Work Text:
Many years ago, Italy ceased to be associated with delicious pasta, poured with exquisite tomato sauce, freshly baked bread, hot espresso in the morning somewhere on the outskirts of Venice
No, of course, all this was.
And not least of all, the merits of this country were remembered with warmth and trepidation in the chest.
But the darkness that was born from the connection with rotten Sicily back in 1860 left traces to this day.
There was little good, but people strong in spirit and with a sense of love for their homeland adapted, learned to enjoy some small things, gradually brightening up the cities with unity and goodwill towards each other.
After all, when day after day someone was dying at the hands of the mafia due to carelessness, people wanted to hear everything except a reminder of the danger, which television kindly helped them with.
People seemed to have completely stopped seeing how a dead homeless person could be lying on the corner early in the morning on their way to get some crispy bread, or how children were rummaging through trash cans.
Teenagers began to unite, bringing their goals and values to the masses. Some rejected the foundations of the country, some, on the contrary, thoughtlessly defended them, some were looking for support, and some were just having fun.
Even adults began to join in after a while, infected with youthful maximalism.
The conflicts of these groups, however, became another problem on the street, filling the dangerous areas not only with the chance to run into the mafia, but also with skinheads, who were not particularly fond of strangers, punks, who often attacked the police.
Not to mention the encounter with a fight between these two companies.
Squalo didn’t particularly share all these dejected sighs of passers-by regarding the streets of Italian cities.
Especially these pompous rich bastards.
They wear white coats, smoke cigars, stink of expensive colognes, and when they see a 5-year-old homeless child, all they can do is whine sympathetically.
Damn circus.
Squalo hated this side of life.
It wasn't that he liked sleeping outside in the winter any better, but he'd rather die than end up on the other side of poverty with these smug faggots who didn't care about human life.
He reveled in being one of those who could put a rich man in his place and show him the real beauty of the streets.
After all, that was it.
Squalo would never have thought that he would end up sitting in a cozy apartment in the center of Naples, pacing from one corner to another and shaking like a flea-ridden dog with a gun to its forehead.
His nails were miraculously not bleeding, having been completely eaten away by the nervous tremors in his chest, making his legs buckle and his lungs refuse to pump air.
Never in his life had he experienced such wild, animal fear.
He rushed alone into a crowd of skinheads, spat in the faces of armed police officers, laughing and jumping from roof to roof.
Why did this particular person get caught, why not someone else, what did he even forget that fateful evening on the street.
Why didn't he just make him and his brother go to the police for assault, what were all these games and bullying for?
Not that he really complained.
The essence of the agreement, which provided him with safety, food and shelter, was extremely simple.
He got a job - he does it, continuing to eat regularly and sleep dry and warm.
You couldn't think of anything simpler.
For Squalo, it was no problem to buy a pack of cigarettes, start a fight or make noise.
He carried out all the orders with pleasure, even when they required, to his surprise, to do not the most legal things. He didn't care.
He did all this for free, and here they also give him food for the entertainment.
But that was only until the moment when he failed with a total collapse.
Because this time he failed. He failed to fulfill what seemed to be a simple request.
Television was one of the most important parts of Italian life, reporting on what was happening around and delighting with good news.
And even though the nickname "Talking Head" was more firmly entrenched in ordinary society in relation to this profession, the name "Tiziano" was often on people's tongues and in their heads.
This man occupied, if not the first, then far from the last place on television.
Maybe not everyone knew him directly, but everyone heard him on the radio or saw him on television.
Women sighed selflessly when talking about him, men brushed off his appearance and strictly asserted how honest he was, being on the same level with the people.
The very first, the most informative and the most charming.
Well, he did his job properly.
Squalo would have called all these people who trusted the pretty face on the screen spineless donkeys without a second thought, if after the start of their "communication" he had not caught himself on delirious feelings, as if this man really was hypnotizing with his relaxed, but firm voice and penetrating gaze.
And using this influence to promote aspiring TV stars was an excellent and profitable idea in the eyes of directors greedy for money and power.
How he hated it.
Tiziano was distant, not particularly talkative, and did his job exclusively. But no matter how bright a role model he was for the passionate Italians, Squalo could clearly see his golden eyes darken every time the new, shamelessly paired co-host tried to interact with him on air, or even, God forbid, interrupt him.
Usually these "partners" changed on their own.
As he found out later, this happened even before the beginning of their peculiar relationship, from which he was persistently shouted to run away, without looking back.
Yes, perhaps he was used, he did not even discuss this fact.
