Chapter Text
The best time to make horrible mistakes is half past midnight, with Roxette playing quietly through his headphones.
Maybe that’s untrue. Maybe the best time to make horrible mistakes is when he has Roxette playing quietly through the headphones slung around his neck, no matter the hour. A low chorus of na-na nanana! to accompany the frantic click of his laptop as the fans try valiantly not to die. Poor thing. Fred probably deserved to be retired when Lea was done with him. Too bad; he’s Ven’s now.
It– he– probably won’t last nearly as long as the Nokia Lea had palmed off on him; way too important to carry around a brick when he has, gasp, a pager, a blackberry, but. This– his– little brick has withstood the test of time, Ven’s sure. It survived Lea. Now it’s survived two years of him. It can go the distance.
Fred probably won’t, there’s the pity. He’s clunky and chunky and if Ven keeps him on for much longer, might just turn himself off when he overheats. That, or Roxas will start banging on the wall. So he should really finish what he’s doing, get some rest.
Most of it’s already filled out. Finishing won’t take much more than a few minutes, at best. Ven’s just gotta check a few boxes. Press submit. Then he’ll be done. Easy.
Except– it’s also kind of hard? He has no idea what he’s doing. Really shouldn’t be here, but then, he is here, isn’t he? Because of a joke. Because Lea had made a joke, one that Roxas had punched him in the arm over, sure, but sometimes, sometimes, jokes have merit.
“Y’know, Ven. If the job search doesn’t work out, you could always become a sugar baby.” Lea grinned, waving a fork of pasta at him. “You’re cute enough, right? Get someone else to pay your tuition– ow!”
“Keep talking and I’ll show you cute.” Roxas threatened, only half joking himself. And they’d all laughed, or– they’d both laughed and Ven had smiled, scooping more bolognese into his mouth.
The thought, the idea, had sat through the rest of dinner, and sat through a few episodes of F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and sat as Roxas and Lea finally went to bed, and when he started to hear noises through the wall that no brother should have to hear, Ventus picked up his headphones to let Aqua tell him about Candymen from Bountyland.
Listened to it on repeat as he eyed off the letter confirming his leave of absence from his bachelors, this semester. Because he can’t afford it. And no matter how easy Roxas says getting a job is, it’s not. It’s really not. Not without history or personal references or people who’ve known him for more than two years, who aren’t his twin brother or said brother’s boyfriend.
And Aqua’s Lollipop kept blasting on repeat. Which he shouldn’t have taken as a sign, but he did.
Fred clicks away, probably overheating even faster thanks to the blanket sitting beneath it, smothering the air vents. Roxette tells him to listen to his heart. He beams up at himself from the screen; his newly selected profile picture from last year’s Mardi Gras. Wonky rainbows painted on his cheeks, several layers of plastic beads obscuring the color of his shirt. His hair is ruffled and his eyes are creasing at the edges. He looks happy.
He looks cute, right? Cute. Not strong or handsome or– cute. Skinny.
Would they be able to tell? If someone clicked on his profile, saw this picture, what was their first thought going to be? Would they take in the state of him and immediately know– ah, another one. Slum kid.
Delinquent. A being without sufficient means, just – ha, he’s gotta remind Roxas of this one– lapsing into immortality.
Across the room, he can hear the clock ticking on the wall. Time moves on. Roxette says goodbye; that’s fine. Savage Garden wants to fly him to the moon and back. He looks cute in that photo. That’s fine. That’s the point.
If someone does peg him as destitute, well. Duh. That’s why he’s here. On a sugar dating website. Talking about how his favorite shape is stars and he likes dancing, and he’s not sure what his preferences are on a lot of things, but he’s willing to try. He looked at a few other profiles, picked up a few keywords. Made sure to put some stuff down about wanting to make a real connection and having chemistry and man, try to what?
