closing time;

[dealwith_them]

Title: Closing Time
Setting: Modern AU
Character(s): Marcel & Batista
Summary: Someone's digging out dirt and in return, he's showing them the gutter.
Warnings: Language. Homophobia. Violence.

When the back door slams shut behind him, the alley is silent and deserted just like he prefers it, except for the two guys having at it in the corner. Lighting a fag – fitting right into the milieu, isn’t he? – he walks up to them, leaning back against the clammy wall. Only a metre away. Enough to smash in a skull or two, if he’d wanted to. Instead he takes a long drag; that’s gotta be one hell of a blowjob, since neither of them notice his presence. Everybody knows him around here, some more than they’d like and others all too well. His men normally don’t go rampant without his consent, but every once in a while he’s in the mood for a little chaos too. He glances at his busy neighbours out the corner of his eye, noticing how the one not crawling about on his knees is drawing closer to climax. Too bad.

“Get lost.” His voice is pleasant enough, really. Since he’s here on business. Even so, both men freeze into Greek statues with little dicks until they're all action once more, edging away from him in perfect, panicking synch. Head-giving-guy still on his knees and the other muttering a low fuck under his breath. Well, they were in the middle of it. And they’re done now.

“Sorry,” one of them says; Marcel can’t be bothered to check who. They’re both dumb enough to be here in the first place. “We’ll be… going now.” Emphasized by how butt-boy scrambles to his feet, hardly even waiting for his companion to zip up before backing away.

“Make it quick.” Another drag. One of JL’s cigarettes – this, light or some other shit, because Cleopatra doesn’t like the smell of smoke and when good husband Antony’s home every once in a while, he complies by spending his money on false advertising. Irritation to save for later, though; considering the reason why he’s here, he’s pretty relaxed, isn’t he? For the time being, but they’re beginning to test his patience. Frickin’ queers.

Within two minutes, they’ve made themselves invisible, around the corner, out on the street. He’s content with knowing that they most likely won’t get another round of shagging tonight. In the bar behind him, he’s the only effective cold shower and proudly so. Perhaps he should consider walking that pitiful parade they arrange every year. Next time. If he’s not somewhere else, doing something much less idiotic.

Right on time, the door opens and closes again. Footsteps. He looks up, the other man waiting at a safe distance. Wise, that. Marcel hasn’t seen him before which in itself is a problem. Luxembourg City is his personal playground; he knows all the kids here and has raised a great deal of them himself. Nevertheless, over the past week, the name Batista has made its way into conversations where it doesn't belong, flourishing in circles that make up the borders of Marcel's own kingdom. Batista, and here he is, Marcel doesn’t need to ask, despite the man being quite a disappointment. He looks harmless, cute in the way that some men do and consequently labelling themselves as easy victims. But looks deceive, of course. If he’s from France or Germany, it’s almost forgivable. Almost. 'Criminal' doesn’t translate directly across borders, even if the content is always the same. Always. Just look at the Italian mob; businessmen and trophy wives, the lot. With guns and blood-stained money underneath their pillows.

“So --” Batista begins.

“Trousers. Off,” Marcel interrupts him.

They’ve been eyeing each other for hours. Originally, Marcel had only followed a group of his men to the bar to set them straight in their own territory. Boyfriends are the first to go down and not in the good way, in the hunt for blackmail and power. Can’t have employees who are so easily bought. At some point close to midnight, he’d felt himself being watched, in itself not any stand-alone occurrence – Loki climbing up his shoulder, visible where his tank-top shows more skin than he can usually afford. Tattoos are too recognisable and a clear mark for identification, but in these surroundings, it won’t become an issue. Still, he’d known right away that this wasn’t some ignorant freak ogling his body. Marcel can tell the difference, if he couldn’t… Too many people would get kill needlessly. His hair had stood on end and it only took him a second to locate the source, a plain-looking faggot seated at a table on the other side of the room. Their eyes had met for a second before the stranger had quickly turned his attention back to the bite of flesh on his right. No fooling Marcel, of course. Another second and he’d the situation analyzed, from the casual style of his clothes (a night out on the town, hoping to get laid) to the Prickly Moses red ale in front of him, 20 Euros a bottle. Probably French, then; sucker for quality and meaningless sex, usually a lousy blend, but what can you expect?

