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When the bell above the door chimes, Kyle glances up from the scribbled cartoon of a hooters Hal as the arguably hottest person to ever exist casually strolls in. He’s around the same height as Kyle, with long freckled legs underneath a slutty pair of red running shorts with powerful thighs, and a blue crop-top that’s baggy around the shoulders but cuts above the belly—showing more freckles trailing up a set of modest abs, then Kyle finds his eyes and finally looks up at the guy’s face. The customer (he reminds himself while sorting through his pick-up lines) is looking right at him. He strolls up to the counter, Kyle shifts back to accommodate, and he drums his fingers over the mess of papers; there’s a pixelated Sonic jpeg on his shirt and about a million more freckles on his face.
“Hey,” Kyle says, infusing his voice with that California charm. “Whatcha looking for today?”
The guy smiles, showing dimples dear god. “Does Hal know you’re slacking off?” All of the fuzzy yummy dirty thoughts disappear from his mind, like slamming the laptop shut as a teenager when his mom walked in.
“What.”
A pale skinny finger points to the paint buckets stacked on-top each other and pushed to the corner of the store instead of neatly put away on the color-coordinated shelves. “You got that paint shipment this morning, and it’s afternoon now.”
A flash of red-hot irritation hits Kyle, and a little bit of nervous-fear, because he needs this job and it’s only his third day and who does this guy think he is; is he a secret shopper? He was 90% sure they didn’t do that for mechanics, plus, “Hal slacks off more than I do,” he responds, hotly, then wonders if this is some bizarre flirting tactic.
“He still gets the job done.”
There’s something forming under Kyle’s tongue in response, but he doesn’t get the chance to speak because Hal takes that chance to finally come back from his smoke break he took two hours ago. His boss smiles widely and goes, “Wally!” and Wally goes, “Hal!” and the two embrace like long lost lovers. Hal squeezes the stranger hard and fiercely then turns to Kyle, with his arm around the guy’s shoulder and Kyle’s not jealous at all. “I see you’ve met my nephew.”
Oh.
“Wally, this is Kyle, the new guy.”
Wally’s eyes are green and sharp as they meet Kyle’s. It’s infuriating; he’s torn between wanting to punch his rosy mouth with his knuckles or his lips. It’s pretty telling which one he’s leaning towards. “I can tell.”
- -
Apparently they’re not real uncle-nephew, but ‘might as well be legit’, as Hal explains over a shared joint passing between the two of them. They’re in the back of the store where they do the wielding—so lots of dangerous objects and repeated warning signs plastered over every place. Kyle eyes one that’s boldly worded as he exhales a circle of smoke. Wally’s actual uncle and Hal were the best of friends before something happened—Hal doesn’t say what—and Hal looked out for Wally in the aftermath.
Kyle licks his lips and leans out, stretching his arm across the desk to Hal to offer it back. “Say..” He feels like a scumbag asking, but he’d feel worse if he doesn’t. “Is he legal?”
Hal laughs hard. His fingers dip close to the saw, off, for now, and Kyle hopes he doesn’t drop the joint. He didn’t pay for it, but it’s expensive and there’s still a lot left. “He’s older than you by.. I dunno, two years? I know, he doesn’t look like it. He should go into modeling,” his boss winks.
- -
Wally doesn’t come in every day, but most. He’s always in some configuration of a running outfit; the colors never coordinate, the red sneakers with yellow laces beat to hell are the only constant, but when the shorts are short, Kyle appreciates it, though there’s no subtle way to ask Wally to pick up something from the ground. He’s got a quick mouth and opinions on how Kyle does his job. Always ‘that’s shelved out of place’ and ‘that’s not the standard greeting, isn’t it written down’ (it’s faded and stained with coffee spills, so it’s practically illegible, and Kyle’s charm is what got him hired in the first place; there’s still a freshly laminated one the next day, undoubtedly Wally’s work), like Wally’s his boss and not the boss’ not-nephew who only drops in to raid the communal fridge.
One day Kyle walks in and Wally’s sitting at the rickety table with the missing leg eating Kyle’s lunch. It’s the sort of situation where he freezes and doesn’t believe his eyes, because his mom made his favorite meal and he wrote his name on it with a sharpie. “Dude.”
Wally glances up, meeting his eyes with those gorgeous greens, and shoves another large bite into his mouth. “Hi,” he says around a mouthful of Kyle’s food.
“Motherfucker. You know that’s mine.”
Kyle stalks forward and pulls the glass tupperware from him. The damage has already been done, there’s hardly two bites left, maybe three if he’s feeling peckish—which he’s not, considering it’s his lunch break and he was already late coming in.