Try to obtain what will likely be the biggest haul of dick pics he’s ever gonna get in his life. Ven ducks down to muffle a laugh into his pillow. Oh, he’s going to feel so stupid tomorrow. As soon as Roxas heads to work, he’ll probably log back on here and delete everything.
Which seems like a problem for future him. With a flourish– hands lifting into the air, poised like the conductor of a symphony– Ven rapidly clicks away those last few boxes, before crossing that fabled finish line. Submitted. Published. Done.
Congratulations! Your profile is now live! Says the pop up box. Check out the below articles on how to find your perfect Sugar Daddy. There’s never a bad time for some of our favortie–
Clapping Fred’s lid shut, Ventus yanks out the phone cord, tossing it out into the darkness. Maybe he’ll dial up tomorrow and discover it was never published at all. Maybe he’ll have no messages.
Or maybe he’ll get dick pics. Lots of dick pics.
That’s all a problem for future Ventus. Waking up is also a problem for the future, one that’s far beyond settling under the covers, staring upwards as cars pass the house, headlights squeezing through the gaps in the curtains to dance across the popcorn ceiling. The ceiling in this place is ugly. The future kind of seems a little ugly, too.
The future comes, like it always does. Way too soon.
It’s always a toss up as to what will be his wake up call, come morning. For the past few months, his phone has won. Going to university has set a schedule for him, whether he wanted it to or not– too many early morning classes, just because he hadn’t really understood the enrollment system. Not until it was far too late, when all the afternoon classes were already taken.
His other alarm is considerably less recent. A tradition spanning back three years, now. With the blackout curtains Lea set up over the glass doors in the living room, the span between the hallway and the kitchen is pitch black. Roxas, uncoordinated at the best of times, has the unfortunate habit of stumbling down said hallway, and immediately running straight into something.
Or, in some cases, tripping over errant objects Ventus may, or may not, have tossed away last night.
“For fuck’s– Ven! Put the damn cord away!” Ven’s response is nothing but a mumble, far more interested in curling around his pillow than lifting his head to meet the glare vaguely aimed in his direction. It’s the wrong response, of course. His brother storms over to the curtains, ripping them open in retribution.
The light, it’s– awful. Terrible. Are those birds he can hear? What kind of torture is this?
Groaning loudly, Ven tosses an arm over his face, but it’s too late. Roxas is already in the kitchen, playing with that god awful coffee machine Lea bought on a whim. Slamming cupboard doors and talking at him, even though he knows he won’t get much of a response.
“If you’re not up in the next ten minutes, you can make your own breakfast.” Moan. “I’m serious. Just because you can spend all night playing with myspace profiles–” Groan.
The coffee machine starts to hiss, the kettle shortly after. Why use both? Why not just one? The stove is going to be next, or the toaster. Something loud and annoying. Nothing that’s inclined to allow him to sleep more.
As much as it pains Ven, the arm comes down. The light hits the back of his eyelids, until Ven dares to squint out at it. Still half blind, he fumbles for his phone, lime green brick coming to life like a trooper, even though he forgot to plug it in last night.
Eight thirty am. Ew.
“R’xas, i’s too early.” His boyfriend wouldn’t be up. Lea never got up before twelve unless he absolutely had to. He only ever had to for one of two reasons; because his boss told him to, or because Roxas told him to.
If Roxas had more cash, Ven would’ve assumed they were one in the same. But if Roxas had more cash, they’d probably be in an apartment building without popcorn ceilings, where the landlord wasn’t holding off on paying for the infrastructure for broadband, so.
“You woulda slept longer if you slept in your room.” Is the unapologetic response, almost ritualistic. With a sigh, Ven pushes himself into a seated position, sheets falling into his lap. There. That’s his answer.
“My sofa would miss me.” How could he possibly do that to his loyal subject? Since the first week they’d moved in with Lea– two sixteen year olds crashing his apartment, jobless and parentless and, well, probably more trouble than they’d been worth– the very first place that had become his was the dinky, secondhand couch Lea managed to get from somewhere. No spare bedroom, back then, just a queen sized mattress in a room that couldn’t fit anything else for Lea and Roxas, and the couch for Ven.
