Meeting Mr Wainscott

10: Ian

wp needs dark mode for laptop asap bruh

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Ian awoke to a pounding headache and a raging hangover. He hadn't even remembered drinking that much last night, he only remembered Sasha visiting with two... maybe three... bottles of booze and they had done only God knows what while emptying them. He was seventy percent sure they had played a few rounds of Blackjack and that he owed Sasha a new Bugatti and Sasha owed him a new pair of pants considering the man had ripped his (don't ask... even Ian couldn't quite remember how they got there).

He also awoke angry, fuming even. It was as though all of his senses and neurons had been trying to kill one another while he slept and he woke up to the bloody mess left behind. He hadn't woken up with his conscious yelling at him in years, and for what? For killing a man for the first time in years? A pathetic bastard who served no purpose?

Go ahead and crucify me, he thought bitterly, ripping his blanket off of himself and snatching his phone off his bedside table. He had committed the sin tenfold in his prime, so why was his mind screaming at him now? A scowl stayed stuck on his face while he called up his workplace. He made a bullshit excuse for a sick day and laid back in his empty king-sized bed while he stared at the roof. Nursing a hangover was bad enough, but nursing one, while his mind screamed at him for his sins, was just about the cherry on top of his endless troubles. Images of the innocent faces of his students passed through his mind and he suddenly felt like a monster, like a ravenous beast was chewing at his insides.

He eventually sat up, looking around his room. His entire body was sore, specifically his lower body. The sheets were crumpled and pulled off the bed. His clothes lay littered around the floor... and clothes that weren't his were also on the floor.

His bedroom door opened suddenly and Sasha Antonov walked into his room, hair freshly washed and a towel wrapped around the muscular man's waist. 

"Morning, I didn't mean for you to drink a lot," Sasha said simply, collecting his clothes from the floor. "You are shit at Blackjack, as well."

"You cannot be serious," Ian groaned. No wonder his body hurt. "You know I'm better at poker, you cheat. What the hell happened last night?"

Sasha shrugged, taking off his towel and changing back into his suit. "You got home late and called, asking me to bring over alcohol and your stuff that was left at my house. I bring cards as well, we play a few rounds, then we drink a bit more and then-"

"That's enough," Ian sighed, groaning into his hands. "I get it."

Sasha stretched his shoulder and ruffled Ian's hair.

"I'm not a kid, stop that," Ian snapped, yet not doing anything to push him away.

"You still act like one," Sasha reminded him. "It's not good to be so impulsive, especially in this line of work-"

"I'm a teacher-"

"Let me rephrase, it's not good to be impulsive at all. Teacher or gang member, you're still an impulsive monster," Sasha grumbled, throwing Ian's forgotten long-sleeved shirt to him gently.

Ian scowled, but words left him. It didn't help his head kept panging. Despite the two being from different operations, they were still old friends and Sasha was still very right, even though Sasha's confusing speech made him want to push the man off a building sometimes.

"Whatever, go make yourself useful and make me breakfast," he muttered, putting the shirt back on and throwing himself back into his bed.

Sasha nodded, getting up. He chucked Ian's phone to him and stood at the door.