Honestly, he'd forgotten he had a key until he saw Sonny looking more depressed than usual at his desk. Of course, he barely had to ask before the man spilled everything, said he couldn't even get DiAngelo to answer the phone, and he wouldn't undo the deadbolts, so he couldn't squeeze in. Not that Rafael thought DiAngelo would even let him in, but to assuage Sonny's worry, he offered to try, see what would happen.

He should be more surprised. 

DiAngelo is a mess. An alcoholic, drunk, chain-smoking mess, and he should be disgusted, but he loves the asshole for some warped reason. Rafael could kick the bottles out of the way, but he's barely in the apartment ten seconds before he's rounding all the empty cans and bottles up, piling them on the kitchen table until he can see the living room. It was habit, he was a neat-freak even if this Carisi wasn't, and he wasn't about to sit his $3,000 suit down amidst a veritable fortress of empty beer bottles. Frankly, he considers sitting on his coat, not even directly on the chair adjacent to the couch, but he doesn't. He stands there, feeling like he's standing calf-deep in an ashtray, the scent is so strong. 

DiAngelo gets to the whiskey and sips it before he can snatch it from him, but the bottle still ends up in Rafael's hand. He knows how hard both Carisi boys took the case, was even privy to a couple of their arguments when he'd popped in to deliver updates on the case, or collect any evidence he needed for court. Something happened in their past that changed DiAngelo's view on the church, he didn't want to assume, but the way he was taking this case, specifically? It was hard not to draw the obvious conclusion. He didn't mention it, he never would. 

DiAngelo Carisi has no business, here — no business using his key, welcoming himself in. This is his brother’s home, full of his brother’s things, and his brother is away. Busy. It’s a court day and those days are always long, always exhausting. He’d be sore by the end of it, careful with his shoulder. Half asleep on his feet. Maybe it would be a good day. Maybe it would yield a victory, something to be proud of. Something that would make Sonny Carisi happy.

He hopes so because he feels like he’s already lost.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The shower door opens and DiAngelo steps in — fully clothed and with bottle in hand. Oh. He’s anything but sober as water washes over him, warm and inviting in comparison to the cold he had to walk in to get here. It should have been sobering, unlocking the door and kicking off his shoes. He had time. Time from his place. Time from the door to the bathroom. Time to stand there — to stare at Jesse’s silhouette behind glass before the other man finally spoke. There’s always time to back out. To do anything other than what he wants to do and yet he’s there, looming and pressing Jesse back against a wall. Drunk and in his space. Glaring. Hating. The bottle falls and clatters against the shower floor, loses the remainder of its contents down the drain.

“You know … I almost fucked someone else, tonight.” Oh, he’s shaking. He’s so angry. “We had a nice dinner. Watched some TV. He was cute — I wanted to rail him stupid but I kicked him out before he could even suck my dick because he wasn’t you.” Arms raise to frame Jesse’s head — to box him against the wall as he sneers and leans close enough to share air. Lips almost touch, almost and some of his bangs flop over his brows as they knit — as he tries to keep what is clearly rage under control. “He didn’t smell like you. He didn’t taste like you. He didn’t feel like you. I didn’t want anything to do with him. What the fuck do you think that says about me?”

JESSE’S EXPECTING SONNY TO be the one who steps into the shower with him. He turns, expecting to see the man he loves, the man for whom he wears a ring on his finger, and is instead met with DiAngelo -- clad in black and drunk enough for Jesse to smell the liquor on his breath. It makes his skin crawl. The fresh scars on his body -- the ones left there by DiAngelo’s teeth and nails -- burn beneath his hateful gaze.

His breath hitches in his throat as the man speaks to him. Jesse can feel DiAngelo’s eyes boring into his skin as water cascades off of their bodies, disappearing down the drain right along with Jesse’s sense of worth. Every single time he sees that face -- that fucking scowl -- he hates himself a little more. 

He hates the fact that DiAngelo is here, in the home he shares with someone he loves dearly, looming over him in the shower and telling Jesse, in his own fucked up way, that he loves him. And Jesse hates himself for liking it. Hates himself for the jealousy he feels at the mere prospect of DiAngelo fucking someone else -- at the thought of anyone else’s hands on his body, anyone else’s lips on his cock. 

Jesse meets his gaze as he speaks, every ounce of his willpower poured into keeping himself against the wall and not throwing himself against the man in his sopping wet clothes, crashing their lips together in a mess of tongues and teeth and begging DiAngelo to fucking hurt him because that’s exactly what he deserves. He wants DiAngelo to take that rage and stuff it down Jesse’s throat. To hurt him with it. He doesn’t realize that he’s breathing so hard until it’s his turn to speak, and he tilts his head back against the shower tile, not breaking eye contact with the man in front of him. 

      “... I think it says you love me.”

His own eyes turn cold, like ice, and he grits his teeth. 

ASKS.

What more could Peter Stone ask for in this instance? Perhaps the truth--the no-more-bullshitting conversation he’d been dreading? No, that’d be a fight lasting close to hours if persisted. Maybe the best thing Peter could ask could be the most simple thing instead of the most complex. Brow is furrowed as dark hues upturn to settle on the detective, lips twisted into a frown. 

family is messy, she’s come to find. italian families are messy—or at least sonny’s is. they’re all under the impression that she’s nothing more than human. he’s introduced her to one or two of his sisters. she’s yet to meet his parents still, and she’s more or less content with that. this is the first time she’s met diangelo, his twin brother. they may look and sound almost exactly the same but she’s quick to spot all the differences between them. diangelo doesn’t have the faint scars around his hairline from being shoved through a plate glass window as a kid. diangelo doesn’t have the faith or the light or the hope that sonny carries with him wherever he goes. diangelo is a little harder, a little grittier, a little more prone to indulging in all those bad habits his twin has never entertained.

the contrast would amuse her if it wasn’t vaguely alarming.

she raises an eyebrow at him, curious despite the obvious touch of judgement in her eyes. blame it on the fact that she’s a warrior. “then you’re probably punching like a complete idiot.” or he’s trying to punch things a lot stronger than he is. either way, it’s not doing him any good if all he’s managing to do is hurt himself in the process. she shakes her head and lets out a slight sigh of exasperation. “do you need me to teach you? or do you think you can manage to figure it out on your own?”

Mike gives a short, harsh laugh. “I’m glad you didn’t- You can’t afford to end up on IAB’s shitlist again so soon.” He replies, and checks over his shoulder. There’s nobody close enough to listen in.

Mike’s jaw tightens, and he takes a moment to get his irritation back in check. His father. It’s a sore point if he has one, a sore point going back to his childhood. Frankly, it’s none of the younger Carisi’s business, but he can’t just walk away from a jab like that.

“He doesn’t check in like I’m a kindergartner,” Mike replies, voice carefully under control. “He just- he cares a lot. He’s a father.”