Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a photograph.

Dingy, bent at the edges. Creased in the same spots from being taken in and out of the same wallet sleeve. Listing off information like a code of sequence. Reducing an entire life to the bare minimum. A man’s soul laid bare to a brief statement, captured in a grainy photo of him frowning slightly.

New Mexico Driver’s License.

Weight: 134. Sex: M. Eyes: BRO. Height: 5’6. Class: D. 

Date of Birth: 12/09/1971.

Name: Ignacio Varga.

“The guy at table 4 left this behind.” 

You turn and face Fran, taking the offered license from her worn hand as she moves back to table 3 and mutters goddamn it, always get the messy ones under her breath at the mess of smushed oatmeal littering the menus. It’s been five years since you started working here- but you’re still getting used to the day shift after being on the dinner rush for so long. You liked the evening better, but since your sister Grace was finally out of the house, you felt like making the switch so you’d have your evenings free.

Not that you had anything going on.

It’s been easygoing at Loyola’s Diner this morning- the couple arguing in hushed tones over an early breakfast, son shoveling hashbrowns in his mouth as his sister fed her doll scrambled eggs. The old man who never smiles, who always comes in on Tuesdays and Thursdays to read the newspaper over coffee, and who always tips well. You’d gone back in the kitchen to tuck the extra $20 dollars in your purse, and then went on your break out back. You thought about what you might spend it on- groceries, most likely, but a part of you thought you might do something for yourself and buy a box of hair dye from the pharmacy.

Somehow, in those 30 minutes, your entire life has been peeled back and reset while the coffee pot spits and shudders faintly in the background. You feel exposed, raw- all your nerves set on guard because of what you read on a piece of plastic. 

Third period biology class, J.P. Wynne High School. 

A lifetime ago. 

Nacho Varga.

You start to feel the old memories come back up, knees touching under the table, pencil shavings stuck to his shirt, the sound of his laugh echoing across the room- but then the old memories sink into earlier ones, spike-filled and caustic, dangerzone- drooping pink and blue dresses, the smell of the sun hitting the blood-soaked kitchen, theirhandstouchingyou-

You clench your hands around the plastic- once, twice, three times. Let the feel of the smooth edge tether you back to reality, release the memory of the past back down into the slinking dark. Then you relax your fist and hand it back to Fran, smoothing the apron tied around your waist. The strings touch the back of your skirt, whispering touches that make you want to tug them, feel the thrumthrum as you twist them around your fingers. 

“I guess leave it at the front counter, unless you want to call the guy”. 

This is a good response, you think. Noncommittal- no ties between you and Nacho Varga, just two strangers who were in a diner at the same time. No implications. 

Fran shakes her head, taps her coral nails on the Formica table. “Nah, guy comes in here every couple weeks, might as well wait til we see him again.” You swallow a sigh, nod your head. After Fran turns her head back to clearing table 3, you move to grab the dishes and fill your mind with the monotony of work. 

You gather up the crumb-filled plate and empty glass, stacking silverware on top along with the crumbled napkin. You’re trying to block it out, but each motion clearing up table 4 draws you back into memory lane. High school- so long ago. In high school, you were a different person- you were almost a real girl. Frayed around the edges, darker and more rattled than most girls, but full of hope and light on your feet thinking the worst of it was over. How naive you used to be.

You used to think you knew what your life encompassed- the beginning of it, the edges, the far-off periphery of what it would be. That was before you ever met him, loved him, lost him. 

You wipe down the table, even strokes of the wet rag on each corner. You wipe away the thought of who you used to be, along with what you could’ve been, but you don’t cry a single tear.

What a hollow comfort that is. 

High school. Sophomore year. 1988. 

A life ago. 

Chapter Text

Nacho wonders if he can leave school early if he jams a pencil dead center into his eyeball. 

It’s a balmy hot this morning, which sucks because he needs to keep awake. It’s bad enough being a junior taking sophomore biology, but it’s lessened by the fact that Domingo is here with him- science isn’t his strong suit, either. Domingo’s younger sister Amelia, is also there, sitting next to her brother and poking him with a highlighter while he snores behind his textbook with his elbow covering half his face. 

His elbow also does a good job of hiding the bruise on his face; if it was someone other than Nacho, they wouldn’t notice how golden-tan dips into a purply-grey shade near his sideburns. 

