Chapter Text
There is a point in every man’s life, a distinctive point in time where he recognizes that he has grown up. Come into his own. Someone who holds a job, someone who does laundry on Saturdays and attends church every Sunday. Is this what a man is? Maybe the definition of manhood is puberty. A rapid influx of hormones and a drop in your voice. Lars doesn’t think he became a man at fourteen. That just doesn’t make any sense, as much as every adult in his life referred to him as a child, and the fact he was only a freshman in high school. Was it on his eighteenth birthday, spent alone in that sad little house in the dark while his father was slumped over in his recliner, absolutely wasted?
That evening, one of the women from the church had brought him a small plate of homemade cupcakes. One for Lars, one for his father, and one for Gus, if he so decided to visit. He’d set the dessert on the kitchen table, plucked a match out of the junk drawer, and lit it as his candle. The wish he made never came true. That strawberry frosting had been delicious, though. The other two cupcakes sat in the refrigerator until the frosting was like concrete and the vanilla cake mix turned a light green.
That wasn’t being a man, either. That was just being the sad teenager he’d been his entire life, just like the sad child he’d been, too. The years continued to go by and everything kept changing, season by season, but Lars remained the same. He’d gotten the courage to ask around at work after a few years of his white collar job, what they defined as a ‘real man’.
With the lack of his social ability to recognize this exact kind of talk could just be excused as office chatter, he coincidentally blended right in. He received the same answers from everyone there, tucked away at their desks surrounded by pictures of the life they had built. A real man works. A real man has a wife, a car, a mortgage payment. Real men drink beer and watch football and talk about women.
Even though Lars finally got an answer to his burning question, for some reason, it didn’t make him feel any better. Yes, he had a job. He liked a beer every now and then, but he didn’t like football. He lived in a garage, and his only girlfriend was buried in the same place as his parents. That couldn’t be the only way to be a man, could it?
So he went to Gus. His answer was different. It had been something Lars could understand a little deeper. He couldn’t help but to admit to himself he only really saw his brother at the surface level he allowed everyone else to see, so what he had to say about love and loyalty surprised him a little. Lars knows Gus only sees him at a surface level, too. Or at least he pretends to, because he’s scared. Both of them are scared and confused, and Lars is just grateful to have him around again.
Back at square one, Lars decides he just needs to let it go. He can pray everyone else sees him as a man, that they don’t know he hasn’t had his big moment yet, and pass that act off by chopping wood, complimenting his female co-workers, and going to the bar after work on Fridays.
He could be a regular there. They’d all talk about the way they saw Lars at the bar over the weekend, they’d all see that he’s just like them. A working class American man. Normal. Just like them.
Just like them, he awkwardly walks inside of the bar, lips pulled taut into a thin line. With one hard blink, his eyes adjust to the dim lights. There are many tables that surround the bar filled with groups of friends with bright smiles, dangly jewelry, and half empty glasses with perspiration marks in the shape of the bottom of the cup stained on the wood. The bar itself is relatively small, fitting for just as small of a town. There are exactly six barstools on each side with one bartender handling a steady nine patrons. All of the seats are awfully intimate in proximity.
The closer Lars gets, the more all of the mingling scents of alcohol overwhelm him. Dark liquor reminds him of his father, rich and reminiscent of ethanol. Hints of toasted oak and molasses curb the potency, but the sight of a Smirnoff bottle swinging in the air with the deceiving liquid tossing sloppily into a shot glass, smells just like sugarcane and fermentation. He scrunches up his nose as he forces himself to take a seat. The music is loud, he can feel the beat travel through his body from the bottoms of his feet, even through his thick winter boots. He glances to his left. Two seats away, an old man lights up a cigarette that nearly covers up every other sensation that has staggered Lars so far.
He takes a deep breath, knees knocked together with his hands folded politely in his lap. Lars doesn’t have a clue where to look. There is just so much movement. Why are there two different TVs playing a sports game if the music is just going to cover up the announcer’s voice? How could anyone focus on it with so much going on?
