Chapter Text
Galo Thymos looks hot as hell in tight jeans and a bomber jacket, but when he drags a hand down his face so hard his eyelids droop, Aina just can't see the appeal anymore. She's got him on Facetime, trying to talk him through all his yelling and panic— until he pivots his camera toward the row of motorcycles he's just knocked over.
"... Yikes," is all she can manage, before Galo shakes the screen.
"YEAH, BIG YIKES, AINA," he huffs, yanking a hand through his perfectly spiked hair. "Thyma's supposed to meet me in five, and there's like, thirty metal dominos on the ground now, and I'm probably going to die here—"
"You aren't going to die, Galo."
"I'm GOING TO DIE," he reiterates, panning the camera over the last bike in the row— the one taking the weight of every bike preceding it. Unfortunately, it's a big, beautiful chopper, all dark metal and flawless leather, and it's crumpled over in an oily pool on the ground.
Aina takes a second to squint at her screen. Then, she breathes in, looks Galo in the eye, and reassures him:
"You lived your life to the fullest, and that's all that matters."
Inside the nearest building, over the thumping bassline of a Mudhoney song, a man with a scribbly tag on his chest that reads Gueira Lastname hears a blood-curdling wail from the parking lot. He raises an eyebrow at his Bar-Back and reaches for the shotgun.
Galo pulls his face back out of his shirt, which did nothing to muffle his screams. "Shit! I've gotta 'fess up. I can't just leave these laying here, it's not right."
"I mean, yeah, I guess, but... Galo, that's an awfully expensive mistake to make," Aina warns him. "What are you gonna do, walk in there and trade insurance info with a bunch of—"
"Bunch of what?" Thyma asks, her bright face popping into view over Galo's shoulder. She's all smiles and curiosity as she waves at Aina on-screen. "Everyone inside's pretty nice, I promise."
Galo jumps— he hadn't heard her approaching. He offers her a shaky hand and tries to slick back his fallen hair, as though he hadn't just formed a one-man mosh pit. "Thyma! Hey! Hi! How's it goin'?"
She surveys the scene with an unchanging expression. They're ten feet from the bar entrance, standing on crumbled asphalt and bits of glass. The entryway floodlight buzzes innocently overhead.
Dents: check. Mud: check. Galo's bright red Kawasaki, still-standing, still untouched: checkmate.
How's it goin'.
"Not well, apparently?"
Galo lets his hands drop. Aina's view turns upside-down. She makes a mental note to ask Thyma where she bought her boots, because that's all she can see on-camera now.
"Not well!" he agrees. "But I can fix this, I promise. I refuse to let this ruin Late Night Date Night!"
Thyma can see the cogs turning behind all that frenetic energy. Galo crouches down by the first of the bikes, the flash of his camera going off at random, before the front door of the bar slams open and the music cuts off.
A crowd of leather jackets filters out onto the curb. They blob around the carnage, all quiet gasps and murmurs, and Galo quickly rises to his feet. He catches sight of two particularly angry men— one tall and lean, with an apron covered in grease stains, and one scrappy and sharp, with a gun in his hand.
"Suffice to say Late Night Date Night is probably ruined," Aina's distant voice hums out from Galo's phone.
He ends the call.
***
Three months ago, Thyma had messaged him on Facebook. He hadn't heard from her in nearly ten years.
They'd interned together— if a summer career prep program could be called that— and though life had rocketed them in drastically different directions, they'd always share the precious memories they'd made in the Foresight Foundation's cafeteria.
They were seventeen, and Galo shared a Sprite with her. They'd dated for four days before mutually deciding that being straight sucked ass.
But to Galo's surprise and delight, she was moving back to Promepolis, and needed a friendly face. Together they'd made a schedule— Late Night Date Night featured bowling alleys, movie theaters, and sticky-seats at Applebees. It'd been good, so far— it'd been safe, so far— but like all good things, Galo's list of ideas eventually came to an end.
It'd been Thyma who suggested the Slowburn— a divey-looking bar on the far end of South 90th Ave. She had friends there, she insisted, but Galo wasn't too sure. Google Street View framed it between an oldschool motel and the chunkiest cactus he'd ever seen. It had a big, gravelly parking lot, wood paneling, and a single neon sign over the door.
But if this was Thyma's scene, he could dig it. Sure, it was dark, scary, and probably full of people who licked steak knives. But if anything or anyone threatened their safety, he could take 'em! Galo Thymos wasn't that easily intimidated!
That was three days ago.
"What. Is all this," the scrappy guy points, his skinny shoulders shaking with barely-contained rage. "What. The fuck. Have you done?"