“Sorry.” Wally swallows. He does not look apologetic. “I was hungry. I still am, so if you’re not gonna finish that…”
Kyle takes the fork from him and eats the rest quickly, in one bite, solely out of spite. The fork is warm from the heated leftovers, but also from Wally’s mouth, and there’s probably some of his saliva Kyle can’t taste under the spice. It burns pleasantly going down his throat. When he pulls the fork out of his mouth, he does it slowly, double-checking to make sure Wally’s eyes are on him.
Wally sighs, throwing his head back over the equally rickety chair, leaning all the weight on its back legs. “Now what I am gonna do for lunch..”
Kyle sticks his leg out and kicks the chair over.
- -
The next week, Kyle opens the store alone. It’s his job, so he doesn’t complain, even though Hal is supposed to open with him and never gets there on time. This day, he figures Hal’s running half an hour to three hours late, and starts the process of turning on the lights and opening the registers when something loud crashes in the backroom.
His first thought is raccoons, then bears, then someone broke in. He takes a tire iron and wraps his hand around the handle, gripping it tightly, fingers folded around themselves, like he did with a baseball bat when his father taught him how to swing. The lights buzz obnoxiously above him as he creeps back through the store; there’s a shadowed person huffing as their form climbs up from– tripping? Setting bombs?
They move too quickly for Kyle’s sleep-added, paranoid brain to catch up, so he reacts on instinct when they get too close and swings the iron. It smacks right into their stomach. A yelp emerges from them that sounds distinctly like Wally’s. Oh god, it’s Wally.
“Don’t shoot!” Wally jokes, even with one arm wrapped around his midriff. The tire iron goes clattering to the concrete floor. “Ouch.. why did you hit that hard?”
Kyle smacks his hand over the break room light-switch. Fluorescent yellow highlights the orange mess of Wally’s hair. Concern rages like a thunder storm and outrage cries like lightning, “I thought you were a burglar!”
“Why would someone rob a mechanic shop?”
“Why the hell would you break in?”
Wally grimaces, then smiles impishly. “Hal’s gone. No, no, like, for a couple weeks? At the very least. I’m filling in.”
A wave of resolve washes over him. He sits down on that stupidly old chair and scrubs his hand over his face, knotting his fingers in his dark hair. His heart is thundering behind his ears. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He never tells anyone. He just does it. It used to drive Uncle Barry crazy.” Wally precariously leans against the table beside him. He’s wearing an outrageously yellow tank-top with a lighter yellow lightning strike in the center, it blends in so well there’s virtually no point to it. His arm stays loosely around himself; his body hair is thin, short, and light. “He’d go chasing after him. Maybe have a bar fight. Laugh and drag him home.”
“And there’s no telling when he’d be back?”
Wally shakes his head. His eyes scrutinize Kyle in the morning light streaming through the dirty windows; later, Wally complains about how it was his job to clean them before they opened. “Y’know, I’m surprised he didn’t take you with him.”
There’s something there that Kyle’s missing.
Wally’s laugh sounds like how artificial bubblegum tastes. “No, he never took me. Barry would’ve killed him.” Then he turns to the side and pukes up blood over Kyle’s shoes.
He takes Wally to the hospital. Getting hit full-out with the blunt force of a tire-iron caused enough damage for—Kyle doesn’t know, internal bleeding?—though Wally tried to get out of it by saying he doesn’t have health insurance—which is valid in this day ‘n age, but definitely not Kyle’s problem.
“You know this is your fault,” Wally slurs in the backseat of the truck Kyle bought off Guy, red shine over his lips that Kyle knows is from the blood yet it still looks good on him; that’s why Snow White has red lips, he understands now. “You’re so bad at your job.”
“If you were an actual burglar, I would’ve saved the store,” and possibly gotten a murder charge, might still get one if he doesn’t floor it through the next several red lights.
Turns out Wally was lying about the health insurance though, cuz while Kyle’s in the waiting room, drawing memories on a sketchbook he took out of his car, a hurried looking woman comes in asking about him. For the longest time after, he thinks this was Wally’s mom, but when he brings it up to Guy, he gets laughed at.
—
He’s sorting through inventory—laughing and cursing at Hal’s outrageous labeling system; Boobs for B and so on—when the front desk phone rings. “Lantern Mech’s Incorporated, we got the grease for your slippery needs.”
“That… is not the greeting. Didn’t I write it down?” Wally’s voice is sleepy, half-slurred from what Kyle hopes is pain meds and not another intestine rupture. There’s rustling of voices in the background, the high-pitched wheeze of a child’s laughter.
“People love my greeting.”
