Chapter Text
Carlos fucking hates Christmas.
Although, to be fair, it’s arguably his busiest time of the year. Everyone out there, spending their money on a good time. Festive get-togethers with friends and office parties. Everybody needs drugs. Carlos doesn’t see it as any different to being Toys R Us. Demand and supply, right? Just don't sprinkle coke on the mince pie you leave out for Santa, unless you want your Christmas tree to get violated by a fat man in a fur trimmed suit.
He looks sideways out of the window. The chilly darkness of London highlighted by a string of coloured bulbs that dangle from the bar’s flickering sign outside. A couple of people scurry by, but this isn’t the kind of place you stop for an eggnog. Carlos’ eyes return to the glass in front of him, a half drunk whiskey, and he realises that his companion is talking.
‘..just came through the door, like he lived there. I need to get my fucking locks changed.’
Carlos tilts his head. ‘What?’
Lando sniffs, lifting his fingers to rub his nose. The skin there is red and chapped, like he has a cold. He’s not sick. ‘Fewtrell,’ he replies, as though this is a simple enough explanation.
‘I told you if you let him stay you’d never get rid of him.’
He laughs, short and joyless, then his expression changes and a smile spreads across his face. ‘Least I’ve got my Christmas day off to look forward to.’
It’s Carlos’ turn to laugh. It barks out of him, making Lando jump. ‘Day off?’ he asks incredulously.
Lando looks up at him, wrongfooted. ‘Well, it is customary,’ he says quietly.
Carlos snorts. ‘Next you’ll be asking for a payslip every month.’ He raises the glass to his lips and sips the amber liquor. ‘Fuck sake, Lando.’
The bar isn’t busy. Carlos tips his chair back onto its rear legs and leans against the wall behind him as Lando sits opposite, huddled in his coat, counting change into neat little piles. In an ideal world he wouldn’t have to deal with cash, perhaps get himself one of those handy contactless card readers, then Lando couldn’t come back from a drop off with pocketfuls of change. Who even pays for an eight ball with pound coins?
Lando slides the stacks of gold and silver into his palm and gets to his feet, wandering across to the counter where Terry, the bar's owner and landlord, is smoking and watching Strictly on a small television. He hands over the money and waits, patiently, as Terry recounts it, stabbing his stubby fingers against the cash register buttons and catching the drawer as it shoots open with a light ding! There’s a series of sharp metallic clatters, as Terry sorts the coins and deposits them in the right sections, then he reaches for a couple of notes to return to Lando.
‘Don’t spend it all at once, gremlin,’ he says, affectionately ruffling Lando’s hair with the other hand.
Lando grins and trots back to where Carlos is sitting. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out the money.
Carlos takes it. Checking the amount with a quick flick of his wrist. ‘We should get going soon.’
‘I need the toilet first,’ Lando says. ‘Two secs.’
He doesn’t notice Carlos following him into the small mens’ room and starts slightly when he leaves the cubicle to find him leaning against the sink.
‘Hey,’ Carlos says, smiling slyly. ‘Do you want your Christmas bonus?’
‘My what ?’ Lando squeaks. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m sure I can spare you a little treat,’ Carlos replies with a shrug. He knows that Lando’s thinking about the money he just changed and it’ll be a shame to dash his hopes. ‘Here,’ he says, pulling a small silver case from his pocket and clicking it open.
Lando’s shoulders sag slightly at the realisation that he’s not getting any cash, but he still steps up obediently as Carlos licks the end of his finger and dabs it into the white powder. Still opens his mouth like a good boy and sucks it clean. Carlos groans at the sensation of Lando’s tongue lapping around the nail, the way his cheeks are ever so slightly hollowed.
‘Fuck it,’ he growls, pushing Lando back into the cubicle and down onto his knees with a firm hand over his collar bone. ‘Two bonuses, huh, Lando?’
Carlos chuckles as he eases himself out of his jeans and into the warm wetness of Lando’s mouth. He can hear Lando breathing hard and fast. Feel the tickle of warm exhaled air against his groin. He cards his fingers though Lando’s curls at the back of his head, twisting them tight until he hears a choked whimper.
When he glances down, Lando’s looking back at him from beneath his eyelashes, pupils blown open by the hit of amphetamines. If he wasn’t so fucking annoying he’d still be quite a catch, Carlos thinks, as he jams his hips forwards and Lando gags. Disgusting.
It doesn’t take him long to come, then he leaves Lando to swallow it down, or spit it out, whatever - it’s his choice what to do with his bonus, right? - as he washes his hands and wets his hair a little in the mirror. Merry Christmas, Lando.
