[Here's something nobody tells you about being a gangster: it's a long fucking day of work.
Nobody says that when they hire you. Nobody had took him aside at age twelve and told him quietly that the hours were long and there were no benefits, and incidentally if you mouth off at your boss you're going to get a lot more to deal with than a strongly worded note. He would have liked to have known all that. It might not have changed anything, but he still would have liked to know.
At least the pay is good. That's true, though it isn't as good as, perhaps, he'd been led to believe. But it's good enough to afford one half of a rather large apartment downtown, two bedrooms and a fantastically huge kitchen. It's enough that he can have a dog, a fat little thing of indeterminate breed that he loves almost as much as he loves the other person who lives in that apartment. It's enough they eat well every night, and that's something both he and Bruno don't take lightly, not after the lives they've led.
And after he's done-- once all the stores they're protecting have been checked in on, once he's spoken to whatever people he has to, once he's cleaned himself of the blood and wiped down his gun-- he gets this. He gets to climb up the shitty wooden stairs and duck past two landings in order to reach the familiar red door. He gets to come home, and that's worth a hell of a lot.
He doesn't shout. He's very careful about that, ever since he'd learned Bruno has a habit of bringing home . . . call them guests. But he's very enthusiastic as he closes the door behind him and looks around for his absolutely-not-lover, what are you talking about, there's no lovers here, there's just two best friends, look, they even have a second bedroom.]
it's 192x and we're celebrating
Nobody says that when they hire you. Nobody had took him aside at age twelve and told him quietly that the hours were long and there were no benefits, and incidentally if you mouth off at your boss you're going to get a lot more to deal with than a strongly worded note. He would have liked to have known all that. It might not have changed anything, but he still would have liked to know.
At least the pay is good. That's true, though it isn't as good as, perhaps, he'd been led to believe. But it's good enough to afford one half of a rather large apartment downtown, two bedrooms and a fantastically huge kitchen. It's enough that he can have a dog, a fat little thing of indeterminate breed that he loves almost as much as he loves the other person who lives in that apartment. It's enough they eat well every night, and that's something both he and Bruno don't take lightly, not after the lives they've led.
And after he's done-- once all the stores they're protecting have been checked in on, once he's spoken to whatever people he has to, once he's cleaned himself of the blood and wiped down his gun-- he gets this. He gets to climb up the shitty wooden stairs and duck past two landings in order to reach the familiar red door. He gets to come home, and that's worth a hell of a lot.
He doesn't shout. He's very careful about that, ever since he'd learned Bruno has a habit of bringing home . . . call them guests. But he's very enthusiastic as he closes the door behind him and looks around for his absolutely-not-lover, what are you talking about, there's no lovers here, there's just two best friends, look, they even have a second bedroom.]
Bruno?