He’d had too much to drink, he didn’t even know why he’d been out, drinking like a sailor. Perhaps it was the blues from being back in his hometown after all this time, the graceful mercy provided by Laswell turning into a curse - rather than a blessing - for Simon. Being back in Manchester meant being way too many miles close to you.

It had been years, and he’d convinced himself that he was over it. He’d told himself that he was over the smile on your face, over the feeling of your lips on his, over the memory of your tears, running down your cheeks after he’d royally fucked up once again. He didn’t blame you when you decided to pack your bags and leave.

Since then, being back in his apartment felt a little more lonely and pathetic each time. Your smaller shoes weren’t sitting next to his larger ones on the small carpet by the front door, your toothbrush wasn’t sitting by his inside the cup on the bathroom sink, your colourful clothes weren’t decorating the hangers beside his black ones in the closet. You’d taken all the colour with you the moment you’d walked out of the door.

Simon had drowned it all in the work, the blood and sweat from the missions, the sleepless nights spent with his nose buried in paperwork. Now that he was back, he had to find a different poison, and that night, he’d chosen the bourbon. He remembered that guy looking at him funny, and before he knew it, he was having a brawl in the middle of the street, the rain soaking him to the bone. The punk had gotten a good punch in, but now he was folded over the curb, passed out.

His feet had walked the path to your house as if it were second nature, and in your heart, you already knew who could’ve been at your door at 4AM. And there he was, wet like a dog, with a nasty cut to his cheekbone. “Simon,” you’d sighed heavily, looking at him from the crack you’d opened in the door. “You shouldn’t be here. We broke up, do you remember–”

“Got something to clean myself up with?” He’d cut you off, his sad, brown eyes looking down at you.