Chapter Text
Woouh! Ouh… Can’t wait for karaoke tonight.
Demetrius walks into the locker rooms, ready to hit the showers…well, almost ready. He plops down on the benches to chill for a bit, panting slightly. Eugh, he feels disgusting. Hot. His face is all oily. His armpits will stick to his chest if he puts his arms down. Heat radiates from him, and the shitty ventilation makes it all worse. It’s hot. Hot, hot, hot. Sticky and searing like a summer afternoon. This whole locker room REEKS of sweat and vile people-fluid. Did the only ceiling fan in here have to break?
It’s all just more incentive to shower. He peels his thighs off the bench, the ache in his arms already starting to set in. Just as he gets up——ring ring ring! Oh, a phone. Someone’ll get it.
He walks to the end of the row, the repeating dark green wall of lockers passing by…ring ring ring! Hm? It’s taking a bit longer.
He gets to his locker and spins his combination into his lock. Guess what. Ring ring ring! It should’ve stopped by now. Oh, well. Pass 0 thrice…
Ring ring ring!
Erm. Land on 23.
Ring ring ring!
Can someone get that? Okay, now pass 0 twice…
Ring ring ring!!
…uh, land on 11.
RING RING RING!!!
Get to 24!!
RING RING RING!!! RING RING RING!!!
Damn!! Okay, okay! Al-right!!
Clicking his tongue, Demetrius skedaddles over to the sound and sees an unattended phone on the benches. He quickly runs over and grabs it. It’s got a basic black cover. “Mami” is calling. Oh, it’s Viktor’s! Probably!
“Uh…Von? VON!!!” He calls out to the lockers.
No one responds. Oh, obviously. He snatches the phone and looks around.
“Awh, come on——VON KAIIISEEEEEEER!!!”
Nada.
He curses as the ringtone urges him on. Where…oh! The back! Viktor smokes, right? If he’s not in the gym, and not in the lockers, he’s back there taking a smoke! Despite himself and his sweat-coated body, Demetrius trots over to the back door.
“VOOOOOOON!! Your——“ The phone abruptly cuts, leaving him in silence. “——uh, phone…”
The silence in his head quickly fills with the sounds of the Big Apple. Cars honking, people chatting, and…anonymous susurrus. Probably from the forever buzz of most packed cities and maybe from the sprinkling sky. It’s been a bit wet as of late. Some rain had stopped just as he’d finished his sesh. Thank the man upstairs that he didn’t need to drive in the downpour.
The back alley’s empty. Well, not empty like an empty box; Empty like an empty house. Unintelligible graffiti smears on the walls. The ground is littered with mushy debris and substance. Trash surrounds the trash bin and dumpster.
All of this for what? Ugh. The malaise is killing him. It feels like he’s covered in oil. But…it’s so refreshingly cool out here. Some wind grazes his face, and it’s like a God-given gift. Way colder than inside! He’s oughta take a shower soon, but nature’s cooling touch is fine for now.
Habitually filtering out the smell of garbage, Demetrius trudges over to the opposite brick wall, spins around, and leans his back on it. Ouh, it’s cold too. He heaves a sigh as the heat flows out of him and the cold flows in. His feet slip forward a bit because of the wet ground, but it’s not a problem. Finally, he can breathe, really breathe in some air that’s not tainted with a stranger’s foul ball sweat. He tilts his head upwards and admires what’s up above. The sky is a solid grey, swirling with slightly darker clouds. Demetrius never really liked this kinda weather. It made him feel lazy. But at least it doesn’t hurt to look at, unlike the neon blue of sunny summer days. It’s like lying in bed. It’s like floating in a pool with a case of kool-aid by your side. It’s like heaven, as tiny drops of rain start to fall on his face.
And suddenly his feet slip all the way. His back scrapes the wall and he smashes into a trash bin lid below him, a loud, metallic crash echoing through the alley. The handle of the lid violently digs into his bottom. He yelps in pain, quickly removing himself off the chunk of metal. Not wanting to deal with it at the moment, he shoves Viktor’s phone in his pocket.
“AWH!! Shit, dude! FfffffUCK!”