Lars clenches his jaw. The bartender catches sight of a new pair of eyes, smiling kindly enough as most customer service workers do in order to get through their shift. He returns the smile, nervously, of course, and mumbles something about a beer. She asks what kind, if he wants it in a can or a bottle. Lars stumbles over such simple choices, deciding on a bottle of Miller High Life. He thanks her for popping the lid off for him, although he’s a little displeased at how it bubbles, overflowing and sliding down the side of the bottle.
Clearing his throat, he removes his gloves and shoves them in his coat pocket. He takes a solid swallow of the beer before pursing his lips and setting the bottle back down. Lars thinks the alcohol would help settle his nerves, but he can barely stomach anything at all with the anxiety fueling his adrenaline. He already wishes he never came here, but he tries to zero in on the music, even though it isn’t the kind he’d ever listen to on his own.
There isn’t anybody here that he recognizes, but that shouldn’t surprise him because most people from the church wouldn’t go to a bar at all, and the people at the office probably already have their own preferred spot. He feels silly. People meet at bars, don’t they? How do they talk over all of the music? Yelling, probably. Lars hates yelling. He hates this all.
Lars pouts. He should just go home. Overpay for his beer he wasted, walk alone in the cold, and tuck himself away in his makeshift bed with towels for blankets, forgetting all about this stupid little trial. If this is what being a man is, among other things, he just doesn’t want it. It’s not that important anymore.
He tucks a roll of cash underneath his bottle and stands up, pushing his chair underneath the bar. Lars heads outside and stands in front of the entrance, tugging his gloves back on to keep himself warm. Readjusting his scarf and coat, his rosy ears perk up at the sudden sound of erupting voices from behind him. Shadows move behind the foggy glass, intense and violent. As Lars turns around to take in the full display of chaos, the patrons' voices grow louder.
Lars finds himself extra thankful to have stepped outside when he did. Bar fights only happened in movies, at least in his head. He swallows hard, taking one step forward before -
CRASH!
A body slams through the large window pane. Glass shards ripple like grains of sand, surrounding the man pummeling forward and smacking onto the concrete with a loud thud. Lars jumps, gasping loudly. As he peers inside through the shattered window, strangers continue to fight, paying no mind to the injured, unconscious man.
He’s bleeding. That much is clear, but from where exactly, Lars isn’t sure. The stranger is blond, legs long enough to still be partially draped over the edge of the window. A large, yellow scorpion is stitched onto the back of his jacket, which was once seemingly stark white and smooth. Now it’s dirty, bloody, and ripped.
Nobody is paying attention to him. Nobody from inside, nobody passing by on the street or those that are peeking out to be nosy and look in on the drama. There is a man bleeding on the street and nobody cares.
Lars is petrified. He wants to run away, he wants to never come back to this place again, maybe never go anywhere else besides home and work for the rest of his life where it will always be safe. The sight of the blood nauseates him. The unknown forces him to freeze, stare, and tremble like a newborn deer thrust into a violent winter to witness the angry cycle of nature before he even has a chance to know the good parts of it all.
But Lars cares. He cared about Margo’s teddy bear. He can care about a real human being, even if he doesn’t know what to do. With a frustrating amount of hesitance, he steps closer to the body, then kneels down. The man has leather gloves on that seem to have protected him from the glass piercing his palms, although there’s a few gashes on his arms. Lars places a hand on his back right between his shoulder blades, gently rubbing his spine as if he’s gently waking someone up for a cozy breakfast in bed.
The man just groans, if that, barely able to make a sound. That means he’s alive, though. Lars isn’t sure if he could comprehend the alternative.
“Can you hear me?” He asks softly, sniffing from the cold air. There’s no answer. Lars swallows hard, shaking him a little harder. “It’s okay. I’m… gonna help you.” His voice shakes.
Removing his gloves once again, he carefully lifts the man’s head up from the concrete. There’s a large bruise forming on his right eyebrow, a deep cut just beneath his eye, and an uncomfortable amount of blood gushing from his nose that overflows into his mouth, slipping down his throat and settling between the cracks of his teeth. His eyes are bright, although barely visible with how heavy they are.
