The apartment was cold. Not freezing, but just below what was considered comfortable. Although the balcony door was pulled shut, the temperature had plummeted since the morning, and Noah had fiddled with the heating, but to no avail. It seemed the only way to keep his skinny limbs from shivering off was to bundle up in a thick hoodie, which was, for some reason, two sizes too big, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips.
Propped up on the couch, he watched his ashtray like it was the most fascinating thing in the world, trying to ignore the empty bottle of vodka abandoned on the cushion next to him.
A hard knock came to the front door, a powerhouse gust of wind and rain. Three times and then silence.
It was a wonder the door didn't fall in-- but not all things were as frail as their owners.
Miraculously, Noah avoided tumbling off the couch, startled. The alcohol had calmed his frayed nerves, and not completely drunk -- far from it -- he peeled himself from the cushion and approached the kitchen, swiping the knife left abandoned on the counter. He hadn't been expecting anybody, with the exception of Bayard, which was why he came to stop before the door with the knife held behind his back.
The locks slid off the door, and he tugged it open, gripping the hilt hard.
"Noah Pryce?"
The supposed stranger had taken a step back from the door-- just in case.
In a place like Vespers, you never knew who was going to be crazy and when they were going to snap.
The boy in question blinked once, twice. "I know you," he murmured, tasting vodka and recognition at the back of his throat. "Don't I?"
"The Observers," the man murmured, curly hair pushed back by runaway hand. "Can I come in?"
Watery eyes fell to covered collarbone before Noah nodded in silence, movements somewhat lethargic as he stepped back several steps with the door handle clutched tight in his bandaged hand. He wasn't sure what to do with the knife now that it turned out not to be an infuriating, bleeding psycho, and so he'd have to wait until Vincente wasn't watching.
Then it clicked. "... wait, did you just say The Observers?"
The leader stepped into the room, observing. He might not have been the booksmart type, but when it cam to observing, yes--
Quite the professional.
"Vincente Lucio Cesar Santiagio-Vasquez, at your service." A turn of head and features, something harder than the smile he usually wore. "I remember you-- I saved you from a truck, didn't I?"
Spine came to press against the door, and metal clinked. "Roadkill. Yeah." He wasn't making any sense, was he? Time to play host, then. "Sorry it's so cold. Heater's... being stupid. Do you want something to drink?"
"I'm fine." But he did help himself to a seat on the couch. "I was sent. You haven't been by The Complex."
Noah remained glued to the wood, hands hidden against the small of his back. "... yeah, I know. Had a bit of a run in with a kitchen knife, so I haven't really been out," he apologized. Lied. He wondered if Vincente would pick up on it, and ducked his chin down to hide the healing cuts along the pale of his throat.
"You could've called," he observed, watching the other intently. He had something behind his back. He might not have been his brother, but he wasn't stupid. "You cut yourself in the neck often when you're chopping salad?"
"... sometimes."
The presence of another Observer here made Noah feel more on edge, and uneasily, he nibbled on the inside of his lower lip as Vincente watched him.
"Why are you so tense?"
Vincente leaned back, arm up on the back of the couch.
"Almost like you're afraid of something. Am I scaring you?"
Shuffle and shift. I'm afraid of something, but it's not you. "... No. Sorry." The knife was delicately pushed up his sleeve, camouflaged by thick material, and he finally left his post at the door to hazily pause by the kitchen sink. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"
"You might be, you might not be." The rise and fall of his eyes led him to that hand, all bandage bound and arrogant.
How stupid did he think Vincente was? How stupid did he have to be?
"Depending on what it is you're hiding."
"... who says I'm hiding anything?"
"You're nervous," the brute replied. "That usually means there's something to be discovered."
The metal felt jarringly cold against Noah's wrist. "Or maybe I'm just nervous a lot," he shot back, not trying to sound defensive. "Why do you think I started smoking?" Maybe that part wasn't obvious, but there was an ashtray on the table.
A cold stare, abrasive. Sandpaper thick. Akin to the razor. He rose to leave.
"Fine. I didn't want to help you anyways." Brusque, callous, ingenuine. "But start showing up at The Complex more. You can't observe anything here."
"... I was stabbed," Noah spoke toward the sink, the alcohol successfully loosening him up for a hesitant confession. "And I thought you were someone else." A loud thunk resounded in the steel bin, the knife spinning over the drain once.
"Is that better?"
"Who?" Vincente didn't turn. Just asked his simple little questions.
Sinking teeth into his lip, the slight brunet faced away, quiet as he moved to fetch a clean glass. He'd said too much, and in so few words.
"Who?" the bigger man queried again, fist slamming into the countertop. It hadn't taken him long to cross the distance to Noah. "Was it random? Targetted? Did you piss someone off or is someone after what's in your head." He turned Noah. Remorseless grip. Shoulder tight. "Who?"
Immediate tension. "He didn't exactly give me his name, and I didn't think to ask." His words shook more than his body did.
"Was he after information?" Vincente almost shook the poor boy in his tattered grip.
Noah tried to shy away, knowing he had nothing and everything to be afraid of in this man's presence.
"More than that." A sharp inhale-- "I want to tell you he didn't get anything out of me, but I'd be lying even more, and he would've slit my throat or dismembered me if I hadn't told him what I knew, and then he just... he just shows up in my bed bleeding all over a day or two later like nothing happened. Like he didn't drug me and have me tied to a chair and threaten to run me through a fucking meat grinder."
He was growing a bit delirious now. "So yeah, it was targetted, and yes, I did piss him off, and he gave me this--" injured hand lifted "--as a warning that if I told you, any of you, he would come back and finish what he started. Excuse me for not wanting to confess my sins when my life was being threatened at knifepoint."
The eldest of the Santiago-Vasquez trio took the boy by the collar, all but dragging him to the door. "Have a little fucking faith in the Observers to protect. You're coming to the Complex. Now."
To say Vincente was angry was a mild understatement.
But angry at whom?
"W-Wait--" He couldn't resist the pulling, and followed like an unresisting ragdoll. "Vincente, please!"
"I will slap the shit out of you, you whiny little fucker," the elder growled. "We're going."
Noah fell very silent then, jaw snapping shut. He had nothing to say to that, and only hoped that the other man would give him two seconds to step into his shoes before yanking him out of the apartment by his throat.
For a moment, he sincerely regretted opening that door.
For a moment, Vincente sincerely regretted yanking Noah out of the path of that speeding truck.
But as they both knew full well, some things can't be undone.