Being friends with Packie has its quirks. He's a shit bowler, a heavy drinker, and dances better than Niko would initially expect, so no two outings are ever the same with him. He's always got new stories that are only ever told and songs that are only ever sung when he's hammered to the point of falling over, and he's always got new moves up his sleeves.

He's even started showing up to Niko's apartment completely uninvited, or just unannounced, rather, because it wasn't like he really needed an invitation. It sure as hell surprised Niko the first time around, because only Dwayne and himself knew he had this place, and he didn't know how callboxes actually worked until he heard Packie's voice coming in from some tinny speaker near the doorway asking if he can come up.

But despite Niko not knowing how the hell Packie even found out where he lived, he was happy to have company, and happier to have it in a place that wasn't the crummy flat he'd had in Broker. Not that he felt the need to impress anyone, let alone Packie - he just wanted to live up to the lifestyle Roman had promised him before he came to America.

He was just about to turn off the television, close the french doors leading out to the balcony and drag himself to bed, when Packie's voice breaks through his sleep-induced stupor.

"Niko, I'm comin' up."

That was how it was now. No more questions or pleasantries. I mean, it wasn't like Niko would say no to him. Even if he was as tired as he was now.

Moments later, there was a ding, and the elevator door grumbled open. There stood the slightly younger Irishman, a laptop tucked under his right arm and a smirk that said he knew something Niko didn't. Niko nodded at him in greeting as he walked through the doorway, unceremoniously throwing the laptop onto his couch and taking a seat beside it.

"Hello to you, too," Niko chuckled, sitting at the other side of the laptop. Packie pulled it onto his lap, his smirk widening as he pulled up a page on the computer that Niko now couldn't see.

"So, SweetBellic, huh?" Packie teased, swiveling the laptop so that Niko could see what was on the screen. At first, Niko furrowed his brows in confusion, but then, familiarity sank into his stomach like a block of lead as his eyes skimmed through the page. It was his decoy love-meet account, the one he used to arrange a meeting with French Tom and retrieve the money he owed. He could've sworn Roman had deleted it, but since he had the password, he was the only one that could. He cursed under his breath in Serbian.

"That was set up for business purposes only. My idiot cousin should've deleted it by now." Niko said flatly, suddenly paying rapt attention to the Burger Shot commercial on the television.

"You sure you're not still in need of a man with big, strong arms? Is that not why I'm here?" Packie laughed and reached over, trying to pull Niko into an awkward embrace.

"Fuck you," Niko grumbled, pushing Packie's hands away. "It was all my cousin's doing. First he sets me up with a fed, then he sets me up with a fucking guy. He's a moron. It is a wonder he's not single."

"Whoa, whoa, hold the phone," Packie removes the laptop from his lap, setting it gingerly on the carpet. "He set you up with a fed? When was this? Who was she? Or he," He chuckles at his last little remark.

"I can't even tell you who she was," Niko began, placing necessary emphasis on the 'she', "since the bitch had an alias. Her name, as I knew it, was Michelle."

Packie pursed his lips and shrugged. "Never met her."

"Yeah, I figured. She only ever hung out with Mallorie, anyway. Was too concerned with asking questions about her friends than actually hanging around them. Probably why she never met you."

"So, how'd you find out?" Packie pours himself a glass of the whiskey sitting at the coffee table.

"She confiscated Elizabeta's coke after I got it back from the guys who ripped her off. Said she was sent to watch me." The memory of her still bit like the pinch of an alligator clip - because this betrayal was different from Dimitri's betrayal, different even from Darko's betrayal. This betrayal came from someone he'd grown to like in a way that was deeper than friendship or business. This betrayal came from someone who'd said they liked him, even called him cute on one occasion. 'Cute' definitely wasn't on his list of adjectives he'd like to be described as, but it felt nice coming from her for some odd reason. And to think she was paid to say all this shit, shit she probably didn't mean at the end of the day, shit she said to make herself look more genuine? It really put a dent in his dignity, much more than he'd like to let on. Partly because he was stupid enough to not see through her, and partly because he allowed himself to believe everything she said to him.

"Tell me she was just a good fuck, then. Tell me you didn't like her," Niko, with his face in his hands, desperately wanted to. But in his silence, Packie got his answer. "Christ, Niko. You're fuckin' hopeless. This is why you should be more like me." Packie mumbled, raising the glass to his lips and taking a few quick swigs.

"A nearly-thirty-year-old junkie? No, thank you."

"Not what I meant, smartass," Packie glares at him, setting the now empty glass back onto the coffee table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I mean, you should get out more. Find some women, and stick by my mantra, man. Bed 'em, then forget 'em. Why do you think you never see me hung up on some broad?"

Wanting nothing more than to escape the topic, Niko quickly decided to switch it back - slightly. "Why were you even on the male section of love-meet, anyway?" He gestures towards the laptop. "You do not seem like you're looking for something temporary, or something female, anymore."

Packie glanced defiantly at the Serb, shrugging. "Just tryin' to see who'd be a likely candidate for Mister SweetBellic here."

"No, I mean, why were you there in the first place? Is there something you would like to tell me, Packie? As the old saying goes, those in glass houses should not throw stones." Niko smirks.

"Fuck you, man. I ain't no fuckin' fruit. I dunno about you, though." Packie picks himself up off the couch and saunters over to the pool table, taking a cue stick from the corner of the room and rolling it back and forth between his fingers.