A pullout, with a thin mattress and creaky metal legs that Ven had to yank up and down in just the right way, or it would get stuck midway through unfolding. There was a mystery stain on one of the cushions all of them swore they didn’t put there. He’s almost lost a finger to the hungry hinges more than once. This couch? This couch had Ven’s blood. His sweat. His tears. Probably other bodily liquids that neither Lea nor Roxas wanted to consider.
So Lea’s job had promoted him a few times since. So they had a three bedroom apartment, now, which had plenty of space for Ven to take some of his own. Who needs a bedroom? His couch needed him. It had already been tucked behind a bigger, comfier couch, one made for lounging around and watching movies. His couch was on life support. It was holding onto its place in this world by the fingertips. Ven wasn’t about to let go.
He is Ventus, king of the fold out couch. Long may he reign.
“Just get up, loser.” Ven pouts at Roxas’ back, but he’s pulling bacon out of the fridge, so– okay, he’s up. Shuffling into the kitchen, he makes a nuisance of himself for a few minutes, leaning against Roxas’ shoulder until he’s shoved away and barked into a chair.
He could probably handle finishing the coffee, even if he’s– fairly. It’s pretty fair– not trusted to cook. Still, Ven obediently stays in place, resting his chin on the table and watching his brother with wide eyes, until there’s a fresh mug placed in front of him.
Why Roxas is competent in the kitchen, he’ll never know. Neither of them got to cook before they moved in with Lea, and he was just as bad as Ven when given a stove to operate. Worse. Ven burned things– Lea set them on fire.
Both of them would’ve been happy living on takeout. Roxas wasn’t. Leftover Chinese food made him sick. So actually getting bacon and eggs for breakfast was, it was– what a… tragedy. Terrible, really.
“I love you.” Ven says solemnly, the second freshly cooked bacon is within reach. Roxas flicks his ear, face buried in a mug of what Ven could only guess was four, maybe five shots of espresso in one.
“Not even nine, and what’s this I hear? Twinks in my kitchen.” Lea’s voice is rough from sleep as he saunters in, practically shoving Ven’s head down in his plate as he makes a beeline to the cup Roxas left for him on the counter. As soon as he’s got that in hand, he’s got Roxas in the other, pulling him close and squeezing his hip as he presses a kiss to the grown of his hair.
Roxas barely reacts, still inhaling coffee like he’ll die without it. But he doesn’t move away, which is as close to affectionate as he gets in the mornings. It’s domestic as hell.
“Wow, are you actually gonna exist today? Roxas is going to work, you know?” Lea snorts into his coffee, which makes the sound echo hideously.
“Big accident at work yesterday,” He grumbles. Even with a face full of caffeine, he looks plenty ready to fall asleep, propped up on Roxas’ shoulder. “Late night, early morning.”
“Overtime,” Roxas reminds him, almost ready to emerge from his own coffee muzzle.
“Contracted wages,” Lea corrects, sighing. “Maybe a little bonus, if I’m fast enough.”
“Sure, mister Occupational Health and Safety, sounds tough.” So someone fell through a railing or something. Ven would happily write reports about rails being busted if he could make six figures. Lea never even went to uni for it; he’s like… some kind of nepobaby. “Big day at work today, five days off after?”
“Minimum. Doubt anyone’s going to want to piss the boss off after this one,” A grimace. Lea gulps down a few more mouthfuls of coffee before shifting to tip the rest down the sink, pressing another kiss to Roxas’ cheek as he goes.
He’s in a full suit today, one of the dry cleaned ones he leaves hanging in the closet. Must’ve been a real serious accident. The whole getup clashes horribly with his hair, even when he has it tied back.