Yes, he was a toy to satisfy the desires of a self-confident rich... fool.
But he had led himself into this dead end.
Moreover, he and his brother had dug this with their own hands.
Out of ignorance, in an effort to simply survive.
Was it so terrible that it deserved all that he had been subjected to as punishment?
He would never let Salе fall into this bottomless abyss, too.
Yesterday morning.
Tiziano didn't particularly like the company of the young and pretty girl, who was miraculously assigned to him as a co-host, dreaming of becoming a famous journalist.
But it was precisely this fire in the eyes that was the annoying, hateful noise in his ears.
A bright, passionate nature, coloring each news release with emotional colors, violating the order and measured tone that Tiziano always adhered to not only in work, but in life in general.
And, of course, it was she who became the thorn that Tiziano asked to be pulled out.
Not that it was a problem in a physical or moral sense.
A small accident, another heartbreaking news story in his pocket and the desired solitude on the air.
If only the area the woman lived in wasn't full of fucking skinheads.
He was thinking too much about how to play the situation. Planning wasn't his strong point, so millions of options were running through his head, thinking, processing and reworking tactics.
But not a single thought crept into his head that his own ass should be protected, until they pounced on him with attacks and a fight.
The damn bastards could only attack from behind with metal bats and brass knuckles.
And not only did he get his ass kicked, but the woman saw it all.
Squalo couldn't guarantee she hadn't caught him finishing off one of those freaks.
With the situation in town, it would definitely make the news.
Her news.
Just great.
Not only did he fail to complete the task, but he made things worse with his own hands.
Tiziano will be unhappy.
No, he will be angry and disappointed.
– Damn…
Squalo whispers with a trembling lip.
A desperate attempt to throw out the overwhelming and overflowing stress, at least by mumbling under his breath.
He will have problems.
Again.
He won't be able to pay back the debt if he continues to make such mistakes.
If he is even given a chance not to make them again.
The trembling blue pupils, contrasting their rich color with the gloomy living room, rush first to the clock, noting the time, and then abruptly jump to the TV screen.
Literally in a minute, evening news summary will begin, summing up what is happening in the country and some cities.
Squalo does not even feel the weight of the remote control when his fingers close around it.
With a numb hand, he hesitantly and reluctantly, but is forced to turn on the TV.
The room is filled with a loud, second-long beep as the TV box starts working.
He covers his mouth with his hand and restlessly runs his eyes over the short but rather long screensaver, foreshadowing the beginning and calling people to the screen, and then... freezes.
A single voice is heard from the other side of the glass partition.
Calm, unhurried, calming..
Everything as always in sufficient, but not excessive detail, laying out all the information on the shelves and kindly serving it on a spoon right to the viewer's ears.
And no one else.
Tiziano hosted the program alone.
Squalo was now looking at the screen in confusion, not understanding what was happening.
He choked for a second, freezing, when Tiziano mentioned another skirmish between punks and skinheads on the outskirts of Naples, not only warning, but also telling people to be careful in that area, trying not to go there unnecessarily, and for those who live there - not to walk alone late at night.
This woman told him everything?
He racks his brains as Tiziano narrates in the background, the gears in his head not just smoking, they crack and break in an attempt to fit all the pieces together.
And either fortunately or unfortunately, Squalo forgets about everything that filled his head, seemingly ever, when he is faced with Tiziano's piercing gaze.
He always maintained eye contact with the viewer, this was, after all, his job.
But Squalo can't help but think, no, feel, that this gaze is directed only, specifically at him.
Accusing, disappointed...
End of broadcast.
So, in about two hours Tiziano will be home.
Maybe the woman just quit?
After all, if she lives in a less than favorable area, she could have gotten into even more trouble after announcing this news.
So she passed the information on to her partner.
Not so bad.
Doesn't make up for his mistake, but better than it could have been.
He could have slept his last minutes in peace, in the warmth and on a soft sofa, go and empty the fridge before there will left only a couple of wet marks of him and threw the rest in the nearest trash can.
As cool as it may be, even those sentenced to death have the right to an absolute meal.
There was no point in running.
If they found him then, respect him now.
But he couldn't even bring himself to move, continuing to stare at the TV screen while people unknown to him told and showed something, creating only white noise in the background.
He was restless.
Fear?
Squalo couldn't call it that.
He could run into a fight alone against a crowd.
He killed armed policemen and none of it ever scared him.
But now
Now his heart was beating a drum roll, without understanding why.
Hours
No, minutes dragged on.
Longed on, like his tongue, which had almost been torn out during their second meeting.
