The sky was as harsh as the pavement.
Lightning-charged clouds churned and boiled darker with muted snarls, prying open the heavens to release a solid downpour that swallowed Rome whole. Slashing rain consumed marketplaces, streets, and abandoned cafes. Wind howled and ripped and drove and demanded.
Lovino's head struck the ground moments after the bottle of Vodka slipped from his fingers and exploded. He would not move. He didn't care that his hair was plastered against his face or that his clothes clung tight enough to suffocate. Hell, why should he care. No one cared. Even if he hadn't kicked his phone into the gutter before running for cover, no one would bother calling it. No one would even bother looking for him.
Sobs shook his body and he choked out a low whine into the concrete. It was cold, wet, abrasive, pressing heavily into his side—or vice versa—the alcohol made it impossible to tell which way was up anymore. Nausea gripped him and he tightened into a ball, desperate to clutch his stomach until it passed. Oxygen did not come easily; his world spun and lurched.
Time and space warped, stretched, bended, and collapsed. There was only the rain and the pavement and the taste of Vodka seeping through his senses.
There was nothing.
Hours must have passed—or minutes—when his world lurched a second time. The bite of pavement had given way to something soft, warm, solid. His head lulled across something safe, where the cold rain could no longer pelt his face.
Something hot dripped onto his cheek and his eyes slid open. Swimming somewhere beyond his consciousness, he could make out a black sweatshirt and white hair matted down around pale skin. Red eyes gleamed harsh determination, set forward, tears mingling with the rain, their owner carrying Lovino to safety.