Chapter Text
The voice is an immediate follow-up to the ring of the brass bell at the door.
“How’s my favorite nightly customer?”
Shiro snorts, and shakes off the raindrops clinging to the rim of his hat. He steps into the cramped little corner store, catching eyes with the man standing behind the counter.
“Aren’t I your only nightly customer?”
Hunk laughs. “If that makes you feel special, my friend.”
It doesn’t.
But Shiro appreciates that the young man keeps his old man’s store open at night to catch late evening strollers such as himself. He much prefers it like this, when the streets are empty and the only sound in the store is the crackling blues playing on the radio. At midnight, there’s no one around to whisper. No lingering stares clinging to the empty space where his right arm should be.
He picks a bottle of milk off the shelf, grabs a pair of apples. He sets them on the counter, where Hunk has already put out a pack of cigarettes. Shiro offers him a faint smile, and wonders if perhaps he visits too often if Hunk has begun to feel ready to assume.
Or perhaps it’s just nice; someone being attentive of his habits.
Shiro digs in the pocket of his coat for his wallet, and catches in the corner of his eye one of the window lights flickering, now for the third time since he walked in. Catching Hunk’s eye he nods toward the window. “Ought to get that old thing fixed.”
The young man shrugs, accepting the cash Shiro reaches him. “You dabble in electrics, Shirogane?”
“Never said that.” Shiro tucks his wallet away, and lets Hunk pack up his things.
“One never knows with you,” Hunk slides the paper bag to him. “Gone through more job descriptions than years on earth, you have.”
To that, Shiro offers no response. He just grabs his groceries, and retreats to the door. With another polite nod to his friend, he turns to leave.
“See you around, Garret.” he calls over his shoulder.
“Until next time, pal!”
◢ ◣◢ ◣
It’s not like Hunk meant anything by what he said. Shiro knows that. But it doesn’t quite matter where the words come from, when you’ve decided upon their meaning beforehand.
It’s been eight years since the war ended. Eight years. Still, he wakes up screaming into the night. Feels pain radiate in the limb that hasn’t been there for a long, long time.
But there are more things than life and limbs that you stand to lose in the shoes of a soldier. Shiro is splendid proof of that. He came home missing so much more than the arm that blew to pieces by the force of a german shotgun.
When his mother waved him off, he was twenty-three years old. A first generation American with everything to prove. Twenty-five years prior, his parents were among the first to leave their home behind in search of a peaceful life. A free, simple life. But things were never as simple as one would wish, and even in the land of the free their family was met with hardship and struggle. His father fell ill just after Shiro was born, and passed away before he knew him. His mother, alone with an infant on her arm and barely speaking the language, turned to church.
They found their place with God. Shiro grew up helping his mother in the church’s garden and cemetery, tending to plants and stones alike. It was their little secret, the nameless slab of stone beneath which they buried his father’s ashes. Shaded by an aging willow, he would sit and talk to his father, because everyone said that Ryou Shirogane lived on with God even if he wasn’t a follower. If he was a good man, heaven was where he was.
Shiro believed that.
And he believed it still, when he shipped out. Held onto faith, even when it seemed like no good God could rain such misery upon his people as what he saw in the war. He prayed for the friends he made, and the ones he lost. He prayed forgiveness and swore to never act upon the sinful ideas that came over him whenever the morning light caught upon the curve of his bunkmate’s naked back.
But on that foggy afternoon in a mud trench, when everything went dark, he knew that something in him had changed.
They told him he was lucky. That for over a minute, he was gone. That they brought him back. That he should thank his lucky saint he made it.
But there had been no saint, no light. No guiding hands holding his when his mortal soul left the flesh behind. There had been nothing.
Nothing but darkness where his father should have been there to greet him.
He was sent home different. Broken, with his faith left in shards somewhere at an army hospital in France.
It broke his mother’s heart, more so than the physical damage done to him when he stopped attending church. She’d still find him, poking around the church garden the best he could with only one arm, but despite her best efforts he never set his foot within those doors again.
Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps the things he did in the war were to blame. Maybe there is a God, but the blood on his hands and the sins on his mind are too much to spare him space above. Surely, if he deserved a place in heaven, then heaven would have been what he saw.
Now, many years have come and gone, and Shiro has long since come to terms with that he will one day find out which theory holds true. He doesn’t see the point in wallowing, anymore. It may have left him a little lesser, but it’s nothing he can do much about. What’s to fill the emptiness that your entire world view leaves behind?