However, judging by everything, it would be torn out this time.
Cold sweat appeared on his forehead, throwing him into heat and then frost.
It was a question of pride that had been hurt in the most brutal way.
And with this garbage too.
But first of all it was that he had let Tiziano down.
He could have done more.
He could have done better.
If only he had not been caught off guard.
If only
If only
These were all just excuses for his own carelessness.
He jerks, almost jumping up from his seat, at the moment of the deafening click that fills the entire room and the subsequent rustling of the door.
Turning towards the sound, piercing the dark corridor, Squalo hesitates for a while, rushing from thought to thought and from one impulse to another until a flash of a milky-white suit catches his eye.
Every muscle in his body tenses to attention, urging him to stand up, or rather, to jump up from his place.
– I didn't know they were there. All these street rats can do is attack in a crowd from behind. I would have killed her, I swear, I even had a plan! I had a plan, Tiziano!
Squalo's voice managed to change tone and range several times in just one outburst of continuous thoughts in an attempt to explain, to justify the current situation.
As a dog, he shudders and backs away when Tiziano, on his own initiative, shortens the distance between them, casually but easily throwing off his bag along the way, which fell heavily on the sofa with a dull thud, and resolutely striding towards him, driving the child of the streets into a dead end.
– I'll gouge out her eyes for seeing everything, she won't be here tomorrow, I promise!
Cutting off the end of the sentence, he jerks his head away with a sharp movement, more involuntarily than consciously expecting a blow. But it is returned to its original position by Tiziano's hand, gently resting behind Squalo's tense cheekbone, not only feeling through the fabric of the white gloves the rough abrasions that have become crusted over during this time, but also prompting the room to finally become silent.
The thumb traces the wound on the split lip, cheekbone and slowly follows up the sweaty curves of the face, burrowing under the dirty bandana, and opening the previously hidden, dried-up wound.
– You really fell from the roof, didn't you?
Squalo, either guilty or under the pressure of his wounded sense of self-worth, looks away, as if he were a small child again, scolded by his mother for fighting in the yard.
– We need to treat the wound at least now.
Throwing an overly uncomprehending look, feeling like a complete idiot right now, Squalo's lips changed position three times, if not more, in an attempt to find words, at least form a thought from that mess of misunderstanding of such a calm and sweet reaction.
Where is at least a frown showing dissatisfaction with his work?
He did not eliminate the target.
Why hasn't he been kicked back out onto the street face down in the dirt yet?
Squalo doesn't even try to resist when he is taken by the shoulder with a gentle but firm roll and led to the bathroom, finally pulling him out of the abyss of thoughts.
– Wait, ah- she quit? Why were you alone?
Tiziano, however, was not particularly burdened by the interrogation.
He takes off his jacket, leaving it hanging on a free hook without a hanger.
After all, he can just iron it later.
The gloves are placed on a small shelf above the sink, next to the personal hygiene items, immediately after which he thoroughly washes his hands with soap.
While Squalo could only stand at the entrance to the room, Tiziano begins to search for the first aid kit, not using it often enough to remember its location.
Unlatching the fasteners, he takes out a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, nourishing and moisturizing ointment, two small pieces of cloth and a bandage, only after that, finally, deigning to somehow comment on what is happening.
– Well, since you were not allowed to do what you were asked to do…
Simple words, and said in such a light tone, could not help but cause a feeling of already gnawing shame in Squalo.
Not so much because of the fact that he failed, but because he didn't live up to the expectations of the man opposite him, that relied on someone like him, even in such an immoral matter.
Although
Where was it ever seen that he cared about the opinion of some rich bigwig in his address?
Well, right now, apparently.
Guilt snaps away the burning sensation that pierces through and tears from the very depths of Squalo a painful groan, a hiss, and all the random sounds that a person was and was not capable of.
A cloth soaked in a special disinfectant solution was pressed tightly against the deep wound, from which they finally removed this ridiculous dirty bandana, wiping it with light movements and only confirming how dirty it was, considering all the dirt flowing down and abundant foaming.
How did this boy even survive on the street until this day?
– I realized that I should stay late at work that day.
Squalo howls quietly through clenched teeth from the searing pain that reaches the point of convulsions. The wound has been exposed, having erased the crust of dirt and dried blood that had formed earlier.
It is no less a miracle that he did not lose his head at all.
He frowns in resentment, grunting in displeasure at the careless slap with which Tiziano pushed his hand away, not allowing him to touch the carefully cleaned wound with dirty hands.
– Wait..