As if he’s reading Ven’s mind, Lea strikes a pose, voice dry. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re about to meet your probation officer.” Ven and Roxas say in unison.
“Ah, washed out and awkward. Perfect.” Darting back down the hall, Lea reappears with a hard leather briefcase in one hand, keys in the other. “No idea what time I’ll be back; gonna depend on the boss.”
“Don’t let him ride your ass too hard.” Ven says helpfully. Lea chuckles, already halfway out the door.
“Oh trust me, it’s not my ass he’ll be riding.”
The door slams shut behind him, setting off the dog that lives three units down. Someone starts screaming in Spanish. It’s distinctly more muffled than anywhere else they’d lived, and so, neither twin is particularly phased. Roxas plops down in the chair next to him, finally moving on from liquid death to toast.
“Whaff’s y’r sh’ft?” Ven asks around a mouthful of bacon. Roxas has the patience to finish chewing before he responds, though he doesn’t look happy about it.
“Ten till seven.” Ooh. Not quite closing hours, but close enough that he could be asked to stay back the extra few hours until it does. Ven winces in what he hopes looks like sympathy, but the unimpressed glance he gets in turn says he failed. “If you don’t wanna sell music all day, I’ll take your job. They don’t even have to know I’m not you!”
“I like my job, Ven. I like music.” Yeah, sure. Linkin Park and Papa Roach and ooh, who was it this year? Saosin. Real consistent tastes, right there.
“You don’t like music, Roxas. You like skateboards.”
“Everyone likes music, Ven.” Roxas retorts. He stuffs the rest of his toast in his mouth, dusting his hands off on his pants. “They’re juff not you abou’ ip.”
“I’m normal about it!” Rolling his eyes, Roxas points to his couch. To the five mp3 players hanging off his lanyard. “That’s normal. I like a lot of genres.”
“You like infecting your computer with every virus known to man.” He might grouch and grumble, but he still gets up to rinse the pan he’d used, just so Ven doesn’t have to deal with grease and bits of burnt meat. “What’s your plan?”
“For today? Dishes, vacuum, internet… get bored of looking at the ceiling and go job hunting by two.” He’d printed about fifty copies of his resume off at the campus library last week; right after dropping his LOA request at the front office. He’s handed out about twenty of them– off into the wild, with the other fifty he’d handed out the week before.
If he needs more after this, he’ll just have to hope his student library card hasn’t been cancelled. They don’t cancel cards when someone has an LOA, do they?
“Try some of the places around your campus again– I bet you can find somewhere that’ll let you keep working around your studies.” Roxas says, like he hasn’t suggested that twenty times in the past month. Ven grimaces over at him, and his twin grimaces back. “You’re not the only person without a job history, Ven. Somewhere’ll take you.”
“I bet one of the jobs in the newspaper ads would take me.”
“I bet you’d call the shadiest advertisement you could, just to disappear a day later.” Roxas retorts. Like he’s not– he’s the one who got into university! He knows when things are shady! “Just walk in, smile, and hand a manager your resume. It’s not that hard.”
“The news outlets say that online applications are the future of employment.” Ven tells him snootily.
“The news outlets can’t even tell when it’s going to rain today. Just do the walk-ins.” Roxas sighs, checking his watch before reluctantly getting out of his seat. “Promise you’ll spend some time outside? You don’t have to job search today; go see Aqua and Terra. Relax a little. Stop staring at screens for a few hours.”
“I don’t spend my life staring at screens, Rox.” Just the past few weeks or so. Mostly at night, when he can’t be outside anyway.
Maybe a few days or two, as well. Maybe he’s had a few days where he hasn’t even gotten off his couch. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Roxas shakes his head, gently checking him with his hip as he heads back to his room to get dressed. You’re starting to, and it worries me, is the wordless response.
Good for Roxas. The great thing about not saying things; Ven doesn’t have to answer it. Gathering up the plates, he piles them onto the mess from last night, leaving the sink to fill as he wanders back to collect his lanyard of mp3 players.
