punk isn’t dead, it’s just tired | tino & kit
Kit would have been able to hear the rumble of Tino’s bike a mile away. Always so rock and roll, ever needing to make an entrance, Tino gave off chaotic energy without even trying (or meaning) to.
It was common knowledge that Tino tolerated the deli at best. He and his brother got along but were always fighting. It was just the kind of relationship they had. And honestly? Tino cared very little about salami...
Ok, that’s not true. Tino cared greatly about meat of any kind, but he rather not be the one preparing it. He liked to eat, and hey, maybe he liked to cook a little, but when you had hours you needed to abide by, all the fun was sucked out of it. Even more so when your older brother was your boss.
“Kit, bay-bee.” He called from the door, lifting the helmet off his head when it opened, “I smell like fuckin’, prosciutto, I’m sorry.” He used the palm of one hand to brush the hair sticking to his forehead out of his face, the other held out a bag of food for Kit, “I brought us dinner.” By brought Tino meant stole, but Donato would get over it. He didn’t even bother to take off his jacket -- leather, and loved real hard since their senior year in high school -- before flopping onto the closest soft surface, “Can we jus’ lay for a second? Jus’ a minute, huh? I promise I won’t fall asleep this time.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, rolling his eyes at a text (that eye roll could have meant Donato or his ex or his mother, all of whom Tino didn’t really want to talk to right now). Tossing the phone away from him, “Tell me about your day? I’ve been havin’ some bad Kit withdrawal.”
