Jamey notices the guy looking before Angelo does, out of the corner of his eye when Angelo leans over the pool table to line up a shot, a straight line of sight to his ass. Jamey knows this game. He's not surprised when in a little while, by the time they've finished one game and Angelo's lining the balls up in the triangle to start a new one, the guy saunters over with two bottles of Modelo.
Jamey doesn't say anything, eyes flicking up and then back down to the little block of chalk, chalking his cue nervously. Angelo lifts eyebrows at the guy when he offers a beer, and he takes it, an amused smile twisting on his face.
"Hows it going, chulo?" he says with a grin, a waggle of eyebrows. "One on me, if you wanna tell me your name."
"You gonna buy one for my boyfriend too?" Angelo snorts, and the guy seems to take a hint, slinking off with a glare at Jamey, though Angelo keeps the beer, taking a swig and setting it down on the corner of the table.
Jamey feels like every hair on his arms stands on end, though he doesn't say anything, watching the guy shrug his leather jacket back on and roll out of the place.
II.
Angelo steps out of the bar into a fresh cool night, Jamey in tow, flicking his lighter to have a smoke as he stomps through a puddle in the parking lot. The streetlight's flickering, a couple people hanging out chatting on the sidewalk, and Jamey spots the guy who'd bought Angelo a drink inside, hanging out by his bike.
"Hey, chulito," he calls, making kissing noises and whistling at Angelo. "Ain't too late to change your mind."
"Quit while you're ahead, man," Angelo calls back, as Jamey starts to walk for the car, a bad feeling spreading through him. He doesn't put his hand on Angelo's arm and herd him along, that doesn't feel right, he wonders if that'd get read as a provocation. Instead he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets against the cold, hurries along the curb.
"Hey, don't be a bitch."
Angelo doesn't fall out of step with Jamey, turning on one heel to flip the guy off.
"You goin' home with this piece of shit?" the guy calls, jogging after them, and Jamey ducks smoothly past him without making so much as eye contact. It's not far to his car. "Hey, homie, you need to keep your bitch on a leash, huh?"
"Fuck off," Angelo scowls, and the guy gets up in Jamey's face, smell of beer rolling off him.
"What, you too good for me, joto?"
Jamey doesn't look him in the eyes, ducking to sidestep around him, and the guy leans to cut him off, shoving him.
Angelo throws a punch before he knows what he's doing, before Jamey knows what's going on, and the asshole makes an awful fucking shriek, Angelo shaking out his fist.
"I said fuck off!"
"You little fuckin' bitch--" He swings, but Angelo is faster, blood spattering from the guy's lips as he doubles over and staggers out between two parked cars. Jamey's heart races when he catches Angelo hard across the face, enough to send him reeling, but Angelo catches him by the lapels of his douchey jacket, slamming him into the dumpster just inside the lip of the alley, and the gaggle of girls outside the bar scream, one of them taking out her phone and dialing. Jamey swallows, a cold spike of fear somewhere in his gut.
"Angelo--!"
He grabs Angelo's arm and bolts for the car, slamming the passenger side door behind him and running around to the other side, keys in the ignition as he slams on the pedal, knuckles shaking.
III.
"Can you fuckin'--" Angelo sniffs, dabbing blood away from his nose and rubbing it between the pads of his fingers," can you fuckin' believe that guy?"
Jamey's silent, nerves racked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel at the stoplight. He considers just running the red light, the street's dead, they're waiting on nothing--but he's already nearly had to tangle with the cops once that night, not sure if it's worth it again.
"Shit," Angelo mutters, blood from his nose dripping onto the front of his shirt, and almost absently Jamey fumbles in the dash compartment, handing him a crumpled napkin. "You know what he called you, right?" he says.
"I don't terribly care," Jamey mumbles, turning when the light finally changes, chancing nervous glances up into the rearview mirror like he expects to see a motorcycle appear in them.
"He called you a faggot," Angelo mutters, tilting his head back with the napkin up to his nose. Jamey glances over at him.
"Forward. Tiltch'r head forward," he says, and Angelo looks at him, almost indignant.
"You're not pissed off?"
"It's not worth it t'be," Jamey says, squeezing his hands on the steering wheel, considering lighting a cigarette, but he thinks Angelo dropped his lighter back outside the bar, that or wedged it in the guy's face. "I'd..." He breathes out, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, checks all his mirrors. "Rather just get home where it's quiet."
"He was being an ass," Angelo says, napkin smeared with blood as he wrinkles his nose tentatively, presses against it to see if it's swelling up real bad. "People like him need to fuckin' learn. I'd bet you--fuck--bet you fucking anything he does that shit all the time, to people who are too scared of him to do anything about it."
Jamey grunts, pretending to crane his neck to check the street sign they're passing, turning his windshield wipers on. "Mm."
Angelo balks at that, makes an irritated little scoff, turns toward him in the seat, and Jamey's grateful when he pulls into a parking space a little further than he usually parks from his building, shuts the car door before Angelo can say anything and starts hurrying for his door, digging through his keys as Angelo gets out of the car.
"Hey," he calls after Jamey. "Hey! What the fuck?" Jamey doesn't stop, unlocking the door and glancing at the two Iranian teenagers who live on the first floor hanging out in the narrow hall, huddled over their phones. Angelo thunders up the stairs behind him. "Dude."
Jamey holds a hand out for Angelo's pack of cigarettes, and he hands them over, rolling his eyes. It takes Jamey ten terse minutes to find a lighter, tossing it across the unmade bed to Angelo.
"It's fine, all right?" Angelo says, half-cornering him in the kitchen, tugging him in close by the elbows. "Hey. It's fine, all right, I'm fine."
Jamey exhales smoke, glancing at the ceiling instead of meeting his eyes. He turns on the window unit when Angelo turns on the sink in the bathroom, too twitchy to turn around and watch him wipe blood off his face.
He hands Angelo a fresh shirt in silence, doesn't find it as endearing as he usually does when Angelo tugs it on and flips his long hair out of the collar.
"Are you okay?" Angelo asks, and Jamey doesn't answer, nodding his head in one sharp, insincere little motion.
