Angelo doesn't think he's all that drunk - the bartender at the Cock & Bull always mutters about him being too young, and a Templar besides, and waters the drinks, a problem which even carefully cultivating the attentions of the bunny girls hasn't solved - but Marcello is still livid when he catches him returning to the abbey.
"Is this how you seek to bring respect to the abbey?" Marcello demands with a shove. Angelo isn't drunk - he isn't - but he's also not quite at his best, so that instead of catching his balance he trips over his own feet and finds himself sprawled on the stone steps leading up to the Templars' quarters, with an ache in his head and blur to his vision which have nothing to do with drink. "Staggering around, reeking of cheap liquor, disturbing those who have come to petition the Goddess?"
"I wasn't staggering," Angelo protests. "Utterly unfair accusation. And I didn't disturb anyone. Well, that one girl, but I rather think she liked it."
He offers Marcello his most engaging grin, the one which invariably makes the townswomen stop scolding him, the one he recently learned could charm girls - and no few boys - to his bed.
Marcello's frown only deepens; he reaches down and drags Angelo up by the front of his uniform. "I should report you to the Captain, but our shared blood will only bring your disgrace down on me, as well."
"Can't have that. Not with you plotting to take his position, and all," Angelo says, and a moment later there's a ringing in his ears, the taste of blood in his mouth, and it's fortunate Marcello still has that grip on his uniform, because he doubts he could stay up on his own.
He blinks his vision clear, and Goddess help him, Marcello is smiling.
"It's actually rather fortunate that everyone saw you making a fool of yourself when you returned, I suppose," Marcello says, dragging him upstairs. "Because no one is going to question that you simply couldn't keep your feet."
The slightest push, and he topples backward, landing hard on unyielding stone, powerless to stop the tumbling fall which deposits him back where they started. He lies still, unable to move if he wanted to; he can feel bone grate on bone as he breathes, and there's blood in his eyes, and the world continues to spin around him long after his body has come to a stop.
"Well, well. So you managed not to break your neck." He senses Marcello step over him. "We'll have to see if your luck holds, and someone finds you before you die of something else."
He manages, by sheer force of will, to draw in enough air to speak. "Marcello, please."
A sound of disgust answers him. "You're just like our father," Marcello spits before turning away, and oddly, that hurts most of all.
Written for 30 Tortures. Session #14 - public intoxication
