Dark Places

52.1 | some days are better than others

—OML I LOVE THAT YALL WOULD CALL YOUR MOMS 😭 Unfortunately, I could never when I was younger because my mother was ALSO drunk. 😅😅

WARNING:
lots of slang
verbal sparring
and fluff
in the next... uh, 10kish words 😂 ❤️

❝try it on for size, my darling,
see what a man you can make of me.
i will eventually haunt you,
and you'll eventually be my queen.❞

☽

"FUCK, ANDAELDIABLO, MELO." Drake Medina picks up on the second try, letting out a slew of expletives in in two languages before I can even beg him for anything. "It's three in the fucking morning," he rasps, and I shiver, caught off guard by his voice, coated in a thick layer of sleep, hoarse and heavy and deep and... and I... "¿Qué coño quieres?"

"Oh, did I wake you up?" I wince. "I thought you... uh, had weird hours."

"Yeah? So, you thought you'd just call me for a chat?"

"No, I... I..."

"Espera." He pauses. "Espera, ¿qué lo qué? What's wrong?"

"I'm in the Old Port, and I fucked up. I'm— I'm drunk, and it's cold," I taper off into a breathy whine. It falls from my lips, no resistance, desperate wisps of frosty air. Why did I think it was a good idea to call him? I have no filter around him when I'm drunk. "Drake..."

"Ah, estás jumo... in the Old Port."

"And cold!"

"I'm sure. It was supposed to dip below freezing tonight."

"Drake!" My voice spikes in a tipsy trill. "Drake, please, I'm—"

"What year is it?" he cuts me off incredulously. "Did I just wake up in 2016?"

"Did you really bet on how long it would take for me to 'derail?'" It tumbles out clumsily, clotted to my throat, a thin lining of doubt thickening into an ugly sob. Somehow askew, neurotic, blurring the lines between rage and betrayal. I can't tell if I'm pissed or heartbroken. "With Connor and Eli? Why?"

Drake is supposed to be on my team.

Drake is supposed to be with me.

"Of course I did," he scoffs, rustling around somewhere, somewhere, somewhere. I can almost see him sitting up in his dark bedroom, ready to fumble headfirst into a fight. I screw my eyes shut, swiping a hand across my chilled cheeks to muffle a pathetic sniffle. "I hustled them, Melo. They don't know you like I do, and they don't know I know you like I do." His excuse snarls into a complicated knot of rationalization I'm too drunk to untangle. "I wasn't about to let them make money off of you."

"You are such a dick." I hadn't seen him in three years, but Drake fucking Medina knew how long it would take for me to relapse. How fucking romantic. "Such a dick."

"Okay, did you seriously call at three in the morning to pick a fucking fight with me?"

"How much money did you get?"

"Eh, a couple hundred."

"I hate you."

"Is that all you needed to say? Can I go now?"

Fuck, no.

"No, wait, I—"

"¿Qué necesitas, Luz?"