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It was cold outside. Rosinante sat in the old armchair he and Shanks had dragged onto the pergola last week, thick blanket wrapped around himself to keep warm. He raised a scarred hand, sucking on the filter of his cigarette, letting the nicotine fill his damaged lungs and shut his mind up. As he released his drag he shakily picked up his can of Bundy, gulping down the remainder of it and then shaking it for good measure — empty.
That meant he had one left. Rosinante rolled his eyes. He set the empty can down with more force than necessary and watched it roll off the nicked old table. Because why not. He sighed and dropped the burnt filter of his smoke into the ashtray and picked up the pack of Holiday Red 40s.
Fucking empty.
He let out an annoyed huff, cursing under his breath in Spanish as he threw the empty box across the pergola. Realised he did it and swore again. Stupid fucking mood swings. Stupid acquired brain injury. Stupid Doffy. Stupid him for smoking and drinking through everything Law managed to provide for him in a couple of days. Cheap pack of 40s was nearly $60 now. Six pack of good stuff, not that weird independent shit, was nearly $40. He’d smoked through a whole pack and drank 12 Bundys in 2 days.
Idiot. They were supposed to be watching their money. Shit was tight. God he was stupid—
“Oi, Cora. M’home.”
Despite everything in his head, Rosinante couldn’t help but smile when he heard Law’s voice. His kid.
It’d been hard after everything Doffy did to them. Running away to a small town, living in a shitty housing trust box that was too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer.
Rosinante had been back in Australia for a few months after being discharged with a new hatred for the military and Doffy had taken his brother back in with open arms.
Until Rosinante said something about the foster kids. Until Rosinante tried to get the foster kids away from Doffy, because he wasn’t a father’s asshole. Until Doffy shot him in an open paddock in the middle of nowhere and left him to die.
And he had been dead, for a few minutes. Luckily the city hospital he’d been airlifted to actually had good doctors. He wouldn’t work again, unless somewhere was looking for a brain-damaged, chain-smoking, alcoholic vet with major PTSD and chronic pain. They lived off his pension and Law’s 2 jobs.
Law. He was so proud of his kid. Wished he could do more to help, but Law always said he was the one that owed Rosinante. For getting him away from Doffy. For actually getting him diagnosed with Coeliac because Doffy just called him a picky eater and kept getting the nannies to cook him food that made him sick, and kept using expensive, bullshit natural remedies for his other ailments. For giving Law a shot at a normal life, despite everything.
A punishable offence, in Doffy’s book. Punishable by execution in an empty paddock where no one would find him. Lucky Law did, by some miracle, running around paddocks in the early morning, frantic, calling Rosinante’s phone til he found his caretaker on his back with seven bullets pumped into his body.
Now his kid was walking up the empty driveway, in his supermarket uniform and yellow spotted hoodie. He had two jobs — worked at a pharmacy during the day and then filled shelves at the supermarket at night. Wanted to be a doctor, but that was in early stages. He was eligible for scholarships to some of the best universities in the country. For now he did classes online, a foundation course, til they could save money and move into the city so Law could attend physically. And between all that, Law made sure Rosinante took his meds, went to his doctor’s and therapy appointments, looked presentable during their inspections…his kid did so much for him.
Might’ve been a bit of a cunt sometimes, but Law was a good man. Rosinante couldn’t be prouder of the boy he’d raised.
He walked up the steps to the pergola and gave one of his rare smiles. Good man.
Then the smile fell. “Told you not to sit out here and smoke. Junkies across the road will see you’ve got fags and think they can bum them off you.”
Bit of a cunt. Rosinante just smiled.
“Can’t sit and wait for my kid to get home from work? Shanks was workin’ all day, I got lonely.”
He and Shanks had been dating, as in Shanks bought takeaway and nice wine to Rosinante’s place since he didn’t go out much, for a little over a year now. Guy disappeared sometimes on fishing trips with his buddies, the Red Hairs. They had a minor following online with all the old blokes on Facebook who loved fishing. When he was home, he worked at his dad’s partner’s wife’s pub, affectionately named the Ripoff, because Rayleigh’s wife’s prices were extortionate but it was the best damn pub in town. Shanks got them free booze when Shakky was feeling generous. Shanks looked after Rosinante on bad days when Law had to work to make sure the roof stayed over their heads.
“Waiting for the junkies to come keep you company?” Law deadpanned. Rosinante just laughed at him. He could fight a few junkies, he might not be mentally sound but he was far from weak. “I’m serious, Cora—“
“I know you are! And I’m sayin’ fuck the junkies. I wanna see my boy when he gets home,” Rosinante said with a big smile. Eventually Law relented and smiled back. Rosinante let out a chuckle, feeling around on the table next to him for his pack of smokes. Not there. He sat up a little bit, looking at the table, shifting blankets, standing up a little and feeling under his own ass to see if he’d sat on the things — nope. “Fuck did I do with them…”
He didn’t see Law bend over to pick the empty pack up off the floor and sigh to himself. He reached into the shopping bag he had brought home and tossed a fresh pack of Red 40s at Rosinante — he didn’t catch it, his hands were too shaky for that and he was six cans of rum and cola in. It bounced out of his hands, then rolled off his lap and hit the wooden slats with a weak, hollow thunk. When Rosinante realised what it was, he smiled.
“Didn’t have to,” He told Law as he wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and stood. With a grunt and a litany of protests from his back, hips and knees he bent over and picked the pack up, stumbling a little when he managed to grab it. Law had approached and steadied him like he had seen it coming, stopping him from collapsing. “Thanks though. Love you, kiddo.”
The thing with Law was, he was bad with accepting affection from others. Instantly he lowered his head and pouted, and one would be forgiven for forgetting he was nearly 25 years old with how he pulled his hat down and moved towards the door. “Yeah…whatever. Just don’t want to deal with your fucking withdrawals, that’s all…” he muttered as he pushed through the screen door. Quietly, he added, “Love you too.”
Rosinante smiled, a little chuckle warming his chest as he followed the kid inside. Law dumped the grocery bag on the cupboard and pulled out a couple of pre-made salad bowls with yellow stickers on the lids.
“They expire tomorrow so I got them for cheap. I thought I may as well grab them, otherwise they just throw them out,” Law shrugged as he pulled the plastic film off the top of both the salads and sat at the table. Rosinante settled in the seat next to him, still wrapped in his blanket. Still smiling ear to ear when he dug into the slightly wilted, soggy supermarket salad. Nine Late News droned on in the background while they ate, neither of them watching it. Rosinante ate, Law picked at his and scrolled on his phone with the cracked screen. He opened a Chats Snap (or whatever it was called) from his boyfriend, Kid, whooping and hollering as his best friend Killer ripped a burnout in some paddock that was definitely private property.
Law rolled his eyes and put his phone face down on the table, slouching back in his chair and chewing a big mouthful of lettuce, cheese and chicken. He turned to look at Rosinante, finally noticing his big smile. He gave a little smirk back. “What’s got you all smiley like that, Cora?”
Rosinante just kept eating his soggy, reduced to clear salad with that big smile of his.
“Just thankful for what I’ve got here, I guess.”
“Fucking sap.”
“Shut up ‘n eat your salad, kid.”
Law huffed out a laugh.
“Alright, dad.”