There’s five of them. All different colors. Twelve, precious megabytes, on each one. Most of his music is in WAV format, which isn’t the best, but when most of his music is coming from PirateBay, Ven isn’t picky. Most of it can be listened to, and that’s what matters.
Much more important than anything else– all of these babies are new. Newish. Only six months old, to go with the headphones he’d splurged on, liberally coated in stars made of flakey whiteout and determination. The only real things he’d allowed himself to buy, with the grant he’d received for going to University. Another thousand burning a hole in his bank account.
He’s not gonna touch it, just in case his LOA means he has to give the money back. Or one of his mp3s breaks. Whatever comes first. Slotting his starry-eyed headset around his neck, Ven chooses which mp3 to put on shuffle with the time honored tradition of Ibble Obble, humming contentedly as the winner– pink today! Go Gloria! Play him a song! –tells him the story of a girl who drowned the whole world.
He drowns a few plates in commiseration, idly listening out for Roxas’ return above the clink of cutlery against the bottom of the sink. It doesn’t take long; the uniform is nothing more than a baggy shirt with the name of the company in bright red across the front, which– clashes with the baby blue of the fabric. Badly.
It makes Roxas look washed out, which makes Ven feel a little better. He owns bright colors. His twin always looks like he’s been forced to touch pastels by gunpoint.
He has to beat Roxas at something. He’s already got the title of “older by five minutes” and a boyfriend with a steady job, even if he is a cradle robber. Ven gets colors and music. That’s his right.
“Here, I gotta go,” Roxas unceremoniously shoves his hand into the back of Ven’s jeans– the ones he forgot to take off last night. There’s a crinkle as his hand withdraws, the telltale sound of money that has Roxas cutting off a protest before it even starts. “I’m ordering you to buy a sandwich today. With vegetables. Lots of vegetables. This is me feeding you, got it?”
“Yes mom, I got it.” Ven halfheartedly flicks water at his back. “You’re gonna be late for the bus.”
“Can’t hear you, gonna be late for the bus!” Roxas yells. The front door slams, for the second time. Sets off the dog three doors down. Someone starts shouting in Vietnamese, just for variety.
Ven scowls down at the soapy water, slamming a pot under the surface. All it does is splash him.
Good fucking morning, world. You’re looking… a little hopeless, this morning.
But, as P!nk reminds him, he’s not dead, so it’s back to floating cups in the sink to entertain himself until everything is stacked up and drying, wiping his hands off on his pants as he wanders through the apartment, opening the blinds and cracking open the windows.
Roxas and Lea’s room smells like sex, which– tracks. It usually does. They could stand to open their own window, sometime. Ven’s not making the mistake of emptying their ensuite trash can for them.
But he empties the one in the kitchen, and the main bathroom. Moves his stuff around until his fold out bed can be folded back into place, with much effort on his part. Tucks away the bedsheets, even though they probably won’t have any guests tonight. No one’s ever commented on his couch, but Ven’s not leaving that up to chance. His kingdom, not theirs.
Vacuuming takes twenty minutes, tops. He puts a load of towels on. Considers throwing some bedsheets on, too, before recalling that Roxas and Lea are absolutely responsible for their bedsheets, and their trashcan.
All in all, he’s drifting back through the apartment in less than an hour, picking up the phone cord and sticking it into Fred unceremoniously. As the dial up chirrs and whirrs and screeches unholy sounds at him, he frowns at the screen– still stuck on his profile, since he didn’t shut down properly last night.
Why does everything always look worse the next day?
StarsAndShines | Ven | 19y.o | M (sugar) seeking M (daddy)
Hey there! His profile chirps up at him, sharp and bubbly and ugh. Did he choose that username?
I’m 19 and new to pretty much all of this. I’m not much of a traveller, though that’s a dream of mine! Uni student trying to find some direction, but who hasn’t been there? I love the stars. Music consumes me. My tastes are varied; that’s the spice of life!
