Chapter Text
And so I sit, poor silly man,
No wiser now than when I began.
Domingo got Emilio a Dreamcast for his birthday once, and Nacho remembered that particular trip to GameStop very well. They cut through a long line of pasty-looking nerds, got the thing with a couple of games to go with it, and headed to the Koyamas’, Domingo throwing the receipt away.
“You could just keep it in the car if you don’t want your aunt to return the thing.” Nacho tried to make himself comfortable in the hard, worn-out passenger seat of Domingo’s dad’s company van as much as possible, the console box sitting on his lap. “What if it doesn’t work, or the discs are scratched or something?”
“I’ll just buy a new one. I can afford it, you know,” Domingo answered lightheartedly, turning the ignition. Nacho knew he couldn’t be serious with the bragging and was just trying to seem cooler, more nonchalant about topics that would have made him uneasy or embarrassed not so long ago, but the joking haughtiness only made him sound more sheepish and defensive. Nacho wondered, for a split second, if there'd ever be the day when cracks like those wouldn't show. For both of them.
“Whatever you say, Don Domingo.” Nacho put the box under the dash, trying not to accidentally kick it. “Don Domingo,” he snorted. “That sounds kinda dumb.”
“Yeah, ‘cause Don Nacho sounds so much better.” Domingo pulled out of the GameStop parking lot, the van making concerning noises as they went. “Hey, can you, like, pick this up? You’ll break it.”
“I thought you could afford a new one. And it’s Don Ignacio to you.” Nacho picked the box back up and set it on his lap again. “And it does sound better.”
“Just because I can doesn’t mean I want to,” Domingo shot back. “But you’re right. It does have a ring to it.”
Emilio was about to leave when they pulled up to the Koyama household. On the porch stairs sat his friend, a screwy-looking kid in a beanie, waiting for him and kicking rocks absentmindedly.
“Hey Jesse. How’s it going?” Domingo took the box from Nacho and they made their way to the house.
The boy looked up, squinting and wrinkling his nose against the sun. “Hey guys. Just waiting for Emilio to go, you know, hang out. The usual.”
“You might wanna hang in there for a bit.” Domingo leaned on the stair railing, showing off the box, looking pleased with the way Jesse’s eyes went wide.
The kids were absorbed in Soulcalibur when Emilio's mom told Domingo, in Spanish, “You could've given him a book. To make him interested in something, dream of bigger things.”
“For what? For someone to tell him his dreams were never worth it? Yeah, sure,” Domingo scoffed, not looking at his aunt’s face, his hands in his pockets and his Tampico polo shirt buttoned all the way up.
“Oh, Mingito,” she put her hand on his shoulder and then offered Nacho a small, sad smile. “How’s your father holding up these days?”
“You know, hanging in there. Busy with work as always,” Nacho answered, not quite meeting Domingo’s aunt's eyes.
She let go of her nephew’s shoulder to gently squeeze Nacho’s arm. “It’s good he has you around.”
Helping his dad at the shop was becoming harder each day, but he had the manpower to pull through a tough week, so Nacho tried not to feel too guilty about it. They hadn't been talking much lately since he’d moved out, and he tried not to feel too guilty about that either. His dad had always been good at seeing right through him, and Nacho was afraid he’d see too much. Sometimes, when Nacho would show up for a shift at A-Z, his dad would just say, “I’m glad to see you, son,” and Nacho would feel caught red-handed, all his dealers busted, all his burner phones found, every inch of his apartment turned upside down.
But then Nacho would think about his dad’s callused hands and the way he now squinted harder than usual when working on embroidery. He’d think about his new van that didn’t make the sorrowful sounds Domingo’s dad’s van made, and the meal his dad had refused to let him pay for a couple of months ago. “Yeah,” he said. “I do what I have to.”