He gurgles. Some of the blood dribbles down his chin and onto Lars’ hand. The warmth is overwhelming. It’s so human. Such a sign of life. Lars forgets to be scared of it. No. Instead, he wipes the stranger’s mouth with the back of his hand.
“Can you breathe?” Lars whispers.
“Yheaagh,” the man slurs.
Lars nods. “Okay. Okay…uhm. Okay.” He huffs, unsure of what to do next. So, he sets the man’s head back down on the cold concrete as delicately as he can, wincing a little. He stands back up, staring again, always staring, always unsure, always waiting. Silent. Snow falls just as quietly, as if it isn’t even there. It passes by, just as Lars always does. Existing amongst it all.
The snow falls on the man on the ground. If he stays here, the blood weeping from his broken skin will crystalize. Lars wants to call someone, his instinct is to cry to Karin before dialing the number for emergency services, even with this urgency and complete shock introducing itself so abruptly. He does neither. Tears swell up in the corners of his eyes.
Time seems to slow. He’ll be dead by the time the fight is over, when everyone has gotten their licks and are calling for ambulances of their own, or are driving all too injured and drunk to the hospital on their own.
Lars doesn’t have to be in bed early tonight. Tomorrow is laundry day. He thought about picking up a few groceries, too, but it’ll be okay if he can’t since he already knows they have enough food for three solid meals that day.
This might be a test. It might be a dream. It might just be an unfortunate set of circumstances.
As he watches snowflakes cling to strands of blond air, Lars clenches his jaw. He thinks a man wouldn’t leave someone like this. He knows it for a fact. Something inside of him works before he can register it, where it’s coming from or how he’s capable of slugging a man as tall and long as this guy over his shoulders like he weighs nothing. He hopes nobody passing by on the street thinks he’s carrying a dead body with him in search of a good final resting spot.
Lars can’t justify why he wouldn’t take him to the hospital first thing. Well, maybe he can. His mom died there. So did his dad. Bianca nearly did. He couldn’t risk it. Not again. No, this man would be just fine in his care. He’d.. he’d figure out what to do.
Lars carts him all the way back to the garage, thankful he has the shield of night to keep Karin and Gus from asking questions. He lays the man on his back, lifting up his head to shift one of his pillows underneath it. The flow of blood has stopped, but he’s still unconscious, and so, so cold.
Panicked, Lars strips himself out of his boots, scarf, and a couple layers so he can roll up the sleeves of one of his shirts all the way up to his elbows. There’s a small bathroom in the garage, an extension made quite a while ago as cheap as it could be while still functioning properly. He runs hot water over a fresh, soft rag, wringing it out until it isn’t dripping over the floor. Lars presses it against the hardening blood stains painted over the man’s face, wiping gently. It’s a slow progression to clean him up. The blood transfers onto the white cloth with an uncomfortable brown tone. Lars has to rinse it off two more times before his face is clean.
The gash underneath his eye is still wide open, but it’s filled with coagulated blood which will probably be best for healing.
Even then, Lars fetches some Vaseline so the scab won’t be too painful whenever he hopefully stirs awake. He isn’t sure where else to check for wounds, too scared to move his body around or remove any items of clothing. Lars does make sure to wash the wounds on his arms and position them to receive good airflow. Once he’s clean, after Lars has checked that he’s still breathing a multitude of times, he covers him up with as many towels as he has in his little refuge.
It’s okay that he has the bed. He needs it much more than Lars does. There probably won’t be much sleep for him tonight, anyways.
As he watches his chest rise and fall steadily and slowly, Lars kneels in front of his bed like he does every night. He presses his palms together, the tips of his fingers rubbing against his lips. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Heavenly Father, I place…uhm…well, I don’t know his name. I’m sorry. But, I, uhm..” he clears his throat, blinking hard and shaking his head. “I place this stranger into Your loving hands. Please grant him comfort in his pain, ease his fears, and bring strength to his body and mind. Surround him with Your peace. In Your holy name, Amen.”