[APH] Lucky Strike
Title: Lucky Strike
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Greece, Japan
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/PG/AU, yakuza themes
Summary/Excerpt: Herakles finds himself in a café with free coffee.
A/N: Happy Birthday charlzway! Tis a wee bit late because the Sims was especially distracting ^^; Hope you had a good one! ♥
Lucky Strike
I've seen those hands, Herakles thinks as he absently stares at the fingers of a man placing a quaint white cup in front of him. They are small hands. A bit bony, white and rough. The hands of someone who earns and honest keep.
"Are you awake, sir?" A lovely tenor says. Herakles sits up, or tries to. His vision swims and his back protests like an old man's. A familiar smell wafts up his nose.
"Is this coffee?" he asks, and realizes that he's presently sitting at a bar table, previously hunched over as if he had entered in a drunken surrender.
"Yes, sir," the bartender replies cheerfully. "I was about to close the shop for the day when I saw you passed out by the door saying 'Coffee…coffee…'. No wonder my customers dwindled for the past half hour."
Herakles blinks dazedly, his thoughts dragging their feet. "I'm terribly sorry…I don't have money to pay for this."
The bartender shakes his head. "No need. We had a cupful left in the pot."
He moves away and Herakles gingerly lifts the coffee to his lips, like a shy visitor offered food. The brew warms his belly and wakes him up a little. The headache inching out from the base of his neck receeds.
"…I don't think coffee's the best solution to a hangover," Herakles says steadily, with a hint of humor and thanks.
The bartender smiles as he arranges wiped cutlery into their various cupboards and drawers. "If anything, you look like you had been mugged."
Herakles takes his second sip and places the cup on the saucer. "I really can't pay for this."
"You don't have to," says the other man, not looking up from his work. "But if you insist, you can pay me back with a story."
"What kind of story?"
There is a pensive pause and the bartender smiles softly. "Of how you collapsed outside the café, perhaps."
Herakles shrugs his shoulders. What an odd fellow of a barman, he thinks and studies him for a moment or two in the guise of weaving his words. The bartender is a small young man, younger than Herakles is at least. He has clean cut hair and looks a bit funny in his uniform, like somehow it doesn't suit him. He has an air of mystery, as if he is more than he lets on. Herakles grows wary, but the coffee makes him speak.
"I work…or I worked as a mechanic," Herakles begins. "Today I kind of…screwed up and my boss fired me. Having been banned from several workshops in town, I wasn't really expecting to turn in a new job application form soon."
"Banned?" the bartender sounds intrigued. "Why are you banned?"
"Temper," he says and from the look on the other man's face, if seems like he wasn't expecting the answer. Herakles explains. "When I was a kid, I was teased a lot because I looked different. Foreign, I mean. And I was huge. Well…I still am," he adds, a little embarrassed.
"And people were scared of you?"
"They used to harass my mother." Be proud to be Greek, she always said when she was alive. "I wanted to protect her."
"So you grew strong and even more people got terrified of you."
"I lash out sometimes, and they're terrible fits. Mom was near tears every time she visited me in the hospital or apologized to the guys I hurt." A rueful smile crossed Herakles' features. "I guess I shouldn't have been like that."
The bartender finishes his chores and seats himself beside him. He looks around the shop with satisfaction on his face.
Herakles follows his gaze. The café is mostly mahogany-the chairs, the tables, the floor, the ceiling, the door-like something straight out of an Italian slice of life novel. The bar has equipment of the finest quality. The coffee he had been served was mild and sweet, perfect for an evening of winding down, but in his gut there was a twinge of something else.
"I met a boy like you once," the bartender says and Herakles listens. "I was in high school. Actually, we might have gone to the same school together. I had been walking home and I took a shortcut through some streets. Back then I didn't know they were T-gumi territory and before my eyes, there was a gang of street punks surrounding this boy."
"They were taunting him about something. I couldn't hear. I was rooted to my spot. I wanted to turn around and call the police, but then I heard the boy land the first punch."
The bartender smiles, and Herakles thinks he shouldn't be smiling because of such a memory. "One after the other, the boy takes down the entire gang. It was a marvel."
Herakles begs to disagree. That wasn't a marvel. That had been the day his mom had been confined in the hospital for the first time and he had gone home from school angry at everything. That street fight was the biggest one he had been involved with yet and it was a miracle he survived it alone.
Worst of all, it was true. He had seen a kid watching him. He was slumped against the wall half-dead when the kid's figure came closer, and it was incredulous, what he did. The kid lighted a stick of Luck Strike, placed it between his lips, remarked "Thanks for the good work" and walked away. His hands were small, white and bony. They weren't rough yet. Maybe the kid had yet to go through what would roughen them.
Herakles sits up as if poked by a hot rod. The bartender's face is too close for comfort and he holds a cigarette between his memorable fingers. Despite the mounting terror, Herakles thinks he's never seen anyone hold a stick in such a classy manner.
"This is fate, Mr. Customer," the bartender says and Herakles swallows as he watches him light it with silver lighter and takes a sexy drag. "Would you like to work for me?"
The tension melts into temptation, something primal, unknown, dangerous and irresistible. Herakles doesn't have anything to lose.
To sign their agreement, the bartender (who Herakles finds out is named Honda Kiku and is not quite a barman at all) places the lit Lucky Strike between his lips.
