Chapter Text
It’s like an oven on main street, the only thing denoting it otherwise being the booming speakers set out in front of town hall and the general high spirits of the population. They’re all clustered around the stage, burning to crisps as they watch local bands play and sing along to songs they don’t know. Though it’s hot enough for popsicles to melt the moment they’re withdrawn from their freezers, everyone has one clutched in their sweaty palms if they don’t already have something there. The cold juice mixes into rancid, muddy puddles on the asphalt that everyone neglects in favor of summer fun.
Streber watches them longingly from behind a line of food trucks, bobbing his head to the music as he takes another drag from his cigarette. He lifts his cap, the slight breeze buffeting his sweaty hat hair; he’s never been able to handle the heat and today’s no exception. If he doesn’t get his hands on one of those popsicles soon, he’s afraid he might just pass out, maybe get run over by one of the trucks when they pull out for the night. But there’s more to it than the heat. He’s jealous these people aren’t stuck in the food trucks, aren’t selling wares a little further down the way. They aren’t running the carnival rides he can’t believe the taxpayers of the town were lured into paying for. His nose wrinkles, as cynical as he can muster despite his longing to maybe, just once, ride one of those death traps.
As if he ever could.
No, he’s a hard worker, he thinks to himself as he throws the cigarette to the ground and stamps on it with the heel of his loafers. His socks squelch with moisture as he does. Even if he doesn’t care too much for the job in favor of the festival, he can’t help himself from working and starving himself to the bone - or at least until sweat puddles overflow his shoes. So he screws his hat back on his head, lowers the brim so the sun doesn’t linger in his eyes, and throws open the back door to the Boys N’ Grills truck, a wall of stale, greasy air hitting him in the face. Unlike outside, where there’s a breeze, the heat cast from the stove is still and the only respite is by the window. The window that’s currently blocked by a hulking shadow - uh oh . The figure casts a glance at the burgers sizzling on the grill before narrowing his eyes at Streber, who wants to go right back outside, work be damned.
“That was longer than five minutes.”
Streber’s hand hovers on the doorknob. Shit . His eyes dart conspicuously to his pocket, noting the pack of cigarettes poking out the top.
The voice continues, drawing nearer, looming taller. “I thought I toldja to quit smokin’ that shit, so howsit you keep lyin’ about what your doin’ with your breaks?”
He decides to lie again - just a little, smoky-white lie. “I didn’t.” The restaurateur leans in, taking an accusatory sniff, and Streber shifts from foot to foot. “I didn’t , Bob,” he insists, pointing out the door. “Just other people. You know how they get at these festivals, they light ‘em up every opportunity.”
“Uh huh.” Bob scratches an inflamed bite on his arm as he folds them. “I know how you look when you lie, darlin’.”
Streber rolls his eyes, snatches a spatula from the wall, and takes his usual place at the flat top, lacking energy to talk back to Bob. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, muffled music and yelling from… somewhere accompanying him and making the silence less awkward. Sweat drips from his bangs and lands with a sizzle on the grill, and then he feels a rough yet gentle hand removing his hat and slicking his hair back so it doesn’t happen again. When Streber doesn’t say anything, doesn’t thank him for stopping future biohazards, he feels a soft touch on his arm.
“Hey.”
Streber winces from the calloused hand. It leaves behind a burning sensation that spreads along his skin. “What?”
There’s a little sigh, then, that Streber can feel on his sticky neck. “Y’know I’m just worried aboutcha, sweetpea,” Bob drawls in his syrupy, southern accent. “I don’t needa lose you to tobacco too.”
Streber’s mouth forms a hard line, and he twists to look at his father, trying to force an empathetic expression on his face. He doesn’t really care, he doesn’t, but just to get him off his back…“I get it, Dad. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Good.” Bob draws himself to his full height, and again Streber doesn’t meet his eyes, just stares at the lingering mark on his arm. A little detail that’s much easier to look at than anyone’s eyes, at least to him. In his periphery, he watches Bob as takes off his cap displaying the restaurant’s logo and waves it in his face, strands of hair sticking together. “Now. I know your hankerin’ for cigarettes ain’t the only reason you went out there. Aaand …” he takes a dramatic pause, “now that the rush’s over, it’s safe to say I can take care o’ things all by my lonesome. It’s a lil’ cramped, dontcha think?”
Streber brightens - although he wishes he could’ve just told him while he was outside. He probably just wanted the satisfaction of chiding him about his “habit” before sending him off. Nonetheless, he’s already thrown down his spatula and ripped off his apron and stupid, stupid hat, and he’s out the door before Bob can get another word in.
Well, he catches the tail end of something that sounds like “I love you” before the door shuts, but who cares about that as it fades into the dulcet, almost haunting tones of the vocalist on stage, the gentle plucks of the bass…
A dusk wind whistles through main street as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, and he joins the crowd, still a wallflower as he sticks toward the edges. From where Streber’s standing he can see the vocalist’s beanie is tugged down over his eyes just enough to cover the rest of his corpse paint as he sings. The front of the drum set is crudely spraypainted with the band name - “The Hatzgang” - which explains the weird hats they’re all wearing. He’s never seen these guys in concert, but he has seen them stapling up their fliers at some bars and clubs that they’re too young to get into.
The more he looks, the more he notices. There’s two women a few yards away, drunk as can be, joshing about something over half-empty solo cups. A young man, probably a vendor judging by the garb he’s wearing, is yelling at two kids hassling him. Closest to the stage - and Streber laughs at the irony - there’s a tent for the local Catholic church, in which the priest is covering his ears and someone else is handing out fliers and bobbing their head to the music.
And Streber’s acutely aware of the cops dotting the crowd since he has to be. They’re all watching out for any funny business.
All except for one.
His gaze is fixated on the stage, at the lanky keyboardist whose curly blonde hair cascades into black-dyed tips, but he isn’t swaying along with the rest of the crowd. There’s an air of palpable discomfort around him that even seems to affect the people he’s near. They’ve all given him a wide berth but still he continues to stare, pensive, tugging at his red curls as if reigning himself in. He doesn’t belong there, he wants to leave. He’s uncomfortable. He’s vulnerable.
Streber’s stomach grumbles.
He’s easy pickings.
The crowd surges forward as the band’s song grows in intensity and that’s enough to shake Streber from his appetite. No, no, he thinks to himself, craning his neck to look back at his father’s silhouette, watching him from the window of the food truck. Bob already had someone for them to eat, if the bite on his arm was anything to go by. Maybe that was what he meant when he said it was okay for him to leave. He needed the room to butcher the body.
Well, whatever. He allows himself to be pushed forward as hunger pangs - or more accurately appetite pangs - disrupt his thought process, and finds himself next to the young officer whose gaze remains eternally on the stage rather than what he’s meant to be doing.
Likewise, Streber’s lingers on him till the stars come out, till the oven that’s main street cools down.