“Easy there, tiger,” Batista retorts now, one eyebrow raised and the hint of a laugh in his voice. Oh, you wish.

“Don’t make me remove them for you.” It would require that he move before he’s done with his cigarette and throwing away the last few inhalations of nicotine spikes his impatience. Not the best of reactions currently and neither does he imagine that the other man will prove difficult at length – why, he was right. Belt first, zipper next, jeans sliding to the ground, revealing absolutely nothing. Freeballing, are we? Now, that’s gross. Marcel throws the butt away, ashes falling like snow onto his boots, before walking up to Batista who might be called something else outside the underground. They all have their ways not to be name-dropped, though Batista has been rotten at it. Obviously. They are looking at each other once again, just a second while Marcel judges strengths, weaknesses and age. A good deal younger than himself and shorter if not by much. Lithe in the same way JL is; probably surprisingly talented at getting out of tight spots. And not always on his own. Rarely on his own, actually. Yeah, Marcel’s been dealing with this type of man and the resultant behaviour since he was twelve, hasn’t he? He knows exactly how it works and how to counteract it most effectively.

“So --” Batista tries. Because the first time got him so far.

Hand flat against his chest, Marcel shoves him backwards without holding back, ensuring that the impact with the wall knocks all the air out of him. It’ll take him less than a minute to recover, based on his physique, so better get to work, right? Turning around, he picks up the discarded pair of pants, searching the pockets fast and professionally. Done it before. Finds a wallet that isn’t his, but he’ll keep it anyway – some people have their entire identity shoved in between coins, cards and notes – and then his own. He’ll give it to the guy. Very few people can sneak anything out of his possession. Not that he didn’t notice, naturally, or he wouldn’t be here in the first place. Once he’d sat down at Batista’s table, next to him, close, a hand had run up his thigh, roaming around a bit, disguised as an enthusiastic attempt at flirting. Ignoring it, he’d just waited for the other man to retreat, self-assured that his little trick had been successful. When Marcel had nodded towards the exit, no questions were asked. A half-shrug, a half-nod. Two can play that game.

“Listen, are you mugging me or fucking me?” Cheerfully, on the surface. Facades are transparent to him, but most other people wouldn’t have noticed the hint of nervousness underneath. Marcel doesn’t answer. They’ll get to that in a bit.

The other pocket reveals a small collection of neatly folded papers. Oh, that was a mistake – a sign that he’d planned to escape the country once he’d had his fun. Careless. That’s a kind of bravery too, sure, but a stupid one. Quick scan and his mood changes radically; a couple of compromising bills, one on an order of bombs he’d placed last year. They’d been popular with the Africans until they blew up the entire camp. It’d taken him months to clean up that mess and re-establish the contact. Fucking Taiwanese. Never again. Besides, he knows for sure that these papers had been shed beyond recognition. Seems they’ve been bitten by a rat, huh? He’ll have to deal with that later; someone’s bound to spill once he threatens them all with the warehouse. No one keeps secrets at the prospect of being strung upside-down by their balls until they’re ripped off from the pull of gravity.

The last documents are a collection of old, apparently random articles and Polaroid photos. The latter make him pause more so than any of the rest. Seriously? What idiot would consider this of use? JL looks absolutely horrified which is, granted, an uncommon enough incidence to get the interest of some. Perverts, most likely. Marcel has always found kissing a waste of time and an even greater waste of breath, but for a night with four porn actresses – two of them whom he’d seen in action – it had been well worth it. Even if JL had tasted like a fucking garbage can and been close to biting off his tongue.