‘Come on!’ he snaps, tutting at the sight of him, as he appears. ‘Jesus Christ. You’re hardly a poster boy for this operation.’
Lando sniggers, the pitch almost as high as he is. His eyes are watering slightly and he needs to wipe drool from his chin. Carlos’ gaze flicks down to the crotch of his jeans, that’s awkwardly peaked.
‘You going to do something about that?’ Carlos asks, stone-faced.
He looks down at himself. ‘Oh shit,’ Lando says, looking back at Carlos in bemusement. ‘Did you wanna...?’
‘Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Lando.’
Lando giggles again and reaches into his boxers to adjust himself. ‘Sorted!’ he announces, and zips his coat up over the bulge.
They leave the bar, Carlos throwing a twenty onto the counter as they pass. Lando skips along behind him, waving to Terry as they leave and almost colliding with a stool. The old man sighs and turns his attention back to the dancing celebrities.
‘Where are we going first?’
Carlos checks his phone. ‘Hammersmith,’ he replies.
The night air is bitterly cold, with the beginnings of snow lightly fluttering around them. Lando’s teeth chatter incessantly and he blows into his hands as they make for a nearby tube station entrance.
Carlos fires off a couple of texts as the escalator takes them deep underground. Lando grips onto the moving handrail, his hand getting further and further from his body because the system is never in sync. Carlos thinks about pushing him over and seeing what would happen if he fell all the way to the bottom, but he needs to get shit done tonight. Maybe tomorrow?
Their journey continues down another long corridor and ends on a semi-deserted circle line platform. The air here is thick and warm - so at least Lando’s teeth are quieter. Carlos checks for the next train, leaning against the curved wall as Lando reads the adverts to himself aloud.
Carlos feels his hair gently lift from his forehead, the hot air announcing the arrival of their train as it’s pushed along in front of it down the long dark tunnel. Lando looks at him expectantly and they wait at the platform edge for the train to stop.
‘Mind the gap,’ Lando warns as the doors open.
Carlos shoves him into the carriage.
‘Carlos?’
Carlos sighs and hopes that someone else on board shares his name. He keeps his head down just in case.
‘It is you! Carlos, hey!’
He looks up into a pair of excited hazel eyes as a hand firmly slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Charles, I didn’t know you were in town,' he grimaces.
Carlos’ cousin drops into the opposite seat, a smile almost as wide as his face beaming across the aisle. ‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll be back where I belong in sleepy Brighton by the end of tonight. Charlotte will cook me with the goose if I tried to skip out on Christmas! I just came up to see some friends and take in the lights!’
‘You and your weird festive fetish,’ Carlos says, sneering. ‘You’re always broke because of it, yet you’re always so fucking cheerful.’
Charles rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re loaded and you’re always miserable. So just pretend I’m picking up the slack.’
‘Humbug,’ Carlos mutters under his breath.
Charles tuts and peers around his cousin. ‘Hello. It’s Lando, right?’
‘Are you looking to get hooked up?’ Lando replies blankly.
Carlos slaps him round the back of the head.
The next station is Barbican.
Charles’ eyes snap up at the sound of the cool voice announcing the imminent stop. ‘Damn, this is me. Listen, get the train down in the morning. We’d love to have you over for dinner.’
‘Bye Charles,’ Carlos says, almost as frostily as the recorded station call.
Charles laughs and gives his cousin another friendly nudge on the shoulder. ‘Well, if you change your mind, be there for two. Charlotte will cook enough to feed an army and it’ll be delicious!’
The train windows flood with light as it enters the station and Charles turns to leave. ‘Merry Christmas, Carlos.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Carlos replies.
‘Oh, and a Merry Christmas to you too, Lando!’ he adds.
Lando, experiencing a moment of brief lucidity, looks up and smiles dopily at him. ‘You too, mate.’
‘Fucking, Merry Christmas! ’ Carlos hisses as they finally arrive in Hammersmith.
Lando shrugs. His buzz is dissipating now and the teeth chattering is back. ‘Some people really like Christmas.’
‘Some people should stay out of my wa- Oh, come on!’
Carlos’ exit is blocked by two sincere looking charity workers, each holding a blue collection tin which they’re rattling hopefully. He looks around for an alternative route, but the only feasible one involves jumping across live tracks in front of the station supervisor.
