tomhatch

[tomhatch]

He swallowed thickly as Cassio closed the distance between them, suddenly hyper-aware of everything — his breath, the narrowing space between them, and the little baggie now pressing against his shoulder beneath the other man’s hand. Maybe it was the withdrawal scrambling his senses, or maybe it was the desperation mixing with how his eyes locked onto Cassio’s face — either way, Tommy was losing what little clarity remained fast. With him this close, it was getting harder to think, let alone hold onto whatever shred of composure he had left. "I, uh -- no. I ain't really a morning person," he let out a nervous scoff, trying -- and failing-- to keep his gaze from flickering to the Barone man's lips. "Lemme guess, your favorite brunch spot requires a fuckin' passport and a private jet to get there?" Seeing as members of the Family maintained an enormous amount of wealth, he wouldn't have been surprised. 

Tongue poked at his cheek, considering Cassio's offer. It's not like he was asking for any meaningful intel, right? Just about the Outlaws president's personality, what he's like, all of which was harmless. Besides, even though Tommy was relatively comfortable with the male, he remembered how intimidated he was in those initial meetings, even if León was the one who offered to sponsor him in the first place. And with that little baggie hovering between them, saying no didn’t feel like much of an option. “Alright, fine,” he muttered, eyes darting around, suddenly paranoid someone might be close enough to overhear. “He’s…tough. Real steely motherfucker. Damn near impossible to read, even when you do know him. Loyalty’s everything to him.” Tommy shifted, lowering his voice slightly. “Just don’t treat him like he’s stupid. Say what you want and say it straight, and you’ll probably walk outta there with your head in one piece.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “That enough for you?”

every response given to him felt as if he were standing opposite of the most sheltered thing he'd ever seen. as if tommy had only recently stepped out of the home that had been his cave for the last twenty something years. god, it almost made cassio feel bad for him. if he weren't witnessing the absolute devastation of withdrawals rack the man. clearly the lack of consideration to the world outside of two or three states had been a fault of tommy's own doing. library cards were free, or so he had heard once upon a time. and cassio knew that at least he could read. unless he used text to speech, in which case, maybe tommy couldn't read. the thought had his lips pressed together, pursed as he considered it. for a moment. before he returned to the present moment at hand. and the man that was all but salivating before him .

each movement was caught with ease. the step forward, the way tommy's gaze shifted. oh, this would be almost too easy. the sound of cassio's tongue against the back of his teeth greeted tommy's words quickly. before he took his own step forward, effectively cutting off what minimal distance separated them. the baggie was tucked against the palm of his hand, as he soon settled it on the other's shoulder. " are you saying you don't brunch? " the question came while he tried to hold back his smirk, " you should. it's honestly the best. maybe i'll take you to my favorite place one day. " his lips settled into an easy smile, " look, i'm not asking for the guy's whole life story. i just want to know what he's like. whether i should take out a life insurance policy before i approach him for a casual chat. " he removed his hand from tommy's shoulder, held it up in the very minimal space between them. with the baggie now held between his pointer and middle finger. " just a bit of information, and this is all yours, piccolo pulcino. "

[tomhatch]

He let out a short breath, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, that’s…very kind of you.” He didn’t have any reason to think she was playing him — because really, why would she? Prison and time with the Outlaws had done their job, hardening him in all the ways that counted. He knew violence, knew what it took to survive, to protect the people you loved. But the mind? That was a trickier thing. Slower to catch up. Under all the rough edges and calloused instincts, Tommy was still just a farm boy from Utah — not very worldly, not quite as guarded as maybe he should’ve been. “Just for a moment, alright — I’ll take it,” he said, then added with a crooked grin, “Guess I should’ve started blowin’ vape smoke in pretty girls’ faces a hell of a lot sooner, huh? Would'a saved me a lot of initial heartbreak.”

Reaching over to the gift basket, he peeled back the plastic and fished out a small bag of M&Ms, tearing it open and letting a few spill into his palm. “Somethin’ like that. You sure he didn’t have on one of those helmets like the old-timey knights used to wear?” It sure felt like it — and the blotchy bruises still blooming across his forehead made a pretty solid case for it. “Maybe I'll just start tellin' people I fought off a fuckin' bear,” he said, only half-joking, "They even got those out here? Bears?" Worth a shot, even if word would get around quick — fast enough to brand him as the guy who got his ass handed to him in the first twenty seconds. Still, at least he hadn’t been stabbed. Small victories. “Unsurprising,” he added with a smirk, holding the open bag of M&Ms out to her in a silent offer before asking, “How come? I mean — what kinda questions you askin’, exactly?”

well, he certainly had a point there. they had indeed only met each other less than a whole twenty-four hours ago. her lips pressed together, a hum in the base of her throat. normally, she wasn't one to mince words. to cover up her intentions with pretty fillers. then again, it wouldn't be an entire lie. zehra had indeed come looking for him. after she'd heard that he'd been brought to this particular hospital, along with some of the others. semantics, really. but then his next words, and the way his gaze tracked over the gift basket she'd set down. the smile seemed to blossom at that point, " nope, that is all for you. no pit stop, no end destination on the opposite end of the hospital. " she watched him, closely. an unfortunate habit that she'd picked up from when she'd been younger. that she'd honed over the years, when questioning others on the finer details of a case. and she noted the soft flicker in his eyes. brief, but noticeable. now, what was that?

