The boss has been different ever since their last heist. Tiziano Belmonte, funeral director and bootlegger, said that they didn’t do heists, but Ethan knew a gang when he saw one. And those seen drinking in the basement of ‘Belmonte & Sons’ from casks buried in empty coffins - those were gangs. He and Tiziano might as well have been a two-man group trying to fight against all the others. 

They didn’t fight often. Most people in town willing to break the laws of prohibition were desperate enough to get their whiskey where they could, even if it was from an Italian immigrant and a 25-year-old veteran. Even gangs known for torturing traitors with meat hooks couldn’t be bothered to glare at Ethan from behind the dusty bar, ones who knew Ethan’s face as Eddie Two Knives - his old name, as much as he hated it. They all knew what he had done to be hiding underground like a rat, but they didn’t care so long as he kept quiet. 

He always kept quiet. Ethan had been slung into the Great War just like he had been slung into the Dead Eyes, but at heart he was nothing but a boy running from his arranged engagement. He just so happened to run into Tiziano.

It must have been two years ago when Ethan had been running from the Dead Eyes, the gang hot on his heels after a botched truce meeting. He hadn’t meant to do it. He didn’t mean to kill him. It wasn’t like he could have told a gang that, so he ran. Maybe it was more honorable to let God take him with a gunshot to the temple, kneeling on the dirty sidewalk and dying before his face could hit the ground, but Ethan was not an honorable man. Throughout all the violence of his life, of all the war and killing, he just wanted to live. 

When Ethan had found sanctuary in a funeral home that should have been closed for the night, picking the lock and walking into the barrel of a pistol, Tiziano chose to let him live. Maybe it was because he was at least ten years older than Ethan and knew the wide-eyed look of a doe facing death, or maybe, as Ethan thought, he wasn’t as cruel as he wanted to be. The man was an immigrant in 1923 of all years - he knew cruelty like the back of his hand and chose to let it die with him.

He didn’t have any experience with bartending or smuggling, but Tiziano didn’t care. “As long as I don’t have to do it,” he said with a wave of a gloved hand, his cheekbones sharp in the light of the upstairs parlor. Ethan spent more than a normal amount of time thinking about those angles of his pale face, as if the man had been made of porcelain. He should have had wrinkles by now, he thought. 

That’s what Ethan told himself, at least, not wanting to think of any other reason for staring so intensely. He knew otherwise. He wasn’t an idiot and this kind of thing had happened time and time again, beginning with a boy in the barracks and ending with Kas, who stepped down as boss of the Dead Eyes - probably because of him. Who would respect a gang if the leader was known to swing? 

Kas had called it ‘swinging’, his attractions, because he didn’t think it was real. It was like a pendulum to him - sometimes he was leaning towards women, and other times he found boys like Ethan. Only that time, two years ago, Ethan had found him, and Kas found that he no longer knew how to feel when someone treated his attraction like something normal. So he left, and he did not leave gently as Ethan had hoped. 

He caught Kas at the door of the old hotel they used as a base, having been run down by a lack of tourism and better places to go, even if their city wasn’t far from Boston. It was dirtier, though, the streets constantly smelling of gasoline and cigarette smoke, as if the air itself was flammable. It choked people who weren’t used to it, who weren’t going to die of cancer one way or another. Providence was a doomed city, and it reeked of death. 

“Wait!” Ethan had called out, grabbing at his suit jacket like a clingy toddler, his hair still tousled from sleeping through breakfast. “You don’t have to go! You - You started the Dead Eyes!”

“Yeah,” Kas had agreed, turning to look at him with sharp green eyes, the color of grass that was overwatered and greedy from the rain. “And now it’s overrun with-”

It was the second time anyone had ever called Ethan that slur, but somehow it hurt more than when his father had said it. Against his best efforts, Kas had been someone to him. It was almost a relief when he caught Tiziano talking to a client about the skirt a woman had been wearing on the street, his lip curved upwards in a way that seemed genuine, as if he wasn’t faking it. At least Ethan couldn’t fall for this one. 