‘Hi there,’ one of them says, smiling at them both as he approaches. ‘I’m Seb, this is my colleague Lewis. We’re collecting tonight on behalf of the West London Children’s Relief Project. We support children from care or separated from asylum seeker families to access education and find new homes. Our sponsorship packages start from as little as four pounds a month. How much could we put you down for today?’
‘Nothing,’ Carlos replies curtly.
‘We don’t have to put your name on it, you can be left anonymous,’ Seb suggests.
‘Can I just be left alone?’ Carlos counters. ‘Just send them to the orphanage!’
The second charity worker looks horrified. ‘Man, that place is the worst ! Some of the kids we work with would rather freeze than have to go there.’
Carlos weighs this up thoughtfully. ‘Well, there is an employment crisis. Perhaps if they’d rather die we should just respect their right to choose?’
The man called Seb swallows nervously and glances at Lando. ‘Is he serious?’
‘He’s just in a bit of a bad mood today,’ Lando replies, taking hold of the sleeves of Carlos’ jacket and steering him towards the turnstiles. ‘Come on, Carlos.’
‘That was a bit harsh,’ Lando says as they stride down the street, away from the shops and towards a sweeping dual carriageway flyover that rumbles overhead.
Carlos side-eyes him and carries on walking. ‘I work hard for my money. I’m not giving it away to some little freeloaders!’
‘They’re probably about five years old!’
‘Makes no difference. Get a paper round or something.’ Carlos shoots back. ‘Fuck me, I hate Hammersmith. Ricciardo better have the cash or this journey will have been a total waste of time.’
They cross the road at the lights and swing right around the Apollo , following the road round into a gated estate of white Georgian houses that have been converted into flats. The man they’re meeting is one of Carlos’ distributors, an Australian who presumably irritates people into buying his gear so he just goes the fuck away. He lives at the back of the block, but Carlos can see him sitting on a wall at the corner. Clever.
When he sees them approaching he hops off the wall and strolls towards them, his welcoming smile brighter than the fluorescent glow from the tops of the nearby lamp posts.
‘Fellas!’ he cries, opening out his arms. ‘Felix navi-whatever it’s called!’
Carlos scowls. It’s bad enough being wished a Merry Christmas, but to have his mother tongue butchered at the same time? Unacceptable. ‘Did you bring the cash?’ he asks.
The smile on Ricciardo’s face falters slightly. ‘See, here’s the thing…’ he begins.
Carlos sighs and rubs his hand down his face. He knew it. Waste of time.
‘It’s Christmas, everyone’s spent their money on toys and shit. You know me, my territory’s the uni kids and they’ve all gone home for the holidays!’
Lando nods in understanding.
‘See, my man here gets it,’ Ricciardo says, winking at Lando. ‘If you can give me until term kicks back off, I guarantee, I’ll give you double! That’s fair, right?’
‘Fair would be paying what you owe, instead of trying to take advantage of my generous nature!’ Carlos snaps. He’s fairly sure that Lando’s staring at him with his mouth open in disbelief, so he purposefully ignores him.
‘Look, Carlos. I swear . I’ll have your money, you just gotta give me a little more time to move the goods!’
Carlos closes the gap between them and grabs Ricciardo by the neck, shoving him up against the dark wall behind him. ‘You’ve got until the first of January. If you don’t pay by then I’ll cut your fucking balls off.’
Ricciardo swallows against the grip, his Adam's apple caught by Carlos’ taut fingers. ‘I hear ya,’ he croaks. ‘New year it is.’
When he’s released he slumps down the wall and coughs briefly.
‘Lando, let’s go,’ Carlos orders, turning on his heel and walking away.
Lando moves to follow, then quickly dashes to Ricciardo, crouching to offer some words of encouragement. Carlos glances back, seeing Lando’s features picked out in the darkness. Soft. He feels his dick twitch, but he doesn’t have time to start - literally - fucking about outside tonight.
‘Lando!’
‘Coming!’ Lando calls and a moment later he’s back at Carlos’ side. ‘He’ll pay, don’t worry.’
Carlos snorts. ‘Why would I be worried about it?’
Fifteen minutes later, they’re back on the tube - heading south. Lando plays a game on his phone whilst Carlos stares at the line map above the window opposite, reminding himself which stop they need. They’re on their way to see a new distributor, in Clapham. A guy called Sergio, who only just started moving gear for Carlos about a month ago.
They cross the Common and wind up in a leafy residential street, a far cry from their usual setting in Hackney.
‘This is a bit posh,’ Lando says, peering up at the houses as they pass. ‘What number is it?’
