use of that big-ass mouth of yours, I swear!”
“Hey man, don’t threaten me with a good time,” you quip back, playing along. “Your Herbies can’t be the only things Fully Loaded ‘round here!”
Angel gags, offended.
“Really, puto? How long did that one take you, five whole fuckin’ minutes?”
You shrug.
“I don’t kiss and tell, man. Shit’s a trade secret, and I’m not looking to get Mencia’d out of my best material today.”
Shirt now approaching halfway unbuttoned, Angel snorts again, all derisive-like.
“You never know, Angel!” you continue, tapping at your temple. “I got enough up here to keep the lights on at Cobb’s for the next decade if I wanted to; I’m sitting on some real, game changing shit man, gotta let it out in spurts to keep the public on their toes.”
Now a button or two away from his collar, he looks over his shoulder to give you the most critical, most pointed side-eye imaginable.
“Uh-huh.” He nods, going right back to unbuttoning his shirt.
“So two whole fuckin’ minutes, then. Gotcha.”
“Man, suck my dick!” He can’t even see you flipping him off, but you still do it anyways; it’s the principle of the thing.
“Only if you ask nicely, jaina.”
Rolling your eyes with a laugh, you recline a bit into the bench, feeling more relaxed and at ease while sober than you’re normally used to.
There’s always been an easy synergy between the two of you, you and Angel. You’ve always been able to go weeks without seeing each other, yet it barely feels like any time has passed at all when you two can finally link up and chill.
It’s cozy, the right amount of shit-talking and gossip is there, sure, but there’s also just... that level of banter and shared creative expression and that... easy co-existence you don’t really have with a lot of other people, no disrespect to Ed and Chita, of course.
They’ve been your ride-or-dies since middle school; anyone who stuck around during that mess of fudged paperwork, the constant revolving door of kiddie-shrinks and doctors who only barely knew their heads from their assholes when it came to a testosterone script, as well as the long, awkward, bullshit arguments had with the very Catholic Administration over name changes, you figured you’d more or less be stuck with until the heat death of the universe.
But to think that the crazy-ass culero loco a grade ahead of you, the new transfer who nearly beat your ass first day into the new school year when you, (correctly, if you might add,) argued that MK4 smacked the shit out of Third Strike as a fighting game, the guy who took ONE good at Phillie Manflora, decked out in the frumpiest, baggiest version of the girl’s uniform, still risked suspension for the chance to rightfully kick the ass of “that snot-nosed, lumpia eating cabrónito in the dress trying to piss [him] off,” and who then proceeded to get genuinely offended at the idea of you not being a guy?
Even in the face of, y’know, the mountains of legal bullshit that Dickman didn’t get the chance to sort out confirming otherwise?
The mountains of legal bullshit your old God-fearing, serial-adulterering, kiddie-eyeing, money-embezzling fuck-up of a middle school principal had no qualms airing out to him while the two of you were stuck in his office for detention?
For Angel to immediately get it, squash your beef, (as well as, incidentally, the principal’s shitty little pig-nose for good measure,) and then proudly become your very first real friend made as a guy?
It meant a lot, and to this day, he still means a lot to-
“Ey, T-bagger! You still with us, holmes?”
Shit, you spaced out again?
“Oh! Oh shit, yeah man, sorry ‘bout that. Were you sayin’ something?”
Back still turned, he’s studying you, thick, bushy brows furrowed in concern. Your half-assed response must have been enough to reassure him of your cognizance, though, so any worries over you going full Ed Moment melted into relief on his face.
“I... I said I was gonna pop this off and leave it to soak in the sink before we get outta here.”
He shakes the collar meaningfully, as if asking—wait is he seriously...?
“You mind, Phi? Or would you rather me step out? I got another shirt in the back somewhere, but I gotta get this fucker off me, man! I feel so groady-”
“IT’S GOOD—I mean, it’s all good, man—I’m GOOD! No worries man, do whatever!” you squeak—you frickin’ SQUEAK out, the implications crashing into your brain like a 20-car pileup of visual stimuli you’ve been trying valiantly to NOT accrue any more of, thank you very much.
Because on the one hand, you find it genuinely sweet he still touches base with you on that, even after all these years. You used to get, well... weird whenever he’d take his shirt off around you. Clam up, look away, all that other stuff a normal, half naked teenage boy wouldn’t do around other normal, half naked teenage boys when the weather got too fucking hot to dress like a real human being.
But Angel, living up to his name like the shithead that he was, he got it from the self-image angle. You may have lucked out genetics-wise by at most, hitting an a-cup before skipping out on the rest of that other fucking “girl-puberty” bullshit thanks to blockers, but sometimes that insecurity was still there, y’know?
And, after explaining all of that, he always made sure to at least check with you about it first, get a whole system going so he could get changed somewhere else depending on the day; some real, no bullshit, real homies-looking-out-for-each-other type shit.
It was such a good system in fact, that it never managed to come up that you were maybe partially bullshitting when you first told him that.
Because on the other, more pressing hand...
“Firme, my guy! I’ll pop this sucker off and then we can go find Ed before he smokes himself out or some shit, eh?”
He just looked... REALLY fucking good with his shirt off.
Listen, Angel was always gonna be a bigger guy. Dude always stood a head taller than most even as a freshman, and his love of machinery and tinkering meant he was always gonna be lifting heavy shit around and, y’know, packing on the gains where it counted.
And at the time, you could say it was a matter of, well... intellectual curiosity that you just kept noticing. You finally got the go-ahead to start T in the middle of the 10th Grade, and were thus painfully aware of the milestones you weren’t hitting in comparison to your other male classmates; the same Pinoy babyface, the same shitty, nasally voice, and the same... well, diminutive stature.
(Somehow, Midget Matibag was a step up over Phillie Manflora at the very least... JESUS, did high school fuckin’ blow...)
So while Ed’s initial strands of precocious moustache were as Sex-Offender-Registry as they came, and while Chita’s miraculous glow-up over the summer break had always been a little suspicious, even to your untrained eye, Angel just skipped all the awkward growing pains to look... good.
Baby fat in his face melting away into a sharp and chiselled visage, buff arms and broad, sun-kissed shoulders toned from days spent trawling through scrapyards and running errands, a rich, thick Cholo ‘fro soft to the touch even under globs of gel and hours of careful styling, and a waist curved so subtly to accentuate a chest so broad, and so unfairly full, that it would honestly put most of Hustlers’ Girls to shame.
He was just... really, REALLY hot, and you’d have to be real fucking stupid and also a liar to not, y’know, be able to see that shit with your own two eyes and concur.
Which is at least, an explanation as to why you’re in the exact same position watching Angel now as you were over a decade ago: expression slack, mouth drier than the frickin’ Mojave, blood rushing firmly to dick, and the rest of your brainpower leaking out of your ears and directly into your specialty boxers below.