Nothing, as of yet.
And it turns out, meaning and belonging are crucial when it comes to the human experience. That is, if you want to keep a job for longer than a couple of months. It’s hard to put your efforts in when you don’t care. Harder still when you’ve got nothing to lose, and thus can’t keep neither tongue nor fist in check.
He gets by, but it’s hardly consistent. And one day he’ll run out of places that are willing to give him a go.
◢ ◣◢ ◣
The rain has been coming down since this afternoon, pooling in every crevice and valley on the sidewalk. It makes the night appear less dark, somehow, with the street light bouncing off the falling drops and the puddles that they make. The smattering, rushing sounds are loud in the late night, and it’s soothing, in a way.
That is, until he hears the tires screeching down the corner, the voices carrying through the rain.
It’s not unexpected, and not the first time. He sure as hell doesn’t live in the best neighbourhood. But it’s the first time he’s been so close, practically walking into something that he definitely shouldn’t. Shouldn’t, but there’s no stopping his feet from turning that corner.
Fifty feet or less away, much too close for comfort, two cars block the road where they’ve come to a stop. It’s hard to see through rain and fog, with the headlights throwing light in all the wrong directions. But he sees them, two figures in the space between the two cars, yanking a third from the driver’s seat of the vehicle furthest from where Shiro stands.
“Fellas, fellas! Easy on the tie-” a voice cuts through the air, pitched high with nerve.
There’s a rumble of angry voices, garbled by the rain. But Shiro would need to be dumb not to understand the situation. There’s a barely audible grunt from the third man, caught between the other two and slumping over.
Shiro doesn’t think.
Through the veil of light and water, they don’t see him coming, even as he barrels in between the cars. The collar that crumples in Shiro’s fist is damp and warm, and he feels the seam tear when he uses the leverage to send the guy flying over the hood of one of the vehicles. There are screams, a threatening voice. A fist swishes past his face, missing by half an inch. Shiro retaliates with a blow of his own. He doesn’t miss. There’s a familiar but sickening sound of bone breaking, the strangers nose giving way to Shiro’s knuckles that bounce back blood stained.
There’s a shout of “Get in, get in!” as the car the first man went over revs to life on the wet pavement, and Shiro allows for the broken nose to bolt toward the passenger door.
A mechanical roar and a faceful of exhaust smoke, and the goons are gone down the same corner from where Shiro just came running.
Slowly, his vision starts to clear. He hears the thunder of his heart, his panting breaths, as the fight starts to slip from his bones. He unclenches his fist, flexes his fingers that have begun to ache.
He’s barely even aware of the man sitting wide eyed on the pavement, until he speaks.
“By golly-” he wheezes, starting to rise to his feet. “That was one proper kiss to the snout.”
Shiro gives the guy a onceover. Gangly, young, sandy brown hair caught in a shaggy ponytail. He would’ve snapped like a matchstick in a fight with those two.
“Thought I was getting croaked there.” the stranger drags a hand across his face. “Guess I’ll live another day yet.”
Shiro says nothing, but watches the man stalk over to the open driver’s side door on his vehicle. Looking inside, Shiro notices a second person, slumped in the passenger seat. The driver pokes at the guy, who gives a little grunt.
“You good?”
The response is another grunt, followed by a ragged sigh. The man with the ponytail seems to deem this good enough, straightening up with his hands on his hips, nodding slowly. Then he turns to Shiro, finally giving him a good look.
“Who are you? Boss send you?” he squints at Shiro, who raises a sceptical brow. This man sure is an odd fellow.
“No one sent me.” he settles on saying, and decides he’s had enough excitement for tonight. He turns on his heel, walking back toward where he’d dropped his grocery bag in the moment. “But you’re welcome.”
The bag is a soggy mess in a puddle, foggy grey as the water mixes with the milk that’s spilled from the broken bottle. On inspection, the apples are crushed, pierced with shards of glass.
The cigarettes are fine, though. Small blessings.
“Hey, big guy-” ponytail is next to him again, looking down on the remains of Shiro’s midnight shopping and then back at Shiro. He smiles, a crooked thing. “You should come by the gin mill where I work some night.”
Shiro blinks at the stranger. He hardly seems like a bartender.
When Shiro doesn’t answer, Ponytail continues.
“We could use a mountain like you,” he says with a grin, and sticks a card at Shiro. “Just tell’em you’re there to see Holt, they’ll let you right in.”
