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It probably should’ve ended on the train. Not that that’s how things were planned to work out. Obviously it wasn’t the plan if they all died and Tangerine lost his streak of being damn good at his job. But it would’ve been easier if something happened where they all could’ve left it behind. If the job was just as cut and dry as it seemed from the start. If all it took was rescuing a stupid kid and dropping him off at a station and moving on with his life. Maybe Tangerine wouldn’t have been separated from Lemon, then. Maybe he wouldn’t have this stupid roommate now eating all of his food and making a mess of his shelves and asking him questions that they both know he doesn’t care about.
It would’ve been easier.
And it should’ve ended like that. If not drop the kid off, then maybe both of them just dying like it seemed like it was going to go.
But they didn’t.
And now Tangerine hasn’t seen his brother in months and he’s got a fucking nuisance hanging around annoying the shit out of him every hour of every day.
They don’t leave the flat often. Tangerine doesn’t like to. It’s a bad idea. Getting his face out in public where any dimwitted TikTokker can record their coffee trip and snag his face in the background and somehow that makes its rounds back to The White Death. They all know the man is still bent on revenge. Maybe now more than ever.
But sometimes he’s got to leave. Get food. Go bookshopping. Get away from the son that seems to be following him around like a shadow.
This morning, though, before he can sneak out as the sun starts to rise, his shadow is already waiting by the door. His coat pulled on, hood up over his head. Lopsided, hiding the tattoo over his eyebrow.
“I’m going with. I’ve been locked up here—”
“Was I arguing with you? No. Shut up. Let’s go. And tie your shoes for fuck’s sake.”
Any normal person would see the pair of them and know that they aren’t supposed to be standing side by side. They shouldn’t be walking down the street together. It’s not just appearance wise, either, but that’s the simplest solution. Tangerine actually cares about how he looks and The Son wears a coat that’s more beat up and dirty than any rich snob has a right to wear. But it’s more than that. They aren’t talking to each other, though it’s not like they walk side by side much at all. Tangerine walks much faster than him, constantly stopping on street corners waiting for him to catch up. His eyes are stuck on the cement or watching the cars.
He’d yell at him to hurry, but Tangerine doesn’t know his name.
He never asked.
When they were hired for the job, all they were told was that they were looking for The White Death’s son. The address was important. The briefcase was important. They had a photograph, but that was all. They didn’t need anything else.
But now it’s a bit awkward, isn’t it? They’ve been living together for three months and Tangerine has never once asked his name.
Granted, The Son hasn’t asked for his either. Not that Tangerine would give it. It’s best if only Lemon knows that. And for now, until they figure out what to do with him, it’s going to stay that way.
“Try to keep up, will you?”
He shrugs, keeping his same leisurely pace as they cross the intersection. He’s hanging back almost on purpose.
Tangerine suddenly comes to a stop. “Why are you like this?”
“I’m enjoying fresh air,” he glances down and away, across the street to the other buildings. “And view.”
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Not difficult task.”
“Give me your hand,” Tangerine says. “I’d like to get this shit done today. We’ve got a flight to catch, or did you forget?”
By the expression on his face, it seems like he did forget. Tangerine steps closer to him, pulling his hand out of his pocket and holding onto it tightly, yanking him along down the street.
Tangerine would’ve liked to meet up with Lemon a lot sooner but this was what they usually did. Split up, go different ways. Lie low for a few months while they assessed the damage of whatever their job caused. Then they’d meet up if it felt safe. Or they’d stay quiet for as long as it took for everything to die down.
Lemon was always better at it than he was. Staying apart. But he’s also always confident that everything is fine and Tangerine is the one overreacting.
Either way, at the very least, it seems safe enough to take advantage of the holiday traffic at the airport and slip through unnoticed. Meet up just before the New Year and go to a different safe house for a bit. Figure out where to go from there.