“No, it sucks. Have you-”
“Yes.”
“And-”
“Yes.”
Wally huffs into the phone. It crackles in Kyle's ear, an incompatible sound to the real thing; wonders what Wally's breath would feel like exhaled against his neck. “Let me finish.” Kyle waits. “Did you-”
Kyle hangs up the phone and takes a smoke break.
– -
It should’ve taken a couple weeks for Wally to come back, but Kyle finds him in the office only a few days later, his back bent over a stack of manila folders and a yellow highlighter in his mouth, methodically flipping through white papers and outlining whatever seems to be catching his eye. He leans against the doorway and clears his throat, masking his worry through a flimsy disguise of flirty annoyance. Wally jolts, the pen falling out of his mouth.
“Do you even work here?”
“I do,” Wally frowns. “I’m just not on the payroll.”
“So you’re just here to be annoying?”
Wally rolls his eyes. “Did you think Hal only worked on the cars? There’s paperwork.” He leans back against the old, pink chair, one long leg stretched out to move himself back and forth absently. His baggy sweatshirt hides his midriff and, presumably, the bandages underneath. There’s a sudden curiosity in his expression; he wears his emotions openly. “What have you been working on?”
It’s a question Kyle doesn’t feel like answering. “You already know.” He reaches over and catches the highlighter from rolling off the desk, wiping the germs off on his jeans. The cap had been gnawed to hell.
“Grunt work,” Wally summarizes. “Glorified secretary. Unpaid intern. Lousy janitor-”
“Lousy?”
“Minimum wage cashier.” A laugh bubbles out of Wally’s throat. “You’re not doing shit, are you? What’s the point of being an apprentice if you’re not learning?”
Kyle throws the pen at him. To his chagrin, Wally ducks, and his sparkling laughter continues. “I’m learning! John showed me how to do an oil change yesterday.”
“That’s kindergarten stuff. I knew how to change oil at ten.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and works his jaw. It’s not the first time Wally has inferred he knows better, has done more, is overall a better mechanic than him despite not even being employed (and why isn’t he on the books? He stepped into Hal’s shoes like they were made for him). Determination bleeds into him like a broken fountain pen. “Then show me.”
Wally shrugs. “Alright.” Casual, like he’s calling out a bluff.
He leads them out to the garage, passing by John working on a Toyota and Guy on an unauthorized smoke break, and stopping in front of a bright red motorcycle with sharp yellow accents.
“Name the model and year,” Wally says.
Kyle fumbles, wracking his brain, then sighs. He’s never been into bikes the same way he’s into cars. “No idea.”
Wally kicks a stool over then sits down, a wince flashing through his expression before he covers it up with a dimpled grin. “Rookie,” he teases, then continues, “Ever done an oil change on the bike? I’ll teach you.”
…
“It’s Barry’s.” Wally reveals, his voice prideful, his tone woeful. He rests his hand on the seat like one caresses a lover. “I’m just keeping it in shape.”
Kyle frowns. “Yeah? When’s he coming back for it?”
The moment pops. Something dark shifts over Wally’s expression before he stands up abruptly and walks away. He stares after him, clueless, bewildered.
John gives him a look, rolling out from underneath the car. His brown eyes harbor softness despite his disapproving frown. He wants desperately to ask the story with Barry—with Hal—but John shakes his head.
—
Wally teaches him more things; how to do this and that, the correct parts, the proper gear. He’s a horribly impatient teacher, altogether rude and asshole-y, oftentimes leaving Kyle in the middle of a job to wander and do something else, but this general lack of belief in him strives Kyle to do better and prove his doubts wrong. Plus, it’s not a bad trade off to be able to openly goggle Wally under the pretense of ‘watching closely’.
In spite of drilling it into Kyle to wear protective gear, Wally still comes in wearing running shorts cuffed mid-thigh and an endless parody of cropped tees, but his shoes are always closed toe so not even John gives him shit. No one gives him shit, aside from Guy’s average teasing, and it’s not like Kyle wakes up every morning planning to ruffle Wally’s feathers, it just happens. The universe (one very annoying and offstandish redhead) is against him.
“You’ve lost music privileges.” The thumps of the 2000s rock band stops abruptly and modern pop takes its place. Kyle’s underneath an SUV, reworking on loose wires he was taught about a week ago (aka trying to remember everything), and he kicks himself out.
Wally prevents him from rolling too far. He gets a beautiful eyeful up the bottom of Wally’s loose shirt; abs and freckles galore, how the hell does this man stay in this great of shape? Multiple things come to mind that he can’t say. “You’re not the boss.”
“Seniority rules.”