Mr. Molina was known not just in the family but throughout the neighborhood for being rough, but everyone knew to keep it to themselves. Ocúpate de lo tuyo. A man’s business is his own.

Still, Nacho thinks it would sting less if he wasn’t around to see it happen- or, it would sting less if he ever actually did something about it. Instead of ignoring it like he always did yesterday. 

Yesterday. 

-

Nacho thought that Sundays didn’t get more lazy than this. 

He and Domingo had been drinking beer they snuck into empty ginger ale cans after practicing songs for their band (Nacho used the term ‘band’ loosely, unless Rolling Stone magazine counted performing for Domingo’s cousin Emilio’s 4th birthday as being in a band) on the equipment Domingo kept in the basement. Domingo was better at playing than Nacho was- Manuel always said he could carry people’s hearts, but not a tune- but Mr. Molina always frowned when Domingo got too excited about music. Said that music didn’t put food on the table like hard work did. But it had been fun, and now they were playing Super Mario Bros. 2 upstairs- the best way to end the day.

Amelia had been annoying the shit out of Domingo and Nacho for the better part of the afternoon, asking questions about what 11th grade was like- where to sit, who to talk to, what tables to avoid in the cafeteria, how to avoid getting caught smoking in the hallways by the teachers. Now she’d started in on asking Domingo what 11th grade girls were like, and if they were nice.

Dom snorted into his can, and kicked her shin. “The nicest girls are the ones who give us the time of day, and don’t pester us the way you do, shrimp. Why are you freaking out so much? If I were you, I’d worry more about that acne- or those invisible chichis you think look like Gloria Estefan’s- fuck! Amelia, quit kicking me or I’m not giving you a ride tomorrow.”

Amelia moved her foot back, then frowned and flicked Domingo on the head. She asked him if he would be nice to her tomorrow, or ignore her at school tomorrow. Nacho was reminded of when they walked to the bus stop together in elementary school- there was a brief period where Mrs. Molina made Domingo hold his sister’s hand when walking together, and he had been way too embarrassed to be caught walking with a 1st grade baby, so Nacho had held her hand as they waited at the bus stop.

Domingo shrugged, then took a sip from his can. “Maybe. If you introduce me to that girl you were talking to last Friday at the park.”

Amelia made a grimace, then swiped his can away from him. “That girl is Maria,  my best friend from middle school, and she’s not my friend anymore, not since she told me she kissed Darren under the bleachers at camp when they worked there this summer. We haven’t talked since May, and that’s the first thing she talks about.”

Domingo sighed, then pressed UP+B+A on the controller. “Why are you still hung up on that chode anyway? You haven’t dated him since 7th grade. Or actually been friends with Maria since last Christmas.” 

Amelia pinched Domingo's ear and swirled the can around. “Because, it’s not like there’s a huge amount of decent guys to date at school. What, you think I should hold my breath for Prince Charming to ride up on his ten-speed? Not all the boys are nice like Nacho is. You should take a page from his book.” 

She took a sip, and spat out beer all over the bed. Asked Domingo if their Mom knew he was drinking beer in sing-song voice. 

Before he could answer, there was a creak from the hallway outside, then the door slammed open with a soft bang; Mr. Molina came in with his face darkening. Glanced at the cans on the ground, then at Domingo. Asked him if he had raked the leaves outside, what he had done today while he was at work. 

Domingo had gulped, looked left at Nacho, then looked back up at his father. Stuttered when he recounted what he did today, leaving out the hours he and Nacho spent singing and strumming cords.

Mr. Molina held up his hand, and made a slicing motion, silencio. Told Nacho it was probably time for him to head home. Told Amelia to help her Mom wash up for dinner. 

Didn’t tell Domingo anything. 

Nacho had silently stood up, and gave Domingo one last glance. Told him goodbye, that he’d see him tomorrow.

Domingo’s face was drained and resolute as he gave a half-hearted wave, the twinkling noise of Super Mario Bros. 2 playing alongside the clenching of Mr. Molina’s fist as the door closed, a faint rumble coming from Mr. Molina’s snarl of when are you going to grow up and be a man, boy?  Followed by something heavier, something unseen with more weight to it.