Carlos checks his phone. ‘Eleven,’ he replies and a few moments later they come to a halt beside a small iron gate, the dark blue door beyond bearing two brass number ones. Lando reaches up and knocks on it. Almost immediately it opens and a dark haired man steps out onto the path, pulling it to behind him.
‘Hola,’ he says, barely a whisper.
Lando sniggers. ‘Let me guess, you’ve not let the wife in on your new business venture?’
‘Something like that,’ Sergio replies. He glances nervously back at the house, where his wife and a small boy are visible through an illuminated window. ‘Por favor, this is just until I get work sorted. They mustn’t know!’
Carlos looks bored. ‘Do you have the money?’
Sergio blanks for a second and then jumps into action. ‘Si, yes. Here!’ He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wad of folded notes.
‘Four hundred?’ Carlos asks, nodding at Lando to take the money.
‘It’s all there,’ Sergio says.
Lando quickly counts and then smiles at Sergio. ‘Yup, four hundred smackaroos!’
Carlos wonders sometimes if Lando is actually an adult, or if he just got to age six and then his brain stopped but his body carried on growing. ‘Okay, give him the new gear.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Sergio asks. ‘I don’t have any more orders.’
‘Then go find some,’ Carlos retorts, tapping Sergio on the cheek with his palm. ‘You make good money. Go make some more.’
Sergio’s eyes dart across to Lando. ‘I can’t, not over Christmas.’
Carlos nods at Sergio’s family through the window. ‘You can and you will. Unless you want your little secret to get out?’
A small strangled noise emits from Sergio’s throat.
‘I didn’t think so,’ Carlos says, grinning as Lando pushes a tightly wrapped package into Sergio’s hands.
‘You know, Carlos, there’s no point in working tomorrow.’
Carlos huffs loudly. He knows that Lando’s been bursting to bring this up again since he came back down, and he considers giving him another hit just to take his mind off the notion of agreeable Christmas working conditions.
‘Hear me out,’ Lando continues, turning in his seat to capture Carlos’ full attention. It’s late now and the train taking them home to West London is almost empty. ‘Everyone will be hanging out at home. Only a few people go out. Half the tube stations will be closed. It’s going to cost more than it’s worth.’
In a way he’s right. Christmas Day is a bank holiday, so the public transport options will be hit or miss at best.
‘Don’t you just want to spend the day snuggled up with a cup of tea? Even better, you’ve got a family to spend it with! You could go and see your cousin?’
‘Charles is probably the most obnoxiously happy person on the planet on a normal day! I can’t cope with that on one of his special occasions, like Christmas.’
Lando tilts his head and gives Carlos a look that he can’t quite place. ‘You could come and hang out with me?
Carlos frowns at him. ‘You’re begging me for a day off and you don’t actually have anything to do?’
‘It’s the point of Christmas, Carlos. You do what makes you happy!’
Carlos grumbles, shaking his head.
He sits in silence for the rest of the way, glancing sideways every now and then as Lando picks up where he left off with his game. It’s racing, so he’s tilting the phone in his hands from side to side to steer. His tongue peeking out from between his lips as he concentrates.
Carlos realises after a while that he’s hard, and when they arrive at the station he pulls Lando into the disabled toilets and doses him up with a fat line. He’ll do anything for Carlos when he’s high, and that’s something he takes full advantage of, like having a whore that he doesn’t really need to pay for.
So he pushes Lando’s face into the cold tiles of the dirty public bathroom, spits in his hand and fucks him. He thinks about reaching round to finish him off too - poor kid never comes - but then his focus pinches in, and the heat in his gut spreads out like a blanket of pleasure, so he forgets and just gives him an awkward pat on the back afterwards.
His flat is down the road from Lando’s. They pause briefly at the entrance to the tower and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he stares at Carlos.
‘I know you hate it, but I’m going to say it anyway.’
Carlos groans. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘Merry Christmas, Carlos.’
‘Don’t be late on Boxing Day, Lando.’
Lando rolls his eyes, the smile still in place, and ambles off in the direction of his own estate. Carlos flashes his key fob and watches Lando walk away. He is kind of cute, and there’s a lot of history there, but that’s not why he keeps him around. He’s actually good at his job and not getting shot. Double trouble.
Carlos enters the building, passes the abandoned concierge desk, and heads for the lift. He grimaces at the led display above both doors - Out of service - then shoulders the door to the right of him open and starts up the stairs. Typical. His flat, number fifty-five, is on the tenth floor and when he reaches the landing he catches his breath for a moment, looking out of the stairwell windows at the lights of London. The tall buildings of the financial district obscuring the historical landmarks of Westminster.