“Shiiiiiit, how fuckin’ long was I bent over that piece-a-shit for?” He groans, every fucking tendon and muscle on his back still visible under the wife-beater, now taut and glistening with sweat under the shop lights as he locks his hands together and stretches the tension out of his upper body, muscles quivering from the exertion.
You briefly forget how to breathe.
Then the fucker goes and rolls back his shoulders with another pornographic grunt, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think Angel was doing this shit on purpose.
It’s indecent, that’s what it is, and like a sexy, Mexican car-wreck, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.
In this case though, maybe that slack-jawed, platonic scrutiny was a good thing, because you manage to catch a faint glimmer of something on his shoulder blades-
“Wait...” You manage to wheeze out. “Are those new tattoos, man?”
Shaking the tension out of his arms, Angel turns to look back at you in surprise.
“Shit, you could actually spot them? Under these dull-ass lights?” He asks, his mouth quirking up into a small smile. “You sure you and Horatio didn’t switch eyeballs or something?”
He cradles his chin, all fake scrutinizing.
“Though... the two of you should be about the same size-”
You give him a withering look, and just like that, the both of you are back in familiar territory. Just two homies fuckin’ around and not... well.
Two homies fucking around.
“Alright, alright, my bad, Sr. Cómico, I’ll cool it on the jokes. But yeah, these ones are mad unfinished though-”
... Aaaaand he’s rolling up the wife-beater.
“My usual guy went up north for some other big commish a month back, so they set the placement ‘n’ shit before they had to dip. I asked for ‘em light though; they do some real mindfuck shit with the shading ‘n’ whatnot, so I wanted to give ‘em total freedom to work their magic when they’re back here, y’know?”
The twin designs on his shoulder blades were very ornate despite otherwise being works in progress, each individual feather unique yet tastefully drafted, starting off as soft and dove-like in appearance, only to become darker, more angular and more Gothic the more they descended down his upper back.
“Looking FRESH, eh?”
You let out a low whistle, genuinely impressed.
Angel wings.
Because of course.
“Fresh as fuck, dude,” you concur sincerely. “What brought this on, anyways?”
Angel does that quirked-up little half-smile again, and maybe the wires in your shitty little lizard brain are more fucked up and tangled than you ever realized, ‘cuz just a glimpse of that off-white canine peaking out from between his lips is enough to have you squirm—no, fidgeting in your seat.
...It’s an uncomfortable seat! What else can you do?
“Call it an impulse from up-on-high, mi carnal,” he says. “It just felt... right, y’know? I feel like I ain’t doing enough to show my love to ‘Soos and The Big Guy upstairs, plus it fits with the whole, “Angel of Death” shit I have goin’ on, so it’s like... a two for one, ‘two birds, one stone’ kinda deal, eh?”
His smile then turns cheeky.
“’Sides... you’re like a magnet for weird shit, man, so you’re gonna need the watchful eye of a real-ass Holy Motherfucker ordained by God Himself lookin’ out for your crazy ass if you know what’s good for ya!”
Smirking, he flexes his back muscles again to show off—to better show off the tattoos, obviously, and the wink he aimed at at you was clearly just for the banter.
Obviously.
“Shit’s rough out there, hoto, and you ain’t dying before me if I can help it!” He throws his shirt over his shoulder as he turns towards you.
“Plus... you know how hard it’d be to find another crazy Pinoy asshole at your height ‘n’ stature? Too much damn work for me in my old age, dawg.”
He guffaws at that, and you roll your eyes, which to you, is an easier action taken than unpacking... any of that, but whatever.
“Wow... I’m truly touched, Angel—TOUCHED... to have my own Mexican Guardian Angel...” you swoon, absolutely getting snotty with it.
And Angel, of course, offers an equally snotty little bow-n-curtsy in return.
“El honor es todo mío, hijo mío,” he intones with gravitas, like a Mexican Morgan Freeman or some shit, and he places one hand on your shoulder and one over his heart. “It’s my mission to keep all of God’s children on a path most righteous... Especially you, ya little heathen.”
“Whatever Monica,” you laugh, shooing him out of your face and towards the back. “Now go and get changed already, dickhole!”
With a smirk and a mock salute, Angel finally walks past you, and while you were definitely going to get up and go brave the summer heat, your eyes end up trailing after him.
And yeah, your gaze landed on his tattoos at first, but it’s not your fault it started to drift lower, he’s literally leaving the room!
You might hate to see them go...
(but... not to say that you’re actually watching, or anything—)
“Dude... you were TOTALLY watching, man.”
“Wh-JESUS CHRIST, ED!!!”
Lunch was a casual affair that afternoon, with the three of you enjoying three ice-cold 40s and the finest in Tenderloin street cuisine at the front of the shop.
(You resolutely ignored the jeering coming from the other two chucklefucks as Meding’s reedy little voice rang out peddling her beloved balut, and instead settled on grabbing a bite from the local taqueria.)
It was chill, all things considered. The temperature outside was still hotter than the devil’s sweaty ballsack, but shooting the shit with tú mejores amigos and hearing more of their crazy-ass work stories (while also stopping Angel from swiping more shit off of your plate, the dickhead,) made for some good midday entertainment.
Speaking of which, Angel had been right in the middle of recounting a particularly wild encounter with a disgruntled SoCal scumbag over the legitimacy of his alleged Lamborghini before his attention was called away by a new customer, a bubbly, statuesque Caribbean beauty with the wildest, greenest ‘fro you’d done ever seen.
In theory, she was just there to drop off her moped, but then Angel got her started on the topic of beaches abroad while wheeling it into the garage, and ever since that moment, the two had been gossiping at the front counter.
That was half an hour ago.
And lo and behold, nearly half an hour later and the two of them were still gossiping at the front counter.
…It’s almost maddening sometimes; how the hell can he still pull more bad bitches than you with only half the effort in just half the time—?!
“Yo... Earth to Felípe, man! Blink twice if you like... hear me, ‘n’ shit, dude.”
...Which brings you back to the present.
“Huh—? OKAY-okay, I’m up, dude, damn!” You grumble, swatting his hand out of your face.
Jesus. Imagine Ed of all people managing that, you think to yourself. One day of sobriety and suddenly the mildest of contact highs have your brain running on dial-up.
“How the hell do you even do that, anyways?”
“Do what?”
Ed tilts his head at you… only to then look down at his hand.
He moves it up and down experimentally, seemingly marvelled by its very presence. “Oh, this shit? It’s easy, man! It’s all in like… the wrist movements ‘n’ shit, you just gotta keep everything all loose and flow-y so you can-”
“NO, YOU ASSCLOWN, that’s not what I meant!” You bark at him, cutting him off. “Of course I know how to use my damn hands! If I can jerk off with one and roll mad blunt with the other, then I’m frickin’ GOOD man, shiiiit!”