And, well, The Son is pissing Tangerine off and his brother’s gone and all three of them almost died and it’s—
Well, Lemon’s still got his necklace, doesn’t he? Tangerine needs that back. That’s all.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. But they’ve got their flight booked again. Past the Christmas rush and onto the New Years. And they’ve got to leave today. Eight hours left until they need to get to the airport. Then a six hour flight. They’ll land a few hours before midnight, if they’re lucky..
“What are we doing?” The Son asks.
He’s standing too close to Tangerine, but that’s by virtue of the bookstore being so small. Still, Tangerine puts a hand on his shoulder and nudges him back a foot.
“We missed Christmas, yeah? So I’ve got to get Lemon a present.”
“I thought you were Jewish.”
“I am. He’s not. We celebrate both when we’re together.”
“You didn’t get me anything.”
Tangerine stares at him. “Go find something to amuse yourself on the flight because if I have to talk to you anymore I might have to cut your tongue out and shove it down your throat.”
“It’s New Year,” The Son says. “Consider resolution. Less threats.”
“You should be lucky I haven’t strangled you.”
“Not lucky,” he says. “You like me.”
“Funniest thing I’ve heard in my entire life.”
It’s not true.
Tangerine doesn’t like him.
They reconvene ten minutes later. The Son has a book tucked under his arm, though Tangerine didn’t really think the boy knew how to read. In his other hand, he holds out a package to him.
“What the fuck is that?”
“It’s Thomas. For Lemon.” He struggles to press a button through the keychain’s package and the train’s face lights up in an almost eerie way. “Flashlight.”
“You know he likes other things than Thomas the Tank Engine,” he replies, but he takes it anyway. “What book did you get?”
“The Mantis,” he shows the bright green and purple cover to him. “Maybe something you can relate to.”
Tangerine narrows his eyes at him and doesn’t press it any further. “We need to get going.”
They pay for their things. Tangerine gets Lemon an art book that he’d mentioned off hand a few months ago. Gets the stupid Thomas keychain, too. Pays for The Son’s book.
It’s all placed neatly into his bag before they leave. Once they turn the corner, Tangerine pulls something from his pocket, handing it over to The Son.
“Happy Christmas and don’t mention it ever again.”
He’s happy to keep walking, but The Son is no longer at his side. He pauses, glancing back. He’s stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turning the thing over in his hand, inspecting it like it’s anything more than what it obviously is.
It’s just a stupid keychain. Like the one he grabbed for Lemon. It lights up, though more like a nightlight than being actually useful. A small brown and white cat with a hood tied around its ears. Orange, with a little green leaf at the top.
“It’s little Tangerine.”
“The tag says Clementine,” he says. “Its name is Clementine.”
“Did you steal this?”
“Of course not. I’m not a criminal.”
It’s—
Incredibly strange seeing him smile. It might be the first time Tangerine has ever actually seen him smile so fully. He always seems to be tired, so exhausted. Constantly in a state of lethargy as he sprawls across couches or chairs or lies in bed all day. Maybe Tangerine should’ve been taking him for walks like a dog.
“You stole mini Tangerine for me.”
“You know that’s not my name, right? And it’s not the—” he waves nonsensically towards it. “It’s Clementine.”
“You know mine isn’t ‘boy’ or ‘kid’?” he says, looking up to him. “I hear you on phone. You call me these things like I’m child.”
“You gonna start an argument with me because I won’t let you call that little freak of a thing Tangerine?”
“Just telling you,” he steps over to him. “Kostya.”
“Kost..ya?”
“Kostya,” he repeats. “Short for Konstantin.”
“I’m not telling you mine.”
“Is okay,” The Son says. He lifts the keychain up and presses a kiss to the forehead of the cat. “Thank you, Tangerine.”
Tangerine packs quickly. Kostya does not. Tangerine scrubs the flat clean of all traces of them. Kostya does not. Tangerine locates the tickets and the passports and places them neatly in the center of the table. Kostya does not. He doesn’t really do anything besides fold up the few clothes he has and lay back down on the couch, cat in hand.
