"I might be a little tipsy, but I’m not too drunk to know that I want you… in a way I probably shouldn’t." -> 🍋
❝ Okay. Uh...hi to you, too. ❞ He lifted his wrist to glance at his watch. What was the time difference? Where the fuck even was Frio? More importantly, what the hell was he supposed to say to the equivalent of a drunken confession while he was in the middle of a job?
Tosto at least was putting things out in the open, tipsy or not. The two had been dancing around this for months now and it was clear they both knew it. Bubbles had just intended to never, ever bring it to the light of day. Being friends was stupid. Being more was insane, it was reckless. They might as well have been making a suicide pact together.
But the heart wanted what it wanted-— or whatever the bullshit quote was. Clayton had stopped actively fighting it so much as he'd persisted in hopelessly trying to ignore it instead.
❝ Why don't you catch your breath, Frio. You sound like you've been running a marathon. ❞ Bubbles felt like he'd ran one an hour ago and was still trying to get his legs to move again. He let his head thud back against the shitty motel bed he'd collapsed on as he pressed the burner phone to his ear. He was still dirty, splattered with grime and dried blood; he'd just been too tired after the deed had been done to do much else.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. Bubbles couldn't find it in him to be upset or agitated or even frantic and avoidant. Onofrio just had a talent for being an exception for every one of Clayton's rules.
❝ I told you to only call this number for emergencies. Are you sure you're just tipsy, amorzinho? ❞ It was a little mean, sure. But the man sounded wound tight and it was in Clay's nature to want to diffuse things a bit, lighten the mood.