Sean's head snapped down at the sharp, disapproving tsk from the driver's seat. Detro was pissed. Of course he was pissed. Getting a call at the crack of dawn, right after pulling a night shift, to come scrape his idiot friend off the floor of a five-star hotel wasn't exactly anyone's idea of a good time.
The long, luxurious soak had helped. But the second Sean had tried to get dressed, the reality of his situation had come crashing back. Every shift of his weight and every brush of fabric against his lower body sent a fresh, unwelcome jolt of awareness through him. He was a walking bruise.
His first, most logical thought had been to call a doctor he knew. But then he'd seen it: the room service spread on the dining table, still warm under gleaming silver cloches.
His stomach had overruled his common sense. He'd chosen the pancakes, drenched in real maple syrup, and one bite had been a revelation. So this is why people pay a fortune for this stuff, he'd thought. His problems were momentarily forgotten in a haze of culinary bliss. The call to Detro had come after the last syrupy bite.
Now, trapped in the passenger seat, the silence was getting heavier by the second.
"You're bloody mad, Sean."
Sean picked at the hem of his new, stupidly soft shirt, twisting the fabric until it was a wrinkled mess. His eyes dropped to the paper bag on his lap, a shameful little evidence locker.
He hadn't said a word about what happened, but Detro wasn't an idiot. The picture was pretty clear: a man hobbling out of a luxury hotel on unsteady legs, wincing with every step despite looking perfectly put together, his corporate drone attire a stark contrast to the opulent lobby.
The car rolled to a halt at a red light. Sean could feel the weight of Detro's stare before he even turned his head. It was a look that could curdle milk.
Slowly, Sean dragged his eyes from the window to meet that searing glare. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Sean. You listening to me, or am I just talkin' to myself here?"
Detro's voice, that familiar mix of London grit and something else, made Sean bite his lip harder. Every instinct screamed at him to just open the door and bail, but his body, aching and thoroughly betrayed, wasn't having any of it.
"Sean!"
The sudden shout made him jolt against the leather seat.
"Shit! Yeah, I can hear you!"
"You said you were just gonna have a quiet one at home last night. That was the plan, wasn't it?"
"I did! Just a couple!"
"Right. So how'd a 'couple' end with you checkin' out of a presidential suite, then? Win the lottery, did you? Pull a bloody miracle out your arse?"
"..." Sean worried his lip between his teeth, the words barely a mumble. "…I don't know."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Detro snarled, smacking the heel of his hand against the steering wheel just as the car behind them laid on the horn. He jerked the car forward with a frustrated growl.
Sean's eyes darted to his friend's white-knuckled grip. "Alright, enough! I get it, I was an idiot! You can stop the bloody inquisition!"
"I don't care. You're gonna tell me everything. Don't care when, but it's gonna be sooner rather than later."
"..."
"Sean!"
"Yeah! I heard you the first time! No need to shout the whole damn street down!"
He knew it was worry talking, that Detro's anger was just a mask for sheer panic. But the truth was, Sean had nothing to give him. His mind was a black hole, a blank space where the previous night should have been.
The car plunged back into a thick, heavy silence. Detro fumed at the road ahead, while Sean desperately sifted through the empty, aching fragments in his head.
That night, after Detro had shot down his plea to come over, "Some of us have work at night and in the morning, you know," Sean had figured he'd just grab a six-pack from the corner store and call it a night. But then he'd walked past a club, the bass thrumming through the pavement, and his resolve crumbled. A few drinks couldn't hurt, right? Just one or two to take the edge off, then he'd head home.
The details after that were a blur. He couldn't remember how many he'd had or what they were even called. He just remembered a growing need to get out, to escape the suffocating press of bodies.
His head was pounding, the world tilting on its axis as he'd used the wall for support, shoving past strangers lost in their own chemical bliss. He remembered the stairs— god, the stairs, and the lurch of his stomach as his footing gave way. And then… an arm. Solid and sure, catching him before he met the floor.
Was that them? The person who'd left him feeling like he'd been through a war?
It was a useless question. He hadn't even seen their face.
"Out."
Sean's head jerked up at the single, sharp word. "You're dumping me here? That's harsh, even for you."
Detro, looking utterly drained and thoroughly exasperated, reached over and flicked him hard on the forehead. He then pointed a deliberate finger at the apartment building directly in front of the car. "You need glasses? That's your building. Now get out."
A sheepish grin spread across Sean's face. "Oh. Thought you were ditching me on the curb. You wanna come up?"
"Not a chance in hell. Go on, get inside. I'm going home," Detro said, giving him a final, gentle shove toward the door until Sean reluctantly unbuckled and climbed out.
Detro let out a long, world-weary sigh, his hand already on the gearshift. He was just about to pull away when a frantic knocking on his window stopped him. He lowered it with a look that could wilt flowers. "What. Now?"
Sean leaned in, putting on his most pathetic expression. "Write me a sick letter?"
Detro just stared at him for a beat before rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful.
"Already handled it. The second you gave me that address, I fired one off by courier," Detro said, his foot already pressing down on the accelerator. He was clearly done with this conversation and with Sean for the foreseeable future.
A faint, grateful smile touched Sean's lips. He watched the taillights disappear before turning and making the careful, shuffling trek up to his apartment. The second the door was locked, he peeled off every stitch of clothing. The relief was immediate. The constant, grating friction of the fabric had been its own special kind of torture. Nakedness was a mercy.
He lowered himself gingerly onto the sofa, hissing as his bare skin met the cool leather. He reached for the paper bag, pulling out the clothes, and his fingers brushed against the sticky note. His eyes lingered on the twelve digits.
Call him? And say what, exactly? 'Thanks for the five-star ride and the walk of shame'? Not a chance.
Sean slumped back against the cushions with a heavy sigh. It was a genuine shame, really. To have been in a place like that and to have been in too much agony to properly appreciate it. In another life, he would have been documenting every artfully placed throw pillow.
He crumpled the note into a tight ball and tossed it toward the bin. It missed, landing on the floor beside a stack of unopened mail. He left it there. There was no point. It wasn't like he was going to do anything about it.