Chapter Text
“You really fucked it up this time, Kitaki,” Wocky mutters to himself.
He tilts his head to the side, studying his face in the mirror. The bruise is nasty. Like, real nasty. Nasty enough where that one Walmart employee that just stands around self checkout making sure no one fucks off without paying for their family size bag of Doritos had given him not just a double take but a triple take when he breezed by into the bathroom to scrub the dried blood off his face, their expression making it crystal-fuckin’-clear that they thought Wocky up and shanked someone in the parking lot. And ‘cause this place is local and the Kitaki name is known from here halfway to Canada they probably recognized the idiot son of the Kitaki kingpins and thought he did the so-called shanking with a shiv he made in juvie out of chickenwire, glass and duct tape or some shit like that.
Well, little does the bastard Walmart self checkout employee know, Wocky’s a reformed man. He’s fuckin’ changed, asshole. He would never shank someone in a Walmart parking lot.
Not unless they really, really deserved it.
And even then, he wouldn’t do it somewhere with cameras and witnesses unless you’re trying to make a statement - every gangster worth half his bullets knows you do that shit low-key, not in the middle of a corporate empire’s parking lot where some weirdo in slippers in the middle of winter’s probably pissin’ on pigeons a row of cars away.
(And for your information, Bastard Walmart Self Checkout Employee, Wocky’s never even set foot in juvie. Not even for one damn second despite what the snitches say, and on the topic of whether or not he knows how to make a shiv outta anything from a stabby old toothbrush to a rolled up magazine cut down into a nice sharp point, he pleads the the sixth, or whatever.)
(He learned that one from Apollo. Apparently it’s a nice way of saying hey actually I’m shuttin’ my trap and you ain’t opening it with nothing less than a crowbar, dumbass.)
(Or something like that, he’s pretty sure.)
Wocky gingerly pokes at part of the bruise, winces when it stings. It’s too big to hide with makeup, way too big - not like Wocky’s got the patience for that kind of thing, anyway, and it’d probably look like shit if he tried (he tried to put on eyeliner once ‘cause he digs the way it looks, but it ended up less cool and mysterious and more like he got mauled by a stray cat someone gave a Halloween paint job, so now Vera does his eyeliner when he wants it ‘cause she’s got steady artist hands). The bruise sits smack-dab over his eye, spreading down his right cheekbones in all kinds of ugly purple. The skin on the bridge of his nose split, too, and there’s blood smeared all across his cheek and drying on his lower lip and eyebrow, getting all crusty and itchy and shit. Fucking christ, he hates getting punched in the nose. For starters, it bleeds so fucking much, and it stings like a bitch and makes his eyes water so bad it’s looks like he’s crying and he’s NOT crying over some asshole socking him in the sniffer, and he got blood over his nice flannel that he got for a damn steal at the thrift store for like, three and a half bucks and now it’s worth less than dog shit on the side of the road ‘cause it’s got fucking blood on the sleeves after he crammed it halfway to his brain through his nose holes. He’s gotta stop the bleeding some way or another so he doesn't get accosted by worried old women in their giant glasses and chunky knit cardigans they probably made themselves outta cat hair going oh, young man, are you okay? Like, the fuck do you think, old lady? Does he look okay?
(Okay, not that Wocky would be rude to an old woman. Or any woman. He’s polite as hell to women. Unless they’re assholes. If you’re being an asshole he doesn’t really care about your pronouns, he’s pretty sure it’s like, the law or whatever that he’s allowed to be an asshole back. There’s gotta be a law or something about that. He’ll ask Apollo sometime. Or he won’t. He’ll probably forget.)
Wocky touches his index finger to the side of his nose. All the blood is making it look way worse than it actually is, though. The blow didn’t break it and he’s never been more grateful that idiot never learned how to throw a proper punch. He’s had his nose broken before once, when he was thirteen and his ma reset it for him and that shit hurt worse than the punch that broke it and his nose still has a weird little bump to it now that’s noticeable enough where all the soccer moms in their clean white shoes give him dirty looks like they think he’s some kinda delinquent when in reality he’s only mostly not a delinquent anymore, Sharon. He’s got a respectable girlfriend and everything.
And yeah, maybe he’s a little self conscious about it, and yeah, maybe it’s not very cool and tough to be self conscious about your crooked nose but it’s right in the middle of his fuckin’ face, it’s not like he can hide it. Shit’s obvious at hell.
Okay but like, seriously though, how the fuck do they keep their shoes so clean? Do you even go outside? Do you wash them? He tried asking one of the soccer moms once but she gave him a look like he was going to give her rabies or something and told him she’d call the police if he kept bothering her. Christ, lady, he just asked about her shoes, he’s not gonna steal her weird little half-pint dog that she put a sweater vest on in the middle of summer. Weirdo.
Wocky splashes his face with water, watching it run pink as it circles down the drain before tackling the cut on his eyebrow with a paper towel. The fucker nearly split his eyebrow in half with that ring.
“Why do they always gotta be wearing rings?” Wocky grumbles, scrubbing at the cut with vigor.
And yeah, maybe he used to wear rings, too, ‘cause it gives you the edge in a fistfight. It’s kinda like bringing a knife to a fistfight, except you’re an asshole if you bring a knife - there ain’t honor in that. You’re just smart if you wear rings, and they’re shiny, that’s just a bonus. He still wears rings, but he wears ‘em now ‘cause he likes them and they’re fun to fidget around with, ‘specially those ones that click and spin in that super satisfying way.
