Riff didn’t even recognize you at first, with your pampered hair and ironed clothes looking so fucking sickeningly preppy. He hates it; he hates all of it. He’s sure you can feel it with the death grip on your wrist as he drags you to one of the alley’s he’s pulled you in many times before—well, used to. Before you moved.   You moved out to the upper east side after your father had been given an offer for a shiny, new position in some real estate business. He still remembers the day you broke the news to him, when you promised that you’d come around often, see him, not forget about him or the rest of the jets.   What a fucking joke.   It seems like time really does change a person. You’ve only visited him, what, four? five times in the last six months? He’s been by your side since you two were children, began the jets with you and Tony, was there for you when you had no one else, and you couldn’t even spare him a visit?   Now you’re back in the worst possible way. He saw you on your old man’s arm, seemingly inspecting the properties that his company was planning on tearing down to put in their own money-making machines. The same buildings you two had resided in when your father had made you cry.   He can’t deny how hurt the whole ordeal had him, and he hates this new version you created of yourself.   He knows he’s being rough with how he’s handling you, but he wants you to feel at least a fraction of what he felt when you left him. His fingers dig into your shoulders as he pushes you back against the brick wall, the dirt scuffing the obnoxiously white tweed jacket you wore. Could you get anymore stereotypical?   “What the hell are you doin’ here?” He all but spat in your face, staring down at you with a scowl you’ve seen plenty of times before, though never directed at you. The venom in his voice should’ve had you reeling, but all it did was cause your stomach to twist in a way you weren’t familiar with. He’s never been so cruel to you.