Chapter Text
One of the things Evans definitely likes is automobiles.
So when he found one that was simply a work of art enjoying the sun in the Koburger parking lot, He happened to be passing by to stretch his legs after an emotional breakdown (almost weekly, a real one), and he couldn't help but sigh.
“Wow…”
When he arrived at the parking lot, he realized that the motorcycle wasn't just any motorcycle; it was the motorcycle.
Getting closer to the motorcycle, circling her (him? them? Its? ugh, men and their habit of referring to their vehicles in the feminine). Like a predator analyzing its newest meal, he quickly realized she had an incredible painting, A beautiful combination of navy blue and pink, with blue as the predominant color with pink lines and patterns, but with such uniform painting and such smooth transitions between them that it was almost difficult to Explain why blue was the main color.
So yes, the painting was amazing.
The brand was difficult to identify, as there was no glimpse of the logo anywhere on it (just a strange red face on the side, a sticker perhaps?), But some details in the design of the license plates are similar to Japanese ones, so a Toyota? No, Toyota stopped making motorcycles in 2001 to focus exclusively on being a car brand.
“Hmm… maybe a Honda?” he murmured as he sat on his heels (even though it’s difficult due to the lack of one arm for balance, but meh, habits never die.) in front of the Stylish motorcycle.
“Nah, it must be American, you even have a German engine…” Evans lets out a chuckle that is muffled by the white surgical mask he wears; after all, his body hasn’t yet adjusted to the Nevada temperature, even on a sunny day it’s still cold for him, so he can’t catch a cold!
It's certainly not the way they look at him.
Well, continuing with the investigation, he's not very fond of American brands, because, you know, American. But still, they kind of run the motorsport scene, maybe a Hammer? The blue vaguely resembles the base color of their cars, but they don't use Asian friction wheels, they use Polish ones, so a solo drama? The HMX-138 is quite similar to it… so is it a modified one? But there aren't any D.S. workshops near Jasper, Nevada, you'd have to go to a super far state to have anything done to it by professionals, so a workshop? No, Mr. Gomes from Rua Novel is too old to know how to work on such a marvel, unless…
"Hey!" shouts an unknown voice, startling the German and almost causing him to fall on his backside onto the asphalt. As he gets up from his position (with some difficulty, but okay), the voice speaks again.
“Hmm… W-what are you doing?...” the voice continued, speaking in a tone of fear and insecurity, and it soon revealed itself to belong to a teenager, perhaps 1 or 2 years younger than him, with fair skin and dark hair in a slightly messy quiff, wearing a black t-shirt with a print of some American band he didn't recognize, which overlaid a long-sleeved gray shirt, along with dark blue jeans, almost black, and finally a worn-out, faded red Converse All Star—which had probably seen better days.
“Ah, I…uhhh, I just…see the…motorcycle.” Evans shudders at his hoarse voice; combine that with him being practically antisocial and his extremely strong German accent, and this interaction is a recipe for disaster, haha. (insert sarcasm)
And then, an awkward silence settles over the two teenagers.
‘I was even imagining those dry, round plants passing by here, because, you know, we're near a desert and stuff, but, ugh, it seems I'll have to start the conversation… Was zur Höl– ’
“Well…is this motorcycle…yours? Or…does it belong to someone you know?” he says, ignoring his internal grumbling that he would have to socialize, but he endures it, after all he now lives in a town as small as a grain of sand as Jasper, Nevada.
“Uh? Ah! Yes, yes. She’s mine,” the dark-haired man said in a hoarse tone (at least for the bosses of a teenager like him), crossing his arms and making a face. That frown, instead of being intimate or frightening, made him look like a wet kitten showing its baby claws.
'How cute.'
“Hmm, I see,” says the German, as he slowly begins to walk to the side of the motorcycle, oblivious to the smaller boy’s slight shudder. “You take very good care of her…congratulations,” he said again when he reached the spot, putting his (and only) arm back in the pocket of his dark gray sweatshirt.
“Ah, t-t-thank you?” said the boy who (damn, he urgently needs to know his name) quickly abandoned his “intimidating” posture and walked hurriedly and nervously to the other side of the motorcycle.
Wait, nervously?
Okay, sure, he might be that typical shy teenager interested in inanimate objects because they can't judge you (he can't say anything either, so...) but he was nervous, like, nervous, like, "Danger! Danger! My primal instincts are going crazy!!" so subtly he looked at himself.
'Could there be a ketchup stain on my sweatshirt and he thinks it's blood? That's happened to me before...'
Ah
.
.
.
Ah.
Well, it's obvious that the poor boy will be less than a step away from becoming a puddle of pure anxiety if you're walking around looking like a thief or assassin!!!
A thief wearing socks and flip-flops, but still a thief with a capital T! A Einbrecher!!
Okay, in their defense, wearing a dark gray sweatshirt, black sweatpants (which had some chlorophyll stains near the heels) along with a black cap and a white surgical mask wasn't exactly an outfit that screamed "dangerous person, possibly with a knife." In Germany, it would be more like "person tired of life, needing a drink, and maybe with a knife." But for a picturesque little town like Jasper, Nevada, it seems to be a completely different story.
'Gott, why did I move here?'
Mentally sighing over his life (and aesthetic) choices, Evans Friedrich turned his attention back to the dark-haired teenager and resumed the conversation.
“You—”
“What’s your name?”
Whatever he wanted to say died before it could come out of his mouth, due to his surprise at the (not so) sudden question.
“...Jack,” said the dark-haired man—now Jack—cautiously, narrowing his eyes as if he were going to steal his name as a bonus.
‘He thinks I’m what?, a Fae???’ he thought, discreetly raising his eyebrow. (a privilege of wearing a cap that practically covered his entire forehead)
“Evans. Friedrich. Evans Friedrich,” the older man said simply, extending his hand.
“Ah—” the boy coughed slightly to dispel the embarrassment. “Jack. Darby. Jack Darby,” Jack said, mimicking his introduction and extending his hand to complete the handshake with a nervous smile.
“Well, Darby, as I said, I’m really impressed by your motorcycle,” Evans said after the handshake, gesturing towards the vehicle. “Do you know what make this beauty is?” the German concluded, tilting his head and slightly shifting his body. (He even swore he heard the motorcycle hum after he made the compliment…)
“She…is…She’s a prototype of a new model?…” Jack said, his tone turning from a question to a trembling answer, shrugging quite rightly. If the roles were reversed, I certainly wouldn’t want to give my vehicle information to a potential thief (or murderer), so he let it go.
‘for now…hehehehe’