“I meant that freaky mind reading shit, Ed! It’s like you got the Feds all up in there sometimes man, like you can hear my thoughts in surround sound or some shit!”
You squint at him, suddenly uneasy.
“... You can’t actually hear my thoughts though, right?” You ask, voice lowered. “‘Cuz there’s some shit up there that needs to be under like… Area 51 levels of secrecy as a matter of national security-”
“What? Oh no, dude! I can’t read minds!” Ed laughs, which only further confounds you. “That’s all like… high level, Jedi Mind Trick shit man, no way do I have the Midichlorian count to pull off any of that yet!”
You blink.
Rapidly.
“Uh-huh.”
“I can definitely read your aura though, that shit’s like… way easier to do.”
What.
“What.” Master of eloquence, you are not.
With a fresh spliff in hand, Ed looks at you, like really LOOKS at you, as if you were the dumbest motherfucker in the room.
“Oh WHAT?” You cry out defensively. “What the hell’re you giving me that look for?! You don’t just drop shit like that like it’s common frickin’ knowledge, man, are you high-“
You stop.
“… Don’t answer that. Just… just tell me about this ‘aura’ shit, man, whatever.”
Ed, now pensive, blows out a steady plume of smoke.
“Well, young Padawan,” he intones, rearing back for another hit. “If knowledge be what you seek... it looks as though your travels have brought you to the right place for it, ‘n’ shit-”
However, any dramatic tension he was aiming for is suddenly undercut by him loudly and violently hacking up a lung.
Instinctively, you frantically slap at his back, going at it for about half a minute until his coughing fit eventually subsides.
Nodding gratefully at you, Ed clears his throat one more time, just for good measure... only to have the fuckin’ audacity to go right back in for another pull.
How this fuckin’ guy hasn’t managed to kill himself yet, the world may never know.
“Fuckin’ where was I...” He exhales another puff of smoke, much smoother this time around, though.
Truly one of life’s greatest mysteries.
“Oh right! Auras ‘n’ shit. It’s all in like... in how you watch people, man. Look at ‘em long enough and you start... y’know. Seein’ shit. Certain vibes hovering all over ‘em, the way they carry themselves, and they start like... glowing colours after a while, no bullshit.”
“Like you, man!” He exclaims, preemptively cutting off any declarations of “uh, YEAH bullshit” on your end. “Normally your aura’s like... bright-orange with like... green and red around the edges, ‘n’ shit—”
He shakes the blunt in his hand meaningfully.
“all like... crazy, tweaker energy. Like you wanna shake the jitters out and do something... but you’re all wound up hella tight and you just wanna crawl outta your skin, so you need a bit of the good shit to mellow you out and keep your head on right-”
Ouch, you flinch. Cutting observation. Not that he’ll ever know that, though.
“But right now you’re just like... a mellow sunset of oranges and reds ‘n’ whatnot; body all relaxed ‘n’ open, all turned towards me and not doing shit like... I dunno, hunching over or shoving your hands in your pockets. You ain’t tryin’ to hide away or be all defensive; you’re just here in the now, man, and for once it looks like you’re happy to be here... ‘n’ shit.”
Stubbing out the rest of the roach onto the work bench, Ed smirks as he tilts his head towards your now rattled expression.
“Spot on, right?”
Caught, you try to school your face into something a little more disaffected.
“I mean... I guess you weren’t that far off...” you mutter dismissively, crossing your arms over your chest as if it would do shit. “Lucky guess, you damn... stoner bitch.”
“HA! Fuckin’ KNEW IT, man!” Ed grins triumphantly, and the sight makes you immediately uncross your arms just to flip him off. “You can’t hide from me, Matibag! I can read your ass like a book, dude. Eaaaaaasy.”
“What-frickin’-EVER, man!” You fire back. “Like staring at my ass all day is some kind of Olympic achievement worth celebrating, you... you goddamn, gold-medal, BUTT-PERUSER!” Not one of your best comebacks, a pretty sorry one at that, but FUCK if you’re gonna let SPECIAL fuckin’ ED of all fuckin’ people show you the fuck up.
“If you’re so damn good at this “aura-reading” shit—” you gesture sharply towards Angel and the bewitching-yet-chatty customer. “Boom. There’s your next assignment, numbnuts. Impress me!”
Looking at the two, Ed adjusts his glasses with gusto.
“Damn son, could’ve at least given me a challenge,” he laughs, fishing through his pockets before pulling out his usual supply: a few wizened buds, a couple of dusty rolling papers, and his long lived, beaten up grinder; the delightfully ironic visage of Daren the Drug-free Lion all rasta’d out and taking a phat bong rip still clear as day on the lid even after years of wear-’n’-tear.
“First of all, you can definitely tell there’s some kinda chemistry between ‘em, JUST by how they’re all posted up talkin’ to each other,” Ed says, breaking apart the nugs into smaller clumps before methodically placing them in the open grinder.
He gestures towards the woman with his elbow, his hands currently busy grinding down his haul into something more manageable.
“If you take a closer look at that lovely mamacita over there, her aura’s all like... sunshine and sea-foam or some shit. Very excitable but not in a fake way, y’know?”
He’s carefully sprinkling herb into the half-folded sheet of wax paper, scrutinizing the quantity as if he’s making precise measurements for some bullshitty science project or whatever.
“She’s super into the convo- check out the way she’s talkin’ with her hands and how she’s bent over the counter—”
You snort. As if you weren’t already looking.
“—while talking to Angel... all open gestures and nodding ‘n’ shit to show that she’s paying attention. She’s used to keeping a convo going, so she’s definitely got that ‘retail warrior’ energy; can probably deal with assholes, but definitely prefers the decent folk, y’know?”
... The stoner’s actually making sense, and something about that makes your head hurt.
“But don’t mistake that friendliness for flirtation, young Padawan-”
“Even though Angel’s been staring down her shirt like every other sentence?” You retort, like a hypocrite. “She’s clearly offering, man! I dunno what the hell he’s been waiting for, I would have gone muy freakin’ loco by now if I were the one standin’ there!”
Ed looks up from the joint, which now looks just about ready to seal.
“And this, young Jedi...”
He licks the adhesive with an audible (and probably deliberate) slurp.
“... is why the force of bitchlessness is so strong within you.”
You splutter, face hot and rage spiking, gearing up to to punch the fucker out-
But then Ed holds up a finger, stopping you dead in your tracks.
“Calm thineself, my good bitch,” he says, not even freakin’ looking at you. “You wanna learn the theory behind this shit or nah?”
