Chapter Text
As he headed up the steps, for about the fifth time this week, Dante was seriously considering moving out.
To be fair, he knew it was a drastic decision. His apartment building wasn't bad by any means. The rooms were airy, with windows that let him see both the sights of city and comfort of old neighborhoods. His floor manager was probably one of the sweetest people alive, and he roomed with good friends who knew how to work with his schedule.
Okay, the rent was a bit high. But as an award-backed swimmer at UoC, he could afford that and a little more. So, the subway was far. He loved to take the bus, and Susie had a car and enough patience to be his chauffeur once in a while.
No, the real problem were the assholes.
By some inexplicable law of human nature, every semi-decent place on Earth had to have an asshole or two around. Dante's building kind of overflowed with them.
Greasy men lurking near the elevators, drunken businessmen up at all hours of the night, snotty kids who liked to play pranks and start fights ending with tantrums and broken furniture. Not all of it happened at the same time, thankfully. But it happened.
And even now, as he turned the corner and entered his hallway, he could practically sense trouble coming.
"Mari-posaaaaaa"
And there it was. Luis leaned against his doorway, smirking and looking like the cat that got the cream. A deadbeat cat, given his messy clothes and smarmy grin. Noticing he had caught Dante's attention, he sent him a wink, and a low "Sólo dime la hora y luga' precioso."*
Dante didn't even bother responding. Shifting away from his view of the man, he picked up the pace to his apartment.
Getting catcalled (pun unintended) didn't seem like a big deal, but it was disturbing to have it happen almost every time you set foot outside. Luis lived just down the hall, and was somehow always around when Dante left his own apartment. He'd figured the jeering would stop after a few months, but no luck. No matter the response he gave him, insults or complaints or otherwise, he seemed still up to it.
"Sólo díme la hora que té bañas." He muttered under his breath. What that pendejo needed was a bath.
Unfortunately, that was the not the end to the bullshit he had to put up with today. He caught sight of another obstacle waiting by his door: Mr. Allen, looking down at his phone but quickly spotting him.
"Dante! Thank god you're here, I have to tell you-" He froze, plastering a polite smile on his face. Mr. Allen had taken a liking to him, after that one time Dante had offered to help him upstairs, and now he was the first person he looked out for when anything in his life went wrong.
Seriously.
Anything.
At the moment he seemed to be talking about the newest bizarre incident of the week— a washer explosion or something —Dante wasn't really paying attention, although he tried to make eye contact and pretend to. He was thinking of more pressing concerns. Like the project he had due for his creative writing class.
Write a series of letters, to a lost love.
That was what his professor had dictated. Letters to a lost love, what the fuck did that mean? Dante didn't have lost loves; he barely had love in the first place. A boyfriend, once, last year. But Daniel wasn't worthy of being a lost love. And he hadn't dated much since.
Well, love wasn't just a romantic thing. He loved his friends, although he didn't think there was any loss there. He loved swimming. Maybe if something tragic occurred, he would lose that love.
"And he comes at me, this imbecile, and has the audacity-"
He couldn't think of much else with this man talking.
Just as he was about to interrupt, there came a ding from the elevator nearby, and the doors open.
In that exact moment, Dante would swear his life morphed into a telenovela, exactly like the ones Gina and Susie watched. Everything seemed to go in slow-motion; a long, lithe leg stepped out, followed closely by a broad body and the beauty of Dante's dreams. Really, the stuff of dreams; tall, rugged, with sweeping black hair and a jaw line that could make his knees weak.
As if to further prove his point, he stumbled a little against the wall, and the dream's eyes met his.
It was a glance, a second of eye contact, but his heart flung itself against his rib cage. Dark eyes under thick, sweeping eyelashes gazed at him, then pinched in amusement.
The dream turned and glided to a door. It was completely silent, or maybe Dante's ears couldn't function because his focus was tunneled at firm brown hands fiddling with a key, black hair drifting out as that body leaned down to pick up a bag, and then a door sliding shut.
Mr. Allen had disappeared, and he was alone in the hall staring at a door with lettering clearly stating:
Apartment 512