To be quite honest, the perfect arrangement is something I’d like to learn. Right now, perfect would be someone willing to guide me. If that means dinner, or spending the night getting to know each other, then let’s try! I’d like to learn what you enjoy, then go from there.
Is that too much? Or too negative? He can’t remember what profiles he’d looked over last night, but they were probably more professional than this. Or less?
The scream of the internet dies down, and he clicks refresh. Only to blink at the red numbers above the envelope at the top left, a big two-seven that–
Twenty seven dick pics? Really? That’s– he does the math in his head, muffling a giggle into the back of his hand. Two. Two and a half penis per hour. Who was sending pictures of their dick off into the wild at 3am?
Quite a few people, actually. Most of them aren’t even given the time to fully load before he’s deleting them– even half a photo is enough. It’s not that he’s all that surprised; maybe more so, after sending them all to the abyss of erasure with a few delighted– ridiculously embarrassed, he knew he’d regret this today, and he did it anyway– chuckles, that there’s actually a few written messages in there.
Two are easy to get rid of. They immediately start talking about things like whips and chains and– what’s a spreader bar? Ven isn’t sure, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to know yet? He did say he was willing to try anything, just– maybe a little bit, slower.
A lot slower.
One is from a man in his 50s, which isn’t…that great either, if he’s being honest with himself. He checks his profile, just to make sure, and– yes, he did specify an age range. Fifty is not part of it. So into the erasure pit that one goes.
One is from a lady who sounds quite nice, actually. Suggesting dinner and seeing where they go from there. But again, he checks his profile. Male seeking male is right there, so, regretfully, the nice lady…is also deleted. Because if she’s ignoring that, then she’ll probably ignore other things.
See, Roxas? He knows what shady looks like!
Like the last message he got! Which is extremely shady!
Ventus, it begins, which is a red flag, right? That’s a red flag. He calls himself Ven in his profile.
So where’d– he takes a moment to flick to the profile, grimaces at the name, Void, and the lack of photos– Vanitas get his full name from?
You’ve noted that you’re interested in learning. It sounds like you’ll be doing so from scratch. I find this preferable, and have experience introducing people into the subculture you’ve likely only picked up after browsing a few profiles on this site.
Rude. True, but still rude.
If you’re genuinely interested in learning more about what kind of relationships can come from this site, I have time tomorrow to meet in a public space. You can ask questions before deciding how much further you’re willing to take this.
No sign off. Nothing that tells Ven why he might be interested, aside from… his inexperience being preferable? That’s another red flag, right? Maybe a little offset, if he’s willing to meet in public, but still.
Is this normal? Is this just how people talk on this site? Ven’s having immediate regrets about deleting the nice lady’s message; at least he could’ve compared the two of them, tried to make out what matched up and what didn’t.
Also, the name thing is a bit– though that’s explained pretty quickly. Just tapping in “Ven” and “Twilight City” into bing brings up his university enrollment in seconds, which earns a soft groan. Cool, the dick pics can find him. Maybe he should’ve chosen a nickname for himself, something a little less distinctive than Ven.
Although, when he types in “Vanitas Twilight City”, there’s no results. So maybe he’s just really unlucky.
And maybe this is precisely the kind of thing Roxas would hurl his laptop out the window for looking at, nevermind consideringly.
“Alright, what do I do?” Ven asks Gloria. Then he presses shuffle.
Spice Up Ur Life, says Gloria. Feat the Spice Girls.
Fair enough.
The steady click of boots against the concrete is the only sound that permeates the warehouse. Standing to the side, Leon watches with hard eyes as a gloved hand reaches out to grab matted, brown hair, pulling it up to expose a face to the light.