Is it a hate-crime to beat a strung-out, druggie pothead senseless?
...Probably.
So, like a good, law abiding citizen, you sit there fuming, and let the fuckin’ idiot keep running his mouth.
“That’s like... your biggest issue with the ladies, man. You run in thinkin’ you know shit and don’t just like... stop to get a feel for the goings on.”
“’Cuz if you take a closer look at our two live case studies in action...”
He pauses with a flourish, all dramatic-like.
“... You can tell that two different convos are happenin’ man, all simultaneously ‘n’ shit.”
At your quizzical expression, Ed gestures his freshly made blunt towards Angel, arms folded, leaning over the counter and still schmoozing it up with the customer.
“Our mutual compadre over there is definitely interested in more than just the convo; he’s been bouncing his leg for like the past couple of minutes tryin’ to like... redirect his energy without being too obvious about it.”
You squint.
“Shit, you might be onto something...” you mutter in agreement, actually leaning in to get a closer look at the two in spite of yourself. “He only does that kinda shit when he’s like... real fuckin’ focused on something, somethin’ about it “helping get the lead out” when he can’t move around.”
You think on that for a second.
“That, or when he needs to take a massive shit,” you sneer, though Ed waves you off with a snort.
“Nah man, dude’s green with intent, pure ‘green means go’ energy radiating off of him in waves ‘n’ shit. It’s not the same kind of seashells-green like our mystery lady over there, he’s more earthy with it, like a rain-forest thriving ‘n’ shit after it rains, so he’s definitely confident enough to know she might be down, but also confident enough to not force it, y'know?”
“Plus, he keeps doing that thing with his eye every time he tries to spit game-”
“Wait, you noticed that shit too?” You cut in, a bit lost parsing through all the gay-ass metaphors Ed kept throwing at you. “Like something got stuck in his eye and he’s tryin’ to blink it out?”
“Yeaaah, dude! And any time he gets all up in his zone tryna holler at someone, it gets all squinty ‘n’ shit. Dunno if he even notices when he does it, but that’s like... his go-to smoulder when it comes to pickin’ up the chiquitas; he does it all the time.”
Taking a hit of the now lit blunt, (when the hell’d he find time to light it?) Ed then starts to just... stare, idly puffing away on the thing as he narrows his eyes either at you, or seemingly in your general direction.
“He does it a lot, actually...”
... Or maybe not?
You can never tell with this frickin’ guy.
“Okay okay, so he’s DTF, I already knew that,” you say, snapping Ed out of his apparent stupor. “That still doesn’t explain any of that “aura” shit or why he ain’t goin’ for it man, why the hell is he blue-balling himself on purpose?!”
Ed, once again, blows out more smoke.
“It’s simple, my guy, some real 2 plus 2 is four-type shit,” Ed continues, and you try not to scowl at that subliminal. “She ain’t tryna fuck, and the bossman knows this and like... respects that shit. There’s a science to readin’ people, man, and shit like auras just makes doin’ that kinda shit easier, but you still gotta know how to walk first before you can Usain Bolt through that muhfucker, y’know what I mean?”
He gestures towards the counter again, and you look over to see the woman giggling, her manicured hand hovering over her mouth as Angel hits her with his most disarming and friendly fanged grin.
“Normally, when a babe’s receptive to what Angel’s layin’ down, they do shit like... y’know, bat their eyelashes, do all those lingering touches ‘n’ shit on his arm, angle their bodies towards him, try to-”
“Accentuate—” Ed hands curve above his chest. “their massive assets; get that shit lookin’ like tittius maximus egregious so he knows where to keep his eyes focused.”
“I see...”
You both can only keep it together for so long; you, hand cradling your chin and hunched over following Ed’s hands like a Pinoy take on “The Thinker”, and Ed, sitting there all serious-like while feeling up his massive, invisible air titties, before the two of you burst out into raucous laughter.
Some real high-class intellectual shit goings on ‘round here.
“Yeaaaaahhh...” Ed chuckles a few moments later, his face breaking out into a slow and goofy-ass grin as he catches his breath.
He blinks at you owlishly.
“... the fuck were we talkin’ about again?”
“Uh.” Look withering, you throw a quick gesture towards the counter.
He follows the path of your jerked thumb, and some drop of brain function seems to return to him.
“Oh right, our case studies! Lemme get back on that-”
Another contemplative hit.
“So yeah,” he coughs, “most ladies ain’t fuckin’ shy when they’re fiendin’ for a piece of el carne diabólico, but girlie over there just ain’t hungry for it, man! None of that coy shit, no touching him up or keeping her intentions close to her chest—”
Her very ample, very aerodynamic chest—
“She doesn’t even get all flustered when Angel drops a line, so either it just ain’t hitting, or she ain’t chatting him up for some after dark play. Either way, it’s pure friendliness, man, and seeing how their auras blend together just like... double confirms that.”
You take a closer look, and well goddamn, if your eyes don’t deceive you—
You have to squint a bit, but there’s this like... faint green aura surrounding Angel and the customer. It’s not a perfect blend of sea-shell and earthy green, more a candy-cane swirl of the two shades, but it floats and pulsates comfortably around the two as they continue to chat.
“You see what I mean, right?”
Goddamnit, the kid might actually be onto some shit.
“I dunno man, why don’t you tell me what you see, first?” You sniff, side-eyeing Ed warily.
But homeboy, bless his heart, doesn’t seem to notice.
“Like I said before, there’s definitely some kind of chemistry occurring here, otherwise both of their auras wouldn't be all criss-crossed into each other like how they are now. There’s a connection being made there, but it’s not all Wet Hot American Summer in that bitch, more Breakfast Club, y’know?”
You did not, in fact, know.
And yet, “Uh-huh,” is what you reply with anyways.
“And I’m guessing they’d be humpin’ like crazy if their auras ‘n’ shit were all blended together, right? ‘Can’t tell where one part starts and the other part ends’ or whatever? That kind of shit?”
Ed turns to face you, only to hit you with another long, searching, wordless, contemplative stare.
It’s starting to creep you out.
“...Huh.” Is all he replies with, taking a quick glance at the duo at the front counter only to focus back on you. “I guess so, man.”
Ain’t no goddamn way-
“You guess? You frickin’ GUESS?!” You shout after him, Ed’s expression as placid as ever when you start throttling him.
“So you’re coming up to ME, peddling all this ‘seeing colours,’ hippie-dippie, mind-reader bullshit like you’re MISTER FREAKIN’ MIYAGI’S psychic white butt-baby, but the second I ask you a simple damn question, suddenly you can’t answer? You don’t KNOW?!”
So you’re more invested in learning this crap than you let on, ooooh, alert the authorities, stop the freakin’ presses, man! Fuckin’ whatever!