He drove the long way back home to his house, pulling his beat-up car to the equally beat-up stucco with light coming from the window (his dad watching TV, probably waiting up for him), glaring out at him. The fence was broken in two spots- courtesy of him and Domingo playing soccer when they were kids. His dad always told him about how this was the first house he and his mom bought, right after they got married before they even had Nacho. They had eaten leftovers from their wedding on the dark wood floor of the living room, his mom flinging splatters of mole sauce on his dad’s work shirt with her spoon.  They had always talked about moving to be closer to the Molina’s, or at least somewhere with a backyard for his mom to plant flowers like she did at her parent’s house- red sage, Amazon lilies. Just after the business took off- right after Nacho finished kindergarten, then first grade, then so on.

But they had never made it that far- she had never made it that far. She got sick and died when he was 12. 

Nacho sniffed, rubbed his nose once. He thought about what it means to be a man- to choose what kind of man to be. What kind of man would he be? Like Mr. Molina, whose business was way more successful than his own father’s, had a house that, even though it was older and the roof sagged a bit, had two floors and a pool out back.

 Mr. Molina, who had a shiny car, a business with a billboard on Menaul Boulevard, a last name that had a jingle with it- our furniture is bueno, Tampico is the name-o. 

Maybe. 

Maybe he’d be like Mr. Molina in other ways, too- seething, walking with his fists clenched all the time, gold chain clinking, temper boiling right underneath the surface. Ready to spill over onto someone at any moment. A good business at the cost of being a good person. 

He looked inside the window, at the faint silhouette of his dad hunched over in his chair in his sweaty work shirt, probably watching the six-thirty news, in between reruns of the Tampico Furniture Store commercial and ads for Hamlin Hamlin & McGill law firm. 

His dad, who never left A-Z Fine Upholstery before every invoice was finished, who still sent a paycheck every week to Oscar when he was out for six weeks after back surgery (after getting into an accident while driving drunk, but Nacho knew to never bring that up to his father). 

Even when bills were overdue and the fabric importers started charging more, he paid Nacho the same paycheck as the rest of his adult employees, when Nacho knew Mr. Molina paid Domingo minimum wage. Less if he was angry at him for something, which was always. 

A nice, honest man who kept photos of Nacho and Domingo at their first soccer match, pictures of Emmanuel’s niece at her christening, framed portraits of his wife’s parents at their farm back in Galeana up on the mantel at the office, the black and white photo showing their solemn wrinkled faces, pecan trees swaying behind them. Everyone always said how nice his dad was, how Nacho was nice like him.

Maybe he’d be that kind of man- the kind of man who takes value in people, rather than what they can do for him. A man who thinks about the right thing to do instead of what will bring the most money in, or make the most sense. A man whose arms were always open, instead of closed. A man who could not be anything other than honest.

Maybe.

-

That was yesterday. Since then, Domingo had apparently managed to pull himself together, slap on a thin layer of foundation stolen from Amelia’s red purse while she was gargling and singing along to the radio, and pick up Nacho from his house before heading to school. Amelia had left earlier on to go find and talk to her friends from speech and debate about what a bitch Maria was, while Nacho and Domingo went to do their pre-class ritual (to definitely not smoke several cigarettes in Domingo’s case, and definitely not light matches and throw them in the rust-covered toilet in Nacho’s case) in the abandoned boy’s bathroom on the third floor. 

“Yo, Nacho- I heard from my aunt who’s on the booster club that there’s a new girl coming here. Said she’s weird.” 

Nacho struck a match, let the spark fizzle, then tossed it into the rancid-smelling bowl below. “So what? She’s got green hair, or a forked tongue or something?” 

Domingo took a drag, then shook his head and lightly shoved Nacho. “Nah, man- this girl is a certified lunatic- she wears dark clothes like the fucking prairie dresses from the Oregon Trail game. My tia said she wears long skirts everywhere- and her hair’s super long. And get this- she didn’t even go to school before coming here. She’s homeschooled. That’s why she’s starting so late. She’s probably a devil-worshiper.”

Domingo’s aunt had read a copy of Michelle Remembers that the women’s group at the church passed out, and had been talking about it all summer, bouncing Emilio on her hip while gesturing wildly about how razorblades could be put into apples during Halloween by satanists.

Nacho sniffed, then lit another match. “Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she’s just cold all the time, or she’s hardcore Catholic or something. Could mean she was embarazada.” 

Domingo snorted, then shoved Nacho off the side of the stall. “Whatever. Knowing how shit this school is, she’s probably a freak or something. Maybe you and her can ride matching broomsticks to prom, papi.” 

