Longing to see his face (Short story)

!WARNING!

mention of guns, police, very soft nsfw and suggested murder

The characters that are mentioned- Flower, Cam, Ralph, Lucky, and Jeremiah-belong to @/Some_Gross_Guy on Instagram 

This is based off of an animatic I plan to make using the song "Patient is the Night" from Over the Garden Wall

     Gene’s thick spine popped as he rolled his shoulders back, his father’s leather jacket stretching across his broad shoulders. His warm palm pressed against the side of his neck, attempting to soothe the ache in it while he approached the little punch-in box of freedom that hung against the wall. The thing stared at him from across the kitchen every night and every morning while he leaned over a flaming stove. Sweat would gather on his brow from the heat, and his hands would speckle with dots from adventurous grease jumping off the pan.

     Gene was meant to pick up his lover an hour ago, but his manager begged him with pleading eyes to stay longer. Knowing they were understaffed this month, Gene stayed put with the apron tied around his waist and a spatula firmly in his hand. Orders flocked in just as the rush of guests did, chittering just outside the kitchen. Occasionally, a child wailed or a woman would laugh a bit too loud among the chattering. Dishes clanked in the back of the kitchen where David- a coworker- shuffled about. Despite the headache that throbbed between his eyes, Gene ensured a decent meal for each party within the diner, up until the clock above the mint green fridge freed him.

      The scent of the leather slipping over Gene’s shoulders ignited the serotonin of leaving work, knowing that when his coat was on it meant he was leaving. The punch-in box gave a gentle “ding!” as he pulled the lever on the side, allowing it to accept his card. He was done, he could go pick up Ace.

     The metal backdoor shut with an echoed thud behind him as he stepped into the cold, his breath fogging into the air.

     “Aye good work tonight, chef.” The manager greeted, attempting to give Gene a firm pat between his shoulder blades.

     “Mm.” Gene hummed, flicking his lighter before holding it to the cigarette between his lips. The flame lit his face, the warmth of it calming his chilled nose.

     “Hey, listen,” The manager began, “David and I are runnin out for drinks. Don't be a drag chef, come join us.”

     Gene sniffed, slipping his hands into his pockets as he stayed perched against the curb, pondering the invitation. Gene wanted to see his boys tonight, they were supposed to watch a movie. If he were to drag them to a bar, it would disrupt the schedule. Surely, that would greatly disturb Jobie.

     Anyhow, the lads would not get along with his manager and coworker. Ace seemed not to like them anyhow, having once stated he didn't like the way the manager was with Gene. ‘oh yea?’ Gene had said, unsure what Ace meant. To which Ace replied; ‘well, I’m not sure. Dont worry about it, I don't want to panic you or anything. Sorry.’

     “Got plans.” Gene responded plainly in his low tone that was tinted with rasp. He headed for his car, his boots crunching against the gravel underneath.

     “Aww c'mon man, it’ll be groovy. I know you don't have a girl at home, what else have you got goin on right now?”

     “Mm.” Gene shrugged. He wanted to go see Ace.

     The lights from overhead street lamps chugged passed Gene’s car, sliding across his body with each pass under them. The car engine hummed under Johnny Cash’s guitar, his dark voice telling of prison blues. Though Gene’s knuckles ached, his knees felt worn, and his spine weighed him into the seat, he felt content.

     He would soon see his Ace, his Aiden, and he would get to hear all about the evening. The slender male would slip into the car and start pulling his hair into a bun as he spoke, telling Gene that it hadn't been as awful as he thought.

     He would remove his jingling jewelry and place it in the glove box, then forget that it was there by the time Gene got them home. He’d tell Gene the pros and cons of the night, and insist that Gene being late was no issue at all. He may even say that going to see friends without anyone else had not been terrible like he predicted. Perhaps he would mention the distance car sirens a few blocks down, muttering that he hoped it wasn't an ambulance.

     Gene felt a distant fuzzed affection begin to flare in his chest. Just between his ribs, he felt a soft glow as he visualized Ace beside him, longing to see his face as he found it difficult to piece him together on his own. He understood logically what Ace’s face looked like. Hooked nose, soft lips, thin brows, and green eyes. Yet, Gene could not force them together in his head. He knew touch better, feeling the phantom of coarse thick curls sliding against his fingers, thin frail bone under silk smooth skin, and the heated loose flesh over a hot rod beneath. Gene raised his hips to adjust his trousers.