Not... that he’d ever know that, though.
But in lieu of an actual reply, Ed, all the while (probably) maintaining eye contact, instead reaches deep into one of his pockets, only to pull out another goddamn spliff.
“Well,” Ed drawls, his face breaking out into the MOST shit-eating grin. “what I do know my guy, is that the acquisition of knowledge is addictive as fuck, and it only took one hit of it for you to start fuckin’ fiending for more, dude.”
You blink.
And then, nostrils flaring, you take a deep, cleansing breath.
“Alright, o-Okay man, that’s it,” you say lightly, letting go of the stoner in surrender...
...before lunging over to play grabby-hands with the blunt he was currently keeping out of your grasp.
“I’m cutting your ass OFF, CHEECH! Something in that fuckin’ hashish’s rotting more of your brain than usual, man; you’re d-”
Suddenly, Ed’s got your wrist in a brutal vice-grip.
“...Touch my fucking grifa again and your ass is pavement grease, dude. I am so fucking SERIOUS.” Says Ed, tone dead, flat, and as serious as a heart attack.
Your hands immediately shoot up and away from him, all defensive-like.
“H-hey man, I was just kidding around, dude!” You placate. “It’s all jokes man, no need to go all Terminator on me over ‘em, shiiiiiit!”
Ed blinks.
“...”
You blink back.
“...”
And, somewhere out there in the big wide world, a single second passes.
“...Huh?”
Like you’ve always said, it’s a modern day miracle Ed can even remember to breathe air on his own most days—
“AYE, LADIES!” A familiar voice calls out. “Enough gossiping over there, we ain’t got all day to socialize, y’know!”
You turn back to see Angel waving goodbye to the customer, (who, once she spots you, offers you a coy little wave in return, now how about that-?) only to go full Responsible Business Owner the second he lays his eyes on the two of you.
“We got hella work to do, pendejos, so get to steppin’, eh?”
You hear a long, relaxed exhale next to you.
“Well, you heard the bossman,” Ed says plainly, stubbing the roach out on the bench seat before pushing off the table to shrug the tension out of his shoulders.
“’Nother day, ‘nother dollar... ‘n’ shit.”
“You say that like I’m even getting paid...” you mutter, stretching your arms as you get up from your seat.
“You guys have me on that Sweatshop Regimen when I should just be out here chillaxxing! You’re so damn lucky I like you two bums enough to do this gopher shit free of charge man, it’s like I’m getting run ragged out here!”
A chuff of laughter from Angel.
“Ayeee, what’s a little unpaid labour between friends, ¿mi tonto amiguito?” He grins, clapping you hard enough on the shoulder to damn near knock you over.
“’Sides,” he says lightly, leaning closer towards you. “it’s either that or the oven out there, holmes, so choose wisely. I might be nice but I ain’t that nice on the clock, hoto.”
He eyes you meaningfully.
You eye him warily.
(And, somewhere off to the side, Ed eyes the both of you, puff-puffing away at the display with mild interest.)
“...Okay yeah, whatever bwana, I’m stepping! Shiiiiiit!” You groan, like a stone cold, sore loser-
(You pointedly ignore the triumphant “Eyyy, that’s the spirit, dawg!” from your compadre, because fuck him, that’s why—)
And manage to shake him off as the three of you head back into the shop.
“The hell are we getting up to next, anyways?”
For you though? It looked like you were getting the hell up to a whole lotta fuck all.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out the Buggy wasn’t as completely fucked beyond repair as the three of you initially suspected, and somewhere between all the rapid-fire car jargon and Angel’s bright-eyed and frantic explanations (with trusty Ed off in the bleachers throwing in a nod or a “yeahhh, dude,” here and there for good measure,) what you managed to gather was that things were very much salvageable for that sloppy old jalopy, it was just a matter of working smart when it came to fixing it.
However, according to Herr Dickhead over there, “working smart” and “Phil Matibag” had no business being in the same room, let alone being in the same damn sentence as the problem-car before them, so of course he asked you to sit this one out as him and Ed got active.
(“No disrespect to you at all, P-dawg, I know you just wanna help out ‘n’ all and it’s always appreciated man, don’t get me wrong, but I ain’t tryna have your crazy-ass tío coming after me on his samurai shit ‘cause you got fucked up by the blowtorch or fell into the engine or some shit, man! We’re professionals ‘round here dawg, you know that!”)
(“’Professionals’, huh? Because it LOOKS like your OTHER professional’s doobie’s getting REAL FAMILIAR with that regulation blowtorch over there, bossman. Sounds KINDA SLOPPY for one if you ask me.”)
(“What are you—woah-WOAH, aye AYEEEEE! ¿Qué pinches haces ahí, imbécil? How many fuckin’ times have I told you not to do that shit, WITH the shit, IN the DAMN shop, DAWG-?!”)
Somehow, that one good slap to the back of Ed’s head was enough to jog the memory in Angel’s; a few customers were coming by to pick their shit up later anyways, so being there as an extra hand on deck meant you could at least sit around playing receptionist while the duo got to work on rectifying that active war-crime of an antique vehicle.
(“Who knows! Maybe a cute face manning the counter ‘n’ shit could do wonders for the marketing; it’s not like ‘Duardo over here’s getting any younger, eh?”)
(“..Sho’nuff, Bossman. And time won’t give me time... ‘n’ shit.”)
(“...”)
(“...Wait a sec. Phil, dude... how OLD are you again-?”)
And so, here you sit a good 20 minutes later, eyes tracking the hapless pedestrians passing by outside: bored, disengaged, bored, idling, disinterested, and did you also mention real fuckin’ BORED?
You’d frickin’ think that some kind of rush would be happening at-
You glance towards the clock hung up on the opposite wall.
5:13pm.
Yeah, the 5:13pm rush! Where the hell was everybody?!
Your scowl deepens.
You blow air out of your nose.
Drumming on your thighs, you do a spin or three around on the desk stool.
Lulling to a stop, you check the clock again.
5:14pm.
Shit.
This was gonna be a long 5:14 rush.
However, it seemed as though White Jesus heard your desperate pleas and decided to bestow upon you a drop of mercy today, because the next near-hour actually managed to pick up in terms of Things For You To Do.
You swept the floor clean of safety hazards and other miscellaneous crap, made an attempt to beat out the grime and metal shavings stuck to the entrance mat before throwing it back to the ground in a huff, signed off on a delivery that stood at at least twice your height (it currently sits propped up half-assedly next to the benches, dolly and all, because fuck that,) and went through the countertop drawers and reorganized the mess of random stationary, spare screwdrivers/wrenches, crumpled rolling papers, spare condoms, long neglected jury duty summons, and the cheerful assortment of auto-shop/fitness/nudie mags into something approaching efficient.