It’s almost better that he gets these last few hours to himself to say goodbye. He’s been here plenty of times throughout the years. It should be the last time they come back. Gotta burn the safehouses every so often. Make sure they aren’t tracked again. Make sure everything is put exactly back the way it should be without having to double check anyone’s work.
There’s nothing in the place that connects them to it. No frames filled with pictures of them, no shelves littered with trinkets or books that they would’ve picked out. Everything that they have brought here has been placed neatly back inside of their suitcases to come with them when they leave. But they still have to make sure they have everything. Make sure every surface is wiped of their fingerprints and DNA. Best to be safe than sorry.
Tangerine has never cared about having some stable home with a stupid white picket fence and a kid running around. But sometimes he wishes he wasn’t constantly moving from one place to the next. Like some kind of ghost that can’t idle around long enough and be seen.
At least Kostya doesn’t seem to mind.
“Did you steal this?” he asks.
They’re in the car. Kostya’s hand held out to the air freshener hanging around the mirror. A bear with its arms stretched out, its belly a bright white against the deep brown of the rest of its fur. It used to smell like honey and mint. It wore out a long time ago.
“No,” he lies.
“What about your tie?”
“Why would I bother stealing a tie?”
“Why would you bother to steal anything?”
Tangerine glances over at him. “I just do it. You never do anything stupid?”
He shrugs. Tangerine’s starting to get real fucking tired of that shrug he does. Like nothing matters. Like it has never mattered.
“My father would say everything I do is stupid.”
“And he’s right.”
“Maybe.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Nothing but the horrible sounds of whatever station is the least static ridden to accompany them for their drive out of the city.
Beside him, Kostya clicks the keychain on and off. A button on the back that makes a satisfying click . He must do it at least a dozen times before he finally sets the cat on the dashboard.
“When I was kid, I stole a bracelet from store. It was… two hundred yen, I think. I had money but I took it instead. My mother found it. She said…'' he trails off, clears his throat. He mutters quietly in Russian. The only thing Tangerine catches is Kostya, like he is replicating his mother’s speech to his best ability. “I lied. I told her I stole for her. Gift. She took it. She never wore it.”
“You trying to bond with me over stealing shit?”
“Just sharing.”
Tangerine shakes his head and leans forward, shutting the radio off. He can’t take the sounds of generic pop music anymore. “Ever steal again?”
“Sure. Got better at it. But no purpose. Candy from my teacher’s desk. Games from friend’s place. Few books from library.”
“Any fun?”
“Little bit.”
Not really something to bond over then, is it?
Tangerine doesn’t take things for fun. He just sort of… does it. No reason to. He just has to. He sees something and he just wants it. Maybe to test to see if he could get away with it. Maybe to see what someone’s reaction is when he’s not as slick as he thinks he is.
“Biggest thing I ever stole was a giant stuffed dinosaur from the fair. Guy manning the booth didn’t even look twice,” Tangerine says. “Gave it to some kid when I left.”
“What were you doing at a fair?”
“Got hired to kill the guy in charge of the clowns.”
Kostya offers a half-hearted laugh. “Did he deserve it?”
“Everybody does. To some extent. I don’t ask why. Not my job.”
“Have you ever regretted it?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not even you.”
The airport is easy to get through. Almost too smoothly. There’s plenty of people headed home from the holidays, plenty of people trying to get somewhere for New Years. The chaos, like Tangerine had suspected, works in their favor. They’re rushed through security, their passports handed back without much more than superficial glances.
They have a couple of hours to kill and every seat by their gate is taken by somebody or by somebody’s luggage. They wander the shops, get food at an overpriced restaurant, sit on the floor close by. Tangerine is handed a pack of gum a few minutes after they settle.