but then his question, his quick movements that had him drawn closer to her. " maybe, just for a moment, " she teased, as that smile remained. even as he pushed back against her question. about the reasoning for why exactly he'd gone after some random in the crowd. well, random to her, she supposed. a brow lifted slowly, as she mulled over his words. there was something hidden there, tucked beneath the surface. either something he didn't want to admit to, or something he wasn't allowed to admit too. zehra had talked about enough cases that involved motorcycle gangs. she knew some of the intricacies of them, after all. " like a billboard on the side of a highway, " she affirmed, with a definite nod of her head. but then, the push towards her. which garnered a smile, an allowance for the shift. " batted my eyelashes, smiled so sweetly. the cops were basically putty after that , " she teased, as she pulled her legs up onto the chair with her. " i think the police are afraid of me. or, rather, they don't like the fact that i ask them too many questions. "

[tomhatch]

"I know, dude, but like — the guys have to be talkin’ about it, right?" Tommy asked, brows lifting as he glanced over. "I literally woke up with my jaw dislocated. Everyone's sayin' I went down hard. That’s embarrassing as shit." He could usually hold his own in a fight, but this had been something else — not just a scuffle, more like a full-blown war zone. Even if the details were fuzzy, two things stuck out crystal clear: the way that Kurtlar guy looked at him, and how it felt like he was a goddamn third wheel between him and León.

"Right, right. Mexico." His eyes narrowed. "Then where the hell’s your tan? You still look pale as shit," he shot back, grinning as he barely managed to catch his jacket when Jason chucked it at him. "What?" A laugh broke out of him at the mention of being busted out of the hospital, head shaking in disbelief -- though, he really shouldn't have been surprised. This was classic Jason. "You do remember my brother's the head attending here, right? He’s gonna have my ass the second he finds out I dipped." Still, despite the half-hearted protest, Tommy was already pulling on the jacket, tucking his phone and keys into the pockets like it was muscle memory.

"Alright, hombre. Where we makin' our great escape to?"

Jason pressed a shoulder against the doorframe of Tommy's room, getting a good look at his best friend and the nasty little beauties that purpled across his forehead. Any normal person would probably cowered or turned away, at the very least grimaced at the sight. But not Jason — nah. His features pulled into a half-assed little smirk instead, trying to piece together the story of the fight from injuries that decorated his best friend.

"Like hell if I know, bro." Jason furrowed his brow, straightening himself up as he made his way inside. A low chuckle-like sound resonated deep beneath his chest, and he shook his head at Tommy and his battle scars as walked by. "But the asshole must've fucked ya up good enough to think I was there."

And if the enforcer was at the party, like hell he would've just been standing around twiddling his thumbs watching while some Kurtlar asshole shit on this crew. Not a single shot in hell — Jason would've clocked in, been right there next to Tommy instead of having to haul his ass over to Silverlake General the second he got word of all the shit that went down on that yacht. He didn’t even bother to stop at his place, having just got back from a job down in Mexico later that day. He just snagged some booze and some cigs then hightailed it over. Because this wasn't exactly a visit either; it was a breakout.

"Just got back a 'lil while ago, so c'mon," Jason nodded towards the exit and tossed Tommy his jacket. "Get the rest of your shit, and we're bustin' your ass the fuck outta here."

[tomhatch]

heaven falls ; self para

ft: @jmacavoy, @tysonhatch

Tommy didn’t even remember getting in the car in the first place. One second, he was laughing too loud at something that probably wasn’t that funny, floaty from the pills, buzzing from whatever cheap liquor Jason had scored earlier. The next, his friend was on the phone—face drained, knuckles white on the wheel, barking out half-sentences.

"What? The trailer -- when?" And just like that, Tommy’s stomach dropped. He nearly threw up on the dashboard.

Neither of them said much as they hit the freeway, the only sounds present the ones of tires eating up miles, wind knifing through a cracked window, and Tommy’s pulse hammering against his chest. He could feel it already, that pressure behind his ribs, like his body knew before his brain did.

Then they turned the corner.

Smoke. So much fucking smoke that it practically swallowed the night sky whole. The trailer had been lit up like a war zone, orange glow pulsing at its center, police lights flashing like sirens, an absolute nightmare. And the trailer—his home—was gone. Not damaged. Not burned. Gone. Completely fucking demolished. The air reeked of gasoline and melting plastic. Even the front fence sagged, warped like it was trying to crawl away. Flames gnawed at what was left.

Tommy was out of the car before Jason could even come to a complete stop, stumbling on loose gravel with half-laced boots, eyes glassy and red. He was still riding whatever was in his system, still hazy from the drinks and pills and whatnot—but the high was gone. Stripped from him like a band-aid. Sirens wailed, but they almost sounded muffled like they were underwater, like he was in a dream.

But the sight in front of him was too real.

The place he rebuilt his life after prison. The place he’d had dinner with Taylor, smoked cigarettes on the porch with Tyson, passed out drunk in the kiddy pool. Where his goddamn chickens used to follow him around the yard.

Gone.

“No. No, no, no—” Tears welled up in his eyes, running down into his stubble. Someone shouted his name behind him—Jason, maybe a cop—but he didn’t hear it. Either that or didn’t care. The trailer was collapsing in on itself, one wall already buckled, the rest folding in like it wanted to disappear.

He didn’t notice the firefighter approach him at first. Just a hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, you need to stay back—"

“Where is she?” His voice cracked in half, roughly shrugging off the other's grip. “Where the fuck is my sister?”

Tommy knew before she even uttered a single word. Could see it in her face—that stiff jaw, the way her eyes wouldn’t meet his. It was one he'd seen before, a memory that haunted his dreams at night. Then the words came, like a punch to the gut.