(Mainly to, y’know, cover up the fact you were rifling through their shit to begin with.)
And after all of that?
You smirk, proud of your hard work.
Heh! You think, landing on the desk stool with a soft-yet-self-satisfied squeak. Not too bad a job for a damn gopher, huh Angel?
“’Banana in the Tailpipe Rumour’... the hell could that be all about?”
Feet kicked up on the table, you’re currently thumbing through a mag you found earlier during your cleanup efforts, an already half-chewed pen bobbing up and down in your mouth as you skim through the worn pages.
(It looked interesting enough at first glance; an old-school fitness magazine focused on vintage muscle cars and generally interesting life advice on “being a Man’s Man” and “Dressing Right to Choose the Perfect Ride”... but also a lot of half-naked buff dudes decked out in skin-tight leather next to their rides for whatever reason, wonder what that’s all about—)
"...Oye, pana, ¿Dime a ve’?”
You’re so engrossed, in fact, that you’re only half paying attention when you distantly hear someone walk up to the counter.
“¿Tú me llama’te sobre mi concho, si?"
“Yeah man, it’s right by that bench over there, you can’t miss it,” you say dismissively, completely enraptured by the glossy, two page spread of a big, burly vaquero-type managing to drag along his pick-up truck using JUST his pierced nipples-
“¡Ey! ¡Chimicuí!”
Rapid, pointed snapping over your head.
“¿Tú ere' cómico o algo? Yo vine aquí por mi concho, no por tu di’parate, qué VAINA..."
You grunt in annoyance, putting down the magazine in a huff.
“Hey man, gimme a freakin’ second, okay?” You groan, pushing both the mag and pen aside so you can turn to face this mystery asshole. “You can’t just cut into a dude’s reading time all because of-”
A bronzed, tastefully manscaped, and very well-sculpted chest.
Right there. Just staring at you.
At... y’know.
Eye-level.
Your throat suddenly goes very, very dry.
“Uh.”
Are you staring? Fucking HELL, you’re pretty damn sure you’re staring. Dude’s built like a fridge anyways, excluding those very prominent pectorals, so it’s not like you have anywhere else to look, for FUCK’S SAKE! Plus... his get-up, man! The silk dress-shirt he has on ‘n’ open, all royal blues fading into whites and cuffed at the elbows, with a simple golden cross hanging low into the dips of his fuzzed sternum, yeah it’s nice and tasteful enough, but it’s damn near CRIMINAL how severe the v-cut of his grey wife-beater is, leaving nothing to the imagination below the collar-bone, and stretched TIGHT at the chest too, so not only do you spot something floral inked delicately enough to curl up the right side of his neck radiating out from that general area, but..!
You spot the distinct shapes of two twin studs, obvious under the fabric, right there, and on either side of both of his—
A pointed cough.
Oh.
Right.
There’s a face to go with that bod.
Whoops.
“Así...”
You let your eyes trail upward.
“Tus ojos funcionan mucho mejor que tu oído, ¿eh?”
Defined cheekbones, a full head of light-brown, curly hair spilling out from under a red bucket hat down to the nape of his neck, a strong, stubbled jawline complimented by a short goatee framing his (full and glossy) lips and curling down past his chin, he’s smiling down at you sardonically, his (pretty) brown eyes lidded and glittering in amusement underneath long, thick eyelashes.
Of course, of COURSE this damn miclo is handsome, too. Just your goddamn luck, huh?!
“¿Mi... carro, caballero?”
“o-OH! Uhh...” You flounder, face hotter than the damn furnace outside as you scramble for a reply. “Yo siento... I uh... no conozco-NO, uh shit uh... yo no sabes...?”
You shake your head.
“Sorry man, I don’t-”
You shake your hand under your throat, a bit too frantically for your liking.
“I don’t uh... no habla la lengua bueno, y’know?” You laugh, but it comes out as a dry cough more than anything else. “Spanish... it ain’t my strong suit, man. Sorry about that.”
The bigger man chuckles, and something about how deep and booming it sounds vibrates pleasantly in your lower gut.
“Ah, tato tato, pana, is all good,” he replies with a dismissive wave. “Your Spanish is not... too bad. No worry yourself.”
“Uh... Gracias, dude. Yo uh...” You scratch at your scalp. “¡Yo vas a... a pruebar mi mejor para ti!”
Finger-guns out, you hit him with (what you hope is) an award-winning smile.
“Customer’s satisfaction is el nombre del juego ‘round here, man. You made a good choice dropping your ride off here, we get shit coming out tits-I MEAN. Tight! Yeah man, super, super tight.”
“’Tight,’ eh?” He asks, really enunciating that last ‘T’ with a (very attractive) smirk.
With a soft laugh, the other huero leans over onto the countertop, his hand cradling his chin and his v-neck giving you an exceedingly generous view down his shirt.
“Tell me, Mister Tight,” the customer says, looking at you under his long eyelashes. “From where comes you? I... do not think that I can forget una cara tan chula como la tuya after leaving my ride here.”
There’s a hint of teeth in his smile, and something about the sight makes you squirm a little harder.
...They really gotta do something about these damn seats, man! They’re mad uncomfortable!
“OH, uh... me? I don’t work here, man! I live in the area, I’m tight with— I mean… friends of the owners, y’know… here on a day trip, all that other shit, you know how it goes.”
Recovering a bit, you dust off your knuckles against your shoulder, reclining to look more casual as you make a show of checking your nails.
“I don’t blame you for thinking that, though,” you say lightly, giving him a sidelong smirk from beneath your lashes. “I get that a lot ‘round here from peeps who don’t know any better. The b-boy threads hide it, but I’m tellin’ ya, man-”
You make another show of flexing your (unearned) biceps with a (very unearned) smirk.
“This car shit is no joke, man, I’m rocking gains on GAINS thanks to this place man- like, you seein’ all of this? Crazy!”
“Que chévere...”
Laser focused on your (embarrassing) display, the customer hums in agreement.
“Pero...”
He stands back up with a gentle huff, hand on one hip and the other lightly tapping his cheek as he regards you, all mock-contemplative.
“For me, those baggy clothes... They no favour your... massive gains at all, pana.”
He tilts his head, and the new grin he has aimed square at you is nothing short of ravenous.
“Maybe I can help you out of them, one day?”
Your brain screeches to a halt, and his expression drops to a more concerned one when he spots your dumbfounded, red faced, and utterly shell-shocked expression.
“Ehhh... ¿Tú vives, tíguere?”
He looks at you.
You look at him.
“...huh?”
Incredible.
Keep this stellar performance up and maybe Willie will finally have a fellow lobotomite to go head to head with next season.