What’s left of a face. If he had to guess, the loose way his jaw hangs indicates a dislocation of some kind, maybe a fracture or two. Nose smashed in. One eye is nothing more than a purple mass, practically the size of a golf ball. Leon isn’t a medical specialist, but he’d be willing to hazard a guess that, most of this? Not repairable.
Not that it matters.
There’s a person underneath those injuries, somewhere; only upright in that chair because he’s tied to it. His boss will have a report on his desk with the guy’s name on it, something Leon will squint down at every time he needs it during a few calls to speak into the right ears. A few polite chats, greasing the wheels to ensure that, whoever this used to be? Isn’t missed. At all.
Around the edges of the hall, several mechanics watch the proceedings with expressions that vary from bloodthirsty to bored. Leon might’ve mistaken the looks for something genuine– except no one moves. No one shuffles.
They don’t so much as twitch.
Every eye is on Vanitas as he tips that destroyed face back and forth, contemplating whether he’s entirely satisfied with the ruin he sees there.
Half the guys in this building are practically twice his age, and the fear permeating those made to witness– or participate in– the past four hours has Leon’s lips twitching upwards in spite of himself. In a few days, they’ll go back to normal; grumbling under their breaths as they jump to attention for a twenty-three year old. They’ve been in this business for decades. Why should they keep taking orders from a kid?
Because he scares the shit out of all of them. That’s why.
“I like to think,” Vanitas says, conversationally. “That your role here has always been very transparent. You are a cog, with a specific place in the machine. So long as that machine functions the way it should, I ensure those repetitive motions remain…lucrative.”
Releasing bloodied hair, Vanitas ignores the way his– ex, now– employee’s head immediately drops, bobbing uselessly in the air. With a quiet sigh that is only heard thanks to the utter silence permeating the space around him, Vanitas reaches into his jacket. Pulls out a gun.
Keeps talking as he looks it over, tone bored. Disinterested.
“I’d say that’s a good deal. Go through the motions, get paid, go home. I don’t needlessly give your lives outside of this undue attention. I don’t needlessly keep tabs on your families, your friends. I grease your palms, and in return, you spin when I tell you to.” Vanitas glances at him, and it’s only years of dealing with his bullshit that stops Leon from raising his brow. “It’s a good deal, right?”
Laying it on thick tonight, isn’t he?
“Could offer dental.” Vanitas laughs, and there’s bound to be one idiot in the crowd who genuinely believes he’s just escaped their boss’ wrath. Sometimes, Leon considers telling someone that their boss likes to be dramatic for the adrenaline.
Not like anyone would believe him, but the reactions would be worth recording, he’s sure.
“Dental, a 401(k)... why not?” There’s a few light chuckles around the room. The smart ones know not to join in, when Vanitas is amused.
The stupid ones, or just the new ones– they stop laughing when Vanitas looks at them. The man smiles, slowly. Completely aware of what he’s doing to them. Truly, the show of power is almost petty. Completely necessary, but petty.
“Here’s another question. If a cog breaks down,” He gestures, at the broken figure in the chair before him. “What do you do with it?”
The question is rhetorical. Vanitas provides the answer himself, pushing the muzzle of his gun into a bloodied forehead and pulling the trigger. The body jerks, head thrown back by the force of it. There’s a scent that fills the air, one Leon has come to know quite well; the burn of skin when a gun is fired at point blank range. Amazing, the mess a little bit of gunpowder and a small, metal ball could do.
“You replace it.” Vanitas informs the dead air around himself. Taking a white cloth from his pocket, he gives his gun the attention it deserves, wiping off the muzzle as he turns away from the mess he’s made. A click of the safety turning on. It’s done.
Mostly.
Leon wonders how long it’s been since his boss got laid.
Too long, clearly.
“Clean up this mess,” Vanitas tells the room, ignoring the way multiple people jerk forwards to comply. “Leon–”
He takes the necessary steps to fall in behind Vanitas, the two of them walking off without a backwards glance. The mess in here will be cleaned up, dissolved, buried. This isn’t an uncommon process.
