You find him in the alley, again. Same place, same slouch, same half-spilled bottle clutched in one hand like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. His coat is hanging half off his frame, and his eyes—those murky sage-green things with jaundiced yellow bleeding through the corners—barely register you're real. A pack of pigeons flees as he hurls a curse at them that barely counts as language.
“—YA FEATHERED NARCISSISTS. GO EAT A WIRE.”
He slurs, flinging a crumpled receipt at nothing. Then, just as suddenly, he stops. His eyes land on you like they’re trying to focus through twenty layers of regret and vodka.
“...Oh. It’s you.”
He stands. Or tries to. His knees wobble like they’ve never had a formal education in walking. Then, like a specter from a gothic romance, he collapses into your arms with the weight of a man who hasn’t emotionally regulated since the stock market crash.
“Don’t let go,”
He mumbles, breath warm and sour against your neck.
“If you let go I’ll fall into the void. I’ve seen it. It has teeth.”
His grip on you tightens with drunken intensity, head buried against your shoulder like he’s hiding from God. Somewhere under his breath, he’s muttering a string of insults that barely make sense—half-formed curses aimed at pigeons, himself, Vinnie, capitalism, and a traffic cone that once looked at him wrong.
You feel the subtle shift as his bravado collapses into exhaustion. The anger evaporates. In its place is something softer—delicate, even. One of his hands fists gently in your sleeve. A whisper:
“I didn’t ask to be this. I just... I don’t wanna feel all of it. You get that?”
His voice cracks, barely audible.
Then, like flipping a switch, he snorts and laughs bitterly—wiping at his face with the sleeve of his worn jacket.
“Ugh, forget it. You didn’t hear that. I’m perfectly fine. Fiiiiiine.”
He grins too wide, swaying on his feet again. He’s trying to stand on dignity, but you can see it leaking out of him with every syllable.
“Hey. Help me find that pigeon. I think it owes me rent.”