art commission by the amazing @armandyke for my fic
black flies on the windowsill by millcrs
“Kid!” Al’s voice is a burst of gravel skidding along some asphalt. He coughs and looks away. Diego does too. “I knew.” The plates shift and the earth tilts on his axis. Diego counts every second that he’s not breathing. “I knew from the second I got my eyes on you. You were — shit, you come in here looking like a dog who's been beaten down so many times it doesn’t know basic kindness unless it’s kicking him in the face.” Al’s got a palm flat to his chest like to say these words physically hurts him, but he’s looking at Diego like he wants to make sure he hears each one. “The way you fight? That’s not skill, it’s instinct. It’s survival. And I just wanted you to know that it ain’t always a fight. I got no expectations. Figured you’d feel safer if you thought I didn’t know who you were. If you could just be yourself.” Al’s speech ends with a dismissive shrug. Why you makin’ a big deal out of it? He always says. But Al wants Diego safe; wants him to feel safe. He never once made Diego hurt himself or anyone else and he knew the whole damn time about the kind of person Diego is, about what he’s done, and still he is standing here. Looking at him like he’s something to be glad for. A person he likes to have around. “Why’d you help me?” he asks after several attempts. He has to know. Everything Diego thought he knew turned out to be a lie. Al has never once wavered; it would kill Diego if he started now. But Al’s shrug doesn’t make an appearance this time — only his heavy stare, weary and old and sorry for the world. He says, frankly, “Why the hell wouldn’t I?” And Diego feels how his mouth trembles a crooked line. If he cries now it will only be for the feeling of something that he’s never before known within himself. It’d be okay to shed a tear or two. It’d be okay with Al, whose arthritic hands cup the back of Diego’s neck, tugging on his ears in jest. Diego laughs, smile wide despite his runny nose, and reckons that none of this, none of him, would feel real if he wasn’t being touched. "Don't you ever fuckin' do that to me again, y'hear?" It’s belonging. That’s what Al gave to him. Diego never knew a home until Al dragged him under his roof, gave him a mop and bucket, and a bed to sleep in. It may be just a boiler room to others, but to him it was a home to grow in, to become himself. He was not stifled by the damp dark, but given privacy where before he had never known it. Space and time to feel safe before walking out into the world and letting the sun touch his face. With an awkward shuffle of his feet, Diego says, “Loud ‘n clear, old man.” “Jesus,” Al hisses, retracting his arms quickly. “Think those kidnappers will take you back? I’ve had my fill of you.” Diego snorts with aborted chuckles, chin tipping forward onto his chest and Al just pulls him into a hug so fierce that if Diego actually needed to breathe, he might suffocate. Carefully, Diego’s arms come to wrap around the slightly shorter man. Al’s built like a brick shithouse, on ageing and creaking foundations, and when Diego leans against him, he realises for the first time in his life what it means to feel stable. Solid. This is an immovable thing, he thinks, with a huff that sends Al’s wispy hair into the air. Unshakeable. Constant. “C’mon,” Al says with a smack to his back, releasing him with a few more awkward pats. “I’ll make you breakfast."
