Work Text:
Omar sees his first time walking across the street in front of him, carrying a pistol and a brown paper bag. He's a white boy, rare in the Towers, tall and skinny but he's no addict, Omar can tell by the way he looks where he's going, his eyes serious and squinting a little in the light. The boy's got a face like one of the stone angels outside Omar's grandmother's church, and when the sun strikes off his red curls like a match, setting off a fiery halo, Omar wouldn't be surprised if he started speaking in tongues like a saint or a demon. Looking at him some would say he doesn't belong on this filthy street, in this godforsaken neighborhood, in this wicked world, but Omar knows better. Looking at this boy walk down the dirty street like he knows where he's going, Omar knows much better. He knows just where this boy belongs.
Omar doesn't know the boy will be his first, not yet, he just knows the boy will be his something. When the boy sits down on the bench across from the same house Omar's been watching, his gun by his side, and takes a sandwich out of his paper sack, Omar knows the boy will be something special. He watches the boy eat and then steps up behind him. No need to disturb his lunch.
"You at the wrong house, friend," he says, one hand on either side of the boy's shoulders on the bench, leaning over to talk low against his ear. Give him credit, the boy doesn't even flinch.
"Oh, I'm at the right house," he says. He looks over at Omar's hands on either side of him, first the left and then the right, then tips his head back to look right at Omar's face. "Maybe you made a mistake yourself."
"Omar don't make no mistakes." He watches the name sink in, watches the boy note the scar across his face. Finally the boy says,
"You're Omar." It's no question, so he's not stupid, though Omar knew that by the way he sized up the house, the way he's still sitting quiet and calm. It's no question, Omar knows, and he knows what it is, a stalling tactic while the boy thinks up what to say next. He doesn't mind. He respects it, even. He takes his hands off the bench and walks around to sit next to the boy.
"Indeed, pretty, indeed. And who are you?" Omar says it only half because he wants to see how the boy will take it, and half because he finds himself wanting to know. The boy takes it like candy, his cheeks pinking up but his eyes narrowing wise.
"Bobby," he says, smiling with his wide mouth and offering Omar a hand to shake. Omar's pleased to note that it's the hand he ate his lunch with, not his gun hand, which stays on the bench in easy distance.
"Pleasure to meet you, Bobby," Omar says, drawing the name out to show just how much of a pleasure, and for the added pleasure of watching him flush darker. "But this house here is Omar's job, so you best take yourself off now and let a man work."
"I been watching this house for two days," Bobby says, then pulls his bottom lip into this mouth while he thinks better of it. "I'm a working man too," he says coaxingly, "maybe we could go as partners, do it together?"
"I got not partners," Omar says, "don't need any. But we might could do something together, once I know you a little better. You want to wait around that corner, we could get to know each other better after this. But this here's a one-man job, and I'm that man."
Bobby looks like he's going to say something else, then thinks better of it and stands up. Omar knew he was smart. Bobby crumples up his paper sack and shoves his gun into his pocket, then turns to go.
"You wait for me around the way," Omar says. "Omar make it worth your while."
Bobby spins around suddenly, his arm tight so the muscle in his bicep stands out, like he's got his fist clenched in his pocket. Omar can see his hand's not on his gun, though, so he doesn't get up. "I ain't that kind of working man," he says, his voice as tight as the muscle in his arm. "I don't sell it."
"Never thought you were," Omar says easily, "wouldn't want it if you did. Go on now," and Bobby goes, not looking back once. Omar knows because he watches him all the way down the length of the street. Then he turns back to watch the house, waiting for them to move the package so he can do his job.
When the job's done Omar walks around the corner whistling. Bobby's leaning up against the wall, one foot braced behind him and a cigarette in his mouth. "Dirty habit for a pretty boy," Omar says, and Bobby takes a long deliberate drag.
"I got a lot of dirty habits," he says, and Omar crowds him back against the wall and kisses him.
