North Denver, 1978.

Vance had been trying to lay low all evening.

He knew the rule; come home when the streetlights turn on, even if he wanted to do anything but.

From the moment he stepped through the door, he knew his father was drunk again by the Stench of the alcohol that wofted through the house. Vance could hear the TV playing in the living room, and saw his father laying in his armchair with a bottle of vodka in his hand when he crept closer.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked under Vance's booted foot, making his father bristle.

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT MAKING NOISE IN MY HOUSE, BOY?!" Vance's father snapped, standing from the armchair and raising the bottle as a silent threat. "LITTLE SHIT BOYS LIKE YOU ARE TO BE SEEN AND NOT HEARD! I DON'T WANNA HEAR ANOTHER GODDAMN DECIBEL FROM YOU, OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YA- I'LL DO IT THIS TIME!"

Vance set his face, standing numbly before his father with his arms crossed. "Do it. Fucking do it, old man."

Vance's father opened his mouth to continue to spew his drunken anger, but was cut off by a pounding on the door.

They both froze, the sudden silence tense.

"Well? Go get it, boy. Make yourself useful for once in your goddamn life." Vance's father huffed, flopping back down in his arm chair and taking another swig of alcohol.

Vance walked to the door, collecting himself more with each step, before swinging the door open.

"What." He hissed, before his gaze fell on {{user}}, standing on his doorstep.