“Fucking thief,” Tangerine mutters. It’s lemon flavored. Sweet, if Tangerine had to put a word for Kostya’s actions.
“You’re bad influence,” Kostya says.
Yeah. Probably.
They both fall asleep when they get on the plane. As soon as the flight attendant is done with the safety spiel, Kostya is slumped against Tangerine’s shoulder snoring. Tangerine doesn’t get a chance to complain, to tell him to stop, to even push him off, before he’s falling asleep, too.
It’s—
Well, it’s nice, isn’t it?
“I can’t be there.”
“What the fuck do you mean you can’t be here?” Tangerine snaps. “You were going to pick us up. You said you would. You said you’d be here.”
“That was before my tire blew out on the freeway. I spun out. I almost died, Tangerine.”
“Did you actually almost die or—”
“I almost died!” Lemon says indignantly. “I got a fucking tow truck and there’s nobody willing to drive me that far to the airport. Look, it’s late. Just get a hotel. I’ll be there in the morning. The roads are shit and people are pissing me off. Nobody knows how to drive in a little bit of snow.”
“Yeah, apparently not. They spin out and almost die.”
“Fuck off.”
Tangerine sighs and hangs up.
Tomorrow morning.
At least he’ll start off the new year with his brother, yeah?
Everywhere is booked. Flights are getting canceled and people need a place to stay. Tangerine is told he’s lucky by three different people that his didn’t get canceled, too. It don’t feel too lucky, does it? He’s got three suitcases and a spoiled brat that he’s dragging around from place to place looking to see if they’ve got a free room.
They finally manage one at the fifth stop. Passing him a plastic key and directing him to the elevators around the bend. Third floor. A view of a cluster of trees and the parking lot. A bright neon sign for McDonald’s peering back at them.
Tangerine closes the curtains, turns the AC down as far as it’ll let him. There’s a trick to bypass their block, but he’s too annoyed to bother with it for now. He’ll probably break the fucking thing if he tries.
“Tangerine.”
“Hm?” he says, looking around the corner. “What’s wrong? Used to five star resorts?”
“There’s only one bed.”
“Yeah, you can sleep on the fucking floor if it bothers you. I’m not doing this. I’ve had enough of all the fucking problems thrown at me and I just want the year to fucking end so I can feel like there’s any semblance of peace again..”
Kostya holds that stupid keychain out to him and presses the cat's nose against his. “You are testy.”
“I’m going to break that thing.”
“It is alright to miss your brother.”
Tangerine scoffs. “You think that’s what this is about?”
Kostya nods.
Tangerine moves past him into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
It’s stupid, alright?
It’s stupid that he feels the need to keep it a secret. There’s no reason to. He’s never once in his entire life felt like he had to hide that he loves his brother, that he misses him when they’re apart. But there’s never really been a person around to tell either. He never had to hide it because there was nobody to hide it from.
Kostya doesn’t start off in the bed. He tries to sleep on the floor, to his credit. But he doesn’t manage more than ten minutes before he is climbing onto the bed beside Tangerine, yanking blankets away from him.
“Too cold?”
He scoffs. “I am Russian. No cold is too cold.”
He’s cold.
Tangerine relents more of the blanket. “Do you miss her?”
“My mother?”
“Your sister.”
In the dark, Tangerine can’t make out his expression. If he shrugs or nods or shakes his head. All he can tell is that Kostya has gone quiet and still.
“Sometimes.”
The cat light flickers on. It doesn’t illuminate much. Just enough to see the outline of his features. He clicks it back off again.
“It was different when we were young. She didn’t hate me. I didn’t hate her. That is what I miss.”
Tangerine’s never hated Lemon. He can’t imagine hating him. Mad at him, sure. Holding a grudge, absolutely. But those kinds of things never turned into hate. It was almost worse when they were fighting and Tangerine knew how silly it was. That it would all be easier if they just got over it already. And eventually they did. Usually without apologies or reflection on what happened. Just moving on.
