For prompts, how's about. Mafia Neil/civilian Andrew meet-cute/meet-ugly. Maybe Neil falling from a building into the dumpster next to Andrew?
Andrew stomps his way into the alley besides Eden's.
"Fucking Roland," he mutters to himself as he pulls out his smokes. One too many comments since Andrew stopped meeting him in the back room a couple months back, and now Nicky was making eyes at him like he was in on some big secret.
Andrew dreads the day he decides to pull him aside to impart some "elder gay" wisdom or whatever the fuck is running through his head. Flick, he watches his lighter spark and refuse to catch.
Flick flick flick. Andrew stares down at the useless lighter in his palm, a betrayal of the highest order. He pockets it, ignoring his first instinct to throw it as hard as possible into the wall.
He sighs, tipping his head back onto the dirty brick wall, unlit cigarette still between his lips. He doesn't know what he's doing here anymore. Big Here. Not just Eden's or Columbia or even PSU.
Aaron's drunk texting the girlfriend he thinks Andrew doesn't know about. Kevin's still trying to make Exy Andrew's reason for living, and Nicky thinks they're bound to grow closer because Andrew likes the way dick feels in his palm. Idiots, ungrateful, aggravating idiots.
He only closes his eyes for a second, lamenting his lot in life, when a loud crash sounds right beside him. His cigarette falls to the ground, forgotten, as a knife materializes in his hand. He steps away from the dumpster, which before now was entirely unremarkable. It's still a rather unremarkable feature of the alley, except for the boy climbing out of it, dazedly shaking his head as he gets to his feet.
"Fuck," he whispers to himself, before vaulting out with a lot more grace than Andrew expected for a guy who fell from the fucking sky(?) a second ago. He hasn't noticed Andrew yet, despite the fact they're only a few feet apart, too busy checking himself for injury in a far too practiced pattern.
"Is this a common experience for you?" Andrew surprises himself with the question, but it's nothing compared to the boy jumping two feet in the air.
"FUcking-" Andrew registers the gun hidden in a baggy waistband covered by an even baggier hoodie a second before its drawn and pointed at his head. It's instinctual, he can tell, as smooth as Andrew's own draw of his knife earlier.
The boy's eyes are ice cold, a blue so shocking Andrew feels a shiver run down his spine. It's a look that screams danger, but it leaks away just as quickly, leaving behind a bewilderment more appropriate to Andrew's position behind the barrel of a gun.
"Is this a common experience for you?" The boy parrots back at him, jerking the gun slightly. Belatedly, Andrew realizes his hands are still at his sides, knife clutched in his palm, opposed to the normal reaction when someone is met with a gun to the face.
He narrows his eyes, not appreciating the use of his own words, but he slowly shakes his head no. He watches the boy take that in, eyes flicking to the knife, the forgotten cigarette, the clothes suited for the club behind them rather than whatever monstrosity is adorning his body.
He tilts his head to the side like he's not quite sure he believes him. It sends his hair flopping across his face and into his eyes, letting the strands catch the light and revealing a rather distracting copper color. Andrew resolutely ignores the attraction brimming in his gut.
"Huh," the boy says, before the gun is tucked away again. He doesn't even do Andrew the courtesy of looking at his knife.
"I could still stab you," He doesn't know why he says it, maybe because the boy has taken to studying the surroundings, and Andrew would rather feel that electric blue gaze on his skin.
The boy hums without looking at him, "Your grip is shit."
He spends a few minutes studying the rooftops while Andrew grapples with the competing urges to stab him or ask to suck his dick.
When he's seemingly satisfied with his surveillance, he turns back to Andrew, "Can I bum a smoke?"
Andrew slowly sheathes his knife, trying to find his footing as the boy refuses to get less interesting, "Lighter's dead."
The boy shrugs, "That's fine. We can use mine."
Andrew finds himself tapping out the last two cigarettes in his pack, passing one over to the boy who takes it without hesitation. He rummages through a multitude of pockets before pulling out the lighter with a small sound of triumph. It's a bright orange affront to humanity, but the flame means Andrew takes his features in under a whole new light.
He notices the scars first, a series of nasty burns on his left cheek and knife marks scouring his right. They match what little he can see of his knuckles, burned on the joints as well. There's something else as well, the start of a tattoo on his neck, revealed as his hoodie slips down his shoulder slightly.
He doesn't move the flame towards Andrew, but for once, he doesn't mind leaning in to light his own. He watches as the boy not-smokes his cigarette, holding it close to his face instead, and barely feels irritated by the waste of nicotine. He memorizes the pull of his lips and hollowing of his cheeks whenever the boy needs to take a drag to keep the flame lit.
He can feel the boy watching him, too; they don't speak, but Andrew finds himself itching in the silence. He wonders what the boy sees, wonders why he fell into that dumpster in the first place, wonders why he didn't shoot Andrew, or why he didn't leave.
The anger sparks when Andrew realizes he wants answers to his questions. Before he can ask, the boy is throwing the butt of his cigarette to the ground and walking nonchalantly out of the alley.
He pauses before walking off completely, turning to look back at Andrew, "That was one hell of a save against the Jackals, earlier."
Andrew freezes entirely, speechless as the boy presses two fingers to his temple in a mock salute before sauntering off.
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