Now, what was this about "estupideces"?
WHO: Alejándro y Emiliana
WHEN: December 19th, early Sunday afternoon
WHERE: Ale's casa in Ocean View
WHAT: Emi stops by with food. Emi and Ale play catch up. Emi (probably) discovers something that may wind up with a chair being thrown at someone's head. It's just another lazy Sunday, really.
( Aish, Ale, ¿por qué eres tan tonto? )
WHEN: December 19th, early Sunday afternoon
WHERE: Ale's casa in Ocean View
WHAT: Emi stops by with food. Emi and Ale play catch up. Emi (probably) discovers something that may wind up with a chair being thrown at someone's head. It's just another lazy Sunday, really.
( Aish, Ale, ¿por qué eres tan tonto? )
That fucking pendejo had better not forgotten that she was stopping by today.
Scowl deepening, Emi shoved her hand into her coat pocket before pulling out her keys. At least that estupido had given her a spare after a while. Dios, if anything, the moron had probably gotten drunk the night before or had just overslept without leaving an alarm on. If anything, Emi figured it was probably a combination of both.
Once inside, she placed the food on top of his dinner table before looking around, not making a noise.
Silence.
Snoring.
Rolling her eyes, Emi loudly stomped her way towards Ale's bedroom (just in case that asshole really was hungover). Upon seeing the man fast asleep and shirtless (a common occurrence that no longer bothered her), Emi forced herself to keep from kicking his leg in order to jostle him awake. However, she paused suddenly, catching sight of what looked like...marks? Bruises? A-Ay, Dios. Eran chupetónes
Emi hastily looked around, wondering if perhaps she had arrived at an, er, "inconvenient" time and that, perhaps, Ale had some sort of "visitor" that she wasn't aware of. But...it didn't seem like it. So, inching herself closer once more, Emi grabbed the man's shoulder and shook it.
Roughly.
"Ale," she hissed, making sure to dig her nails somewhat into his bare skin. "Despiértate, you fucking asshole. Why aren't you awake? ¡Ya son las doce y media, bruto!"
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Alejándro writhed under the sudden sharp stinging and jostling of his shoulder, rolling away and pushing himself up to glare balefully at his assailant--
Oh.
"Hermanita," he sighed, rubbing at his offended shoulder ruefully, "Es jodido, what the hell. ¿Qué hora es?"
He glanced at the alarm clock he was sure he'd set last night and cringed.
...ay. That explained the irritated look on Emi's face.
"Lo siento, jevita." He shot her a sheepish smile and rubbed a hand over his face, "Estoy still jetlagged, ¿sabes? Ay, me siento como un pingao..."
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Without so much as a glance, she yanked a shirt off from one of his hangers and proceeded to toss it over Alejándro's head. "Put this on and make yourself look less like a hot mess, pendejo. Yo te esperaré en la sala." And with that, she hurried out of the room with an annoyed roll of her eyes.
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Alejándro muttered to himself about "cheeky mujeres" and "Me cago en la hostia, ¿por qué le doy una clave?" as he pulled the shirt on, glaring at the alarm that had failed in its most basic function. Pinche pedazo de mierda...
He descended the stairs in an awkward haze of sleepiness, pulling his dreads back into their accustomed style (ie. out of his face. He'd get a haircut one day. Maybe.)
"Ay pues, así...¿qué bola, hermanita? Y qué has ju in such un mal humor?" Alejándro tilted his head to the side until his neck gave a satisfying pop. Neck...something about his neck and not letting Emita see--
--mierda.
He cleared his throat and lifted his hands up to wrap around his throat, letting his head drop forward as if his fingers were massaging a sore spot on the back of his neck.
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She rolled her eyes before something suddenly caught her interest. Something tacky, in all honesty. Interest piqued, Emi stood up and moved over to the tacky lamp left on the other side of the room.
"If you're trying to hide those hickies, don't even bother cochino. I already saw them," Emi said absently as she prodded the lamp. She paused once more, however, as she caught sight of a number scribbled messily on the lampshade. Huh, if she didn't know any better, Emi would say that the numbers she was able to make out from the quick glance she threw at it were rather familiar.
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The Cuban man cleared his throat when Emi looked a little too interested in the phone number scrawled on the lamp.
"Pienso que ju say somet'ing about comida, no?" He arched his back a bit--ah, another satisfying pop (though he wondered idly if this was a sign of Old Age rapidly approaching), "Claro claro que sí, estoy listo when ju are."
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She stood up, arms crossed over her chest as she cast the lamp one last glance before moving over to the food she had abandoned on the dinner table. "Pero, don't complain about what I brought you, hombre. Or I swear to God que te voy a chingar if you complain," Emi muttered as she carefully took out everything from their designated containers.
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"When do I eber complain about what ju bring for me?" he asked piteously, "Mi hermanita acts like I'm some kind of ungrateful pendejo, qué is this..."
Despite the tone in his words, Ale grinned as he trailed behind Emi towards the table. Merciful God--Vegas had its five-star cuisine but there was something gratifying in knowing that care went into the food made for you, not just technique.
"Ay pues, mira eso...ju made a lot, Emija. I t'ink ju are trying to make me fat again."
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Carefully, she took off the lids from the containers, all the while making sure that nothing had spilled or had gotten ruined on her way over to Alejándro's. "You should probably heat this up," she spoke up once everything was properly laid out for him.
However, in the back of her mind, those numbers still wouldn't leave her head. Really, Emi knew she had seen them before.
A friend, perhaps-?
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...but Emi looked concerningly distracted by something.
"...oyé," he said once more, "¿Qué pasó? Tu cara is all..."
He motioned vaguely, clearly believing that to be enough to convey his point. Maybe it was; Emi had certainly become fairly fluent in Alejándro-ese in the past few years, so perhaps she was able to interpret it.
...or perhaps not.
He cleared his throat, still shamefacedly aware of the marks adorning his skin like smug reminders of a night he couldn't remember. Damn it all.
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Holding up a finger, Emi motioned for him to shut up (and follow her if he knew what was best for him) as she suddenly took out her phone. She turned, quickly going back to the living room and toward the tacky lamp as she skimmed her contacts list. Plopping herself down on the couch, Emi went back to examining the lamp as she had been earlier, her phone clutched securely in her free hand.
Her eyes glanced back and forth between the lamp and the contact info she had stopped at.
Silence.
Her eyes raised.
"Why is John Paul's number on this lamp, Alejándro?"
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(Namely, she got physical in a way that was decidedly Not Fun.)
He leaned over the back of the couch and eyed the stupid lamp with distaste. It looked like it would be more at home in the room of some estupid casanova hustler or a movie memorabilia collector. He cleared his throat reflexively and glanced back at Emi when she voiced her question--
And promptly stiffened at her expression and tone.
So he spoke the first thing that came to mind.
"...¿quién?"
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"Why do you have John's number, Ale? And why did this entire mess happen during the time you were both away, baboso?"
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Wait.
There was a man's number.
On his lamp.
His breath left him in a low hiss, a small word breezing out with it through his gritted teeth.
"Mierda."
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There was a tense moment of silence as Emi continued to eye the Cuban man with distaste, seemingly ready to lash out at any moment. And she almost did, were she to be completely honest with herself, before her shoulders relaxed slightly.
A deceitfully innocent smile suddenly quirked the corners of her lips upwards as her hand came down to rest almost soothingly against Alejándro's arm before gripping it firmly.
"We need to talk."
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