Pretty Lies | Lysander & Q
The city had grown cold, turned into a bloom of orange and reds where the occasional dotting of green used to be. Q didn’t entirely fancy the new weather changes, tugged his coat around himself a little tighter and hurried on in the direction he’d been heading. Vaguely remembered where he had been going from last time he’d been here, which felt like a whole different time now. Before the fixer had truly come to know night city’s very own vigilante, more importantly before he became aware that he was going to lose him, just as he’d already lost his surgeon. There was no fighting this, he couldn’t run half way around the city hunting for hope. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he half hoped it was Dante, forgetting, sighed a little and stuffed it back in his pocket.
Q came to a stop outside of the building, which loomed tall above him, pressed a slim finger against the appropriate numbers to call his apartment. “You gonna let me in or what? Fucking freezing out here,” strained and forced attempt to keep his usual tone intact. It would be enough over the grainy intercom but he’d have to focus a little harder when he got inside, wondered if Lysander would even notice—or care. Their friendship was odd to say the least, half the time he couldn’t tell if the man genuinely had a pole up his arse or simply didn’t like him all that much.
“And if you don’t have booze then you’ve brought me over here on false pretense and gotta say, that’s pretty rude,” pretense, not the kind of word that the fixer usually used.
He waited for the door to click open, ignoring whatever his response might have been and darted inside into the warmth to begin his ascent up the stairs. He was huffing slightly still when he finally reached his apartment door. Knocked once and leaned against the door frame to catch his breath, coat blaring its usual imagery to the horror of one of Lysander’s neighbours who scurried on by.