He tucks the card into Shiro’s front pocket, gives the wet wool a pat. Then he skips back to the car and leaves with a cheery honk of the horn.
Shiro stands dumbstruck in the rain, wondering what exactly just happened.
◢ ◣◢ ◣
He doesn’t think he’ll consider it. Not after that ludicrous meeting. And yet, he finds himself with the little card caught between his fingers more than once in the next few days.
It’s Saturday night, and he’s been sitting on his couch for hours since he woke. This morning, he was down by the docks, loading produce onto a cargo ship. After, he’d fallen into bed and slept for most of the day. He woke late in the afternoon, pleasantly sore from tough labor and a decent penny richer than he’d been at sunrise.
Now, fresh out of the bath and back on the couch once more, he’s twirling the card, rereading the print for what must be the hundredth time. It’s plain white, with black and purple ink spelling out the bar's name and address.
We could use a mountain like you .
He can’t help but wonder for what exactly Ponytail had meant the place could use his services. Security? Something tells him there’s probably more to it than a normal employment at a cocktail bar. There was something about those fellows. Ponytail was too unphased by the situation, the violence of it all. As if such things weren’t out of the ordinary, getting dragged out of his car and beaten.
And he had asked whether his boss had sent for Shiro.
He realizes there’s a good chance the work would be questionable at best. So why can’t he stop thinking about it?
Why does he know he’ll be going, even when all signs tell him not to?
The card lands on the glass top coffee table. With a groan, he sits up. There’s no fooling himself with these questions. He knows why.
It wasn’t right, in any sense of the word, but what happened Tuesday night had felt like something that he needed. It doesn’t make any logical sense, but there was something in the way Ponytail carried himself, the way he spoke to Shiro. Just the fact he didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of a scarred, one armed man bursting in from out of nowhere. There was something comforting in that.
And he can’t help, after all this time, to want to go after that feeling.
◢ ◣◢ ◣
Shiro isn’t sure when was the last time he ironed his best trousers. When he last bothered with a tie. But when he tips his hat back to take a look at the building towering in front of him, he’s glad he made the effort.
Up-beat jazz travels seeps through the brick walls, to which a pair of dolled up women sway where they stand in the crowd lining up outside the entrance. Above their heads, mounted on the facade and lined with twinkling light bulbs, a metal sign reflects the same logo as the card tucked in Shiro’s back pocket. Except, where on the card there is just a purple print in a neat font, reading “Marmora” - the real thing has a twirly and pink add-on sitting underneath the name.
Bar & burlesque.
For a moment, Shiro hesitates. He used to hear about these places, way back when. About scantily clad women entertaining on stage, in places where honor and decency were left by the door. He never doubted it for a moment, when his elders at the church told him about these gateways to hell, and how no child of Jesus should never put his foot in such a venue.
There were moments in the war, when his mates would speak of them; these women, how they dreamed at night of their twirling hemlines and heels. The flutter of black lashes, pretty painted lips. And they would tease him, for wrinkling his nose at their words. Tell him he was missing out, devoted to a life of no fun and games.
But that devotion is long since gone, and the initial reflex to turn away is something he can quickly swallow.
The thought of chippies stripping down to their stockings may still not be of interest to him, but perhaps a place lacking decency and shame could make a good home, for someone like him.
He ducks his head, darting past the crowd and ignoring the disgruntled murmurs it earns him. When he reaches the front, a man with a sour expression crosses his arms over a bulky chest where he stands guarding the velvet rope. He doesn’t speak, but Shiro doesn’t need him to.
“I’m here for Holt,” Shiro says and flashes the card caught between his pointer and longfinger. It’s all it takes. The bouncer nods, and reaches for the clasp on the rope to let Shiro past.
Inside, the music bounces gently off the walls in the foyer. A five-step staircase leads him to a second door, where a woman in a sky blue dress and pearly white hair greets him welcome from her little podium.
“Do you have a party waiting?” she asks, fingers skimming over her papers.
Shiro shakes his head, as a second woman with a hanger in hand gently asks to take his coat. He shrugs it off, and doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen when she catches the tied off sleeve on the jacket beneath. He fishes his wallet from the inner pocket, and allows dainty hands to take the charcoal wool from him. She disappears with a little nod and a smile after taking his name.
The woman in blue gestures toward the open double doors.
“I wish you a lovely evening, Mr. Shirogane. Welcome to Marmora.”