A silver ring on a man’s hand slapped the counter once, sharp enough to snap him from his thoughts with a hard flinch. Tiziano strode past him, looking down at him with a raised, black brow. “Stay awake for your shift, Evanson.”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said on command. Tiziano looked away, though not before his eyes glittered with something like happiness, a euphoria for something vague and not quite understood. Even with the funeral home being a front, Tiziano was still a funeral director - he gave real funerals during the day and was called sir and mister all the time, and yet he never seemed tired of it. Then again, maybe all men who hadn’t been ruined by the army enjoyed it. It only ever reminded Ethan of long expanses of battlefield littered with bullet shells and bloodied bodies. Sometimes he preferred the slur.

The heist occurred a week ago when Tiziano and Ethan drove towards the warehouses in the dead of night, his knuckles tense on the leather steering wheel. Tiziano’s hearse was pristine as the day he bought - or stole - it, and Ethan was always a little envious that he never got to drive it. The man was protective of everything, though, and the hearse was just another part of himself that he didn’t share easily. 

After two years, Ethan knew little of him aside from the fact that he immigrated from Italy and that his two sons died in the war. He tried to figure out where they had served, wondering if maybe he met them, but Tiziano never said. There had been an edge of panic in his voice and Ethan had just assumed that it was too painful. Knowing wouldn’t bring them back from the dead, anyhow. He at least managed to piece together that Tiziano must have been older than thirty - forty at the earliest, and yet he did not treat Ethan like a child. Just a coworker. 

Ethan never told him that he wanted to be friends, that he longed for a platonic intimacy - or more. Even at twice his age, Tiziano was handsome. His black hair was always straightened and sleek, revealing a widow’s peak pointing down to a long scar on his nose. He always wondered how he got such a severe scar, but he never could work up the courage to ask.

They got to the warehouse by two in the morning, and despite the silence of the outside world, the warehouse was busy with the sounds of men working, rolling out the kegs to be placed in their casket disguise. There was nothing abnormal about the trip save for the fact that Tiziano had been unable to secure a driver to do it for him. 

As if they were nervous.

“Evenin’, Belmonte,” someone said to him, rolling out the keg and stopping it at his feet, standing a cautious distance away from the armed funeral director. “Clear vodka from overseas, brought in with a few favors. No whiskey, this time.”

Tiziano hummed, his eyes locked on the barrel before him. He closed the distance between them slowly, his black suit jacket flowing in the breeze. “A shame. Whiskey sells best this time of year. I suppose you won’t mind me taking a look at the inside?”

The man shouldn’t have cared, and yet he tensed. Everyone around the warehouse seemed to pause, their eyes focused on the two. “I don’t see why you should need to. I’ve never crossed you before.”

“It always starts somewhere,” he said, his hands in his pockets. “Open it.”

“Belmonte, you don’t need to taste the damn-”

“Open it, or the money leaves with me.” Tiziano silenced him with a raised brow, his eyes stern, unwavering. It was always his stare that made men crack first. Even this man, who was nearly twice his size with biceps like bowling balls, shrunk. It made Ethan wonder just what Tiziano had done in the past, if it was only ever bootlegging.

Tiziano only stared when the keg was opened, his nose twitching at the distinct lack of anything. He dipped his finger in it, smelling it, only to shake it off. Ethan wanted to ask what was happening, though he didn’t need to. Tiziano glanced at him, at the knives strapped to his hips.

“Water,” he said, his voice thick with disappointment. He drew his pistol, turning back towards the man. “I’m only ever tricked once, and-”

The man charged forward with the panicked desire to live, his fist connecting into his gut and toppling him over. He grabbed Tiziano’s shirt by the chest, slamming him into the hood of the hearse with all intent to kill him.

Something about the hand on his chest made Tiziano’s eyes widen with fear for the first time since Ethan had met him. He flailed under him, uttering something incoherent before Ethan threw the tip of his knife into the man’s throat.