“There were two bodies. One was female. We’re still investigating."

His knees almost buckled right there. “No. No—” He crumpled forward, clutching his head, yanking fistfuls of his own hair like he could pull the grief out through his scalp. “No — she was just in there. She's a nurse, a good one. She was gonna leave — she was gonna fucking leave him, she—”

But none of his measly protests mattered.

Taylor was dead. Burned alive. Trapped in the flames with the husband she was trying to get away from.

Just like that—she was dead.

Just like Tara.

The thought nearly knocked the wind out of him, hand instinctively gripping at his chest. Another sister. Another death. One gone cold with a single pill. The other turned to ash.

He fumbled for his phone, hands trembling so bad he almost dropped it. Hit Tyson’s number without thinking, barely breathing. “Ty,” he gasped when the call picked up. “They’re dead, Ty. I didn’t—I didn’t know—” His voice cracked, raw and wet. “I didn’t fuckin’ know, man—”

He couldn't even tell if Ty had said a single word before the line cut. His hand dropped. Phone slipped from his fingers into the blackened grass — and before he knew what he was doing, he was already moving.

“That’s my place!” he shouted, attempting to charge past the barricade, the tape holding all the spectators away from the danger. Maybe the body wasn't hers. Maybe it was someone else's -- maybe they're wrong, and he can still get to her. “My sister’s in there, assholes!”

But that didn't matter. Two officers grabbed him roughly and pulled him back—one locking his arms, the other slamming him against the hood of a cruiser so hard it rattled. His wrists screamed in protest, body still weak from his previous injuries, but he didn’t stop. Couldn't.

“Let me go! Taylor’s in there! Let me—please!"

But, as expected, he wasn't fast enough — wasn't strong enough. The cuffs snapped shut. Cold metal and bone-deep pressure. Like punishment. Like his guilt made real.

The rest blurred together. Faces moved in and out. Voices turned to static. He was still tethered to the car, smoke curling in his hair, peppering his cheeks, flames painting shadows across his face. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

He just watched it burn.

The blaze seemed to mock him after some time—taunting him, orange flames licking at the sky. Apparently it'd been so bad that it'd taken the fire department some time to get it under control. Time ceased to exist.

“Why not me?” he whispered to no one, voice hoarse. “Why the fuck do I keep waking up and they don’t?”

By the time Tyson arrived, Tommy was barely hanging on. Pale. Hollow. Eyes red and glazed over, devoid of any substance. Like someone had scraped him out from the inside and left the shell behind.

There was nothing left in him but ash.

[tomhatch]

where: sum dive bar who: @lcststops & thomas hatch

Tommy leaned hard against the pool table with his uninjured elbow, cue in hand and a grimace pulling at the side of his face every time he shifted. He looked like hell — half a bruise for a face, jaw still slightly swollen, stitches barely hidden beneath the edge of his shaggy hair — but he was out of the hospital. Finally. Still shaken, still riddled with anxiety and some pain, but he was out. And thankfully, there was alcohol (amongst other things) to help dull his nerves. "Alright, alright, don’t fuckin’ laugh," he told Elena, narrowing one eye as he lined up his shot. "I'm technically still concussed, so if I scratch, it's a medical condition, not a lack of skill." He tapped the cue ball. It clacked uselessly against a stripe, sent it rolling two inches before stopping cold. Tommy straightened with a wince, squinting after the ball. "...Yeah, okay, that one was on me." He relented, suppressing the redness growing on his cheeks with a quick sip of his beer. 

“So, uh…heard about the little shake-up in your regime.” He dared to mention, eyes flickering up to meet Elena’s. He wasn’t the type to have an agenda – no, he was merely curious, having gotten that cryptic message on his phone. “Did you expect to see another Barone at the helm?”

[tomhatch]

“Knocked ou—” The words barely made it past his lips before a bolt of pain lit up his jaw, cutting him off mid-sentence. His eyes squeezed shut as he tried to steady himself, piece together what the hell had landed him flat on his back this time. He’d had blackouts before — bad ones, even — but nothing that felt quite like this. Not this sharp, not this brutal. When he managed to open his eyes again, they locked onto hers. He didn’t dare move his head, just gave a stiff nod. “Feels like I got clocked with a fuckin’ sledgehammer,” he muttered, doing his best not to move his mouth too much. And then, slowly, it all started coming back in jagged flashes — the yacht party, that text, him and León, and the Kurtlar brute  they were told to take out. His stomach turned. Then came Alessandria’s voice, calm but serious, saying something about his jaw being dislocated and that she needed to pop it back in. “Yeah—okay. Okay. Just…” He paused, eyes flicking down to his pocket. “Can you grab my weed pen first? I’m not tryin’ to be sober for whatever hell that’s gonna feel like.”

At least he was conscious. That was a good sign as the beating he had gone through was intense and if it had knocked him out cold she'd be more worried. She expected him to be a bit disoriented, so her hands went to his shoulders, gently pinning him down so he wouldn't hurt himself further. "Shh, it's okay." She tried to soothe him as she continued her inspection of him. "You were knocked out, but it's okay. I'm going to take care of you." She tried to give a reassuring smile in the dark room. But as he asked if he was dying, she let out a soft breathy laugh. "No, you're very much alive. And you aren't dying. At least not on my watch." As her fingers deftly passed over his head she felt his jaw and swallowed. Definately dislocated. And now that he was awake this was going to hurt so much more to get it set back right. But she had to do it, it'd do him more harm to put it off. "Your jaw is dislocated. I'm going to have to put it back in place.. and it's going to hurt."