When he reaches his home, he unlocks the security cage - a measure he added three years ago when a competitor supplier decided he was their target for a raid - and then swings open his red pvc door, stumbling into the darkness without flicking on the light.
Despite his wealth, Carlos doesn’t live comfortably. The space is as sparse and cold as the night air outside and, had the lights been on, he would have seen his own breath misting as he exhaled. The flat has two bedrooms, but they’re never used. Carlos exists in the lounge, sleeping on a mattress in the corner of the room. He won’t pay for heating, preferring to feed off the warmth that rises through the building and he doesn’t have any fancy electronic gadgets. He owns a television, but refuses to pay for a licence, Nothing that could unnecessarily increase his utility costs. It’s only the unavoidable desire for coffee in the mornings that forced him into owning a kettle and a mini-fridge to put the milk in.
He moves to the kitchen, reaching for a pot noodle that he left on the counter earlier and filling the kettle. He leans against the fridge in the darkness, watching the snow fall and build in the corner of his window frame.
Despite how far away from the ground he is, he can hear the shouts in the street below. People returning home from nearby pubs, cheeks rosy with drink and festive cheer. Carlos’ lip curls at the thought, then he thinks about calling Lando back out for some last minute sales opportunities. In a rare show of consideration, he leaves his phone in his pocket, knowing that Lando will have already kicked off his shoes and wrapped his frozen fingers around a mug of tea. The Boxing Day trade will make up for it. All that money that’ll fall out of people’s Christmas cards has to go somewhere.
Carlos pours boiling water into the noodles and returns to the lounge. He drops, cross-legged, onto the mattress and rests the plastic cup on the threadbare carpet. It takes him a couple of seconds to find the television remote that's lost in the sheets, but eventually locates it and turns on the screen at the wall.
‘Ugh,’ he groans, when the television comes to life with a carol service. He stabs at the remote’s buttons until he comes across Die Hard, on ITV. ‘ Not a Christmas movie,’ he says to nobody, tossing the remote aside and retrieving his dinner.
Fifteen minutes in, the television jumps to another channel. ‘What the-?’ Carlos mutters, reaching to change it back from a festive episode of Come Dine With Me. With Die Hard reinstated, he settles back down.
Ten minutes later the exact same thing happens again. This time the channel switches to It’s a Wonderful Life , on Channel 5. ‘Fuck sake!’ Carlos snaps, slamming down the almost empty noodles. He picks up the remote and glares at it, pulling the back off and swapping the batteries over. He returns the channel to a bleeding Bruce Willis, but within seconds, the channel is back to something Christmassy again.
‘Que es esta mierda?!’ he shouts, then leans forward and drags the plug out of the wall.
The television goes dark and Carlos feels triumphant, at last.
That’s when he hears the lounge door creak.
‘This place really is a shit hole, you know?’ a familiar voice says, it’s owner following it into the room a moment later.
Carlos shrieks and scrambles back across the mattress towards the wall.
The man stops and chuckles. ‘Oh, calm down, Chili. I thought you’d be pleased to see me?’
Carlos rubs his eyes, blinking rapidly. ‘It’s not real. It’s not real!’ he repeats.
The man reaches a hand into his pocket, pulling out a joint which he slots between his lips and attempts to light with a failing zippo. ‘Help me out here?’ he asks.
Carlos nods at the only table in the room and the man steps across, locating a lighter and sparking a flame to light the risla. The light herbal scent of dutch homegrown drifts around the room in smokey tendrils. The man moves to sit at a small chair, situated beside the table from which he’d taken the lighter.
‘So how’s things?’
‘It’s not real. You’re not real.’ Carlos continues to chant.
The man picks up a bag of coins from the table and throws it at him. Carlos ducks, the bag splitting and raining silver change down onto his head. ‘Ay! Max!’ he yelps.
‘Is that real enough for you?’ Max barks. He sits back in the chair and takes a long hit off the joint. ‘Honestly!’
‘You’re dead,’ Carlos whispers. ‘That’s why I don’t believe it. I watched you die.’
Max nods, pouting his bottom lip out. Carlos does have a point. He’ll have been passed on for three Christmases once this one is done with.