“I did not... interrupt your brain too bad, eh?” He asks, worried brows furrowed in a distressingly familiar way-
“I’M ALL GOOD MAN—I mean... JESUS, this HEAT, am I right? It’s like the damn AC is painted on or some shit like a guy can barely THINK in this heat- is it hot in here, it feels really hot in here—I MEAN.”
Taking a cleansing breath, you flounder back onto the countertop, hands steepled and supporting your chin, all con calma ‘n’ shit.
“But enough about me, dude,” you recover, which in turn relaxes him. “Tell me more about YOU. You definitely don’t sound like the other Barrio Boyzz from ‘round the block I’m used to.”
The customer chuckles again, flattered.
"Good ear, good ear,” he says. “I actually live in Oakland, but mi patria... is Quisqueya, La Bella.”
“Or...” he falters, taking in your blank expression. "the Republic of the Dominican, my friend.”
“Ooooh, the DR, huh?” You start, finding your metaphorical footing. “You guys got those customs with the big-ass, BANGING speaker setups, right? Y’know... the ones where you can feel the bass all up in your bones when they’re set up right! I know there’s a word for ‘em though... coo-KEH-roh... choo-CHA-choo-”
“You are thinking chuchero, pana,” the man replies candidly, eyes lighting up with delight. “I believe that el termino en ingles es, como se di’e, "Ghetto Blaster?"
“For just one of ‘em, maybe!” You fire back, more than a little charmed by his misspeak. “Right idea though, shit hits like a fuckin’ tank blasting through the Tenderloin, but the average “ghetto blaster” up here is just a boombox, man! You might know ‘em as uh...”
You snap in recollection, hoping that for once your third-rate Caló doesn’t fail you now.
“Y’know... OH!”
You smirk in preparation. You’re gonna blow his mind with this shit, son.
“¿Mi amigo, usted la llama suya “gabacha”, sí?”
Heh. Never let anyone say you ain’t “learn-ed.”
“Te la comiste,” he croons, rewarding your efforts with a golf clap landing somewhere on the nicer end of patronizing. “We also call your solo gabachas “boomboxes” or “speakers” at home, no special word for them, but to encounter a fellow musicólogo is always a happy surprise.”
“Yeah well...” You chuckle, maybe just a little bashful over the praise. “When your best friend’s a mecánico loco, you kinda pick up the lingo here or there, ya sabe lo que pasa.”
However, any momentary triumph you feel gets tossed head-first out the window when, with another airy and amused laugh, the customer leans back down onto the counter...
“No sea así, papí~” he croons, voice thick and syrupy as he smoothly gets all up in your face...
...and gently tilts your chin up with just the side of his pointer finger.
“Are we return to usted now, Mr. Tight? I was hoping we were knowing more of each other, were we not?”
Woah.
You gulp, eyes wide and face burning.
...The stool’s probably completely unsalvagable at this point.
Just a complete goner.
“WELL-” you choke out, before gathering your bearings—man just chill out and match his energy!
“I mean...” Recovering a bit, you gently push his hand out of your face. “I can’t be knowing more of a guy like you without a name to call ‘em... right, panna?”
Nonplussed by your earlier flailing, he huffs out another soft laugh, his brown eyes damn near sparkling with amusement.
“Yala, that’s true,” he concedes, one hand back under his chin while the other sifts through his (ridiculously tight) capris pockets somewhere out of your line of sight. “When I work, my fans in the crowd call me DJ Javoc, but you, mi tigríto-”
His elbow lands back on the counter-top with a dull thud, flipping out something between his pointer and middle finger.
“-can call me Javier.”
And, with a dazzling smile, the customer- no, Javier, hands you his card with a flourish.
“Ooooh, fancy fan-SEE,” you whistle, eyes drawn to the bold, stylized roaring lion smack dab in the middle of the card. “Should have taken you for the artsy type, man, this looks sick!”
“¿Ta’ jevi, eh?” Javier grins. “But no, your big friend, the one with the tattoos and the... how you say, ‘massive gains’, he did this for me.”
“Oh, Angel? He made this?” You take a closer look at the card, your homie’s specific artistic touch all over it and all the more obvious to you now that you’ve been made aware.
“You made a DAMN good call on that, man!” You exclaim brightly. “You ask him to do anything and that shit’ll go triple platinum like, every time. Sick-ass sketches, tattoos, those dinky little vinyl figs they sell at record shops sometimes; don’t be surprised if your carro’s frickin’ flying over traffic once you get it back, he does GREAT work!”
Javier hums in agreement.
“I think that my Sedan has flew enough for a lifetime, pana,” he chuckles. “But... your friend must be... very good with his hands, eh?”
Eyes lidded and smirking, he holds your gaze all steady-like after saying that, almost as if... as if he’s challenging you to respond in some way. Not in a way where he’s rearing for a fight or anything like that, but...?
“Well, yeah dude, he’s crafty as FUCK with those dedos of his, it’s unbelievable!”
“Diaaache, ‘ta bien saberlo.”
He laughs again with that booming, bassy laugh of his, and you get the feeling that you’re missing something important-
“AYOOO, P-DAWG! THE BUG’S BEEN UNBUGGERED, MAN!”
Ah. Speak of the... angel.
“Took you two bastards long enough!” You holler after him as you see him approach. “That dude better be paying you triple after fixing all of that, that shit was NASTY—wait...”
“Where’s your shirt, man?”
Blinking, Angel looks down, arms out, and with that accursed titty tattoo making its presence known behind the thin straps of his grey undershirt.
“Huh—? Oh yeah! Had a few close calls back there workin’ that piece of shit, so I just kept it off so I wouldn’t go hella loco tryna keep it clean-”
He’s looking behind you, and suddenly his face brightens.
“Well shiiiit, now look who it is! Big Jav! ¿Qué lo qué, mi compa?”
You turn to see Javier (eyes focused at a point below Angel’s face, for whatever reason) who, with a wink aimed your way, drops the pen back on the counter and wordlessly slides something closer towards you, before his face brightens and he walks over to Angel, arms outstretched.
“¡Ah, Angel! Todo tranquilo, mi amor,” he replies jovially, which makes you pause—your Spanish may be dogshit, but you know enough of it to know what those last two words usually mean—but Angel’s loud laugh in response as he daps ‘n’ claps Javier up in greeting eases any lingering confusion.
“¿Yo e'pero que mi zafacóncho no ‘u te dio hay muchos problemas, Big Man?”
“Euhhhhhh,” Angel hums, mad-casual even for him as he slings an arm over his broad shoulders. “No fue tanto desmadre, ‘mano. ¡Había todas cosas pequeñas, light work ‘n’ shit man, no hay pex!”
He’s really upping the charm here and... wait, did you just catch him taking a peak down Javier’s shirt—? Nah man, no way. You’re probably just seeing things.
