Crush [UPDATED - 10/2022]

Phase 2 (a prayer for which no words exist) - Chapter 3

The evening settles like a layer of velvet over the penthouse and War stubs out his cigarette in a glass ashtray. They're sat up on the roof, the noise of the city all but drowned out, pool water sloshing with the slight breeze as Fighter eyes him cautiously. In his nostrils the smells of smoke and chlorine curl together, expensive cologne all but overpowering them as War leans forward, placing a piece of candy on his tongue with a laugh.

Fighter accepts it, closing his mouth around the sour strawberry taste as he rolls his eyes. On the table in front of them there's a torn open bag full of the stuff next to a gift box. The box is also open, the silk lining wrinkled where hands have reached in to look at the suit inside. Fighter had bought it after work a few weeks ago when they weren't talking still. As much as the rage of War's actions had boiled in his blood, he couldn't imagine not being there for his birthday and it had been almost muscle memory to pick it out, have it tailored to his measurements.

War looks at it now as if hearing Fighter's thoughts, stroking a lapel between thumb and forefinger. It's Bottega Veneta, sky blue with a tapered waist. When Fighter had seen it, it had been on a female mannequin but the androgyny, the unique cut — he could picture such a look only on War. It was a sentiment War had agreed with, if his delighted smirk was anything to go by, the way he runs a proprietary hand over the fabric and looks at Fighter.

"Happy Birthday again, phi," Fighter says.

He feels warm and content, reclining back in his chair with a yawn.

War snorts a laugh and pokes where his t-shirt lifts with the movement, making Fighter flinch.

"Already tired? Being in a relationship has changed you, nong." He says it solemnly, head bowed with a cluck of his tongue, but Fighter can see the way his cheeks curve on a smile.

He reaches out and tips War's chin up, slaps him lightly on the cheek.

"You're an idiot and I can party with the best of you, thank you very much. I just had to do a shitload of paperwork last night for my dad."

At that War pops a piece of candy in his mouth, chewing loudly.

"Good old uncle, running you ragged as if it will give you any business sense," he says wryly. "When is he going to realise you just don't have a head for all of this?"

Fighter shrugs.

"Probably never — but hey, we're not here to talk about that. We're here because you're getting old."

"I'm only a year older than you, asshole."

"A year still counts."

They share a grin and bump shoulders. War is wearing a leather jacket tonight and his phone buzzes in the pocket of it, so Fighter reaches inside and unlocks it with ease. It's a text message from Dang and when he reads it, he cringes in on himself. The night air isn't enough to take the pink from his cheeks.

"What's up?" War asks.

He's lighting up again but this time it's a joint, the pungent aroma hitting Fighter before he even sees it. War takes a long drag and lets the smoke plume out of his nostrils, then hands it to Fighter. With no hesitation, Fighter takes it.

"Dang sent you a poem — though I'm pretty sure Dew wrote it to fuck with him. Also, they'll be here in like twenty minutes once Jake has picked up your shit."

War nods at that. It's just another night in their chaotic lives. Fighter considers that as he takes a long drag of the joint. He feels the telltale buzz, the warmth, and the comradery of an evening spent like this. Sure it's a little different now, but it's still them, still Fighter's brother for all of his bullshit. Things are still awkward with Tutor on that front, but at home it's easy and nice.