Carlos studies him. The ghostly pale skin and grey tinge to his clothing. He can’t be sure, but he thinks that Max could be glowing slightly, as though his being gives off an ethereal light. Under his jacket, Carlos can see the very same stained bandages he’d hastily applied as he waited for the ambulance to come, all those years ago. Trying to stop the blood flow after a deal in Camden had gone catastrophically wrong. Max’s breathing had stopped long before the sirens ever sounded, and Carlos had run from the scene, leaving his partner’s body slumped on the wet pavement.
‘You ditched me, you cunt!’ Max says, sourly.
‘What was I supposed to do?’ Carlos shoots back. ‘I had a kilo on me. I would have gone down for life!’
‘Oh boo hoo,’ Max cries back, sarcastically. ‘Are you still hanging round with that little twerp, Lando?’
Carlos’ eyes lift, an indignant expression on his face. ‘He’s not a twerp,’ he says, coldly.
Max snorts. ‘You keep him around so you can fuck him. You’re fooling nobody.’
‘Is there a point to this visit, or did you just come to have a go at me?’
‘Actually, yes. I’m here to save your ass,’ Max replies.
Carlos laughs softly. ‘From what, exactly?’
Max gets to his feet. ‘Yourself,’ he says. ‘You should put your jacket on, we’re going out.’
A few minutes later Carlos locks his front door and methodically fastens the cage. ‘Where are we going?’ he asks.
‘To the roof,’ Max says, as simply as he’d say they were going to the post office.
Carlos’ eyebrows lift. ‘What?’
Max pushes into the stairwell and holds the door open behind him. ‘Come on. I don’t have all night!’
When Carlos reaches the top floor he’s guided up a ladder that takes them into a service area for the lifts. Max weaves around the machinery and opens another access door, which floods the space with an icy gust. Carlos looks out to see that the snow is falling fast now and when he steps onto the roof of the tower, his shoes sink into a good few inches of crisp whiteness.
‘What are we doing on the roof?’ he asks, shouting slightly against the howling wind. They’re twenty-eight floors up now, and the risk of being pushed over by the elements is something Carlos is already concerned about.
‘I need to show you something,’ Max replies, continuing to stride forwards towards the edge of the building. ‘Look,’ he says, gesturing into the night sky.
Carlos peers into the darkness, trying to focus beyond the snowflakes. ‘What am I looking at? There’s nothing he-’ he stops abruptly as something catches his eye - a drifting figure, a woman. She’s barely more than the smoke that Max blew out in rings in his flat, but she’s definitely there. Hollow eyes and withered limbs, reaching out to Carlos as she passes on the wind. Pleading.
‘What is this?’ he asks, stepping forwards, entranced. As he reaches up, another apparition glides into view, a man this time. Carlos swears he can hear a low moan coming from its open mouth, but it could be the wind.
‘They’re the dead,’ Max explains. ‘Spirits of those who have passed on tonight. The ones with no light to guide them.’
Carlos looks towards Max, his brow creased. ‘Will they not go to heaven?’
Max laughs once, through his nostrils. ‘Not everyone goes to heaven, Carlos. The broken souls, those who cheat and betray, they’re undeserving of the light.’
‘Dios mio,’ Carlos breathes. ‘Why are you showing me this?’
‘Because this is where you’ll be soon.’
Carlos gasps and stumbles backwards slightly, his feet slipping in the snow. ‘No, Max! Seriously?!’
‘I am serious, Chili,’ Max replies. ‘I know it, because this is where I was. You’ve had another three years of shit to add on.’
Shaking his head, Carlos’ expression turns stern. ‘No, I won’t believe it!’
Max sighs, gritting his teeth. ‘Fine. Believe what you want from me, but you’ll be getting some visitors later. Perhaps they’ll convince you, if someone you practically murdered can’t.’
Carlos scowls at the suggestion. ‘I don’t want visitors.’
‘Tough! The first one’s coming at about one o’clock,’ Max shouts. ‘Oh, and Carlos?’
He looks up just as Max catches hold of his arm with one hand and the shoulder of his jacket with the other. With barely any effort he hauls him to the edge of the roof, to where a shallow rail protects from the drop beyond.
‘No!’ he screams, hands scrambling for purchase on Max’s own clothing. ‘What are you doing?! Stop!’
Max laughs, loud and callous against the storm. ‘Oh, Chili. This is what last chances really feel like,’ he says, and then tosses him over the rail.
Carlos continues to shout, desperate and petrified as the ground rushes up to meet him. He pulls his hands in to protect his face from the inevitable impact - a useless gesture, considering he’s about to hit the floor at about a hundred and fifteen miles an hour. As his mind clears itself, one thought remains.
Fuck. I hope Lando will be alright.