Chapter Text
Ryan isn't the superstitious type; doesn't ascribe the same sort of meaning to it as Alonzo does, with his tarot cards and his newspaper horoscopes – both of which always, somehow, seem to read in his favor.
But even he has to admit, it is weird – all the shit they discover they had in common, all the ways their paths had almost crossed; attending the same school for a year back in ‘83 (different grades, different crowds), dealing in parallel neighborhoods as teenagers (knows the street Alonzo got attacked on like the back of his hand), frequenting some of the same bars (“Caballos, what a shithole”), associating with some of the same Sicilians (“Dino Ortolani, what a fascinating specimen”) – yet somehow, only meeting now, in Oz.
"One could say," Alonzo muses in between kisses, "it's almost like it was –"
"Don't," Ryan groans, rolling his eyes as Alonzo titters. “Christ.”
