(And i love you for it. 😀 I told you I never EVER get tired of these two :D)

Julio looked down at the wallet in his hands – black leather worn pale at the edges and distressingly flat – and sighed. He never wanted to get involved in this sort of thing. For all he knew, this was some sort of scam, or the owner would accuse him of stealing money from it or…

He took a loud, long slurp of his iced coffee and put his head down on the vaguely sticky table (or I could be overly paranoid and I should just do the good deed already and get it over with) He chided himself before opening the billfold.

As suspected, it was devoid of contents beyond a few rumpled fives and wadded up receipts for groceries from a bodega in Flatbush. An atm card so thoroughly used the numbers were almost worn off. A little metal charm of a saint he didn’t recognise in a language he couldn’t read. The rumpled foil packet of an condom. A couple of battered business cards from an auto repair place clearly near the bodega and one from a “talent” agency in Queens which to him looked all sorts of shady if nothing else for the fact that it was in Comic Sans.

Julio held off on wiggling the license free until last because he didn’t want to feel guiltier than he already was by prying into another person’s life so intimately.

He regretted everything immediately.

Benjamin Russell. 6’5”, red hair, blue eyes and – if his shitty license photo was any indicator – the most gorgeous man to have ever been born. Face burning, Julio shoved the condom back in the billfold with an embarrassed noise gurgling in his chest. After the first wave of shame had passed, he felt even more offended by the cheesy business card.

By the time he’d gotten off the subway at Grand Army Plaza, Julio’s imagination had started to run wild, troubled by the idea that someone was trying to take advantage of some innocently hot, sweaty, half-naked giant scruffy ginger mechanic.

He was flustered enough that he shoved a dollar at the half-assed warbling mariachi band winding their way through the station.

He stood in the foyer of the old building, finger poised over the worn metal of the call button for “RUSSELL, B”, earlier panic returning with a healthy side helping of “how the fuck did I end up in Flatbush with another man’s wallet?” seasoning it. His hand fell. (Nope. I’ll just find the Bodega and see if they can return it to him and…)

“The buttons only work if you press them, you know.” A voice behind him said, and Julio knew, before he even turned around, that it was going to be *him*.

“Wallet. Yours. Have. Sorry.” Julio spun around, holding it out, then clutching it to his chest with a squeak. It was even worse than he thought, a black smear of grease on the man’s perfect cheekbones, and the shy, startled smile on his lips. “Oh god, you’re fucking perfect.”

The big man gently pried it from Julio’s hands and clearly was trying to keep a straight face as he did. “Thanks… I think?” He cocked his head, and Julio was struck by an inappropriate image of the irish setter owned by couple downstairs from him. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a beer.. or..” Russell paused. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I LOVE COFFEE.” Julio said, suddenly wishing he hadn’t had so much earlier.



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