"Easy, man," Galo offers, his hands in the air. He stares with wide, pleading eyes. This guy has a gun, for Christ's sake. "Let me explain—"
"Not much to explain," the taller man interrupts, and the ice in his voice is unmistakable. He sets a big hand on the angry guy's shoulder, but it does nothing to calm him down. He cracks his neck, never once blinking, never once breaking his stare.
So, scratch that. Galo Thymos is intimidated, and Galo Thymos is going to get massacred.
"I—" Galo starts, before the lightbulb in his head visibly turns on. "Oh! Here! I took photos. I promise I'm going to take responsibility for all this." He holds up his phone for everyone to see, scrolling through his media gallery to prove his intentions— but it's dark out, and every picture looks the same.
He swipes through a slideshow of eleven photos in absolute silence before Thyma gently— awkwardly— lowers his hand for him.
Nobody in the crowd speaks. Galo holds his breath, hoping he's managed to convince these guys he didn't destroy their property on purpose, but then the Tall Guy finally opens his mouth.
"Thyma. He with you?"
She nods. "Yes. He's a good guy, Meis. It was an accident."
Galo's sigh of relief could crumple his lungs. "Oh, cool, you know each other! That's cool!!" Hoooooo. Cool.
"You think that gets you off the hook?" Angry Guy barks, wandering down the line of fallen motorcycles until he reaches the last. He gestures with the barrel of his shotgun. "Fuck, man, Boss' bike is trashed!"
"Dallas ate shit too," Meis mutters, eyeing a slender bike sandwiched near the middle. "Sorry, Cici. I'll fill those dings after payday."
A woman with a shaved head shrugs in response. "Not your fault."
"Deffo not his fault! Deffo my fault," Galo says, eagerly raising his hand. "I'm serious! I'm going to make this right! I'll do whatever it takes, my bank account be damned—"
Angry Guy scruffs him by the collar of his jacket, and Galo's voice cuts off. He can see the nametag now, but he doesn't know how to pronounce Gueira, or if Lastname is a joke. It's written in orange highlighter and surrounded by stickers.
"You," he seethes, his wild red hair falling in front of his eyes, "Are talking to the Boss about this. Right now."
And with that, he's thrown forward into the bar, Thyma's sympathetic look offering him no reassurances.
***
Unfortunately, Galo's stuck waiting for The Boss for over fifteen minutes. He's chucked down on a stool near the far end of the bar, presumably to make any escape attempts obvious and futile. There's a broken pinball machine to his left and a quiet dude to his right. He's dirty, young, and drowning in a sweatshirt that nearly covers his fingers as he writes. Galo's almost tempted to ask how he can manage doing classwork in an environment like this.
It's only when he steals a glance at the paperwork headings and inventory logs that Galo realizes it isn't classwork— and this isn't a student.
Pen clacks against the hard wood of the bartop, and Galo's faced with the prettiest eyes he's ever seen on a human being.
"Thanks for your patience. Vendor order had to get done. Lio Fotia," he says, extending a slender, tattooed hand. Galo breaks his trance long enough to shake.
"Galo Thymos," he returns, remembering why he's here. Is this the Boss? Is this a business owner?
Lio's hand retreats into a fist, and he rests his cheek against it with an expectant stare.
"... So. You—"
"I'm sorry!" Galo blurts out, slapping both hands down against the bar. "I was supposed to meet a friend tonight, and I guess I was nervous about the location, and it was dark, and I wasn't paying attention to where I was leaning. Please, lemme give everybody my contact info, I—"
Lio holds up the palm of his hand, peacefully demanding the chance to speak. There's a sloppy, faded outline inked into the skin.
Galo deflates. And then he squints.
"Is that... Michigan," he asks so quietly, Lio almost misses it.
There's a stillness in the air between them, so unlike the usual electric energy in the Slowburn— and Lio doesn't like the quiet.
"You have no filter," Lio decides. "You cause thousands of dollars in damages to my patrons, my staff, and myself. Are you positive the first question you want to ask me is a personal one?"
Galo shrugs. "Don't see why not."
Lio Fotia blinks.
He has crinkles in the corners of his eyes and a tired sheet of bangs to lurk beneath. Whatever age Galo'd first pinned him for was far from correct.
Slowly, Lio slides into a smirk. He rises from his seat, stretches his graceful arms above his head, and saunters behind the bar to one of the mini fridges.
"PBR or Tecate?"
Galo takes a second to realize he's being asked a question. "Oh, uh, me? Both are chill, I guess?"
"Tecate," Lio decides for him, sliding a tallboy across the bar. Gueira's still tending the other half of the narrow space, and his stare is deadly as he passes Lio a container of limes.
Lio doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care. He pops open his own can and leans back against the alcohol cabinets, and from there, Galo can see the stains on his knees.