“Ehm. I guess this is another definition of getting into a guy’s pants.” Tone more careful now, but casual still even as Marcel raises his gaze – legs, cock, sweater and a face that’s all cheek and flamboyance. Brazenness. As if he’s not standing ten inches from a vast assortment of guns, a hunting knife and a bundle of keys that he would find a clever use for somehow. Some anonymous bastard is trying to dig up dirt on him, dirt Marcel’s worked his arse off to bury for good. This conversation will go down well with Jean Louis, won’t it just? He’ll be on the receiving end of another hissy fit, because for a politician supposed to be the embodiment of coolness and calm behind those Armani sunglasses, his little brother’s got the temper of a PMSing teenage girl.

Bro, someone’s on my tail.

Well. Fix it.

Would, if I knew who it was.

There’ll be an infuriated what next, he can hear it already. Plus, next month’s pay check will be in serious jeopardy which sucks, because he’s already used half of it on spare parts for his Cadillac…

… Getting into a guy's pants. Slowly, Marcel drops Batista’s emptied trousers in the nearest puddle of dirty water and stuffs the papers away beneath his shirt. Frustration always only fuels his sexual drive, but fortunately there are other ways to relieve the pressure than fucking. Two, three steps and they’re face to face again, so close that their chests are touching. Gaze focusing on Batista’s features, obscured by his shadow, he feels his lips form a small smile of the languid, predatory kind. Accented by his eyes narrowing. Only a fool would confuse it with lust.

And Batista obviously doesn’t. Trying to move to the side, hesitantly.

Marcel raises his hand and tightens his fingers around his neck, palm pressing against his windpipe as he lifts him up, back scraping over the bricks until his feet are dangling an inch or so over ground. There’s the delightful sound of gulping, but it’s all the other man can manage while fighting for the smallest mouthful of air. Oh, yes. Relief. He can already feel himself starting to feel so much better. Leaning in, his lips ghosting over earlobe and strands of hair, another cock than his own pressing against his inner thigh which is disgusting but not exactly a threat -- He’s dealt with dicks before, both in the literal and metaphorical sense.

“Me getting into your pants would leave your arsehole so big a crater that once I’d dumped you in the Alzette, little fishes would gather there to spawn.”

Gasp, gasp, gasp. Batista’s lips are turning blue gradually, but since nobody’s around to kiss him, it hardly matters. With a sneer, Marcel lets go of him after another second, watching with little interest as he falls to his knees, wheezing and coughing like he’s just deep-throated an elephant. Shoe toeing beneath his chest, he rolls him onto his side with one foot, bending over him and taking hold of his chin. A snap and he could break his neck, but there’s no killing the messenger, so he simply pulls his face upwards. “Pretty boy,” Marcel whispers in a voice that says something else entirely; queer, faggot, worthless piece of trash, “you crawl back to wherever you came from and inform the man up high that butting into my business will cost him everything.”

A pause. Batista’s lips are beginning to gain colour again. “Who says it isn’t a woman?” Hoarse but happy. Like a damn smiley. How the fuck does he do it when the best of Marcel’s men would have shit themselves already, were they to find themselves in his position? Pity that the boy has guts and a good sense of humour to go with it; it would have landed him in Marcel’s good graces if he’d believed he could hire him without the chance of being double-crossed. No such luck, for either of them, but impressive nonetheless. There’s no effort in laughing it off and it’s the only compliment Marcel is willing to pay him – considering how he tends to laugh all the way home from a deal gone bad but rectified in kind, it isn’t much. More than zilch and less than victory; the one thing that’s important.

“Tell him.” Stepping back, he places a kick to Batista’s stomach, then to his groin, leaving him to spit blood all over the ground. Marcel moves around him, careful not to get his boots dirty – they’re brand new, after all, and picking up the wallets. He pauses only briefly next to the body curled in on itself, dropping the pictures of JL’s first and only homoerotic adventure next to his head. If little guy’s boss provides them with a challenge (something that happens so rarely these days, one could get bored), he doesn’t mind adding a glass of watery whiskey to the mill.

As long as he controls the flow.