I'm Glad I Could Help
20 minute fic. Took longer than I expected it to:
Sidekicking
Drinking before noon doesn’t make you an alcoholic if you don’t do it regularly, Gevanni tells himself. Besides, it’s 11:23, which means the clock could be fifteen minute slow, which means it could be 11:38, which is an almost-reasonable time for a beer with lunch.
Of course, he was cradling a whiskey, but he was in the kind of place where no one cared. The seats were made out of cracked vinyl, the pool tables leaned, the neon ‘open’ sign was barely visible between the grime on the window and the cast iron bars on the front, same as every building front on this street.
It's not that Near has really driven him to drink. It's just there's nothing to do today, he's not on Mikami's tail yet, and he has instructions to take a day off. 'Relax,' was what Rester said. 'Come on. Go out somewhere.'
“What are you doing here?” asks the person next to him. Gevanni looks over and it’s some kid, brown hair and strange clothes, goggles resting up on his forehead. Not the kind swimmers or skiers wear, either. He can’t place what they’d be used for.
“Hello?” says the kid, the man, really, he’s older than he dresses, waving a gloved hand in front of his face. He grits his jaw and answers.
“I’m drinking.”
“Only alcoholics drink before noon. Look around you.”
He has a point there. There’s a man in a booth, with a permanent flush on his cheeks. Another one, who looks like hasn’t bathed in too long, at one of the tables. The barkeeper isn’t anywhere to be seen, which is a shame. Gevanni suddenly needs another whiskey.
“What does that make you, then?”
“Matt. Professional sidekick.” Matt shakes his drink at him, and it takes Gevanni a moment to figure out why. Oh. Some kind of soda, theoretically non-alcoholic. Adorable.
“Stephen. Sidekick of the sidekick of the sidekick. But, you know, I’m glad I can help.”
“Damn,” says Matt, appreciatively, full lips closing around his straw. His cheeks hollow a little while he sips; it’s practically pornographic. Gevanni swallows, and Matt smiles.
“So. Stephen. You play pool?”
--
As it turns out, there was rum in the coke, and they’re both in their cups by 1:17. Matt is leaning against him and giggling while they pretend to be sober. Gevanni feels like such a child, for going out and doing this, and then he realizes that Matt is following him home and he stops caring.
“It’s my one day off,” he tells him, on the sidewalk two blocks away, after they've finished judging who knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody better (it's Matt, but it's close) “it’s really lucky we met. Fate, serendipity, what have you.” Alcohol has always made him whimsical.
“Good planning on my part,” says Matt, with a glint in his eye that reminds Gevanni so abruptly of Near that he has to glance away.
--
Afterwards, Matt sits naked on Gevanni’s seventeenth story balcony and smokes, while Gevanni dresses.
“Stephen?” says Matt, without turning to look at him. His feet are propped up on the porch railing, he’s reclining in one of two matching deck chairs his mother bought for him when he moved in to the new place. “Do you ever get frustrated?”
“With what?” he asks, stepping out on the porch to join him. He’s dressed only in this morning’s shirt, and his boxers. He realizes it’s the first time he’s been out here even remotely undressed, which is stupid, since no one can see him, and he’s lived here for years now.
“With sidekicking. Pretend that’s a verb.”
He reaches down and strokes Matt’s shoulder, considering the question so solemnly that it makes Matt wonder if he has some inkling of who he just screwed, or if he really is just that genuine a person.
“I do, but I also don’t. Intellectually, of course not, I know that I’m good at what I do. One of the best. Emotionally, it gets to me that I probably won’t get any better than this. Especially when I see people above me making decisions I wouldn’t have, that sort of thing. But the thing is…”
Matt twists in the chair, and looks up at him, resting his cheek against the woven plastic and the cool metal of the frame.
“…that they’re usually right, and when they aren’t, I wouldn’t have been either. I’m good at what I do, and I help with causes that are important to me. I’m glad I can help.”
That makes Matt smile. They sit like that for a moment.
“Hey, do you have an ashtray?”
Just a short moment. But the next day, Gevanni’s heart feels a little lighter. After that, he watches the news broadcast of the young man being killed next to his car, after the Kiyomi abduction, and he really understands.