"It's supposed to be Michigan," Lio starts, "but it's backwards. Fucker never flipped the stencil."
Galo cautiously squeezes a lime through the opening in his pop top. "Why didn't you say anything? Before the artist drilled it into your skin forever, I mean?"
Across the room, the tall guy— Meis?— sets a plate of poutine down in front of Thyma. Lio watches fondly.
"One, palm tattoos never last. It's not forever," he tells Galo. "Two, I was drunk. It was a mistake." And with that, he raises a toast to Galo, winks, and knocks back half his beer in one go.
Galo's tight, tight pants are way too tight. He wiggles in his seat.
"Do you regret it?" he manages to ask, taking a swig to cover up the blush rising on his face.
Lio shrugs. "More or less. Regret's useless if you were never in control to begin with." He finishes off his can and crushes it against his hip. "Moral being: I can sympathize with mistakes, Galo Thymos. That's why I'm covering your tab."
Galo straightens up. "My beer?"
"Your beer. The bikes. All of it. Don't bother contacting your insurance provider, I'm positive you don't want the premium hike."
Anyone and everyone within earshot of their conversation starts to argue. Boss, no— For real, Fotia?—
"No way! This is my mess, I'll clean it up!" Galo exclaims, announcing it to the room. He's standing before he can stop himself. "Besides, my conscience will never let me live it down, dude."
Let the man pay for it! shouts an older man with a mustache.
I JUST added that windshield! groans another.
In a flash of movement, Lio raises up his boot and clomps it down onto the bartop, loud and showy and quick enough to make Galo jump back— but it works. Everyone around them immediately shuts up.
He bends over to tie his shoelace.
"This is my bar. I'll do as I like." With a final yank, he double knots it. "And I'm not a dude. For future reference." He lets his eyelashes calmly flick up at Galo, and god, he's hot, he's so unfairly hot—
Over his totally normal, unfairly hot shoulder, Galo catches sight of a sun-faded sticker. He knows those three colors all too well.
"Okay. No more dude-ing here, I promise," he furiously nods, trying to telepathically tell Lio he knows, he gets it. "But jusso y'know, 'future reference' implies... well. A future where I'm not murdered on my way back outta here."
Gueira snorts, and Lio rolls his eyes.
"No promises. But," Lio says, dropping all pretense, "I meant what I said. If you're willing, we can find a compromise that keeps your conscience as clean as I like my walk-in freezer." His leg finds its way back down to the floor. "I'll let you work off one bike's worth of damages. Like many of us here, I'm uninsured."
Again, Gueira makes a noise, but this time, Lio cuts his protest short with a single, wordless glare.
Maybe this was the mercy Galo needed. Maybe this was his last chance to prove himself as a good and honest man, full of totally cool morals and totally selfless motives.
Maybe he doesn't sound desperate when he immediately agrees.
"Rad," Lio answers, before Galo realizes what he's just committed to.
"Question, though. Are we talking dish duty for a week or two, or are we talking longer than that? I've already got a full-time gig," he shrugs.
"We're talking $3,000 worth of a custom paint job I put on my bike last Thursday. I pay my employees well, so you're only looking at..." he trails, grabbing an old plastic calculator from under the register. "166.666 hours of labor."
Galo's mouth hangs open. "Only? That's like, a million years!"
"And .666 of an hour. Don't skimp on me, Galo Thymos."
Lio's face is lit up with satisfaction, and Galo doesn't know how to answer. Maybe it's the beer, or maybe it's adrenaline, but he doesn't know how to tell Lio no.
Does he even want to?
"I— Um. I'm on call most of the week, though. Overnight, even!"
Lio nods, all maturity and understanding under a face that says its okay. But then he parts his lips, flashes a tongue piercing, and tauntingly, disinterestedly sucks on a lime. "Then I expect full repayment by Monday, or I'll see you in small claims court. Or my kitchen. Whichever works best for you."
Across the room, Thyma laughs at something Meis says. There's a big, fake fish on the wall behind her, and Galo stares at it, trying to understand how he got here.
There's no way he can work with a deadline that ridiculous. Sure, he can repay him, but in three days?
He downs the rest of his beer. Slams it on the bar in front of Lio. Opens his mouth.
"I'm not a felon. I don't think I'll fit in here."
In an instant, Lio Fotia's entire demeanor changes. His mouth thins into a line, but then he cooly leans over the bar into Galo's personal bubble. He breathes against his ear long enough to draw whistles out of the crowd— Galo feels a rare spike of anger mixing down into his core, and he's never been more turned on in his life.
He hears it whispered, low and serrated.
"I know you won't. Welcome to the team."