Wocky sighs irritatedly, winces as his ribs complain with the effort. The boot to the side was kind of just rude. He’s sure he has a gnarly bruise forming there, too, but at least the fucker wasn’t sporting steel-toed boots. He hates getting kicked in the ribs almost as much as he hates getting socked in the nose, only just a bit less ‘cause it’s easier to hide.
Staring at his battered reflection in the mirror, the purpling bruise bright on his face, Wocky groans. He drops his forehead down to the cool marble of the sink, even though he probably shouldn’t do that ‘cause this is a Walmart bathroom and he doesn’t know what happens on the counters in here.
When his ma murders him for getting into a fight, he’ll just remind himself that purple is Vera’s favorite color.
The Walmart employee gives him another startled look as he leaves.
The wind bites at the scrapes on his face as Wocky cruises down the main road. Every time his bike runs over a crack or a bump it jolts unpleasantly beneath him, jarring his ribs and every single one of his bruises. A man walking a dog side eyes him. He exhales.
He’s supposed to meet Vera at seven. He’s supposed to meet Vera at seven, at a nice restaurant so they can share a big ass plate of fettuccine alfredo and get stupid fancy dessert after that costs way too much money cause they only do that shit one night a month and it’s their night this month today. That’s in barely two and a half hours and there’s no way the bruising is gonna go down by then. He’s used to people looking at him and seeing… exactly what he looks like now, he guesses, some delinquent kid that likes to redden his knuckles for fun (especially fucking soccer moms), but Vera?
Vera’s better than all that. She’s good, she’s…
Wocky’s bike hits a nasty divot. The wheels catch in a divot of tar in the pavement and suddenly he’s leaving the bike behind, tripping over his own two feet to keep his balance before he schedules a makeout with the asphalt and he snaps his nose for real. He stands there for a second, chest heaving, arms out to the side. His bike, flipped over from the force of him stumbling off, lies behind him with the wheels spinning.
“Fuck,” he mutters. Breathing through his nose hurts. Breathing in general hurts, the skin around his ribs stretching and wheezing. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to calm down. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He can’t go to dinner with Vera like this. He can’t go to dinner at a nice restaurant like this. The fancy waiter people in their shiny suits that ain’t seen a single damn wrinkle in their whole life aren’t gonna let Wocky stroll in with his busted eyebrow and crooked nose and black eye the size of the goddamn moon and be like, oh yeah, sure, this guy won’t steal our silverware and bounce without paying. They can’t even put their reservation under his name because it freaks the restaurant out to have a Kitaki accidentally getting noodle sauce on their nice tablecloths so bad half the time they lie and say they’re full - Wocky guesses he’s lucky they’re all too scared of him and his family to not turn him down on the spot when they see him stroll through the doors.
But he sees the look in their eyes when they recognize him. He’s never missed that look, not once. Sure, the Kitakis have been clean for years now but that doesn’t change history. That doesn’t change the papers with their big bold headlines. It doesn’t change shit, not really.
Not to mention he has to face Vera and tell her why he got in the fight in the first place.
Wocky breathes out through his nose. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’ll just never go home again and disappear off the face of the earth, that’s totally fine, he can do that. Sure.
He storms back to his bike, kicking it to the side. He flops down on the sidewalk to consider his options. He can’t go to the bakery. His parents are at the bakery, and his ma will flay him alive if she finds out he got in a fight (even if it literally wasn’t his fault). He can hear her voice now echoing in his head, pulling out his full-ass name like she only does when he’s in deep shit: Winfred Kitaki II, what the hell were you thinking? She’ll probably put his ass on house arrest or something. With the ankle bracelets and whatever. Those things probably chafe like hell, now that he thinks about it. And they’re fucking ugly. He wonders if they come in different colors.
Worse than all that, though, the risk of house arrest and his ma yelling at him, worse than the we gave that life up, Kiki and the Kitakis aren’t those kinds of people anymore, Wocky just doesn’t want to see the disappointed look on his dad’s face. He can’t.
So, no. He’s not going to the bakery.
Vera’s either at her apartment or his, but he can’t risk going home and seeing her. She didn’t know him back when he got into fights all the time. She knows about that part of his life, yeah, he’s not the kind of guy to keep big secrets like that and he’s half-sure she’s probably seen his face in the papers from all that shit he pulled so long ago, but she’s never seen him like this before.
And though he’ll die before he admits it to a living person, he’s afraid to see her reaction.
She’d probably be disappointed in him.
Who wouldn’t?
(And he feels guilty about it, sometimes. He feels guilty that Vera loves him as he is, despite the crooked nose that makes him snore, his stupid brain, the scars, the way people look at him when they’re out together because they know who he is, everyone does, the gunshot wound that he doesn’t like people seeing so he doesn’t go shirtless, even wears tank tops while swimming and crop tops in summer, but Vera insists it’s pretty because she thinks it looks like a flower.)
The old familiar ache of the bruises on his skin is leaving him feeling restless, itchy, like ants are crawling under his skin. He wants to kick something. Or break something.
He wants to get in a fight.
Wocky scowls. He forces his bike up and grabs at the handles to push it beside him, ignoring the look a woman crossing the street gives him and taking a sharp turn at People Park before he does something really, really stupid.
wocky: where u at rn
apollo: The office. Why?
apollo: Wocky??