“¿No te esperaste mucho rato, eh?” Angel asks. “Se que el clima estuvo de la verga hoy, ¡pero nada que una chela fría no podría aliviane!”
“¡Oiga, joven!” Snapping quickly, he mimes flagging down a waiter. “¡Dame una fría, por favor!”
“Una Obama, nunca una Bush, cabrón. ¡Mi amigo y yo queremos sólo sus mejors Presidentes del botellero!”
They both cackle at that, and all you could do is ponder what the hell presidents had to do with the average high quality brew.
“Pero sí, yo había e’perado para un chin aqui,” Javier says, a lil’ cheek to his timbre as he turns towards you.“Pero... tu amiguito me hizo... buena compañía.”
Angel squints at you; his expression only half-incredulous, the shithead.
“Oh? Phil? Phil Matibag? This lil’ cabulero?” Angel gestures towards you, all fake-affronted and smarmy as all hell. “Man, don’t even worry about him, he just chats to chat and run his big mouth for the hell of it; a veces el estaría hablando puro plepla, dawg, un verdadero cotorro.”
“¡No me diga!” Javier exclaims softly in reply, just as you flip tús peor compadre off with a mangled “¡Ojete!” for good measure.
“Though, Angel,” he huffs lightly, his big arms crossed and head bowed as if in deep thought. “For a man who “speaks pure nonsense,” Philip spoke of you a lot of high praises.”
“... Wait, ¿en serio?”
Cracking an eye open, Javier nods, and you try your best not to look too smug.
“Yeah well—” You forget how fast that big fucker can be, ‘cuz within the blink of an eye, Angel gonzales’s his way to the countertop and has one arm hugging you into his sweaty left pec. “I’ve been TELLIN’ this puto how good he’d be for business, Jav! He’s like one of those fuckin’ Maneki-nekos or some shit, y’know—”
(—The fucker’s even making you do the stupid pose with your damn ARM, TOO—)
“—Like those lil’ good luck cats they got at all the Asian stores ‘n’ shit! A real money maker this guy, rub his big head a few times and who knows, something good’s gotta happen!”
He then plants a nasty, exaggerated kiss to the top of your cap-clad head, like an asshole.
(You SWEAR you hear Javier mutter “among other places too, I hope...” in clear English, but maybe a face full of Angel-tit has you hearing weird shit.)
“If I’m so good for business,” you grunt, pushing the big idiot off you while he laughs, again, Like an Asshole. “You think a pay stub’s in the cards for me, jefe?”
You look at him.
He looks at you.
(And, somewhere off to the side, Javier watches the two of you guys bicker, all bemused ‘n’ shit.)
“...And a COMEDIAN too! I’m tellin’ ya holmes, this lil’ fucker’s a riot—!”
“Can you go give the man his damn car already?” You shout after him, landing on the countertop in a heap—you would have given the culero grande a good shove, but he dodged that shit like it was nothing—as he skips towards the other man, still laughing.
“'Course dawg! The hell do you take me for? This is my business, after all.”
Brushing you off with one last dismissive peace sign, him and Javier get back to chatting in rapid-fire Spanish, and while they meander towards the courtyard, and you find yourself just observing the two.
Angel’s all high energy, big gestures and even bigger expressions, clearly fishing for reactions from the other man, versus Javier who’s a bit more restrained in comparison. His arms are loosely folded and his reactions are more subtle sure, but he’s clearly engaged, hanging off of Angel’s every word with a hawk-eyed focus that his casual stance wouldn’t otherwise suggest off rip.
The contrast is... more than a little familiar, now that you’re thinking on it—
Jav catches you staring—Angel currently in the middle of another one of his many work stories—and instead of saying anything, he gestures to something on the countertop, a delicate point-n-jab while glancing back and forth between you and it.
What is he—
You look down and spot his business card.
And as you pick it up to get a better look, you see it, written down in a neat but blocky scrawl and... signed off with a heart—?
Is a phone number.
...A phone number that sure isn’t either of the ones already listed on the contact info.
Gobsmacked, you look back up only to lock eyes with Jav, who—thumb and pinkie out and bracketing his ear—smiles all slow and syrupy while he mouths something at you that looks an awful lot like “Llámame.”
Oh.
Ohhhhhhhhhh shit.
Then he’s back to chatting with Angel, and you find yourself sinking deeper into the stool, your face aflame.
It’s not... it’s NOT like you’re offended or anything. You’re definitely not a ‘phobe, and considering your geographical location, you’re obviously primed to have met many a gay while living in the Tenderloin. Hell, like any other straight guy your age, you’ve experimented here-or-there, whacked off to the occasional co-ed romp when the pickings were slim, so you know it’s like... TOTALLY NORMAL to think of a guy once in a while in the place of a chick when getting handsy, Cali’s a progressive place, it’s all bueno here, or whatever the fuck.
You just... wouldn’t have expected a guy as chill and lowkey as Javier to be—
(Angel’s currently flexing at him, probably showing off again Like An Asshole, and Jav’s rubbing his thumb back and forth over his bicep, grinning wide and mad deliberate with it.)
... Okay, who the HELL were YOU kidding, the dude’s totally Butt-Humpin’ Brigadier levels of gay, ain’t no doubt about it!
If anything, you found it kinda... flattering that a dude as tastefully flamin’ as Jav would give a guy like you the time of day instead of—
Wait.
You look ahead, again.
Javier and Angel are still chatting, the former’s hands off the latter’s gains while they shoot the shit, but—there, he did it AGAIN—Angel took another peak down his shirt, not dissimilar to...
To... The lady customer who stopped by earlier.
No way.
No fuckin’ way.
You can’t tear your eyes away from them now: Javier seeming to have noticed Angel taking a peak, and instead of getting defensive, he just starts... flexing his tit. A move that Angel’s clearly rockin’ with considering the slow, approving leer that spreads across his face as he watches.
And you KNOW that leer; you’ve seen it work its magic on so many P.Y.Ts out in the wild, you’ve seen it anytime he finds a Selena Spice pinup he hadn’t seen before—
... you’ve even had that leer aimed at you more than once in passing, looking back.
Reeling, and with nothing else to focus on, you’re back to watching Jav and Angel again.
They’re back to cackling, more homie-like versus the public eye-fucking they were just partaking in, and it’s crazy how effortlessly they can switch back and forth between the two vibes, like who even DOES THAT—
But then, you see it.
It’s faint, but it surrounds both Angel and Javier, floating around them like a gentle ocean wave. Angel’s earthy greens and Jav’s golden yellows mixing together seamlessly to create a perfect tropical blend the two colours, no swirls or gaps, just pure, maximized chemistry.
No way.
NO FUCKIN’ WAY.
Their auras were completely blended.
