Work Text:
There was a red switchblade kept in the front right pocket of the man's pock-marked blue and gray jeans, always kept sharp enough to draw blood. He wore an old brown leather jacket stained in places by dirt and blood, and the discoloration in places on his steel-toed boots suggested that they had been through the same abuse. It was hard to imagine that a man so clearly callous and hostile was the beloved coach of a children's baseball team, yet the photo carefully secured behind the expired driver's license in his wallet said otherwise.
His car looked as if it was older than him, and almost in contrast to the condition of his clothing there was nary a scratch on it, the metallic blue sheen of paint on the vehicle appearing to be fresh as well. The interior was spotless, and each seat had pristine white upholstery. The glove box was stuffed with crumpled paper napkins and hastily folded maps, each one a unique story of a different place – though such sentimental ideas were quickly set aside by the shared presence of five condoms and a half empty pack of cigarettes.
Home to him was a small two bedroom apartment owned by his aunt. The beige walls were bare save for photographs taken from various places across the country – some of them were even his. Most of them, however, were taken by – and occasionally featured – a pair of young men. Only those photos were framed. On the table was a child's baseball mitt that had started to split down the seam, two stitches crudely sewn into it with a needle and thread nearby.
For now one of the bedrooms remained empty with its door shut, but it was always stocked with extra blankets, just in case. His own room was the exact opposite: even the air felt suffocated by the mess of clothes and clutter strewn about the small room. The simple nightstand by the bed was the last bastion of cleanliness in the room, having only a digital alarm clock and a small stack of letters in someone else's handwriting.