Krigare

sju

Jaimë sets the small hand-painted ceramic mug back onto its matching saucer. A single drop of his - probably still warm, - hazelnut coffee rolls down the middle crease of his lower lip, and it makes me smile for some profound reason. His tongue then flicks over his lips gently as he brushes the foamy drop away before it has the chance to drip onto the table.

"Do you want me to?" I ask him then in response to his previously posed question, lifting my head, my eyes in a squint. I hadn't brought myself to draw conclusive on whether or not I was up for the anniversary fight since the day Alastair brought it up nearly two weeks ago.

If the anniversary meant fighting Reneé again, however, I was completely up for it. That son of a bitch deserved what was coming to her.

"I want you to do it on your own terms," he tells me, cross-resting his forearms upon the small, square wooden table. He tilts his head to a side, and his (recently dyed black) hair falls out of place. "Are you well enough for it?" he asks me then, and I notice his eyes flicking over my face, examining the damage Red had done - most of which were still sore, threatening to rip back open.

"Physically, I'm good, I'm prepped," I tell him, and his eyes flash a look of conjoined approval and gratitude.

"That's a yes, then?" he asks me after pardoning me for a while so I could stare into the empty space of the café wall behind him. "Saying yes also means acknowledging that SHAGMMA won't tolerate you if they find out."

I draw my eyes back to meet his glimmery pair. The low light changed its hue, but its warmth remained. "It's a yes," I tell him with an unsuppressable smile, and pick up my tainted tea cup to bring it to my lips. He nods, and whispers,

"At your own risk, Krigare. But perhaps mine too, because we're a team."

•

"Avan!" I call out, pushing past the mass of loud teenagers to get to him in the sardine-packed hallway. The fifth bell had just rung, and the hall had become the exemplary definition of chaos. Between Avan and I stood atleast four dozen people in the slim walkway, all of which weren't exactly the absolute hastiest of shoe shufflers.

"Fucking TWITS!" I let out into air, directing it to all of them at once as I continue to elbow my way through the crowd. None of them spare me a second glance both because I'm taller than a fair portion of them, and they just don't care that they're being nudged in the tits.

"Jesus, Avan!" my mouth expels as I arrive by his side a number of minutes later, and he turns to look me in the eyes. Probably the most handsome of the three kids, his eyes radiate a different sort of beauty.

"Hello, Oliver. How are you feeling?"

"I'm brill, cheers. Hey, I think I'm doing the fight this Sunday," I say, near breathless. His eyes round a little bit, and his smile grows explicitly wide.

"Really? That's amazing! Where? I'll get the media on it," he responds, pulling his phone out of his back pocket, and I realise we aren't on the same page.

My jaw tightens. "No, uh, I mean the anniversary fight, Ave," I correct him, my voice dialling a little lower, and his eyebrows arch in question.

"Oliver," he begins in a voice thick with seriousness, turning towards me a little more and stopping altogether once we arrive to a less crowded part of the hall. He stands with his back to the lockers, and I stand with my chest 15 inches from his. "I don't mean to pop your bubble, but you can't afford to do fights at Ari anymore. Or Parhall, for that matter."

"No, I know," slips out of my mouth immediately as I fiddle with the straps of my bag. "I was hoping you'd cover for me. Alibi, whatnot," I tell him, and he presses his lips together. He breaks our eye contact, and begins to look at the faces of the people passing us by.

"Oliver, I can't risk both of ou-,"

"Avan," I say in my most persuasive tone possible, shifting my weight from one hip to another. "Please. If it wasn't for this fight three years ago I wouldn't even be thinking twice about SHAGMMA, let alone be its cover model," I tell him, tilting my head a little to his right, to trigger something in him psychologically.

He takes bait.

"God," he lets out a few seconds later, tucking a single lock of his hair behind his left ear. "I suppose I could cover for you. But if the media by themselves catch you, if even ONE person gets a photo of you and tweets it, you can forget about representing London in the Tournament."

My lips curve until they take the full form of a grin, and I reduce the space between us until it's nothing. I realise he's the perfect height - I can hug him without having to have both hands around his shoulders or under them. I'm clinging onto him when I feel him place a soft kiss on my bare neck, followed by a soft rub on the back by a single hand.

"Thank you," I whisper, my lips brushing his right ear.

Reluctantly, he lets out a sigh. He realises that if I mess up, the both of us are done for. Still, he mumbles an, "Anytime," against my skin.

We pull apart, and there is a small smile upon his lips. "It's burst," I say then, taking slow steps backwards away from him.
His eyebrows knit, and his head tilts to the left. "Come again?"

"Burst your bubble is the saying. Not pop your bubble," I tell him. Immediately he rolls his eyes, exasperatedly throws his arms in the air, and walks away - back in the direction we came from, without uttering a single god forsaken word. A grin overtakes my lips. He was also my favourite Andrew, no doubt.

I suppose that takes the cake then.

This Sunday at midnight I'd take the first fight, regardless of who I'd be patched up against. Then again, knowing Ari and the management there, they've probably already begun selling the show - Krigare vs Red once more, even if they hadn't yet got the green card from Jaimë or I.

The three-year-old fight was what had doubled the crowds at Ari. That match had gone viral in the whispers of the underground, and it had managed to expand the scene and the community ferociously well. This fight was really just Ari celebrating us as fighters, and that's what made me want to do it. The fact that they gave a damn when Parhall, on the other hand, wouldn't even tolerate your music requests.

But, Jesus. My three-year anniversary with Red, and we were going to celebrate by attempting to rip each other's hearts out for the sakes of cash, entertainment and self-satisfaction?

That's what I fucking call romance, folks.