Nacho had shoved him back, flicked the match stub into the toilet, and gone to class thinking of the window in his house looking like an orange lantern last night, of Maria Chavez’s dyed amber hair blowing in the breeze at the park last Friday, of Mr. Molina’s mustache twitching in time with his hands clenching, of nothing and everything at all. 

-

Nacho held a sharpened #2 inches away from his eyelid, wondering if it would make for a pretty interesting injury that could earn sympathy from girls in his class, and whether or not his dad would be pissed for having to leave work early when you came in. 

The first thing he noticed wasn’t your skirt (which was long and dark and covered in tiny flowers, and had definitely seen better days) or your arms (which were covered in a black baggy t-shirt, a grey long-sleeved shirt, and a red beaded bracelet that reminded him of the ones he’d seen at a stall in Jalisco when he was a kid). Or even your hair (which was woven in a loose braid down to the waist with a red scrunchie shoved on the end, like someone younger had been playing hairdresser). 

It was your stare. Your thousand-yard stare, which he had seen only a handful of times on Domingo after some of his dad’s more violent outbursts, or on Oscar’s face after he told Manuel at work that his wife was taking the kids away from him to her family’s place in Durango. 

But you. Staring out at a sea of teenagers like you was approaching the firing squad, like a defendant being sentenced to the electric chair in a courtroom. Not guilty, just- grim. Like someone who’d come to terms with their reality, with the boundaries of their life.   

It would’ve been more impressive (and freaky) if you hadn’t also been worrying your lower lip, chewing on it like how Amelia chewed gum sometimes when she wanted to annoy Domingo. Back and forth, in and out.  Masticating it like the Molina’s dog did with a piece of chicken.

Mr. Jerrod clapped his hands, and gestured towards her. “Well! You must be who I have here on my sheet. What’s your name, young lady?”

You said something, mumbled. Something white-sounding, antiquated. 

Mr. Jerrod smiled his phony-schmony grin, then asked where you came from. 

You muttered, then spoke clearer after Mr. Jerrod asked you to repeat yourself. 

“Las Vegas.” 

You definitely didn’t look like somebody who came from Las Vegas.

Mr. Jerrod told the class some joke about Sin City and Elvis, which fell flat. His jokes usually did. He told you to take a seat, which you did in the first one you could find. 

The seat in front of him. Next to Amelia, sure, but- directly in front of him, so close he could tug on the end of your braid if he wanted to, which some small, locked-away-in-first-grade part of him did. You were also in front of Domingo, who slapped Nacho’s arm when you had turned to face the blackboard as Mr. Jerrod started blathering about cell systems.

If there was something Domingo was known for, it was not his whispering. “Psst. Nacho. Es ella. De la que te hablé. ¿Ves de qué hablaba?” 

Nacho sighed, cracked his knuckles. He didn’t usually like to talk about people literally right behind their back, but you probably didn’t understand Spanish. Plus, you were the first interesting thing to happen this school year. He turned to whisper back to Dom. “Así que se viste un poco rara. No es que sea monja. ¿Deberíamos pedirle que rece por tu alma?” 

Domingo rolled his eyes, then tapped Nacho again. “Deberías invitarla a comer con nosotros. Quizás te convierta en rana.” Nacho narrowed his eyes, then flicked Domingo’s hand away. 

Mr. Jerrod opened a new packet and started talking about mitochondria, gesturing about calcium ions and cell organelles and other shit that sounded like another language; Nacho leaned over your shoulder and watched you take notes. Or, what you did instead of taking notes. There was a brief list on your paper about cells, but the rest was covered in drawings of mountains. Dry, cracked pieces with bits of sagebrush and hill flowers- with scraps of fabric, dresses? Drawn interspersed among the mountainheads. Like on a clothesline. 

Huh. Weird.

Nacho shrugged, and tried to focus on Mr. Jerrod’s voice instead of the way your bracelet tlink-tlinked against the desk. Pretty soon, the bell was ringing and kids were standing up to gather their things. 

Nacho lifted his arms up to stretch, and started to get up when he saw a thunk of a wadded up piece of paper land on his desk. He turned to look at you, but you had already walked out into the hallway. 

Nacho picked it up and turned towards Domingo, who was staring at him. “What does it say?”

He unfolded it and looked- it was a pretty detailed drawing of a cartoon frog, with Nacho’s haircut drawn on top. Below it was a single sentence. 

No puedo convertirte en algo que ya eres.

I can't turn you into something you already are.

Fuck.