“Bullshit-” Kyle has to quickly press himself down to avoid smacking his head when Wally kicks him back under. He hears the sparkling laughter as Wally walks away.
- -
Guy comes into the office and leans against the desk like he owns the place. “My paycheck's late,” he says pointedly, looking down at Kyle. So…?
“Wally dishes out the paychecks,” he explains, more confused than anything, because Guy’s the one who told him that in the first place.
Guy cocks an eyebrow.
Kyle rolls his eyes, but obediently ruffles through the papers, glancing over the hours Guy put down (hours plus commission, seriously), then stumbles across something he had no idea about. He waves Guy out as he pulls out more papers, finds streaks of yellow highlighter, black ink marks in the margins.
Someone's been skimming off the top.
- -
Wally wrinkles his nose at the cigarette burning in Kyle’s hand, and he waits for Wally to say something like ‘Those will kill you,’ and he can hear it in that annoyingly sweet-toned voice, but all Wally says about it is, “I used to run track, then I broke my ankle,” which is worse, somehow.
“How old are you?” He finally asks, as Wally takes the last embers of his cig and crushes it against the hard concrete. The afternoon sun kisses the high cheekbones of his face; Kyle is caused by an irresistible pull to drag his thumb over his skin and feel where the bone starts and ends.
“Do I look young? Hal always says that, but I don’t know.” Wally pulls out a pack of gum and gives Kyle a piece. “25.” It’s bubblegum flavored.
“You have a babyface.”
“You have gray hairs.”
Kyle shoves him. “No way you’re older than me.”
Wally jabs two fingers into Kyle’s ribs; too hard to be tickling, too light to be a punch, and Kyle tackles him in return. The two of them wrestle like cats over the dirty ground. Right when Kyle wins, pinning Wally’s arms down and leaning over him with a proud sneer, Wally blurts, “Stay with me.” His eyes are wide and blown. Typically, Wally’s an orchestra of movement, but this time he’s still.
“No,” Kyle responds, then thinks about Wally’s mouth around his stolen fork, and amends, “Fine, but I’m not paying any utilities.”
—
Wally swallows. He looks pitiful and kissable, and if Kyle had the power, he would've fired him. God, Kyle's not even the actual manager—that would be Hal, who’s been gone longer than Kyle’s known him, then Wally, who’s not even on the payroll, but he didn’t need to be, did he? Christ. He feels sick.
“Hal is okay with it-” Wally starts and Kyle cuts him off instantly, the betrayal exploding out of his mouth like fireworks on the fourth of July. He wants to be wrong. He wants so badly to have misunderstood something. “Hal is gone. Isn't that what you keep telling me? Just, god. Wally, this is thousands of dollars monthly. 30 grand last month!”
That amount of money is laughable to Kyle. He throws a hand out between them, presenting the papers (the evidence) to Wally’s grim face. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one! What the fuck are you doing?”
Pale long fingers tug on russet colored hair as Wally fidgets in place, his eyes flicking between Kyle to the floor to the door back to Kyle again, his bottom lip covered in bite marks as he practices his excuses, the perfect picture of guilt. There’s no getting out of this one. He’s backed into the corner. For once, Kyle has the upper hand and it doesn’t feel good, this isn’t what he wanted. He pleads that Wally has a formidable defense. There has to be a reason.
“I know. Okay! I know. It was only meant to be once.”
An insidious thought occurs to Kyle. Wally doesn’t even smoke, but, “Are you gambling? Or- or drugs? Are you in trouble with the mafia or something, what the hell’s going on?”
“It’s for my uncle!” Wally yells. The guilt is turning to anger; righteousness. The aim simmers with the weight of clenched jaws and unpunched fists. “It’s hospital bills.”
This reveal rolls over Kyle in a blurry wave. He thinks about his mother, he thinks about the bills piling up outside Hal’s door, “Your uncle- Barry?”
“Yeah. He got into a motorcycle accident awhile back. He lived, but his brain- it’s, he hasn’t woken up.”
“How long?”
“Kyle.”
“How long?”
Wally looks down. “Hal was okay with it.”
- -
The next day, Wally’s leaning over the edge of the couch, a cheek smashed against the upholstery, blinking at Kyle as he mops up the paint spill with an old sock, offering no help despite being the cause for the spill in the first place. He reaches one long arm out and tugs on a lock of Kyle’s hair, sending up a curse-storm and a hand batting him away.
“Ass,” Kyle says.
“My dad used to hit me,” Wally responds.
It’s jarring and spoils the mood, except Kyle leans back on his knees and responds, watching the orange paint settle into the cracks of the coffee table, “Yeah? Mine left when I was six.”