END
Someone shoot me, it's about the yakuza again.
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Greece, Japan
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/PG/AU, yakuza themes
Summary/Excerpt: Herakles finds himself in a café with free coffee.
A/N: Happy Birthday charlzway! Tis a wee bit late because the Sims was especially distracting ^^; Hope you had a good one! ♥
Lucky Strike
I've seen those hands, Herakles thinks as he absently stares at the fingers of a man placing a quaint white cup in front of him. They are small hands. A bit bony, white and rough. The hands of someone who earns and honest keep.
"Are you awake, sir?" A lovely tenor says. Herakles sits up, or tries to. His vision swims and his back protests like an old man's. A familiar smell wafts up his nose.
"Is this coffee?" he asks, and realizes that he's presently sitting at a bar table, previously hunched over as if he had entered in a drunken surrender.
"Yes, sir," the bartender replies cheerfully. "I was about to close the shop for the day when I saw you passed out by the door saying 'Coffee…coffee…'. No wonder my customers dwindled for the past half hour."
Herakles blinks dazedly, his thoughts dragging their feet. "I'm terribly sorry…I don't have money to pay for this."
The bartender shakes his head. "No need. We had a cupful left in the pot."
He moves away and Herakles gingerly lifts the coffee to his lips, like a shy visitor offered food. The brew warms his belly and wakes him up a little. The headache inching out from the base of his neck receeds.
"…I don't think coffee's the best solution to a hangover," Herakles says steadily, with a hint of humor and thanks.
The bartender smiles as he arranges wiped cutlery into their various cupboards and drawers. "If anything, you look like you had been mugged."
Herakles takes his second sip and places the cup on the saucer. "I really can't pay for this."
"You don't have to," says the other man, not looking up from his work. "But if you insist, you can pay me back with a story."
"What kind of story?"
There is a pensive pause and the bartender smiles softly. "Of how you collapsed outside the café, perhaps."
Herakles shrugs his shoulders. What an odd fellow of a barman, he thinks and studies him for a moment or two in the guise of weaving his words. The bartender is a small young man, younger than Herakles is at least. He has clean cut hair and looks a bit funny in his uniform, like somehow it doesn't suit him. He has an air of mystery, as if he is more than he lets on. Herakles grows wary, but the coffee makes him speak.
"I work…or I worked as a mechanic," Herakles begins. "Today I kind of…screwed up and my boss fired me. Having been banned from several workshops in town, I wasn't really expecting to turn in a new job application form soon."
"Banned?" the bartender sounds intrigued. "Why are you banned?"
"Temper," he says and from the look on the other man's face, if seems like he wasn't expecting the answer. Herakles explains. "When I was a kid, I was teased a lot because I looked different. Foreign, I mean. And I was huge. Well…I still am," he adds, a little embarrassed.
"And people were scared of you?"
"They used to harass my mother." Be proud to be Greek, she always said when she was alive. "I wanted to protect her."
"So you grew strong and even more people got terrified of you."
"I lash out sometimes, and they're terrible fits. Mom was near tears every time she visited me in the hospital or apologized to the guys I hurt." A rueful smile crossed Herakles' features. "I guess I shouldn't have been like that."
The bartender finishes his chores and seats himself beside him. He looks around the shop with satisfaction on his face.
Herakles follows his gaze. The café is mostly mahogany-the chairs, the tables, the floor, the ceiling, the door-like something straight out of an Italian slice of life novel. The bar has equipment of the finest quality. The coffee he had been served was mild and sweet, perfect for an evening of winding down, but in his gut there was a twinge of something else.
"I met a boy like you once," the bartender says and Herakles listens. "I was in high school. Actually, we might have gone to the same school together. I had been walking home and I took a shortcut through some streets. Back then I didn't know they were T-gumi territory and before my eyes, there was a gang of street punks surrounding this boy."
"They were taunting him about something. I couldn't hear. I was rooted to my spot. I wanted to turn around and call the police, but then I heard the boy land the first punch."
The bartender smiles, and Herakles thinks he shouldn't be smiling because of such a memory. "One after the other, the boy takes down the entire gang. It was a marvel."
Herakles begs to disagree. That wasn't a marvel. That had been the day his mom had been confined in the hospital for the first time and he had gone home from school angry at everything. That street fight was the biggest one he had been involved with yet and it was a miracle he survived it alone.
Worst of all, it was true. He had seen a kid watching him. He was slumped against the wall half-dead when the kid's figure came closer, and it was incredulous, what he did. The kid lighted a stick of Luck Strike, placed it between his lips, remarked "Thanks for the good work" and walked away. His hands were small, white and bony. They weren't rough yet. Maybe the kid had yet to go through what would roughen them.
Herakles sits up as if poked by a hot rod. The bartender's face is too close for comfort and he holds a cigarette between his memorable fingers. Despite the mounting terror, Herakles thinks he's never seen anyone hold a stick in such a classy manner.
"This is fate, Mr. Customer," the bartender says and Herakles swallows as he watches him light it with silver lighter and takes a sexy drag. "Would you like to work for me?"
The tension melts into temptation, something primal, unknown, dangerous and irresistible. Herakles doesn't have anything to lose.
To sign their agreement, the bartender (who Herakles finds out is named Honda Kiku and is not quite a barman at all) places the lit Lucky Strike between his lips.
END
Someone shoot me, it's about the yakuza again.