[tomhatch]

His eyes stayed fixated on the little bird, now hopping along the edge of the sign, Tyson's voice fading into the distance with every word that made his stomach turn over on its side. Maybe it was denial -- or, more likely, the knowledge that his older brother was right. That he was capable of more then the liquor store, more than what he'd become complacent with it. More than anything, though, the knowledge scared him more than it did propel him forward, because it would mean that every negative thing he thought about himself was undoubtably true; that he deserved this fate.

He cleared his throat once he'd finally come back down to earth, moistening his lower lip as he tried to piece his words together. "Yeah, no ties is great." Tommy mumbled, voice low, until--

“Look, I don't need you to tell me what I should and shouldn't be doin' with my life -- you're startin' to sound like mom and dad.”

The words slipped out before he even realized what he was saying, sharp and defensive, his eyes snapping up to meet Tyson’s. For a split second, there was something raw in his expression — fear, maybe, or regret — but he reeled it back quick, smoothing over the crack like it hadn’t been there at all. He didn’t lash out like this, not usually. Didn’t want to. But he felt cornered — and when Tommy felt cornered, he bit. Even if it was at the wrong person. Even if it hurt to do it.

"I'm -- sorry," he said softly after a moment, grip tightening around his mug. "Can we just," a breath, "can we talk about something else?"

Tyson didn’t flinch at the edge in Tommy’s voice—if anything, it made the corner of his mouth twitch, just barely. Not in amusement. Not in mockery. More like recognition. He’d sounded like that once too, back when he was still pretending anger was easier to live with than disappointment. “Three years and a promotion is something,” he said simply, no sarcasm in sight. Just fact. “But it ain’t everything.”

He took a sip of his coffee, let the warmth settle before continuing, tone even—measured, like he was navigating a minefield they both knew was there. “And I’m not saying you gotta run into burning buildings or start hauling bodies out of car wrecks.” He glanced toward the window where Tommy’s gaze had drifted, then back to him. “But don’t act like you couldn’t do more just ’cause some dickhead in a suit tells you you’re lucky to have what you got.” The dickhead was no one particular, but it was everyone who'd tell a kid who's been in jail and ain't always sober shit like that. If he could, Tyson would be the dickhead's face in.

A beat passed. Tyson leaned forward a little, voice lowering—not in volume, but in weight. “You are cut out for it, Tommy. Probably more than half the people I’ve patched up in the field. You give a shit. That’s rarer than you think.” He didn’t sugarcoat it. He never did. But there was something in the way he said it—quiet, firm—that left no room for debate. No room for Tommy to crawl back into that self-sabotaging shell without at least feeling the challenge.

Then, with a smirk easing the edge just a little, Tyson leaned back and muttered, “Besides, EMTs don’t have to wear ties. Thought that alone would sell you.” He just wanted Tommy to find something he was passionate about, because he refused to believe that working at a liquor store was it.

[tomhatch]

Tommy just scrunched his brows in confusion but let the question drift off into the ether. He’d never been what you’d call worldly — that ship had sailed long ago. He’d only really known two places: Salt Lake City and Los Angeles, with a few scattered pit stops in between after getting out of prison. Geography had never been his thing, and today wasn’t the day to start pretending otherwise. Not that any of it mattered in the moment — not with his nerves fraying at the edges, every inch of him buzzing like a live wire. He felt like he was about to crawl out of his own goddamn skin. The pain wasn’t helping, either. Every ache was turned up to eleven, raw and throbbing under his bruises. But worse than that was the withdrawal kicking in hard, sharper and nastier than usual thanks to how fast he’d burned through his stash. He’d indulged too heavy, too fast, and now the consequences were coming for him with teeth.

"Frittat -- right, that egg thing," he mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck impatiently. Part of him just wanted Cassio to rip the band-aid off, to get it over with -- to tell him to fuck off so that Tommy could resort to his less-than-savory contacts, ones that he didn't quite trust as much to give him something that wouldn't outright kill him --the thought sent a chill up his spine just to consider, but he pushed it back, especially when the Barone male appeared to offer an alternative. "Anything --" he stepped forward, closer to Cassio like a dog , waiting for a bone, gaze flickering from his eyes to the drink at his lips and back. But, when the proposition came, Tommy couldn't help the scoff that left his lips. "What?" The thought of angering León was enough to sent his heartbeat into overdrive -- but, then again, the thought of feeling like this any longer? That almost felt scarier. "Why? What -- s'not like I have brunch with the guy on the reg or nothin'."

french, the singular word caused both brows to ascend further up his forehead. surely he hadn't heard that right. but then again, everything about the man before him reeked of midwest farm boy. or something close to it. either way, cassio couldn't help the grin that settled onto his lips. " that's a good one, but no . " his words didn't move to correct the other. instead, cassio let his head cant, allowed his gaze to focus upon tommy. the look in his eyes, the state of his jaw. the way his hands hadn't seemed to stop moving, as if they were seeking something. wanting to reach out and take, take, take. for a moment, cassio wondered if tommy would. if the option were presented, that if he wanted it, he'd have to take it. there had been the obvious matter of the other's jaw, indicating that he hadn't faired so well in the last fight. but were they not on an equal playing field? tommy had his medical problems, while cassio had his own. the thought had been wicked, and had settled that easy grin onto his lips .

