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đžđĽSnippets 4/6 - Flavio
🕑 Added 2022-12-24 10:53:27 +0000 UTCThe impromptu celebration wasnât the wisest idea, considering the meeting youâre having with Fortin the next dayâ in several hours, but it only really dawns on you when Flavioâs eyes go vitric and unfocused.
Youâve lost count of the number of bottles that passed through your hands somewhere between the bar and Flavioâs condo, but even though he has sipped from less than half of them, the alcohol seems to have finally taken its toll.
Though initially, you arrived in a group, the other agents are nowhere to be seen. Max dipped nearly the second the carâs doors were open, excuses and rushed apologies pouring out of him like water from a leaky bucket. Kovalenkova, too, vanished without a trace once her first cup had run dry, dragging already wasted Wilson to hit the clubs.
She seems to have taken the growing... whatever this is between you and Flavio better than you expected, if the lack of chaperoning is anything to go by. To be fair, you and Flavio havenât been jumping at each otherâs throats in weeks! At least, not in the usual sense.
Alas, before you noticed, it was just you, Flavio, and a bottle of whiskey - scratch that, half a bottle - in his littered with pizza boxes and empty bottles loft.
The celebration - abrupt and unplanned as it were - is not so purposeless, considering that in the last, what, four months all you did was work, some of you even overtime. Some of you without pay (no, not at all, youâre not bitter about that, no maâam). And hey, if Alois can drink himself stupid all day long without you nagging at him even once (um, twice? Never in a row?), you can indulge, too.
Youâve more than earned it, being not only one step closer to solving the case, but also to getting the SPD off your ass permanently. Well, most of the SPD. If anything, youâre hoping to keep a single agent around for a little while longer, terrible humor, questionable fashion sense, and his mismatched ceramics he has you use instead of proper liquor glassware.
Speaking of. Flavioâs holding onto the turgid cup of whiskey with sincere focus, as though heâs worried he might spill it on theâ oh, yes, the carpet. Whatever. It actually might look better with a stain on it. Certainly, it canât get any worse.
The two of you have been opting for drinking straight from the bottle until you relented and accepted one of his mugs (black with cat ears stuck to the rim, perfect for you to poke your eyes out. If you didnât know any better, youâd accuse him of carrying an assassination plot against your person. He only laughed when you said that, but a laugh is not a no).
His way of drinking is as atrocious as his choice of containers, Alan would probably roll his eyes all the way into his skull if he saw this. Instead of keeping the proportions, Flavio overfills his cup, foregoing ice or garnish, making you eager to witness him pour the whole thing all over himself at any moment during his flailing. It hasn't happened yet, but youâre still hoping for a good show. You do have the front seats, after all.
Though you started the night seated on different ends of the couch, (with Flavioâs legs taking more than his half) the squishy, slippery monstrosity pushed you to the center inch by inch until Flavioâs thighs, in his stupid skin-tight jeans, became glued to yours. You can feel yourself sweating just from the proximity.
When you push yourself away, only to inevitably slide right back, Flavio looks up from his cup and laughs.
âWhatâs so funny?â You canât quite kill off the biting tone, itâs a force of habit, but Flavio doesnât mind. On the contrary, the way he squints at you is more entertained than anything. When you frown, it only seems to entertain him further. âWhat?â
His attempt at an explanation, however, is incomprehensible to your ears, though apparently amusing enough to have him break into a fit of giggles, causing him, and the contents of his mug, to sway sharply, almost spilling - the liquid out of the cup, Esposito over the armrest.
You catch him at the right moment, grabbing a fistful of his maroon turtleneck - this ugly, ugly thing is pretty soft to the touch, huh - and pulling back.
He lands a little too close, half-way in your lap, snickering to himself at your dry, âHey, watch it!â and each and every curse that follows until he settles down, somehow without losing a single drop of his drink. Talk about dumb luck.
âWhat the hell were the two of you chugging in the backseat? I thought Wilson said it was an energy drink?â
âWith vodka.â
âFucking hell, man.â
You almost wish theyâd shared, if only so you could just knock yourself out faster, not having to deal with a wasted and overfriendly Flavio. Oh, is that why Kovalenkova left? A revenge, is that it? Great. You didnât think she knew the true effect he had on you, but it seems you were mistaken.
It used to mess with your head, back then, how friendly he got, how nice. The contrast between your usual quasi-arguments was so sharp you felt like you needed to treat him worse just to keep the line drawn. You donât mind it wiped clean now, and yet a solid part of you still hates the fact that he doesnât seem troubled at all, not by your closeness, not by your words. Nothing you do gets a rise out of him, and though you never thought yourself the type, you began to try harder to get a satisfactory reaction. You donât know how to handle him other than with teeth bared.
âDid nobody teach you not to mix clear booze with darker ones? If you throw up on me, Iâm moving the fuck out, contract or no.â
âWow? Excuse you? I can hold my liquor,â Flavio mumbles, greatly affronted, raising his cup sharply to demonstrate, and still somehow keeping the liquid motionless.