“You think the two of you could go back?”
“No.”
Kostya doesn’t elaborate. Tangerine doesn’t ask him to.
He doesn’t quite fall asleep. It’s the sort of middle ground where he’s too tired to open his eyes but he’s acutely aware of every bit of movement around him. The bed shifting beside him. The sound of the curtain being pulled back. The pop pop pop of fireworks going off.
His eyes open and he watches the colors dance on the wall across from him. Not even the keychain sitting in the bed beside him.
Tangerine sits up. “The fuck are you doing?”
“They’re pretty.”
“They’re annoying.”
Kostya shrugs. He sits on the edge of the bed beside Tangerine. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy fucking New Year.”
The cat’s light flickers on. A mistake is what it is. Tangerine is going to throw it in the trash the moment Kostya leaves it out of his sight. And he’s so busy thinking about this, of watching Kostya’s hands holding onto it, that he doesn’t even realize what’s happening until it’s happened.
His lips don’t quite settle on Tangerine’s right. A little too far off to the side, like Kostya was intending to kiss his cheek instead. And still it takes him a minute to even process that’s what he’s done. That Kostya is kissing him.
And his first thoughts are Kostya is sad, Kostya is drunk, Kostya is high.
His second—
“It’s tradition, isn’t it?”
No.
Tangerine’s second thought is—
Why did he stop?
“You shouldn’t do that,” Tangerine says. “You don’t just kiss people for tradition. It’s not right.”
He thinks he sees Kostya nod. He’s quiet for a long moment. Neither of them move. Then, Kostya leans close to him, pressing his forehead against Tangerine’s. He’s mumbling something in Russian. He always resorts to that. Mumbling things under his breath. And Tangerine knows it’s his way of saying shit and getting away with it. Tangerine’s going to have to learn it so he knows what kind of insults are being thrown at him when he isn’t listening.
Kostya stops, lets out a quiet little exhale.
And then he kisses Tangerine a second time.
This time, Tangerine starts to push him back. His hand planted on Kostya’s shoulder. But it doesn’t push. It doesn’t pull, either. Instead just grips the fabric like neither of them can really decide what they want to do.
When Kostya pulls away, Tangerine has to bite his tongue to keep from following him.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbles.
“I waited. Not tradition now.”
He’s so fucking stupid.
Tangerine sits up, finding Kostya’s hand in the dark because he’s still clinging onto that dumb cat. He tosses it toward the foot of the bed, pulling Kostya’s hand to his waist, helping him find his way past the fabric to touch his skin.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“You’re a fucking nuisance.”
“So are you.”
Tangerine laughs. It feels a little bit too broken to be real.
“Bad fucking idea, this is.”
Kostya leans further in. Close enough that when he speaks, Tangerine can feel the ghostly movement of his lips making up the words. And the thing is, Tangerine has no idea what he says. He doesn’t know if it’s English or not. He doesn’t even know if it’s real words. He can’t even tell if he was meant to hear them. All he knows is that when Kostya stops, Tangerine kisses him.
And it’s selfish, but he doesn’t really care why Kostya kissed him anymore. Tangerine doesn’t even know why he’s kissing him back. Maybe he does like him. Maybe he just missed out on this tradition for so much of his life he’s trying to catch up on it. Or maybe it’s because the chill from the air conditioning has set in enough that he’s cold and Kostya is making him feel warm and comfortable and—
And who the fuck cares?
Maybe he should just reconsider what he said about before.
That it might be easier if Kostya died on the train. If it all ended there.
Maybe he should just consider that easier doesn’t always mean better.
Kostya pulls away, his hand moving to Tangerine’s neck. Fingers moving over the scar on the skin. He leans into him, kissing the scar gently. New enough that it still feels like it could rip open and kill him at any second.
And Kostya doesn’t say anything, but Tangerine wonders if he’s thinking the same thing he is.
I’m glad you didn’t die.