" while i would so enjoy having frittata di cipolle every morning, i'm afraid that simply won't do . " he allowed his tongue to click against the back of his teeth. while money had always been the prime source of currency, cassio had indeed always favored other such options. the cup had been lifted to his own lips, savoring the moment as he savored the drink. was there a cruelty in the moment, of watching tommy worry over whether he'd get what he wanted? or was there enjoyment, as cassio wondered precisely what tommy would do for the drugs. " how about this , " he started, drink lowered once more. " you tell me what you can about león orozco, and if i think it's useful enough. i'll give you whatever you want . " and if cassio didn't think that were incentive enough, he pulled the bag forth from his pocket. housing the pills that would be sure to make all of tommy's pain go away .

[tomhatch]

An awkward chuckle left his lips, hand moving to scratch at the back of his neck. “Not ones that I met less than six hours ago. ‘Sides, most of my buddies are probably still getting questioned right about now.” He told her pointedly, watching as she placed the gift basket down on the table. “Seriously – you just makin' a pit stop on your way to someone?” Because there was no way that way for him. Not that he wouldn’t accept it; the farm boy had quite a sweet tooth, just a quick glance told him at least half that basket would satisfy that craving. But people weren’t often that generous, especially not to ones who’d just started a fight but then had taken a beating, right? Thoughts of the text he received  flickered in his mind, a sense of anxiety building at his chest he attempted to push down. Shit, when was it time for another round of painkillers? “Aw, you were lookin’?” Brows arched, and he turned in the hospital bed, swinging his legs off the side to face the brunette. “It’s, uh – club business,” he lied, hoping that would suffice as an answer. "His forehead was a lot bigger than I expected, though. Harder, too." Nose scrunched, and he lightly rubbed at the sore spot with his pointer and middle finger. "Police give you a rough go of it? Or did you bat your eyelashes 'nough so that they stayed off your case?"

it hadn't been zehra's first time in a hospital. though she wasn't one of those people that feared its hallways. she was also not one to be comforted by the safety it blanketed over others. there was an indifference to the pristine hallways, the sounds of monitors that beeped and hummed. most often, she only came to one in search of further answers. in understanding reports that spilled forth with far too much medical jargon that she'd rather not cloud her mind with. and though she'd rather be rid of the place, she'd come looking for him in particular. " highway robbery , " she affirmed, with a soft shake of her head. the pudding cup was tossed in the nearest trash, as she stepped further into the room. he'd offered up the question, and she'd taken that as an invitation to proceed. " what, didn't expect to have any guests ? " she mused, a soft brow slid higher. there was indeed a lack of get well soon cards. then again, she doubted her room would be filled to the brim either. the stolen gift basket was set on the nearest surface, before she settled herself into a chair. " they rushed you out of there rather quickly. then the cops had a lot of questions, so i didn't exactly have the chance to see whether you were alright . " she tilted her head, eyed him. " yeah, what exactly was that all about? i mean, anyone could have seen the warning of that guy's forehead from a mile away . " this time, she let a soft smile turn up her lips .

[tomhatch]

where: hospital who: @jmacavoy & tommy hatch

“Fuck, dude, this morphine is absolute ass,” Tommy muttered, thumbing the PCA pump like a goddamn slot machine, desperate for something stronger. The drip was slow, weak — barely taking the edge off — and each push of the button just reminded him of how numb he could be by now.

They’d decided to keep him overnight for observation — concussion protocol, they said. The busted jaw and the nasty purpling across his forehead from where the Kurtlar guy cracked him were apparently enough to set off alarm bells. Not that he was surprised; he looked like a human bruise with a pulse. It wasn't all bad though-- with his brother being one of the attendings and his sister a part of the nursing staff, he was pretty much getting the VIP treatment with his own room and everything.

Except for the part where he was almost positive Tyson had told them not to give him anything stronger than some Tylenol. Given his history of addiction or whatever.

He let his head roll back against the pillow with a groan casting a sidelong glance to his best friend. "Was it really as bad as everyone's sayin'? The way I went down?" Tommy scrunched his nose, immediately wincing at the pain. "Ow -- shit. This guy must've had a forehead of fucking steel."

[tomhatch]

What kind of bullshit hospital discharged people without proper pain meds? Tommy’d been riding the weak-ass wave of ibuprofen and Tylenol since the yacht party, and it wasn’t cutting it. Sure, the concussion had mostly sorted itself out — miracle of modern medicine or just dumb luck — but the real problem was his jaw, still aching like hell, and the constellation of bruises painting his ribs and shoulders. And to make things worse? His own stash had run out days ago. Burned through it faster than he meant to. So by the time Cassio finally rolled up to their meeting spot, Tommy was practically vibrating out of his own skin, raw-nerved and ready to claw through concrete just to take the edge off.

“Tomaso. What is that — French or somethin’?” He snorted, half-joking but mostly just clueless, never having been the worldly type. His hands kept moving, in and out of his pockets like they couldn’t decide where they wanted to be, nerves crawling up his spine. “No thanks, I ain’t thirsty, just — you see my fuckin’ face?” He gestured vaguely toward his battered jaw, voice tightening. “I need... whatever you got. Percs, Xanax. I’ll even take some H if it'll cost less.” Tommy paused, swallowing hard as paranoia crept in, his voice dipping low. “Uh — I thought I had more cash than I do. But I get paid next week. And, like... I got a shit-ton of eggs? You can have those. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

FEATURING    ›     cassio & tommy ( @tomhatch ) LOCATED AT    ›     somewhere tommy would call him to

the message had been received in text, but there had been no mistaking the tone of it. the persistent need, the near exhausting want that likely had the man's skin crawling. it couldn't have come at a better time, really. with the news of the event at the back of his mind, cassio would find no better amusement than making the outlaw sweat for it. the message had come, but the man had taken his sweet time. he collected the usual, settled it oh so carefully within a bag. he stopped off at the local coffee shop, ordered himself some iced concoction that the woman behind the counter had swore would alter his brain chemistry. as if that hadn't already been done for him. and finally, after god knows how long, cassio had arrived at the meeting place .

