Jahseh hates the smell of petrol.
He hates its tangible ickiness, its pungent reek, the way it can fill up a room like a fog, the way fresh air stands no chance against it. The way it clings to the fabric of his clothes for days on end. He hates its slimy texture, he hates the ghostly stains it leaves all over the polished concrete flooring. He hates that even beyond the four walls of the garage, the scent haunts his reality. It's inescapable, and after months of working in its proximity you'd think he would've grown used to itâhe has not.
Pulling the window tightly shut, Jahseh wrinkles his nose as the poignant smell of grease wafts up his nostrils and floods his senses. He lets it deepen his foul mood a shade darker, as he jabs his fingers at the keyboard flattened against his desk and watches the screen remain lifeless. He slips his keys and his phone into his pocket and makes his way out of his office.
At quarter to ten on a Friday night, Guerrero's is a ghost town. The lights are dimmed, the usual warble of saws and sanders and drills is replaced by the eery chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of Abbey Wood's nightlife. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the rapping of heels and the chorus of drunken laughter as people make their way towards the station, in search of the night's festivities. Within the idle compound, not a soul remains. The workstations are littered with the fruits of a day's worth of labour, wrenches and punches and pry bars puzzled to together to form a structured disorder at the squint of your eyes and the tilt of your head.
Jahseh skirts around the disbanded floor jacks and creepers forsaken in media res. He knocks the back of his hand against the light switches as he passes them, moon-pierced darkness follows in his wake the closer he grows to the exit, where he pauses to look the garage over once more, before pulling the door open and locking it shut behind him. He strolls past mounted cars, missing wheels and mirrors and parts alike, but pauses beside his own vehicle. The wrapped exterior of his G-Class glistens in the face of the moon, unmarred by the squalor of its surroundings, and customised to his heart's desireâthe standards you'd expect of a mechanic.
"You cutting?"
Jahseh throws a cautious glance over his shoulder and at his older brotherâSullivan Guerreroâwho pokes his head out of the well-tinted Brabus slotted right in front of him. His beady eyes appear that much darker, shadowed by his hood and the contours of his car. A few snarky retorts come to Jahseh's mind, each doused in sarcasm, but that's a tone he knows better than to take with his brother.
"Yeah."
Sullivan rakes his gaze over his brother's sunken posture, the lighthearted glow that'd once radiated from within him has been long since snuffed out, leaving the shell of a man he's still struggling to come to terms with. Jahseh shifts his body weight from one foot to the other, resisting the urge to combust under the weight of his brother's scrutiny. There was always something about Sullivan's eyes that irked the living soul out of him, he always felt as though his brother could read him raw and he hated the feeling. Like someone had peeled back his skin and the cages of his ribs to poke and prod at the scars sewn into his heart.
"You eaten?" Sullivan pries, to which Jahseh kisses his teeth and throws his head backwards in frustration.
"None of that, man. I'm tired. Piss off," Jahseh grumbles, he pulls open the door to his car, but at the contorted scrunch of his brother's face, he decides against getting inside. On a regular day, his self-endowed brotherly concern is scarcely appreciated, that much less on a day like this one.
"You're not too grown to get smacked in your mouth, know that," Sullivan halfheartedly reminds him, knowing well and true that Jahseh wouldn't dare to test his gangster. Sullivan looks his brother up and down, with a glare that disguises the sickening ache he gets in the pit of his stomach at the wretched carcass of the brother he once knew. "I'm coming yours, lead the way."
"I just said I'm tired. I already had a meal deal. Leave me alone," Jahseh lies, but to no avail.
"I don't give a shit. I'm hungry. Cook me something," Sullivan shrugs.
Jahseh doesn't bother to dull the unimpressed mug that chisels itself onto his face, "Your girl owns a shop and you're tryna kalass me for food?"
"Why you still stood there bitchin' about it? Hurry up," Sullivan flags a dismissive hand towards him, and Jahseh can feel his composure falter. That stone-faced semblance he'd struggled to uphold the past hour or so threatens to come crumbling down, and the possibility alone makes him knock his door shut harder than intended, so its clamorous peal echoes throughout the deserted garage.
"Sullivan," Jahseh lowly calls, the foreboding in his tone doesn't go unnoticed. "I don't need this right now."
Sullivan remains unfazed by his lacking welcome, instead he leans forward and angles himself towards Jahseh, giving his brother a clear view of how little he cares for his tone, "Who's older than who? Are you my big bro or am I yours? Don't tell me how to look after you, like I ain't been doing it all my life. Don't tell me what you need, 'cause you don't know shit. You didn't pull you out that fucking rut I found you in all them months ago, I did. If you ain't gonna take care of yourself, I'll do it for you. I look stupid to you? You think I don't know you?"
Somewhere beyond the ruins of Jahseh's soul, something sparks alight in him, but the feeling pales before it's quenched altogether. His head is hot with frustration, and yet his heart thuds a little softer at his brother's words, an internal battle he'd grown tired of fighting. Jahseh knows his brother will never give up on him, he knows his brother would do anything for him. Sullivan's abiding hope in himâa hope that he struggles to fester in himselfâis all that he has left. It's times like these, where his thoughts toe the line, that he's staunchly grateful, although he's sure not to let it show.
Instead, he grumbles out a worsted, "Whatever, man." Sullivan, unfazed by the callous response, casts his thousandth glance towards the time and date stamped at the top of his phone's screen, and then tilts his head as he eyes up his brother once again.
"Have you spoke to him? It's his dad's birthday," he presses, his gaze is sharp and unwavering, patrolling Jahseh's poker face for even a quarter of a reaction.
"No."
Sullivan digs even deeper, "You planning to?"
Jahseh blinks at his brother, amused at his artless hankering, and yet simultaneously disenchanted by it. He pulls open the door to his car, swinging one foot onto its elevated step.
"Keep up," he calls, before slamming the door shut behind him.
Uhhh... I accidentally deleted the author's note that was here. Can't remember what it said either. Welcome and hope you enjoy?
Don't forget to tell me what you think!
See you lataaa!