Tea Boy: A Deacury Fic

Chapter 43: Everybody At The Bar Getting Rowdy

-Freddie's POV-

"John, where are you going?!", I hollered running after him. "I know exactly where that scream came from. It's at Tilly's, the bar we passed on the way here. There's a fight happening over there.", he exclaimed getting closer. "That doesn't mean get involved though. Who knows, you could get hurt in there!", I replied. I grabbed his arm after approaching him. "Think about this. You get seriously injured, and could end up in the hospital. There's some really drunk people inside—"

"Fred that's enough!", he hollered as he let go of me, "I’m not a kid anymore—I’m about to be twenty-one. You don’t get to control every move I make. Whether I screw up or not, it’s my life, my call."
"John, listen, I just don't want you ending up making the same mistakes if you go in there!", I spat. "You seriously think I’d go back in there just to avoid the chaos and sneak a drink? Are you kidding me? I know I’m sober. I’m going in because someone had to make sure the cops were called—and clearly, no one else is stepping up." He shoved me away and went inside.

-John's POV-

I was finally inside, and it looked exactly like a war zone. Glass shattered on the floor and the fumes of all sorts of alcohol filled the place. I saw people punching and hassling each other, blood was everywhere. I crept past the chaos only to see an employee behind the counter cowering on the floor. "Ma'am, are you alright?", I asked her, she looked quite frightened. "Yeah, I'm alright.", she panted. Clearly she wasn't because I saw blood streaming down her right arm, it was partially covered by a bandage. "Your arm's bleeding. Let me get you to safety and I'll contact the cops." As I tried to get her up, a glass shattered above us. Thankfully no big shards hit us. I slowly got her up and walked her carefully to the employees only entrance where dozens more employees were in panic.

"Has anyone called the cops?", one asked. "No one did, but I will!", I replied. I set the woman down beside her coworker as more chaos erupted. More bottles were broken and more screams came from the outside. "I suggest you all follow your safety procedures and stay behind. I know there's not much more I could do, but at least I can try to help the best I can." I replied. "Does anyone know who started it?"

A younger guy raised his hand and gave me a pretty good description. "Yeah, I saw 'em. They strutted in like they owned the whole damn joint — swagger and all. Had that kind of restless energy, like they'd been pacing all night and just needed somewhere to blow. Before you know it, they’re toe-to-toe with the poor sap by the jukebox, and bam — outta nowhere — threw the first punch like it was part of a dance routine.", he spoke.

"I see, keep it going while someone gets me a first aid kit for her arm.", I responded.

"Kinda average height, maybe 5'8" or 5'9", but carried themselves like they were ten feet tall. Late twenties, could’ve been early thirties if you squinted through the cigarette smoke. Sharp cheekbones, wild eyes — not the kind you forget. They had this twitch in their jaw, like a record skipping on the same angry beat.", the guy explains. I nodded as I was given the kit, I cleaned up the wound on the woman's right arm and swiftly bandaged her up.

"Wore this worn-out tan corduroy jacket over a loud printed shirt — collar wide enough to catch wind. Bell-bottoms, too. Dark brown, maybe black. Hair was a mess of curls or waves, probably hadn't seen a comb in days. Looked like they'd walked out of a dive bar and straight into a fight scene. And the way they moved — not drunk, not high, just... electric. Like the whole world was daring them to go off.", the guy finished. "Do you think he's still in there?", another employee asked. "Probably. Stay here, I'm going back out there!" I rushed back out and dashed behind the counter again and reached for their phone, dialing 999.

"Emergency. Which service? "

"Police."

I quickly explained what was happening at the bar, including the blood, broken glass, injuries, and who started the fight. The dispatcher told me, "Help is on the way, sir." I thanked her and ended the call. After taking a few deep breaths, I stood up and then saw him, the guy who started everything. He was the one the employee had described in detail. "You.", he breathed.

I didn't say a word to this guy, he wasn't as tough as he really thought he was. I just stood up to him....in silence. Silence. The one thing an ignorant person hates is when someone ignores them.

"You think you're getting away with this by calling the cops, don't you?", he huffed. Still, not a word from me. He approached me closer as he was heavily breathing. He then angrily slammed the table and shouted, "Answer me, you little bitch! You're gonna get hurt if you don't, you little tea boy!" That insult didn't make me question how he knew I was a tea boy. It didn't even make me think about it. I just shrugged and stood there even more. This kinda pissed him off...good.

He stared at me like I’d just gutted him with silence. His lips curled back, but no words came out right away. Just the sound of his breath, ragged and sour, like it was clawing its way up from something rotten inside.

"You think this is funny?!" he snarled, voice ragged and cracking like splintered wood. His fists trembled at his sides, veins bulging—ready to detonate.
I didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
Just stared. Cold. Flat. Unbothered.

That was the trigger.

He lunged forward, close enough for me to feel the static off his fury, and grabbed my collar in a clumsy, desperate motion. The edge of the table rattled as his hip slammed against it. He yanked me toward him like he was trying to pull a reaction out of me by force. "You don’t know who the hell you’re messing with!" he spit, eyes wild, almost... scared beneath all that rage.

I tilted my head ever so slightly. The way a cat might before it bats something fragile off a ledge. I could feel the thump of his pulse through his grip.

"And yet," I murmured, low and slow, "here I am."

Something in his face cracked—barely a twitch, but it was there.
A hairline fracture in his false god complex. Then—the lights.

Through the grimy blinds behind him, the red and blue began to swirl in slow, deliberate rhythm. Sirens low and steady like a warning heartbeat—ba-dum… ba-dum… He froze.
For just a second, he looked like a cornered animal. Then he turned, too late.

The door burst open.
Voices.

"Hands where we can see them!"

I didn’t have to say a word.

I just smoothed out my collar, looked him in the eye, and whispered with the faintest smile:

"Checkmate."

The room felt colder once they took him away. Door still swinging. Sirens fading. The smell of sweat, whiskey, blood and tension still hung in the air like fog that hadn’t figured out how to lift yet. I just sat there. Same spot. Same silence.

Only now, it wasn’t defiance keeping me still. It was something else. Heavier. Quieter.

I exhaled, slow. My hands were shaking before I even realized they were.
Not from fear. Not really. Just… release.

I slowly looked up only to see paramedics taking away beaten up customers, their bodies brutally mangled, hoping no one was deceased, succumbing from their injuries. I honestly couldn't wait to tell Freddie this.

In fact, where did he go after I went inside? Did he rush back to Brian and Roger to alert them? Did he run back home?