Squalo suddenly came to his senses, even through the discomfort continuing to try to assemble this puzzle from a thousand
Nah
A million pieces.
No less.
He freezes, looking up at Tiziano, while he was covering a new patch with healing ointment.
– What do you mean?
Even though Squalo initially thought Tiziano was continuing to ignore him, he caught the thin white eyebrows raising for a moment, accepting and considering the question.
– I can be persuasive.
Putting the ointment aside, he applies the cloth to the wound, almost immediately meeting a quiet, unpleasant moan from the light, healing tingling.
– Hold this.
Squalo winced, unused to having his wounds tended to, which had always been left to their own devices or, at worst, Sale helped him with.
But he was still a long way from being a doctor, of course.
However, albeit with distaste, he obediently extended his hand before receiving another slap.
– Sorry. Wash your hands.
Squalo frowns in irritation when he is hit on the arm again, but this time for something Tiziano himself asked him to do.
He has already opened his mouth, baring his teeth venomously in order to reflexively express his displeasure with this situation, but the spontaneous apology that abruptly interrupts him leaves him at a loss, not expecting that a person of such status would sincerely, albeit briefly, apologize to a "street rat".
– Okay.
Looking down, Squalo walks to the sink with Tiziano holding the cloth, carefully washing his hands.
He had forgotten the feeling of warm water pouring from the sink faucet, calm and unhurried, even after soaping his hands.
Tiziano raises an eyebrow at the dirty water and soap suds as Squalo turns off the faucet and shakes off the excess water.
Blue eyes meet gold, silently indicating, without knowing why, that he has finished, only then looking back and pressing the ointment-soaked rag to the wound with his fingertips.
Now that his hands are free, Tiziano takes the bandage and carefully wraps his head, fighting with unruly red curls and fixing everything necessary so that Squalo does not die anytime soon from blood poisoning or some other infection.
– I will take it off in the morning before work. Just don't put on that dirty headband, I swear I'll rip your arms off for this.
– Readily believe.
In fact, despite Tiziano's fleeting glance, there was not a grain of sarcasm in Squalo's words, even though the man in front of him looked like a cute, quiet goat, he understood from his own experience that if you are not able to take the situation into a deadly grip and stand up for yourself, then you will end up in the garbage with a slit throat that same evening.
And with such a status, this need increases many times over.
After all, he still flinches sometimes, subconsciously remembering the beating he got from that same man in his damn elegant white gloves.
Tiziano leaves these words without any comment. Putting the first aid kit back where it was before, he calmly walks past the awkwardly grinning punk, grabbing his jacket and gloves on the way, so he can finally change.
Squalo was left to run all these words through his head.
He felt that he was alone only because of the gust of wind that had passed by, beckoning him to follow, but stopping two steps short of the room where Tiziano was changing.
Not because he had stopped himself consciously, but rather because he had not even realized that he had been walking at all.
Tiziano really knew how to persuade.
Even during that not very long period of their... joint work, it was impossible not to notice how easily this man found a common language with people, even in spite of his undisguised rejection of communication, especially outside the work.
But what exactly did he do?
Asked her to quit?
Give up her partnership?
Why couldn't he have done it right away?
Why all these requests with murder...
No, even in theory it sounds like complete nonsense.
– How about a late dinner? I haven't had lunch today.
They collide, both not expecting such a sudden encounter, bringing Squalo back to reality, and helping Tiziano understand that perhaps he had worked too hard today, since he had not even heard the footsteps.
Squalo raised his sober gaze to the eyes shining in the evening darkness, like two lights of a hidden wild animal that the hunter had met in the forest at night.
Well, he wasn't a cat lover, but
– Yeah, sure. I dare not refuse.
A slight, relaxed smile flashes on Tiziano's lips, his eyes narrow with satisfaction, emphasizing the barely perceptible wrinkles of fatigue, when thin fingers rise and touch Squalo's hair, circling his curly, not the cleanest, tangled in many places hair with his palm, with an unobtrusive inviting movement calling him to follow him into the kitchen.
He steals a few seconds, remaining standing in place and looking at the straight back of the departing Tiziano.
His Adam's apple trembles slightly from the burning sensation of cold and at the same time hot phantom traces left on the skin from the air touches, leaving his heart to tremble and shrink at the same time, missing a beat.
After all, all he should care about now is that Tiziano isn't mad at him, right?
And that he'll eat well today.
Squalo finally moves, quickly taking off his torn vest and throwing it somewhere on the floor, following Tiziano like a little tail.
– Hey, can I help? I'm pretty good with a knife!