dominique luca oneshots

honey don't feed me, i will come back [ ❦]

Rain-soaked pavement slabs squelch under the beaten soles of your runners, mingling with the noises of the late-night traffic streaming past you on the road and the techno music seeping out of ajar nightclub windows to become the soundtrack to your late-night walk home. Eyes worn tired from standing before heatlamps and fluorescent bulbs blur blinking crosswalk lights with flashing bar signs in a way that has the burgeoning migraine at the base of your skull flaring painfully, but the thought of the end destination that's all but gotten you through the day keeps you forging onward.

Undeterred clubgoers swathed in many-coloured tulle and sequins bustle past you at a crosswalk, the purses they clutch - though somehow smaller than their outfits - drawing your attention all too keenly back to the dead weight of your messenger bag over your aching shoulder. When an errant glance down at the bulged-open zipper reveals a glimpse of the balled-up white coat that bears so much of your frustrations these days, it's all you can do to swerve blindly out of the way of a passing taxi as you force the zip closed and ball your knife-nicked fingers into a heavy fist as a sharp prick of anger propels you forward at a newfound pace.

A paletería's cherry-red awning flicks rainwater down the neck of your jacket as you pause underneath it for shelter, only to find little more than a burn in your already unsteady legs and that the streets around you now are devoid of any other late-night pedestrians. Your heart sinks dully in your chest at the notion that this endeavor might really all be for nothing, so it's not very hopefully that you peek around the red-bricked corner at the dimly plaza space opposite it - but when your eyes skim across the scene, a grin overtakes your face at almost as fast a pace as you start jogging across the empty street.

At the far side of the now-empty plaza, the only remnant of its weekly melee of food vendors and their wares is a single brightly-painted truck that you know all too well. While the menus and accouterments have been cleared from the window and all but the internal lights switched off for the night, the awning is still unfurled and below it is sheltered a bored-looking blonde who seems more interested in plucking at the sleeves of his rainbow-striped hoodie. That is, until he spies you from across the plaza and, seemingly nonplussed by the frenetic quality of your advance, breaks out in a grin and pushes himself up off the windowsill with an enviable vigor for the hour at hand.

"Late one, huh?" He calls out in lieu of a greeting, his impossibly upbeat voice muffled by both distance and the rain as he disappears from view to the back of the truck. Following him, you loop around the side and are bathed in the warm light pouring from the ajar back door as you let him lead you into the blissful warmth inside.

"Thought I'd missed you." The breathless, overeager quality of your voice makes your cringe internally, but you can't find it in yourself to waste more than a second on the thought. Your bag makes a dull thump as you let it fall to the sheetmetal floor, your sodden jacket soon following it as you claim Luca's vacated stool and finally give your aching legs some rest. As you're sluicing water droplets from off your arms and neck, you furrow your rain-speckled brow at him as he half turns away from you to tend to something on the counter. "Y'know, seeing as how you're supposed to close two hours ago and whatnot."

There's no meanness in the scoff of his that follows, and definitely not in the mockly brusque way he passes you one of the foil containers he'd been tinkering with. Still hot from being kept beneath the hot-holding station - an occurrence you no longer mistake as being a happy accident left over from service, as opposed to something he plans ahead for on the steadily-growing number of nights you find a reason to call around after your shifts - the savoury aroma rising from the chile rellenos has you scoffing it down before Luca's even had a chance to sit down with his own portion.

"Figured I couldn't leave without checking in on the competition." Luca prods, adjusting his gangly frame to the produce crate he uprights to form his seat. Watching unsubtly as you wolf down the steaming food, it's only halfheartedly that he starts tucking into his own as he finds his mind is further occupied with you. and the state you've arrived in to him tonight. "And clearly I was right to, because you just walked two blocks in the rain after a full day of flogging Costco herbs and teaspoons of emulsions to tourists and snobs for no good reason."