Chaos ensued almost instantly, for the man’s entire gang had been hiding, waiting for the opportunity to take them out. They did not escape easily, and by the time sirens were blaring in the distance, Tiziano was gasping for air, his lungs rattling sickeningly. Ethan’s arm looped under his, noticing how easy it was to lead him to the hearse.

“You drive,” he said to Ethan, handing him the keys with a shaking hand. “Fast.”

He did not been to be told twice. He left the warehouse behind the moment he slammed his foot on the gas, not telling Tiziano that he had only ever driven a car a handful of times in his life. Tiziano leaned against the window, his skin clammy as he clutched at his chest.

“Can you breathe?” Ethan asked, hesitating at the intersection that could have led to the hospital. “Maybe we should-”

“No,” he said, looking at him with wide eyes. “If you take me to the hospital, you won’t have a job when I get back. If I get back.”

It felt too grim for just a broken rib. Ethan didn’t like it. “Don’t talk like that, Mr. Belmonte,” he pleaded, not ready to mourn the sudden death of the closest thing he had to a friend.

He parked haphazardly, practically carrying Tiziano up the stairs to the apartment above the funeral home, placing him atop his bed. The heavy comforters deflated against his weight, grey against his white button-up. He winced at the sudden movement, clutching his side as he struggled to sit up. Noticing that Ethan was still pacing in the room, he snapped, “What are you waiting for? Go.”

“You need someone to help you!” Ethan said, biting at his already short nails. “You can barely move, and if I’m not here, how will I know if it gets worse? What if your lung is punctured? What if-”

Tiziano raised his hand at him, squeezing his eyes shut as he pointed towards the corner of the room. “Fine, but if I catch you looking while I’m changing, I’ll take you out.”

Ethan felt his heart stop at his words, for of course he had figured out his past loves, his attraction that he could not change. And of course, he hated him for it. Maybe he even thought he was disgusting. “Oh. Certainly, sir.” He turned, though upon the sound of someone tripping and cursing, he could not help but whip around in fear.

Tiziano was braced on the doorway, having knocked into a table, though that was not what Ethan was staring at - or rather, trying not to stare at. What caught his attention was his unbuttoned shirt revealing layer after layer of tight bandages around his chest, so tight that the skin wrinkled at the edges in protest. Even under the makeshift armor, he could see the slim waist and the curves of someone who had not always been a man.

He wondered why he had never seen Tiziano wear less than two layers at a time, why he always shied away from physical touch. He never brought anyone upstairs, claiming to be a private person. Now he knew.

Tiziano did not shrink away as he would have expected, nor did he kill him. Instead, he straightened as much as he was able, as if challenging him. He buttoned each individual button with ease, his eyes meeting Ethan’s. All he said was, “Now you know. Are you willing to let your friendship with Dorothy go public in exchange for exposing the freak?”

“How did - How did you know?” Ethan asked. “How are you-”

Tiziano laughed, though there was something desperate in his voice as he crossed his arms. “I’m not a fool, Ethan. There’s only one good reason why someone’s family would kick a veteran out after a failed engagement - one that a man would be too ashamed to speak about, that is. I’ve always known you were queer. I just didn’t care.”

“Then you must know that we aren’t so different,” he argued. “If you’re still Tiziano despite this, then nothing’s changed between us. We can both have our secrets and still be fr- in business.”

His eyes were cautious, distrusting after having been tricked once already. Still, he seemed to consider this, as if he wanted to believe him. “It can’t be that easy. There aren’t many like me.”

“There aren’t many like me either, but there also aren’t many funeral director bootleggers.”

Tiziano laughed and despite everything, it still sounded like the man that Ethan worked for, that Ethan had grown to like so deeply over his employment. For the first time, they felt like friends, seeing each other for the first time through a clear glass.

What shocked Ethan most of all was the hand that Tiziano offered him, outstretched, ungloved. He almost couldn’t believe it, feeling as though this one touch was a barrier that he could never cross. And now it was crumbled. “I don’t know if my wrist is strong enough,” Ethan joked, making him laugh for the second him as he took his hand, shaking it. “This doesn’t feel like blackmail.”