He holds himself up with one hand and consoles his stinging flesh with the other. As he glares at the bane of his misery, something else catches his eye. There was something under the lid, a shoebox, that’d been hidden. Only because of his little accident was it revealed. Demetrius rolls his knees over on the ground to rest the rest of his body, reaching for the box. His fingers wrap around it, and he pulls it to him. The trash bin lid clatters to the ground. Thickly scrawled on the top of the box was the name, Jacques Montagne.
Wait! That’s..! He can’t remember. He’s heard of that name before, probably. Was it an acquaintance? Someone on the internet? A celebrity? It’s at the back of his mind, and yet he can’t seem to reach it no matter how hard he stretches. Eh…
He probably shouldn’t be snooping around other people’s stuff, let alone digging in the trash. But it’s not every day you see something like this! This looks cool! There’s no tape around it, so just a little peak…
Oh.
There’s a mountain of polaroids. His eyes are assaulted by gross sights. He picks up the photo on the top of the pile; It shows someone’s bare back, a HUGE purple bruise blotching the skin like how coffee stains a white shirt. He grabs another with his other hand. It’s an unfamiliar face of a child, a teenager, streaked with tears & sweat and grinning. Short hair sticks out in all directions. They hook a finger under their lip and pull to show off a tooth dangling by the metal wire of their braces. This is fucking weird, Demetrius thinks. He’s pulled into it, eyes wide in disbelief. Is this some sorta… I should stop. There’s a reason this is in the trash——I gotta stop.
One last picture. He puts down the two photos and hesitantly pulls one out from the bottom of the pile. The photo shows a giant, fresh gash over the entire thigh. The picture is still blurry from the subject thrashing around, even though multiple hands hold it down. What looks like a small knife dangles at the end of the wound, right at the knee. Neon red blood pours out like a broken dam and pools on the floor. Orange, bean-like, fatty flesh glistens with the flash of the camera, filling with red fluid. Some of it looks like it’s spilling out of the wound. In the middle is a thin, crimson slit. In the very middle is an off-white, translucent, tiny line. Is that muscle? Is that bone?
The young man retches, his stomach doing flips. He finally pulls his gaze from the photo and throws it back onto the pile. The door opening behind him was background noise.
“…Have you seen my phone?” A familiar, serious and orotund voice asks.
“AH! Oh, Von!” Demetrius jumps up and spins around.
“My name is Viktor. Quit referring to me by my stage name.”
“Oh, my bad. I, uh…yeah. Y-yeah, I got it. Got your phone, I mean.”
Demetrius digs into his pocket and grabs the phone, nearly dropping it as he sheepishly hands it to the older man. Viktor’s face twists in annoyance, confusion, and disgust. He snatches back his property.
“Hm. I did not realize you were a thief,” he spits.
“I, Nonono——it’s not like that! Lemme explai—“
“What excuse could you possibly have?! Keep your hands off of my things, will you!”
Scowling, Viktor starts off to fulfill his smoking need elsewhere. And knowing the smack he’ll probably receive, Demetrius grabs the man’s arm and yanks him back.
“Wait——PLEASE! Before ya go! I know ya mad at me, but-I-gotta-show-you-somethin’-REALLY-IMPORTANT!!!” His eyes are big and pleading.
Without waiting for a response, Demetrius grabs the shoebox and whips right around to present it. The older man is increasingly skeptical, then concerned as he recognizes the name scrawled on top.
“It’s——it’s-like PICTURES!! Pictures of a little kid getting beat! It’s, it’s horrible! There’s blood and everything! And there——there was one where, like, he got stabbed and it showed the bone and I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”
At the mention of a child in danger, Viktor’s frustration immediately burns away. Attention fills his being.
“What?” He lifts up the top and gapes at the sights. “What?!”
“LOOKIT! Look at this, man!” Demetrius digs in the box and shoves the first photo he touches in Viktor’s face.