It's not the first time he's kissed a boy, even one as pretty as Bobby, not by a long shot. Omar's first boy was no boy but a man, a stone thug he found in one of the bars down by the docks, one of the clubs that moved from warehouse to warehouse as the police followed, always a step behind as was their way. Omar found it on his own, he knew how to find what he needed, and once there he knew how to wait and watch until what he wanted found him. It took three nights but he knew it would. He'd waited longer than three nights many a time to find the pattern in how a package was moved, to see the holes as the men who guarded it got careless and opened up wide enough for Omar to slip through. In the club he waited with his hand around a beer he was half a dozen years too young for, not touching it, just waiting and watching, observing the pattern, figuring out how he'd slip in. It took three nights but Omar ended up just where he knew he would, out back of the warehouse with his back pressed against the brick, pale red dust like chalk under his fingertips. The only thing that surprised him was how easy the other man went to his knees for him, but the first time was the only time he was surprised by that. He was never surprised by how much he liked it.
Now he presses Bobby back against the wall and kisses him and then says, "You might could show me some of those dirty habits." He's not surprised when Bobby says yes.
Back at his crib he lays the boy out on his back and watches as his pale skin warms under Omar's hands and his tongue, as a flush spreads pink up and down his body to where his hair springs up red. He takes whatever Omar gives him like candy and ends up begging for more, his voice raw and wet and sticking to Omar's skin like oil, raw and wet and not pretty at all.
When they're finished Bobby gets up and puts on his clothes and Omar doesn't ask. He doesn't ask and Bobby leaves and he lies in bed until he hears the door creak and then he sits up naked with his shotgun braced between his hands. Bobby puts his arms in the air, a six-pack dangling, and Omar lets the shotgun fall.
"Boy, you best be careful before you sneak up on a man like that," he says, but Bobby just looks at him confused.
"I thought you knew I was coming back," he says. "I wouldn't just take off like that, not without saying something." Omar stays sitting up in bed watching him, watching as Bobby takes his clothes off, his shoulders pale in the dim room as he pulls off his shirt, his back to Omar like he's shy. Omar's been all over this boy, on top of him, inside him, and still he thinks he's got something to hide. Then Bobby turns around and smiles at Omar and he's not shy at all, Omar can see that now. He never had anything he thought he had to hide, just some things he's not ready to share. Omar can see that now.
"Come on to bed now," he says, and Bobby does. When he wakes up in the morning Bobby's still there.
The next day Omar has a job, just like always, and when he leaves Bobby's mouth pulls in on itself like he wants to say something but he doesn't. He doesn't ask where Omar's going, doesn't ask if he can get in on the action, and Omar bends down to kiss him one more time before he goes, sliding his tongue until Bobby's mouth opens out wide. He's a smart boy, Omar saw that from the first.
When he comes back Bobby's still there, and the next day too, and the next. He doesn't ask questions, he doesn't ask for anything except in bed and even there he only asks for more of whatever Omar has on offer that night. He leaves himself sometimes on his own jobs, but Omar doesn't ask him questions either. It's only fair. He follows him one night though, far enough back that he knows the boy can't see him. He knows the boy isn't messing him around but there are things he needs to see.
Bobby does his job clean and quick. A small-time rip and run, nothing Omar would stoop to himself, but how a man does a job says more about him than the job itself. Bobby does it well, he doesn't panic but stays quiet and calm, not afraid to use his gun but not eager for it either. He does a good job, and Omar watches him do it and then slips home through the dark streets to wait for Bobby in his bed. A working man deserves some reward after his labors.
Between the street and his bed Omar's seen all he needs to see but the next night he trails Bobby out on a job, and the next night. He knows what he'll see but he goes to look each night just for the pleasure of it, just to see the boy handle himself. The fifth night he's making his way back to his place when Bobby calls his name across a dark deserted street. "You wanna walk back with me instead of sneaking away?" he says, and Omar turns around in pure surprise for the first time in a long long while. All his years running he's never been caught, not like this, caught out flat on an empty street with nothing in his hands. His face must tell the tale on him because Bobby laughs, a sweet delighted sound, and comes up to meet him. "Maybe I'm better at this than you thought," Bobby says, and Omar says severely,
"Maybe something's making me careless." When Bobby laughs again Omar takes his face between his hands and kisses him quiet on the black rain-soaked street. He doesn't let him go until they hear someone walking up around the corner, and then they pull away and take off for Omar's crib, side by side and not touching but so close it's almost the same.
