as soon as fez drops his weight onto the cushions of the couch, the gravity of the situation sets in. eyes catch sight of bloody and bruised knuckles, physical evidence of the irrational decisions he made that night. he knew he was fucking dead. but it didn’t matter, because nate fired the first shot by fucking with his business and his family -- and nobody fucks with his goddamn family. he picks up the joint he had rolled earlier in the night from the table, lighting it and letting the smoke fill his lungs until the burn is so strong that it distracts him from the intrusive thoughts. he digs his phone out of his back pocket, teeth biting down harshly on lower lip as his thumb ghosts over an unfamiliar number in his texts. fuck it. the phone rings and no part of him is expecting her to pick up after the shit that went down, which is why he is mid - hit when her voice sounds through the receiver. he coughs, sitting up straighter as he attempts to recovers himself. ❝ yo, @girlread. it’s fez. was just checkin’ thattchu got home. ❞