"Contrary to what you may believe," Niko begins, walking over and taking a cue stick for himself, "I am no fruit, either."

"Sure about that?" Packie scoffs, lining up his cue ball. "No non-fruit would let himself get in his fuckin' feelings for some chick."

Niko dismisses how nonsensical Packie's remark was, and instead concentrates his increasing ire on how his emotions apparently marr his masculinity and his straight front. "Well, sue me for being human, right? Sue me for caring, like I care about you. Because only fruits and girls can have emotions, only they can care about people."

Packie stands straight, relaxing his shoulders, apology and inhibited feelings clouding his brown eyes. "Shit, man, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry. I just–"

"What else could you possibly have meant, Packie?" Their eyes clash from across the table, Niko's gaze on Packie's like a tiger assessing cornered prey. A beat of silence. Then another.

"Okay, well, I guess I was just brought up in a world where feelings were, I dunno, unnatural," Packie moves his torso back in its original position hovering over the table, only beginning to play for the sole purpose of avoiding eye contact with Niko. "Wasn't obligated to show my siblings some love, let alone my own ma. The shit we did to her head, fuck, she probably didn't want it, anyway. I don't blame her."

Niko's anger is momentarily quelled, and his gaze softens slightly, sympathizing wordlessly with Packie's harsh childhood and hoping said sympathy would get inside him somehow. Packie continues. "My pops always taught me - me and me brothers - that crying was only for girls and guys that acted like them. Especially if it was over a girl. He said that if a single one of us cried at his funeral, or cried for whatever reason after it, he'd haunt us forever. And I guess it worked, because nobody cried. No one even felt the urge." His cue ball clacks against the object balls, dispersing them every which where around the table. The two men watch as one slips into a pocket, followed by another. Packie takes another two turns as he continues to speak.

"But now that I look back, I don't think it's because of what he taught us. I think it's because he never actually made us care about him, you know? He was never an actual father. As compared to my siblings and even my ma, where I cared about them because they were my family but I never actually showed it - my dad was never actually family to me. It's easy to hide feelings that aren't there."

"It's similar to how I feel about women. They're nothing but walking fleshlights to me, because they never make me care about them - or, in simpler terms, they never make me want to call them back. They may be good at what they do, but they never make me want more. And it's easy for me, because everyone wins and no one gets hurt. Obviously, that's not the case for you."

"I get what you mean, Packie." Niko says sullenly as he lines up his own cue ball, his mind drifting to the various prostitutes he's allowed into his car and paid for their 'services' in a dark alley or a secluded shoulder. He felt the same way about those women, same with the women at the Triangle Club, but it seemed as though Packie felt that way about all women. Niko was concerned, but Packie didn't seem fazed at all.

"But it's different. With you, I mean," Packie gazes at him earnestly, even though the glance went unreturned. "You're my guardian angel, man. You make me care about you. You make me want to come over and have a drink and shoot pool with you. You're me best friend."

Niko raises an eyebrow as he lifts his head to face him, pinning him with a sidelong glance before shooting his cue ball. "Because I've saved your ass countless times?"

Packie raises his hands in surrender, a smirk playing at his lips. "Hey, you said it, not me."

Niko reciprocates the smirk, but only in his tone. "I would like to think there's more to that than you're letting on, but I'll let it go, since you admitted you cared about me, which makes you a fruit."

Surprisingly, Packie's smirk widens into a wolfish grin as he points his cue stick at Niko. "Caught me red-handed. But don't act like you didn't do it first, fuckin' fruit."

"You really are a juvenile little punk. It's no wonder your brothers always pick on you," Niko taps his cue stick on the carpet once, standing straight and spinning it between his fingers. "But as it stands, I was not the one on the male section of love-meet for undisclosed reasons, and I sure as hell wasn't the one offering their big, strong arms to the fruit you say I am."

"I'm still not as big a fruit as you. You're like a cantaloupe, man. I'm a grape, at best."

"Alright, Packie. We've established that we're both fruits. Can we finish this game, now?" Niko says, his turn long over.

"Slow your roll, there, SweetBellic. There's something I gotta do first."

"What is it?"

Niko watches Packie take their cue sticks and place them on the table, his brown eyes shining with something like mischief and desire. He makes his way around the table, edging closer and closer, until all the air Niko inhales is laced with the whiskey on Packie's breath. Then, the Irishman's slightly chapped, yet somewhat soft, lips press against Niko's, and he can feel the heat between them suddenly spiking. As they pull each other impossibly closer, to the point where it seemed as though they'd float away from each other if they didn't, their free hands roam up and down each others' bodies, leaving a gentle, tingling warmth in their wake. If not for their need of air, they never would've pulled away.

"Only a fruit would pull that." Niko brusquely remarks, his forehead pressed against Packie's. Taking a breath, he can smell the musky cologne wafting up from Packie's collarbone, and as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, he tastes the slightest tang of the whiskey Packie was sipping on.

Packie smirks, his gaze indecisively flicking from Niko's lips to his eyes, then back to his lips. "Only a fruit would enjoy it."

And enjoy it, he fucking did. Which is precisely why he dove in for more, as though the kiss was like swimming in an endless ocean he'd only ever surface for air, and Packie was the current pulling him down under.