     His tires grinded against the crunched gravel beneath as Gene turned the thin glossy wheel, smoothly pulling into the opening of the neighborhood. Each side of the street was lined with trees, which halted abruptly at each home so as to not cover them. Warm porch lights glowed, often beside the door as though welcoming guests to it.

     The car slid to a halt beside the curb, the engine chugging gently as Gene pulled the stick into ‘park’. He crossed his arms over his comfortably squishy chest, tucking his hands into his armpits to receive the natural heat from them. His breath was deep and slow through his nose, his chest rising and lowering with each cycle.

     His heavy tired eyes watched the front door patiently, knowing Ace would slip out and trot over to the car once having said goodbye. If lucky, Gene may even get to see the other boys. Flower, Ralph, Lucky, and Cam. Jeremiah may be over as well.

     He looked forward to the outward stretching road before him, his lights pressing into the darkness as far as they could. Oddly, Gene felt alone.

     In the home beside him, friends mingled and likely smoked together within the glowing windows. Yet, as Gene looked into the darkened street before him he felt he was the only one within the entire neighborhood. Lights indicated families at home, yet he felt that his humming car was the only sound in the entire block. That is, except for the sirens.

     He pulled his hand from its pocket of warmth and glanced down to his thick leather watch. He had called to tell Ace he would be there by 9:30, yet it was five past then.

     Ace would anxiously await Gene on the curb even on a good day.

     He looked to the home again, refraining from honking his horn. The tall male would assume Gene was upset with him if he were to, so he would allow Ace another three minutes before knocking on the door.

     The sirens that wailed in the distance shot by the neighborhood behind Gene, flying past. The blare of blue and red pulsed against the trees.

     Yet, the sound was getting louder and the lights were rising on the tree’s as though coming closer to them, making Gene curiously glance back over his seat with his brows furrowed. Blue and red bursts in the rear window grew rapidly closer, the screaming sirens becoming a frightening volume.

     The police cars had not passed the neighborhood, rather, a pack of them rolled into place in front of the home. Two slipped just in front of Gene, their doors flying open with crooked parking. Perhaps Gene had gotten into the wrong car and was called upon for theft. He looked down to the cream colored wheel in front of him, recalling it to be his own. He looked up again, two men having emerged with guns firmly held beside themselves as they sprinted for the door.

     Gene reached hesitantly for the handle of his car, watching with his usual firm expression despite the spark of adrenaline beginning to tease his heart rate. His breathing had grown slightly labored, his calm eyes darting from the men to the door of the home as his mind tossed dice for what to do.

     There was a mistake, they had gone to the wrong house. This was going to frighten Ace, he likely wouldn't sleep tonight now. He ought to emerge and explain to someone.

     Gene’s hand firmly gripped the door handle, pressing it open before standing. He stood gazing at the home still, perked like an anxious cat as the cops ripped the front door open.

     “Put your hands up!” A young yet firm voice shouted behind Gene.

     He turned, the silhouette of a gunned man stood before him, one of the police cars having snuck behind Gene. Gene only stared up at him, feeling that there was a very serious misunderstanding happening.

     “Aye- woah, you got the wrong house.” He mumbled in his calm tone, his hands beginning to raise with palms facing the cop.

     “On the ground!” The man repeated, shoving the gun shaking in his hands towards the far larger man.

     In moments, there was rough pavement pressed against Gene’s cheek. It was cold much like the bitter air, and much like the slick cuffs clicking around his wrists. The sole of a boot kept him down despite his lack of struggle, his glazed eyes gazing forward to the now opened front door. There was shouting inside, demands. The wall of the front entrance, changed between blue and red with the flicker of the police lights, as did the picture frames hung against it.

     Gene did not feel the cold, nor did he recognize the ground against his body. He could only hear his own heartbeat galloping within his head like the hefty hit of hoofs on dirt. He could only see the limp tired hand resting on the carpet, just in front of the now gaping entrance..