" ciao, tomaso . " he drawled the words, heavy under the careful accent. he stepped closer, eyeing the man who appeared as if he already had one foot dangling over the edge. cassio ensured his smile didn't grow any wider. " was there something you needed ? " he then lifted the half consumed drink, " want a taste ? "

[tomhatch]

Eyes widened upon meeting the keen gaze of the brunette -- Zee, was it? Zehra? Something cool -- suddenly thankful he'd been allowed to change from that god awful hospital gown and into some sweats. Perks of being the brother of the head attending on call, he supposed. Still, his face was busted up -- a bloody lip, bruised jaw and a black eye, not to mention the IV and monitor he was hooked up to didn't exactly scream suave. Though, considering the embarrassing scene he'd most definitely made at the yacht party, this was probably far tamer to witness. "You wouldn't believe the rent on this place." He joked, sitting up a bit taller in the hospital bed. His eyes flickered from her face to the enormous basket in her hands. "Uh -- there's no way you were here lookin' for me, right?" Because that would be insane. Right? "I'm -- uh, glad to see you made it out okay. Heard not everyone did. Myself included but, uh, that's sorta my own doin'."

FEATURING    ›     zehra & tommy ( @tomhatch ) LOCATED AT    ›     hospital

the hospital reeked of antiseptic, the kind of smell that lingered. that infiltrated the nostrils, clung to the threads of clothing. it had her nose wrinkled, twitching as she stepped down the hallways. she had come for a few reasons, all of which came back to the research she had been doing for her podcast. the gala fire, the death of eight -- no, nine people now. and it seemed that not a single person had known what was happening on that yacht. being witness to it had been thrilling. for the most part, except for the one minor instance when a certain smoke bomb aficionado had gone down in a heap .

a gift basket swung from the crook of her arm, while her hands made quick work of the silly foil that housed the chocolate pudding. both items had been snatched up from a cart she'd passed not long ago. whether they were intended for another patient was not her concern. only getting the foil off without tearing it down the middle was. it had been a success, as she stepped up into the doorway of his room. the spoon had just made contact with the pudding, and then her mouth as she eyed him. " kind of swanky digs you got here , " she mused after she'd pulled the spoon from her mouth. tommy hadn't been her intended visit, but what would it be, two birds ? maybe three ?

[tomhatch]

His eyes snapped open, confusion slamming into him like a truck. Everything was too fucking bright. His head throbbed, his jaw felt like it’d been pried off and reattached wrong, and he had no clue where he was. “What the—” He tried to sit up, but pain ripped through his skull and down his neck, sending him flat again with a groan. He licked the moisture pooling from his lips – copper. That was the first real thing he could taste; blood and pennies. He tried to speak through the stiffness in his jaw, but it came out slurred. “Ow—shit. Fuck. My—” His breath started to quicken, panic clawing its way up his throat as his eyes darted past the light, landing on the woman now kneeling beside him. “Uh—are you—” He blinked hard, like that would somehow bring the world back into focus. “—am I dying?” Sincere question. Zero sarcasm. He didn’t even think he was being dramatic.

WHO: Tommy Hatch @tomhatch LOCATION: Inside the main room (post plot drop)

Alessandra had witnessed the whole fight. Or at least witnessed it as much as she could in the darkened room. But she'd caught it in the moving lights from other's phones. She had heard it. Had heard the sickening crunch of bone against bone and of knife colliding with flesh. Despite the fact that both sides were of none of her concern being from Kurtlar and from the Outlaws, Alessandra couldn't stand by while someone was bleeding out on the ground. As soon as the fight was broken up and Kurtlar tightened their numbers warning everyone to stay back Alessandra slipped forward, dropping to the ground. Her fingers went to the man's neck to feel for a pulse in the dark. The others backed away as the fight dispersed and Alessandra got to work. Pulling out her phone she shone the light over him as she started a quick inspection of his injuries.

[tomhatch]

His heart finally started to slow once the woman took the pen from him, easing that sudden, irrational fear that she might toss him overboard. (She was smaller than him, sure, but Tommy had been knocked down by less intimidating types before.) "Hard to remember I'm surrounded by a boat full'a people when the view’s so...wide open," he said, gesturing out toward the endless stretch of ocean by way of explanation. "But, uh — still. My bad. Take as much as you want." He leaned an arm casually against the railing, trying — and mostly failing — to play it cool, the heat creeping up his cheeks betraying him anyway.

"Ah, not usually. I usually save gettin' in people's faces for when I gotta sneeze," Tommy joked, flashing a quick, lopsided grin before adding, "Is luck what you’d call that? Damn — hate to see you in a casino." He shook his head, glancing out toward the ship. "Which, y'know they got one'a those on board? Rich people are fuckin' crazy." He let out a short laugh, then scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, suddenly remembering his manners. "Uh — I'm Tommy, by the way. I'm usually a little better at not makin' a complete ass of myself as a first introduction."

there had been no invitation, per say. that had come across her desk, floated in through the mail slot of her front door. she hadn't even realized homes still had those, until she'd rented the seemingly last one that did. but zehra had found herself upon the yacht anyway. a plus one, or a stowaway, she'd never spill. well, perhaps not without putting it on her podcast first. the very reason that she'd attended, eager to see which guests would slip of what they'd seen at the last extravagant event. her mind had been thrumming over who to speak with next. or perhaps which hors d'oeuvre to pick at next. that is, before the plume of smoke hit her in the face. not the tail end, not some wispy trails; a near calculated smoke bomb. her hand twitched at her side, her brows furrowed. that is, until his words spilled out. between the horrendous sound of him nearly losing a lung. her gaze shifted to him, to the words sprawled across his chest. it would be almost ... inhumane to push him overboard. so she shrugged, and plucked the pen from his hand .

