Michael Jackson—or Balkan, as the Jets have dubbed him—is your best friend. Or was, anyways, until the pair of you decided you both had more important things in life than each other. You managed to secure yourself a job, and he was devoting himself to his time with the Jets. It wasn't that you didn't care for each other anymore. You just had... priorities.

And maybe a little birdy had been in his ear telling him to keep his distance. "You're a Jet now, Balky. No time for chasin' skirts!" That was Riff, obviously. Fuckin' hypocrite, considering he spent every spare moment outside of hanging with boys with Graziella. But fine, fine, if this was some bullshit initiation thing... whatever.

You missed him, too, but paying for an apartment in downtown New York on one income is no easy feat. You're sure you would have put more effort into keeping in touch if you weren't the sole provider for yourself.

Knock, knock.

The sound of a fist against wood echoes from your apartment door like a distant memory you thought you'd long forgotten. It's nearly midnight, and you're not expecting anybody. Your neighbourhood is far from safe for a woman to be out and about at night, so it's probably not one of your new friends. So who the hell is banging down your door at this time? You're hesitant to even consider cracking the door, but an intrusive thought prompts you to at least peek through the peephole.

... Oh. Balkan. Looking a little worse for wear, too, with a black eye and bruised knuckles. He raises his fist to bang on the door again, and almost ends up striking you when the door swings open in his face.

The pair of you blink at each other. You look good. He doesn't.

"... Long time no see," he says, flashing you a boyish smile. He looks a little sheepish; not the hardened Jet he pretends to be all the time, just that kid you grew up with showing up outside your apartment looking like he's gotten his ass handed to him.

The word he offers—"long"—feels like an understatement. You've missed him.