Grumbling briefly, Viktor grabs and holds the photo to where he can actually see it; It’s of a teenager’s scowling face and a hand under their head holding it up. A stream of blood flows from their broken nose. Their black eye is so huge it looks like a water balloon. In tears, the child grimaces at the camera, the person taking the photo, and whoever it was holding their head up. Viktor recognizes that face: fair skin, straight & auburn hair, a thin face, and a hooked nose.
Oh, Jacques. At first, years ago, Viktor hated Jacques. He hated his stubbornness, his physical weakness, his useless patriotism. It was by Jacques’s altruism alone could Viktor get past his swallow disdain. He brought Viktor out of his mental slump when he was dropped down into the minor circuit and his performance in the ring inevitably tanked, partly because he knows better than most how it feels to be at rock bottom. Jacques wasn’t an object for projection and hatred anymore. He was, and still is, a kind, persevering, and surprisingly bold Frenchman who loves his sport and loves his country with an ever-burning passion. Better than most men he knew. And perhaps the kindest as well.
And here is a photo collection of him getting practically abused. Viktor stares at Demetrius in disbelief.
“…I, uh, found this under that trash can lid over there… You know the name? Written on top?”
“Do I…” He sighs, disappointed. “You know him! It’s Joe!”
“WHAT?!” His eyes snap open.
“Jacques is his real name. Jacques Montagne. I thought you knew this.”
“Really? I’ve been calling him Joe for like, a year now, and he’s never been bothered——”
“That’s not the point.” He heaves a sigh, sifting through the mountain of polaroids. “My goodness… I know this is him because he has shown me photos of himself as a teenager. I know his face. That’s him. And I know he used to get into fights in his childhood, but…”
He finds the polaroid Demetrius was talking about. Upon witnessing the piece of gore, Viktor immediately tears his gaze and hands away. The man puts a palm to his mouth, eyes wide.
Both are silent. Viktor thinks over what to do next while Demetrius waits for his call, topping the box.
“So, what are we gonna do with this? I…reeeaally don’t wanna keep these.” He turns his head away, as if the box had a rancid stench.
“Give the box to me.”
“Really?” He snaps his head to Viktor.
“Yes. Give it here,” he demands, outstretching his hand.
“Oh. O-kaaaaay… If, if you insist.” He hands it over. “What are you gonna do with it?”
“I will show these photos to Jacques and discuss with him from there.”
“Are…are ya sure?!”
“Why wouldn’t I? These are his photos. The box even has his name on it. Why are you so hesitant?”
“Well! Ah!” He stammers. “If these really are of Joe when he was a kid, then, I dunno, maybe showing him these would…bring up some unwanted memories?? Trauma, or whatever?? I found it in this dump anyways, so it’s probably for the best that it’s just…thrown away. No one gets hurt if we just forget about this. We don’t gotta—“
“No. He needs to know. Assuming this was not his own doing of destroying bad memories, the implications of this box even existing are extremely disturbing. Who in their right mind would have photos like these in their possession? Even if they belong to a loved one, it is still strange! And THIS many, too?” He emphasizes by flicking the box open, and grabbing a handful of photos (there is still much over half leftover inside). “Of a CHILD? This is obviously predatory, parasocial, or both. Safety comes before comfort. I am showing Jacques these photos.”
“Alright!” He raises the backs of his palms to his shoulders. “Alright, um. Good luck? I’m gonna go…hit the showers. See ya, Von!”
Before Viktor can even bother to correct him, Demetrius hastily slips through the back door back into the locker rooms. The man sighs, setting the photos he took back into the box…before finding something else. Something black is sticking out. He grabs it from under the photo-mountain and shakes it off; It’s not 1, but 2 VHS cassettes. Viktor turns them over to see what’s written on the bottom, if anything. The one on top is scrawled in thick, black ink, “BONNE ANNÉE!” The one on the bottom is in faded gray pencil. The handwriting is so shaky he can’t read it.
What have I gotten myself into? Viktor thinks to himself. As tiny pellets of rain land on his arms, he backs up where the roof will shield him. He puts the cassettes back, closes the box, and pulls out his phone.
“1 verpasster Anruf von „Mami“”
It’s getting dark, which means it’s the crack of dawn for Berlin. You should call her back, Viktor.