âOh, Iâm so very sorry, your stomach can, just not your brain, is that it? Ah-ahââ you interrupt his slurred attempt at refuting you, ââand open your mouth wider when you talk, I canât understand half of the things you mutter to yourself.â
âI said,â Esposito repeats, this time overtly slow yet with the same drowsy quality that betrays his growing inebriation, âitâs unfair, that you got to save me twice. In one day at that, wow. Am I the agent here, or you?â
âWell, excuse me.â Itâs not like you expected gratitude, you didnât do itâ Thatâs the thing. You donât know why you rushed to cover Flavio in the first place. With Max here, heâd have been fine either way. Yes, your effort was all for nothing, but he doesnât have to rub it in. âNext time Iâll let you get shot since you like it soââ
âNo, I meant... Wow, Iâm glad you were there.â
You almost snark back, sensing sarcasm, but his expression stops you. His grin is just a tad too thin to count as his usual artificial one, not wide enough to be saturnine either. Heâs slipping into honesty so subtly that if you didnât see him fall apart before, you wonât have known any better now.
Recognizing that he has been caught, he breathes out a laugh. His words, though, bring no clarity. âI thought I couldnât sink lower. Gratitude, hm?â
âWhat?â
âWell, my boss...â he cuts himself off, as if by habit. âMy old boss, I mean.â He doesnât add a snarky remark, doesnât look at you meaningfully, and yet you still have to avert your eyes. Even if the guyâs health is rapidly improving, itâs still an obvious sore spot youâd rather not scratch at. âIt used to piss me off, you know, his âthings to be grateful for,â positive affirmations bullshit. I never liked that, but back then, when everything was so fucking shitty, I thought, self-help right, I might try anything, itâs not like it can get worse. And then, I thought, how fucking pathetic, you know, is that the best thing I can be grateful for? Not being wet? Iâ Forget it.â
With the messy way he speaks when heâs sober, the off-tangent soliloquy doesnât deter you, though you do lose the thread of the conversation. Still, itâs probably the longest he spoke to you, or anyone that youâve seen, without pulling out that smile of his, so you canât do anything else than prompt him to continue.
âYou can talk about it,â you say, waiting for him to be busy chugging his drink down, so that he canât interrupt you. Itâs not a good place to be, not really. When he bares his neck, and you donât know whether you want to hold or smother. Thereâs something in you that forces you to do the former. Always the former. âI already think you suck, thereâs nothing you can do to make me think worse of you. You can talk about it. You donât need toâ You know, smile all the time. Isnât it exhausting?â
He blinks at you like he either doesnât understand the question or like it never dawned on him to even consider it. Both options are too miserable for you to conceive, especially since you can do more than just wonder how many - if any - other people have said that to him in the months you spent working together. The answer being none.
Even the off-duty agents, everyone here has their own mess to clean up. If anyone bothers to look behind Flavioâs mask, as clichĂŠ as it is, he doesnât let them see him as anything other than content. It works too well, the âIâm fine,â the laughing so hard, so often, that nobody even thinks to enquire. And those who do... Eh.
Kovalenkova would have killed you for even thinking about hurting him, but sheâs not exactly someone to whom he could come to cry his heart out... not if he wants her to see him as a shoulder to lean on when she needs one. Itâs the same way with everyone else, from what youâve noticed. If heâs ever anything other than borderline positive, itâs an accident.
âI was justâ ironic, isnât it? I just,â he drifts off again, but you let him get to the point at his own pace. âYou still do that face when Iâm close, like a cat stroked sideways. And I thought, a year ago, three, I had no idea youâd be the thing Iâm most grateful for.â
His tone is mild, but for some reason, you canât meet his gaze. You watch his hands instead, twirling the now-empty glass, propping it on his thigh. âDonât give me that. Itâs not like I took a bullet for you or anything.â
âThat too but, nah, in general. I still find itââ he pauses, both the words and movements, ââgratitude, whatever. My life was shit, and it was infuriating trying to find things to be grateful for. And I decided to just, be fine regardless, you know. Regardless of the things. But because of you, I thought about it again.â
âSo Iâm like the absence of rain to you? Something not super shitty to be grateful for?â
âYouââ He sucks air through his gritted teeth, itâs the closest genuine reaction of reproach youâve ever gotten from him, and you werenât even trying. âMaybe itâs because you spend too much time with that lawyer of yours, but not everything I say has a double meaning.â Yes, aside from his happy-go-lucky facade, heâs nothing but blunt. âYou make me want to feel grateful, you know. Even for the small things. Especially for the small things.â
âOh.â Well, now that you got more of that gratitude you wished for, youâre out of things to say. He really does go all-in, doesnât he. Contradictory, too, heâs both one of the most genuine people youâve met, and someone you have the hardest time taking at his word. âYouâre welcome, I guess,â you mumble, and thatâs probably not what he wanted to hear. Then again, seeing as he didnât mean to reveal that at all, perhaps he didnât count on anything.
To fill the awkward silence that commences, you do what you know best - you hand him your glass in a gesture of truce. He accepts it readily, downing it without making an offhanded joke about it being poisoned. From the minute twitch of his lips, though, you know he thought about just that. The smile widens when you squint at him.
âHey,â he says, before you can open your mouth. His expression falls again, and he hesitates a bit, placing your glass on his own, balancing them. He only continues when you make a noise, fully prepared to continue that impromptu heart-to-heart, maybe even share some of your own thoughts... But itâs just like him to ruin the mood. âYou donât reaaaallly think I suck, do you?â
âNo.â
âBecause I was going to tell you that my head game isââ
âFucking hell,â is all you can muster before the rest of your complaints are drowned underneath the roar of his laughter.