" since it seems i've already taken a hit at this point , " she mused, seemingly in an exasperated manner. that is, before the soft smirk settles on her lips. only dislodged when she places the pen between them. perhaps it would make some of these conversations more entertaining. even under the tone of them. " so, do you make it a habit blowing smoke in people's faces ? or am i just that lucky ? " she questioned, easy smile on her lips, as the smoke billowed from the corners .

[tomhatch]

PAUL MESCAL during his last 'Streetcar Named Desire' stage door in Brooklyn

[tomhatch]

Panic gripped his chest as he fell in behind León, weaving through the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs hard enough he swore someone nearby could hear it. He wasn’t new to violence -- fights had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. A loudmouth teenager with a chip on his shoulder, a convict trying not to get eaten alive, a prospect clawing his way into the Outlaws. He knew how to throw a punch, how to take one, too.

But this wasn’t like those other times.

This wasn’t about loyalty or protection, nor some heated moment that boiled over. This was calculated, premeditated, and not of his own volition. Sure, the guy was Kurtlar, but this wasn’t about the gang -- it was about Tommy, about him scrambling to keep the scraps of his life from going up in flames. His stomach turned. Not from guilt -- not exactly, though that was ever present -- but from the ugly, gnawing fear curling up in his gut and whispering all the ways this could go sideways.

He could still walk fine -- steady even, despite the heavy waves the yacht was peeling through-- but his brain was another story. The drinks had hit hard, and the weed pen hadn’t helped -- the room felt too loud, the lights too bright, and every conversation he passed sounded like it was happening underwater. Was everyone looking at him? Did they know what he was about to do? Maybe they did. Maybe this was all just a test -- prove you’re not useless, Tommy. Prove you deserve what little life you have. He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry as dust.

They finally broke into a larger open space --some kind of private room, a warzone waiting to happen. More bodies, more noise. He felt the press of it closing in again.

Thunk.

The room went dark. Then a light -- a woman stepped forward, voice ringing out over the crowd, calling out their target’s crew like it was the opening act of some twisted play. For a second, Tommy honestly wondered if he was dreaming. Everything felt wrong in a way that was almost too smooth, too cinematic. He half expected to blink and find himself sprawled on the couch back at the clubhouse with some movie still playing in the background.

Instead, it felt like he was floating, watching the scene unfold from somewhere above, like he was perched up on the chandelier, detached from the body currently locked in place just behind León. It was too clean. Too orchestrated. Too real -- he’d take a nightmare over this shit any day.

Then León looked at him. Just a glance, but it was enough to slam him back into his body like gravity had finally caught up. No turning back now. Tommy exhaled, the breath shaky and uneven as he cracked his knuckles. The high still hummed in his veins, paranoia clawing at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it down, buried it deep. Now wasn’t the time to spiral. Now was the time to move.

And then they surged forward, descending onto the Kurtlar agent.

He knew León was a good fighter – that much was obvious the second his fist collided with the other male’s face, that wild glint in his eye enough to make the hair on Tommy’s neck stand up. No hesitation, no mercy; just brute force. Tommy followed up with a jab to the ribs using everything he had, silently praying that this dude was more of a desk-job type than an actual threat. Maybe he did spreadsheets. Maybe his knees were bad. Maybe they’d get lucky.

That hope shattered instantly the second Aslan’s elbow cracked back and caught Tommy clean across the jaw. His head snapped sideways, blood flying from his mouth as he staggered, tongue thick with the taste of copper.

And just like that, the brawl devolved into chaos.

Now -- Tommy tried to hold his own. He really did.

But between León’s unhinged, animalistic swings and Aslan’s precise, surgical counters, he may as well have been a kid throwing punches in a dream. Every time he moved to strike, someone else was already there first. Every opening he thought he saw vanished before he could act on it, swallowed up by the blur of bodies and chaos around him.

He felt like he was drowning.

His fists connected a few times -- a hit to the side, a blow to the shoulder, the jaw -- but none of it landed clean, and none of it mattered. Aslan had clocked him as the weak link fast, and Tommy was eating the brunt of it: a knee to the gut, a fist to the ribs, an elbow slicing across his cheekbone. His vision swam. His lungs burned.

He stumbled back, trying to catch his breath, only to be yanked forward again. Aslan’s fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt, and he last thing he saw was the other man’s eyes, dead calm and furious, before that head came forward. Hard.

Crack.

Then -- nothing.

where: yacht party baby who: the hollow ( @bloodngloryhq ), ft @tomhatch @aslansoykan

The twin buzz of incoming texts vibrated through the bar—Tommy’s first, then León’s half a second later. The glow from both screens lit their faces in the dim, opulent yacht light.

León’s eyes narrowed as he read:

My my, I shouldn’t be surprised to know you harbor such a dirty secret. What’s a little more blood on those hands? Do what I say and your secret will stay hidden. Go inside the main room with everyone else for the speech. After the lights go out, another will accuse two in the crowd of being behind this. Start a fight with Aslan Soykan. Have Thomas Hatch join you. Don’t forget I want to see some blood and chaos. You should be used to the violence by now.

