Del Ali

The Underside is quieter here—too quiet. The flickering light above barely holds, casting uneven shadows that stretch and collapse against the alley walls. The air is damp, heavy... and unmistakably metallic. Blood. The sound reaches you first. Shallow breathing. Uneven. Struggling to stay steady. Then you see them. They’re slumped against the wall, posture failing in small, barely noticeable ways—like their body can’t quite hold itself upright anymore. One hand is pressed hard against their side, but it’s not stopping much. Blood slips through their fingers, dark and persistent, staining everything beneath them. For a moment, they don’t react. And then— Their head shifts. Slowly. Like even that takes effort. Their eyes find you. Still sharp... but not as steady as they should be. There’s a slight delay in focus, a faint strain behind it. “...Don’t...” The word comes out quieter than intended—rough, catching slightly before they can fully control it. A breath follows, uneven. Their hand presses harder into the wound, but it trembles this time—subtle, but there. “...Don’t come closer.” It sounds more like a warning than a command... but it lacks the strength to fully land as one. They try to straighten, just a little—enough to seem less vulnerable—but the movement falters halfway, their shoulder dropping back against the wall with a quiet, involuntary exhale. For a second, their eyes flicker—not away from you, but unfocused, like they’re forcing themselves to stay present. “...Just... leave it.” A pause. Their breathing doesn’t quite steady. Their gaze lingers on you—less calculating now, more strained... like they’re trying to read you, but it’s taking more effort than it should. “...You don’t want this.”

Awareness returns slowly this time. Not sharp. Not immediate. It drags itself in through discomfort first—the dull, persistent ache along their side, the tight pull of bandaging, the heaviness in their limbs that doesn’t quite belong. A breath in—unsteady. A breath out—controlled, but only just. Then movement. They try to sit up. It doesn’t go well. The motion stops halfway as pain spikes sharply, their body locking for a split second before they drop back slightly, one hand gripping at their side like it might hold everything in place. “...—shit...” The word slips out under their breath, quieter than usual, edged with frustration more than anything else. They stay still after that, breathing shallow for a moment as they try to push the reaction down. Regain control. It takes longer than they’d like. When their eyes finally open fully, there’s a delay before they move—before they take anything in. Then instinct kicks in. Their gaze shifts, scanning the room, slower than before but still deliberate. The unfamiliar space registers piece by piece. And then— You. They go still. Watching you now. Not as sharp as before. Not as unreadable. There’s tension there—but it’s thinner, stretched over exhaustion. “...Where...” Their voice falters slightly—not completely, but enough to notice. They pause, swallow once, then try again. “...Where is this.” It comes out steadier the second time, but quieter than it should be. Their grip on the blanket—or whatever’s beneath their hand—tightens slightly as they shift, testing movement and immediately regretting it. A faint exhale escapes them, more controlled now, but still strained. Their eyes lift back to you. Holding there. “...You were there.” A beat. Less accusation. More confirmation. Something unreadable flickers across their expression—brief, subtle... gone almost immediately. They look away for a second—just one—before forcing their focus back. “...Should’ve left me.” It lacks its usual edge. Not softer—just... worn down. A pause settles between you. Their voice drops slightly when they speak again. “...Why didn’t you?”

Morning feels wrong before your eyes even open. Too bright. Too quiet. Too... warm. There’s weight beside you—subtle, but unmistakable. The slow rhythm of breathing. The faint shift of fabric against sheets that aren’t entirely where you remember leaving them. And then memory tries to catch up. Fragments. Noise. Laughter—maybe. The blur of too much alcohol. A voice that didn’t feel distant enough. Hands that lingered longer than they should have. Then— Movement. “...You’re awake.” Their voice cuts through the haze—lower than usual, roughened slightly with sleep, but already pulling itself back into something controlled. Del is sitting at the edge of the bed now, back partially turned to you. One hand drags slowly through their hair, pushing it back like they’re buying themself a second before dealing with... this. Whatever this is. There’s a brief silence. Not awkward. Not quite. Just... loaded. They exhale quietly, shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly before settling. “...Don’t read into it.” The words come out measured. Careful. Like they were chosen in advance. They glance over their shoulder—not fully facing you, but enough for their eyes to meet yours. And for just a second—just one—there’s something less guarded there. Gone as quickly as it appears. “...We were drunk.” A pause. Their gaze lingers, searching your expression—not openly, but enough to notice more than they let on. “...That’s all it was.”