“Makes sense.”
“I know. How often did he hit you?”
Wally yawns into his elbow. Kyle glances over to him and sees a dazed angel blinking slowly at him. The paint’s not the right shade for his hair. “Until I got big enough he had to look up. Then he started asking for money.”
“You’re broke.”
“I know. Have you seen your dad since?”
“Yeah,” Kyle looks away. He starts scrubbing the damp sock into the wood again. His cuticles are stained with the color of Cheeto dust. “I’m just like him.”
“Come here,” but Wally’s voice is lazy and his cheek is in his mouth so it sounds like ‘cum’er’. Hearing that makes the heaviness of his chest lighter, allows him to turn away from the still damp mess (the sock’s useless anyways), and clamber up on his feet only to tilt into Wally’s outstretched arms. It’s an uncomfortable fit, he’s half-hanging off the couch and Wally’s hair is in his mouth. His legs are quickly trapped, as Wally hooks his ankle around his leg then wraps his arms around his shoulders and clutches him tight.
He waits for Wally to say something else, but he doesn’t. Eventually he falls asleep to Wally’s warm breath exhaling on his neck.
- -
“Do you want to meet Barry?”
Not really is his first thought, but he knows it comes from Alex and the trauma John told him he needs to work through (he doesn’t have health insurance), plus Wally’s standing there sullenly, looking small, his whole face turned towards the floor and hiding his green eyes from Kyle’s view. So he says yes and mentally preps himself to have a breakdown on the ride home.
Wally takes the motorcycle—Flash, he calls it—and easily swings his legs over. Kyle follows suit, hoisting himself up and sliding his arms around Wally’s waist, and he would press his face against his shoulder if he wasn’t forced into the helmet. He still does, just to hear Wally’s annoyed huff.
They take off towards the hospital.
Barry is hooked up to a plethora of monitors. The bedding over him is starch and baby blue, like the swaddling they wrap newborns in, the fluorescent white-hued lighting strikes caverns over his pale face, his hair is yellowed and there’s visible smile lines even though his face is resting, and he couldn’t be over fifty. He looks nothing like Wally.
There’s two chairs on either side of the bed. Kyle sits in one, leaning over to grab a ballpoint pen he stole from the receptionist’s cup, the plastic flower attachment indicates it’s not his. Wally stands at the end of the bed. He talks.
By the time his rambling has come to an end—about the shop, Iris’ grave, Hal’s disappearing act, what he ate for breakfast—it’s been two hours. Kyle finished the portrait in less.
Wally picks up the sketchbook gingerly, lightly, his fingers leaving creases over the page. For a brief striking moment, Kyle wonders if he’s crossed a line. Some people despise getting painted, and he didn’t ask, never asks really, and doesn’t regret it. There’s an expression on Wally’s face that Kyle’s never seen before, so his fingers twitch to take back the page, the scrappy hospital issued ballpoint pen yearning to sketch out the fervent awe in Wally’s eyes.
“He’d love this,” Wally mumbles. “He’s a sucker for photos- horrible at posing, that’s where I get it from, but he always had a camera. He ran out of film during my graduation.” He shakes his head. “He’d love you. God, Kyle, why does everyone love you?”
…
Wally drops his keys in the shitty ceramic bowl Kyle made when he was five. The air is fraught with tension. He clears his throat, shuffling his feet, but gets cut-off by Wally grabbing the back of his neck and tugging him into a sudden, passionate kiss.
He backs him against the front door. It’s a mess of teeth and noses, lips bruising from the force of urgency, and he shouldn’t be surprised, Wally moves through life like he’s running from something and this isn’t anything different. His fingers slip under Wally’s shirt—one of Kyle’s, he’s now positive—and map out memories of freckles he’d seen glimpses of before.
“I thought you were straight,” he says in an exhale, pressing a sloppy kiss to Wally’s jaw.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Wally retorts, and it makes Kyle flustered all over again. Hasn’t he seen enough? Bare witness to the tangled mess of Wally West’s life? If there was a painting style to describe Wally, it’d be abstract; brightly colored, chaotic, unsure what it’s meant to be. Then it hits him, and he reaches up to grab Wally’s chin, pressing his fingers deeply into his freckled cheeks, forcing him to meet his eyes.
“You’re the one who doesn’t know,” he insists. “You have no fucking clue and you’ve made it my problem. If you want me, you have to accept that I know. I feel like I know too much about you.”
“That’s a paradoxical statement.” Smart-ass. “How can you know me if I don’t?”
“That’s a dumb response. For a guy who runs so much, you can’t see past your own two feet.”
“Asshole,” Wally says, then drags him into another kiss.