"Psst, Jal. What if I told ya I finally gotcha a ring?"
collateraloutlaw
There wasn’t really a smile present on the gypsy’s features. He’s defeated, and exhausted. A bottle of alcohol was in his hands. Half of its contents were gone. Drinking whiskey straight out of a glass bottle, he couldn’t really hear Graves either. Sitting down in a wooden chair, little Piltover kept chirping to Malcolm. It kept making noise. So much of it. Fate said something, but it wasn’t clear. He then made a fist, banging it on the tabletop. “Shut up!” Jal yelled to the poro.
The little one didn’t stop, but it did have a frown in its eyes, going to the edge of the table and trying to nip at the Outlaw’s gloves. Trying to pull him closer. Fate’s lost, and has been for weeks. All he’s been doing is sitting down, and taking down alcohol. It wasn’t known when was the last time he had a solid piece of food. Turning his head towards his future husband. The bottle that rested between his fingers dropped. Hitting the ground. It didn’t shatter, but the contents inside it were spilling onto the wooden surface.
A few hours have passed. Twisted was sobering up in his sleep, but woke up with a major headache. And to use the bathroom. He shoved off Piltie who was on his side. The little one whined, going over to a sleeping Graves instead, cuddling with the Outlaw. Fixing his appearance a bit, and emptying the tank. He stepped out again. What happened? It’s barely early evening. He had to get some answers. Politely, he walked over to his future husband’s bedside, putting a hand out to shake the other’s shoulder. "Malcolm, get up." Jal replied with quietly. Both the man and the creature were sleeping tightly together. Of course, Graves is an old man at this point. Hell-bent on trying to execute his fiance. But it doesn’t make any sense when they sleep side-by-side each other. "Malcolm, c’mon. Get up." Twisted sound even louder. Shaking him harder, it seemed like it wasn’t helping. "Dammit, Mal. Get the fuck up. I got things I gatta ask you."
All the outlaw could do was groan. He didn't wish to be awoken, much less shaken. He had peacefully fallen asleep, although his own poro managed to curl up on his throat. It took a few shakes, but the man snorted awake, his eyes shooting open to stare at the man who shook him. "Fuckin' hell--" he began, only stopping when he realized just who it was.
Moving the poro, Malcolm sat up. He was an old man, and a grouchy one at that. Seeing the face of his lover, though, turned that grumpiness into concern. He couldn't forget that pitiful face he saw when he walked into the door. "The fuck you need to ask? I got more questions for ya, I bet." He huffed, harshly tilting his head to the side to try and pop his aching neck. "The fuck were ya doin' drunk anyhow?"