“Who the fuck is Aslan Soykan?”

León didn’t look up right away. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, took a drag, then exhaled slowly. “Top dog with Kurtlar. Moves like a goddamn ghost and hits like a freight train.” He finally met Tommy’s eyes. “If this is real… we’re gonna have to go through hell for whoever’s playing puppeteer.”

They moved through the crowd into the yacht’s lavish main hall—chandeliers swaying slightly with the gentle rock of the sea, voices buzzing louder with anticipation. The crowd clustered together, waiting for the speech that had been teased for days.

And then—right on cue—the lights dimmed.

A spotlight flicked on. A woman stepped forward in the darkness, voice projected, accusations flying towards their target and another, her voice slicing through the worried mutters. A collective gasp swept the room. León didn’t hesitate. He glanced at Tommy, gave him a quick nod, and the two of them started moving—fast and quiet—toward Aslan through the crowd.

They flanked him from behind, and then in perfect sync—Leon struck first, a sharp right hook to the side of Aslan’s head. Tommy followed, driving a fist into the man’s ribs. Aslan staggered—just for a beat—then turned with the reflexes of a killer, eyes blazing.

The ballroom exploded into chaos.

Aslan’s elbow cracked back, catching Tommy in the jaw. He spun to meet León’s next punch with a forearm block, countering with a brutal knee to León’s gut. The fight became a blur of motion: fists flying, heels skidding on polished marble, bodies colliding into stunned guests as they scrambled to get out of the way. Aslan wasn’t just skilled—he was surgical. But León was feral. Every blow Aslan landed, León returned with raw, vicious power. Tommy held his own, but he was still a new member, still learning.

And then—it happened. Aslan grabbed Tommy by the collar and slammed his forehead into the younger man’s skull. The crack was sickening. Tommy crumpled instantly, eyes rolling back as he hit the floor, unmoving. León didn’t even flinch. He let out a breath like a snarl and lunged.

What followed wasn’t trained—it was pure survival. León absorbed a hit to the ribs, threw an elbow that grazed Aslan’s temple, then landed a blind, lucky shot right to the side of Aslan’s head. The man dropped to the floor. León moved fast, trying to pin him down, to finish what they started—but Aslan’s hand shot out like a striking viper. A glint of silver—Steel bit into León’s abdomen.

The pain was white-hot. León gasped, mouth open in a silent yell as the blade twisted once before Aslan shoved him off. Blood soaked his shirt almost immediately. But he was like a dog who hadn't been told stop yet, and lunged for him once again, only for him arm to be caught, a familiar flash of black hair. His opponent stood, and he too was being pulled away by someone.

Just as fast as it had started, it was over. Somewhere behind them, security was shouting. Someone was calling for help. The room had devolved into panic and violence. And León was sure whoever sent the message was watching, but all he could think about whoever had just pulled his strings. And how badly they’d underestimated what he’d do to cut the cord.

[tomhatch]

“Not yet — that’s the plan. I’m better after a couple beers anyway.” He cocked a brow, eyes flicking back to León. “You any good? You should join me. One-on-one. Maybe I’ll even let you win if it gets you to turn that frown upside down.” He chuckled at his own joke, already assuming the male wouldn’t bite. Still, the offer wasn’t nothing. Tommy liked the guy — hell, he owed him more than he’d ever say out loud, just for putting up with his shit and not tossing him out on his ass. León scared the hell out of him sometimes, sure, but that was kind of the deal with all the Outlaws. They were brothers. And at the end of the day, Tommy knew León had his back.

Feeling the short buzz in his back pocket, Tommy fished out his phone — vape coming with it like muscle memory. His brows furrowed at the unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. “The fuck?” he muttered, slipping the pen between his lips as he tapped the notification.

Do what I say and your secret will stay hidden.

Start a fight with Aslan Soykan. Have León Orozco join you.

One second he was confused, the next he was choking — the inhale catching halfway through as panic slammed into his chest. He shot up from his chair so fast it nearly toppled over, face flushed red and breath wheezing as he tried to pull himself together. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He placed above his heart, suddenly realizing that someone somewhere knew his secret – and even worse? They were only an inaction away from telling everyone.

Telling them everything.

He turned to León, who seemed to be preoccupied with a message himself. “Did you – did you get…” he pointed to the VPs phone, then to his own, and back. “Who the fuck is Aslan Soykan?”

León didn’t look up right away—just let Tommy’s chaotic entrance unfold like background noise while he nursed what had to be his third whiskey of the night. The stool scraping, the near miss with the furniture, the absolutely unnecessary volume—classic Tommy. And in any other context, it might’ve earned a side-eye or a muttered, fond 'dumbass'. But here? León just exhaled a faint laugh through his nose.

He finally glanced over at him, one brow raised. “A bowling alley?” he repeated, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard that right. “Jesus. What happened to just…having a deck and a bar? Maybe a lifeboat if shit got dicey?” He took another sip, then shifted his weight to lean on the bar, looking at Tommy fully now. The kid was flushed, grinning, and running high on party fumes, but León clocked every detail—how loose he was, how sharp the edge under that laughter might be. Just in case.

“I’m havin’ exactly as much fun as I’m willing to admit in public,” he said, deadpan. Then, after a beat, with the ghost of a grin, “Which is none. Obviously.” He tapped the bar lightly to signal for another drink. “You tear up the bowling alley yet, or you saving that for when you’re two beers past good judgment?”