Omar doesn't go out watching him nights after that. Bobby looks at him sideways sometimes like there's something he wants to ask but he never does, and Omar doesn't encourage him. Bobby's got a place he holes up at, a burnt-out building where he squats with four other guys just west of the Towers. Omar's crib isn't much better except for the lack of company, but Bobby moves himself in and Omar doesn't complain. It's not like Bobby has much to move in, a gym bag with some clothes and an old milk crate with a few battered paperbacks with the name of a high school up on the east side written in marker across the tops. "These belong to you?" Omar says as he runs a finger over the graying letters.
"I've always been a thief," Bobby says. When Omar looks at him he's not smiling.
Sometimes Bobby reads one of the books in bed, pulling it away teasingly before giving it up when Omar takes it out of his hands. Afterwards he picks the book up again and Omar says, "What's that about?"
Instead of telling him Bobby starts to read from it. Omar lies on his back and at first he only listens to Bobby's voice, warm and slow over him like honey, but without him even wanting them to the words sink in after. He listens to Bobby read to him about some crazy white people from the old days, all of them useless as far as Omar can tell except for one man who's not afraid to work, who knows how to make a living off a broken law, off a law that will always be broken until folks stop wanting what they want or until they break the law off for good. Omar knows which is likely to come first. He doesn't say that though, just lies back in bed with his eyes closed and falls asleep as Bobby tells him about garden parties and green lights, things Bobby's never seen and never will.
The next night when Bobby picks up his book Omar says, "Read," and Bobby does. They keep it up until Bobby stops one night, dropping the book down on the floor by the bed.
"That's the end," Omar says, and it's not a question. He's not stupid, he knows it's the end but he can hardly believe it.
"That's the end," Bobby says.
"That's the most fool thing I have ever heard," Omar says, and Bobby laughs.
"I thought it was kind of pretty."
"Man dressing himself up in lies for years all for some woman not worth his time, all those lies for all those useless people when if one day he just walked out as himself he would have owned the whole world and no one could have taken it away from him. Instead he scared and he dead and the whole world keeps turning just like he never was. The most fool thing I ever heard," Omar says, and gets out of bed and starts to put his pants on.
"People do foolish things for love," Bobby says.
"A true thing, though why you want to read about it when you could walk out onto any street in this city and see it I do not know. Someone doing something useful for love, that's a story worth telling, someone doing something real, someone doing something right."
Bobby doesn't say anything as Omar finishes getting dressed. He doesn't ask where Omar's going or if he can come, he never does. When Omar looks over at him he's lying on his side, the cheap lamp next to the bed throwing a thin pool of warm light over his side, dipping down over his chest and leaving his face in shadow. He's fetched the book up from the side of the bed and flips through the pages like he's looking for something. He doesn't look like he thinks he'll find it.
Omar leans back against the wall and watches him. All his time running he's always worked alone. Easier that way, safer, to work with the only man he knows he can trust. All his time running he's been alone and a man can't argue with success, that's what he'd tell Bobby if Bobby ever showed a mind to argue. Omar knows he never will. He leans against the wall and watches his boy paging through his book. All his time running he's always worked alone but there's a first time for everything, that's what he tells himself now. There can be a first time if Omar makes it so and it won't be a foolish thing he does, this first thing, he knows that the way he knows his own name. This first thing will be something real, something right.
"You want to come out on this job with me?" he says, and when Bobby looks up sharply his face slides out of the shadows and into the thin yellow light of the lamp. That's not the only thing lighting him up, Omar knows that for a fact.
"Yes," is all Bobby says, but Omar hears all the questions he's answering in the word, all the questions Omar's asked and the ones he doesn't have to.
Omar waits while Bobby gets dressed and then they walk out into the street. They walk side by side, so close Omar can hear the rustle of Bobby's shirt and feel the heat he throws off, so close they're almost touching but it's not the same thing, not the same thing at all. Out on the street Omar puts a hand around Bobby's wrist, heedless of all the folk watching, all the folk hiding behind windows and doors and anything they can find, keeping out of sight but sending Omar's name out ahead of him.
"Omar coming," they call, and Omar is. He's got his shotgun in one hand and a pretty white boy in the other and he owns this street, he owns every street he walks down, and for the first time Omar's going to walk down the street like that's true, with everything he is right out in the open, everything he is and everything he has, nothing hidden or lost or forgotten. He's going to walk through this world like he owns it and the only way he'll give up anything he's got in his hands is if they put him in the ground first. Omar knows that for a fact.