tomorrow-teddy would be a miserable wretch at work, but he'd have been closer to ritual homicide without the steady presence of a certified teddy-wrangler, armed with overpriced water.  bless him.  he opens his drying mouth to say something that barely touches nine percent coherent — thank you for looking after me, perhaps, or, thank you for taking really good pictures of me tonight, if his mouth and brain could co-ordinate long enough to form words and not guttural huffs — and all he manages is a wobbly smile instead.  really, the window feels so nice.  his cheeks are so fucking warm.  

@tremaynes says, “i know it sounds childish, but i can't help believing some people are meant to find one another.”

one eye had started to slide shut, and it remains stuck half way down.  teddy peels himself off the window to really look at fionn.

“obviously,”  he doesn't slur the words together!  a victory by all accounts,  “like us.”

mystery slop of dubious alcoholic content aside — the words ring true, right down to the marrow of his bones.  his focus sharpens for a beat, then holds its tune long enough for teddy to add:  “its not childish.  its love.  nobody — comes into the world destined to be unloved and alone forever.  some of us,”  he punctuates the sentiment by jabbing a finger into fionn's shoulder,  “some of us get lucky and get got quicker.  and then they always have someone to go to concerts with that make 'em not boring.”

the cook behind the counter yells, yours is ready, lads!

slowing his pace to match that of his running partner, infuriatingly composed and lacking the average person's sheen of sweat, he offers fionn an animable smile.

ONE NEW MESSAGE.

✦ WITHOUT THE USUAL CUSHIONING of several stacks of paper under his phone, the sudden VVVHHHH! of the message alert vibrated against the raw surface of his desk and subsequently rattled the part of his forehead that had slumped over onto it. it wasn't a pleasant tickle. three hours after he should have gone to bed, and twenty minutes after he had fallen completely asleep at his desk, teddy jolts awake to a message — sent at almost four in the morning — that takes a few minutes to understand. fionn. late hour? doesn't want to be alone.

[ txt > 999 ]: mgjkl

rubbing his eyes and hitting a sweet spot, all while trying to type, was not a winning combination: he had hit send in his euphoric discovery of a new way to give himself the most bloodshot eyes in all the world. eventually the severity of the message reaches the deepest wrinkles of his brain, and his brows pull together, blearily, grimly.

[ txt > 999 ]: justwoke up [ txt > 999 ]: i can be ocver in 15 mintes

whether or not he could be coherent within that span was another matter.

@tremaynes “i thought you'd be happy to get rid of me.”

“i'd be happier throwing you into the lough,”  he takes a long and angry sip of wine,  and continues, most aggrieved,  “twenty fucking minutes she battered on and on about — daffodils!  do i look the sort to be riveted by horticulture?  no!  for god's sake, man, don't assume you do me any favours by leaving me to these wolves on my own!”

and what a blow to his pride this was!  theodore dhali, struggling to survive a room full of beautiful people!  his grandmother's prayers have been answered at last.

riot looks down. the sweater is ruined. fionn is right about that. the cuff is stiff where it has dried, darker at the wrist, soaked through in places where someone else's blood has reached the seams. riot rubs their thumb over the edge of the stain. parts of it flake beneath the pressure. ❝ yeah. probably. ❞ the corridor around them keeps operating. monitors beep behind half-drawn curtains. shoes squeak over the floor. someone cries behind a closed door, the sound pressed into their own hands. the ambulance bay doors open somewhere down the hall, and cold air slices through the emergency department. or is this their imagination? riot's shoulders tighten before they can stop it. today's tense and every inch of their body is on alert.

the sound is not tyres on ice. not metal folding. not their brother’s breath turning shallow beside them.

it is just doors. just doors. this is a different time. they let their hand drop from the sweater.

❝ it's not mine, ❞ riot adds after a second, because that feels like it matters and does not matter at all, actually. ❝ the blood, if that's what you're wondering. i'm fine. ❞ are you hurt? did they hurt you? did you hurt them? where is the weapon? who else is inside? everything reduced to boxes to be ticked, statements, the chain of custody. riot lives inside the shape of it. they keep their authority folded small, tucked close to the ribs. ❝ my sergeant will tell me i escalated, ❞ riot says. there is no humour in it, but something close to a laugh, buried and airless. ❝ then he'll tell me i took too long to act. somehow both. ❞

everyone breaks in public sometimes. riot stands in the middle of it, again and again, keeping the line from snapping while their own hands have learned to quake only when no one watches. dried blood pulls at the skin beneath their sleeve. they should wash it off and file the report. ❝ you ever keep something you know you should get rid of? ❞