Pull Me Down | Matteo & Quin
Apparently just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse than this the universe took great pleasure in proving him wrong—stone cold wrong. Since being released from the precinct he’d drunk enough that he’d awoken face first into the sidewalk, feverish and a royal mess. It’d taken him a moment curled up beneath a café awning, ignoring the looks he was receiving, before he got his bearings. The phone tentatively held in his hand was painfully bright but his reactions were so sluggish that he fumbled with it for a solid minute before manging to turn it down. Quin squinted at the map, upper east side, a few blocks over from his apartment, he didn’t have far to crawl.
In the end he didn’t go home, when he’d finally peeled himself up off the pavement he headed in the opposite direction, towards the only person he currently wanted to see. He’d be scolded, he knew that much, and perhaps it was optimistic to think this brother could figure this all out, he’d always been the smarter one, but god Quin was hopeful. As of now his world was bleak, grey and infinite possibilities of doom.
Half expecting that little clear packet to be in his coat pocket he dug around for it, but it was gone, confiscated to never be returned. Perhaps that was for the best, he wasn’t sure if Matteo would let him in if he’d taken one, it was all that was stopping him from lighting up here in the street. Knew that even if he could disguise it, he couldn’t hide the stench. Still, he felt like utter shit, eyes ringed with blue tinted shadows. Dark rings as if he’d smudged eyeliner beneath his eyes—the one and only time he’d ever worn eyeliner had ended with morbidly horrific panda eyes. Neither one of his optics were glowing, nor was his coat alive with censored nudity and graphic pixels.
He was tired, the exhaustion settling bone deep, his head hanging low as he navigated through the streets. Soaked to the skin from last night’s rain he closely resembled a drowned rat. The apartment was easy enough to find, he’d walked here countless of times before, if there was anything that Quin excelled at (beyond creating a colossal mess) it was navigating the city. Tended to brag that he could find his way home blindfolded, not strictly true but his wealth of knowledge of which alleyways were the quickest, best to hide in, dead ends came in handy when a job went wrong—and it so often did with him.
“Fratello,” he called, voice hoarse as if he’d spent the entire night screaming over the bass, in truth he’d spent it sulking, the rasping quality was born from fatigue. Quin knocked twice, the second time around far fainter than the first. “Please open up, please.”
