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“Milkovich!”
A dark-haired boy cackled and ran, tongue caught in the corner of his mouth, his black boots thumping hard against pavement as he rose a middle finger in the air. Balmy air whipped in his face; he was fast, evasive Milkovich blood pumping through his veins, he was fast like the fucking wind. His heavy backpack slammed against his back with every stride, but it didn't slow him down, not even for a moment.
Born and bred South Side, he lived for this. He jumped fences and weaved through cluttered backyards, away from the yelling and cursing of his name. He cackled again, boots skidding on bits of gravel as he turned a corner, catching the middle of a street sign before he ate the sidewalk. A few more houses to go and he’d be good. With a hard step off the sidewalk, he was off again.
A voice boomed behind him but it was indecipherable.
The dark-haired boy windmilled his long arms as he tried to keep his balance, barely staying upright when he made a sharp turn to stomp up the front stairs of a two-story brick house, tattooed fingers grabbing onto the doorknob, slamming it open and closed.
“Ay!” his father frowned at him, home early from work —fuck. “What're you doing?”
“I’m not here!” was all the boy gave as an answer, stomping up the stairs.
“Shit. The fuck you do now?!” his father called up to him. He didn't answer.
The dark haired boy ran past his little sisters room, making a beeline for his own room, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He threw his backpack in his closet, toed his boots off and caught his breath, finally. The dark-haired boy’s hands shook with adrenaline as he ran a hand over his hair before dropping to his bed in a boneless heap.
Two police officers came to a stuttering stop in front of the Milkovich house, hands on their knees, panting heavily after chasing the damn kid all over South Side.
“He’s so fast,” the blonde officer wheezed. “How’s he so fast?”
“Fucking nuisance,” the bald officer wheezed back.
Slowly, the two officers ascended the steps of the Milkovich house. The bald officer rapping hard on the door, three times. A man with dark hair answered the door, brows perched high on his forehead. His blue grease-stained coveralls were undone and tied around his waist, white undershirt equally stained with the black residue.
“Can I help you?” he asked, arms folding under his chest. He leaned against the frame of the front door with a less-than-impressed look on his face.
“Hey Mickey,” the blonde officer took a deep breath, “We’re looking for Yevgeny.”
“Something wrong? He okay?” Mickey asked.
The bald officer snorted a laugh, “If you don’t mind, we’d like to come in?”
Mickey snorted a laugh back, looking over at the blonde officer, “Come on, Holst. You know you two ain’t coming in my house without a warrant. Now I’d really appreciate if you’d answer my question, is my son okay?”
“We caught him tagging,” the bald officer answered. “In those abandoned warehouses.”
Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed, “You chased my son all through South Side for spray painting shit on walls that are already covered in graffiti?”
The two officers exchanged a look before officer Holst spoke up, “He evaded the police, Mickey.”
Mickey gave the blonde officer a flat look, “Damn, how the mighty have fucking fallen, huh? Don’t you two have bigger shit to worry about than some sixteen year old punk kid?”
“Is he here or not, Mr. Milkovich?” the bald officer asked, face set in a hard glare.
“No,” Mickey replied easily, “Yev ain’t fucking here. I talked to him about an hour ago, but he hasn’t been home since this morning. He’s a smart kid though, you think he’d come to his house after being chased by the cops?”
“He was headed this way,” Holst pointed out.
Mickey snorted and threw out a hand, motioning outside, “Then be my guest to move the fuck on. He ain’t here.”
The bald officer suppressed a snarl, “You need to get a handle on your boy before he gets himself hurt.”
Mickey’s eyebrows were sharp as they arched high; he looked over to Holst, who was gave him a little head-shake. Mickey pushed his tongue to the corner of his mouth and breathed a laugh, “Have a great day, officers.”
The dark-haired man closed the door and moved to stand in front of one of the front windows of the house, watching behind the blinds as the two officers descended the front steps and walked away.
With a heavy sigh, Mickey ran a hand over his hair and yelled up the stairs, “Yevgeny! Ass downstairs! Now!”
Seconds later, the dark-haired boy thumped down the stairs, an amused grin spread across his face. But when he saw his father’s scowl, the grin dropped to an attempt at what most would call a solemn frown. Mickey knew his son better though, and he knew that he was full of shit.
“If you’re gonna do that taggin shit, can you please act like a normal person and do that in the middle of the fucking night?”
“I’m an artist,” Yev said with mock dramatics, eyebrows drawn together, acting as if the simple phrase explained everything.
A traitorous grin threatened his father’s lips, “You’re a fucking menace.”