And as usual, Stephen Gevanni is just glad he could help.
Sidekicking
Drinking before noon doesn’t make you an alcoholic if you don’t do it regularly, Gevanni tells himself. Besides, it’s 11:23, which means the clock could be fifteen minute slow, which means it could be 11:38, which is an almost-reasonable time for a beer with lunch.
Of course, he was cradling a whiskey, but he was in the kind of place where no one cared. The seats were made out of cracked vinyl, the pool tables leaned, the neon ‘open’ sign was barely visible between the grime on the window and the cast iron bars on the front, same as every building front on this street.
It's not that Near has really driven him to drink. It's just there's nothing to do today, he's not on Mikami's tail yet, and he has instructions to take a day off. 'Relax,' was what Rester said. 'Come on. Go out somewhere.'
“What are you doing here?” asks the person next to him. Gevanni looks over and it’s some kid, brown hair and strange clothes, goggles resting up on his forehead. Not the kind swimmers or skiers wear, either. He can’t place what they’d be used for.
“Hello?” says the kid, the man, really, he’s older than he dresses, waving a gloved hand in front of his face. He grits his jaw and answers.
“I’m drinking.”
“Only alcoholics drink before noon. Look around you.”
He has a point there. There’s a man in a booth, with a permanent flush on his cheeks. Another one, who looks like hasn’t bathed in too long, at one of the tables. The barkeeper isn’t anywhere to be seen, which is a shame. Gevanni suddenly needs another whiskey.
“What does that make you, then?”
“Matt. Professional sidekick.” Matt shakes his drink at him, and it takes Gevanni a moment to figure out why. Oh. Some kind of soda, theoretically non-alcoholic. Adorable.
“Stephen. Sidekick of the sidekick of the sidekick. But, you know, I’m glad I can help.”
“Damn,” says Matt, appreciatively, full lips closing around his straw. His cheeks hollow a little while he sips; it’s practically pornographic. Gevanni swallows, and Matt smiles.
“So. Stephen. You play pool?”
--
As it turns out, there was rum in the coke, and they’re both in their cups by 1:17. Matt is leaning against him and giggling while they pretend to be sober. Gevanni feels like such a child, for going out and doing this, and then he realizes that Matt is following him home and he stops caring.
“It’s my one day off,” he tells him, on the sidewalk two blocks away, after they've finished judging who knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody better (it's Matt, but it's close) “it’s really lucky we met. Fate, serendipity, what have you.” Alcohol has always made him whimsical.
“Good planning on my part,” says Matt, with a glint in his eye that reminds Gevanni so abruptly of Near that he has to glance away.
--
Afterwards, Matt sits naked on Gevanni’s seventeenth story balcony and smokes, while Gevanni dresses.
“Stephen?” says Matt, without turning to look at him. His feet are propped up on the porch railing, he’s reclining in one of two matching deck chairs his mother bought for him when he moved in to the new place. “Do you ever get frustrated?”
“With what?” he asks, stepping out on the porch to join him. He’s dressed only in this morning’s shirt, and his boxers. He realizes it’s the first time he’s been out here even remotely undressed, which is stupid, since no one can see him, and he’s lived here for years now.
“With sidekicking. Pretend that’s a verb.”
He reaches down and strokes Matt’s shoulder, considering the question so solemnly that it makes Matt wonder if he has some inkling of who he just screwed, or if he really is just that genuine a person.
“I do, but I also don’t. Intellectually, of course not, I know that I’m good at what I do. One of the best. Emotionally, it gets to me that I probably won’t get any better than this. Especially when I see people above me making decisions I wouldn’t have, that sort of thing. But the thing is…”
Matt twists in the chair, and looks up at him, resting his cheek against the woven plastic and the cool metal of the frame.
“…that they’re usually right, and when they aren’t, I wouldn’t have been either. I’m good at what I do, and I help with causes that are important to me. I’m glad I can help.”
That makes Matt smile. They sit like that for a moment.
“Hey, do you have an ashtray?”
Just a short moment. But the next day, Gevanni’s heart feels a little lighter. After that, he watches the news broadcast of the young man being killed next to his car, after the Kiyomi abduction, and he really understands.
And as usual, Stephen Gevanni is just glad he could help.