“--Promote someone. Someone competent.” Someone who won’t fuck up, is the unsubtle message. Once again, Leon finds his lip twitching in spite of himself. If he’s recalling this correctly, that had been one of Larxene’s recommendations.
Vanitas has probably already handled her, there’s the pity. Rubbed her nose in the carpet some, with a warning about what she’ll get if this happens again. A bullet to the brain, just like that waste of space. What kind of moron looked at a collection route and decided they could get away with adding a few extra bucks to their safety guarantee?
The type who doesn’t know what they were doing. A fuck up.
Hell knows Vanitas didn’t have the patience for fuck ups. He hadn’t back when he was sixteen, running around with a gang that was already beginning to look at the rookie in their ranks with respect. He hadn’t when he was nineteen, stepping on the necks of people far more powerful than he should’ve been, effectively taking over the city and every dirty transaction that occurred within it.
The years haven’t made him kinder. Far from it. Not in his place of work.
Good thing he dropped out of school to go live on the streets; Leon would hate to see the kind of damage Vanitas might’ve been capable of if he’d tried to stay on the straight and narrow. Become a politician. Or a banker.
Little bastard would’ve set the entire world on fire with a smile, most likely.
“I have someone in mind. He won’t be a problem.” Sometimes a job required someone with just the right amount of backbone. Spineless enough that they wouldn’t toe out of line; greedy enough that they wouldn’t allow any of the businesses on their route to try and explain their way out of underpaying their security deposit for the month. “And the extra fees he was asking for?”
“Update the contracts with the new prices, reset any further increase for the next twelve months. If they were stupid enough to give a little extra without asking, then they can keep it up.” Vanitas doesn’t relax when they reach his office. The only change is his hands coming out of his pockets, falling away from his weapons.
A concession to the impenetrable walls he’s built himself, and the surety that Leon’s first action if the door gets kicked open would be to throw himself in front of his boss like a meat shield. Nothing personal; that’s just business.
He is, unfortunately, the closest thing Vanitas has to a friend. Why wouldn’t he be close enough to die for him? Be killed by him, if that needed to happen? Keep your enemies close– your friends closer. Closest.
Vanitas scoops up a manilla folder from his desk, tossing it in Leon’s direction. The contents are what he expects; the name of the recently departed, the numbers of a few officers who were rostered to monitor the area tonight, already advised to confirm any reports of shots being heard as fireworks. A few public officials to help bury a missing person’s file, if one is filed at all. Another family to keep an eye on, just to be safe.
Business as usual. The next few days would be busy.
“You want me to tip the chef?” He asks, watching Vanitas settle into his chair– possibly the most luxurious item in the room, which, fair enough. He spends enough hours on it– navigating through his laptop with the speed of a man who taught himself everything he needs to know about backend systems with the intensity of a dog with a bone.
Nothing in this building is hooked up to the internet. No broadband. No landlines. Vanitas had set up some internal servers of his own, and god knows how the things actually worked. Leon could count the number of people who could access even part of it with one hand, and who could access all of it with a single finger.
He’s looking at him. Terrifying bastard. Leon makes a note to check in with Vanitas’ house staff; check how much he’s eating. That intensity was going to drive him straight into an early grave, but not yet.
Not until they’re both good and ready to retire in some obscure country that doesn’t give two shits what their passports say, so long as they have the money to hand out the blindfolds.
“Might as well. Fast work, as usual. Meat was tender.” Something on Vanitas’ screen gives him pause for a moment, eyes flicking over the screen with a muted interest that screams actual interest. “My schedule is still open tomorrow?”
“Should be.”
“Make sure it stays clear. I have a meeting.”
“Of course you do.” So. Not laid in a while.
About to be, though. Whoever Vanitas is about to pick up is either the luckiest bastard on the continent, or the stupidest.
Knowing his track record, Leon supposes it’s probably leaning towards the former.