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Stephen loosens his tie. Sweat trickles down his neck as his clothes stick to his skin. He clenches his fists, the finger-less gloves fit too well for his taste. He watches Tristan and two men walk inside the warehouse.
Another random request.
He glances behind him and shuts the door. This location doesn't make sense. Why request to retrieve the items in a dusty warehouse, of all places? It'll be murder on his suit. He can see the dry clean bill already and Clara's scolding.
Three men talk among themselves. He takes note of the rather large guns strapped onto them, and a pile of magazines atop a small crate. He finds their style too shabby. What, plain streetwear and tennis shoes? He bites back a laugh. It gives the impression that they're low-class thugs.
He knows better than to be deceived so easily. In the world of the powerful and elite, appearances are everything. The other party is a mix of people from different backgrounds, divided into different groups among themselves.
Tristan, however, seems to misunderstand the meaning. While everyone present wore the formal suit and tie, he decided a shirt made of black mesh fabric paired with high waist trousers are perfect. As flamboyant as a flamingo.
He and his arrogance will be the end of him, someday.
Not even the many, many piercings on his ears were removed. At times, he wonders if they even are related at all. They're like night and day. The smell of smoke hangs in the air.
A cigarette? No, sulfur?
He's wearing a fedora hat and a white button-down with slacks. His height gives him an intimidating aura, regardless of the wrinkles on his face. He recognizes that posture and sense of style anywhere, having grown up with it.
James Cameron, someone whom he grew to appreciate and care for throughout the years. James' stubble has hints of white rather than the brown color Stephen remembers.
His face could either mean one of two things, a casual meet or a serious deal.
Back in his younger years, he often accompanied James around the globe. Of course, this meant doing a constant dying of his gray hair. Upon approach, they exchanged looks. Tristan clears his throat. He smiles.
Even after all these years, he still isn't fond of James.
"Where's Michael, kid?" James said.
He looked at Stephen. Tristan wipes his hands on his pants, avoiding eye contact. He glances at his friend and the other party.
What exactly are they heavily armed for?
The glint of metal from James' gun, fills him with dread.
"Urgent business. He sends his regards." Stephen smiles. The dread in his stomach grows the longer he holds eye contact with him. He pulls Stephen in a hug and lets go. James smells of light cologne and smoke.
Could it be he's just tired? Or anxious from how humid this location is?
"Now, your father has informed you, correct?"
Father's instructions were to give the incentive, have the papers signed, and leave.
Stephen nods and pulls out a thick white envelope from his inner breast pocket. James clicks his tongue in disapproval. Stephen tightens his jaw.
Is this an incorrect amount? No, he heard his father clearly.
"That wasn't part of the deal." He tosses the remnants of his cigarette to the floor and crushes it. Tristan folds his arms and scratches his neck.
They're surrounded.
Stephen narrows his eyes. James' held his gun and calmly set a magazine. He hears his men reach for their weapons. His heart drummed in his chest. He can't tell if this feeling is out of anger or fear.
No, save the thoughts for much later. Focus on the issue at hand.
James points his pistol at Tristan. Wrong choice. Stephen whips out a knife. He presses it on James' neck. A line of blood rolls down his throat and onto his collar.
"Money loses power in front of bigger money, kid."
Stephen bore into James' eyes. As a child, his parents constantly repeated this. It didn't make sense until his first target. While he understood what this meant, he refuses to believe it. He merely grins and pulls the trigger.
Why couldn't things ever stay the same?
Stephen stabs James' arm and dives, narrowly missing a rain of bullets. The smell of iron floods his senses as continuous gunfire came from both sides. He dusts himself off and sprints after him. He chases after the man in white, who leads him past a staircase of steel. James' laughter echoes throughout the warehouse. He crouches and pulls out another knife.
Did he successfully escape? Impossible.
An arm wraps around Stephens neck. He chokes, dropping his weapon. He slams into the wall, trying to break James' grip. He stomps on his feet and twists in his grip. With one solid jab to the stomach, he breaks free. As he reaches the railing, he grabs his knife and hears a shout.
"Tristan!" Stephen calls out.
He whips his head around, trying to spot a head of blonde hair in the mess below. Where is he? James punches him, square in the jaw. He staggers, his head aching as black spots dance in his vision.
That'll hurt in the morning.
"Pay attention." James said. Stephen spits out blood. He twirls the knife in his hand.
It shouldn't be like this.
Unsatisfied, he lunges forward. He drives the knife towards his chest, but it's blocked by his wrist. Blood drips onto his fingers, loosening his grip. James takes a step back. Stephen throws a punch to his jaw. With each blow he lands, the pang of weight in his chest grew. He puts distance between them, out of ideas.
"Stephen!"
He drops his weapon and looks around. Tristan? James lands a solid kick to his abdomen, earning a yell from Stephen. He stumbles, feeling his muscles cry out. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and coughs.
"As hard-headed as ever." He said.
James lands another kick on his chest with a sickening crunch. He cries out, his chest exploding with pain. He crumples to the floor, struggling to breathe. He crouches, clicking his tongue as he shakes his head. He raises his fist.
Stephen smirks, his fist hanging in the air.
Oh? Hesitation? That's new.
He locks onto James and rolls on top of him, hands on his neck. Neither of them broke eye contact. His heartbeat rose to his ears as blood rolls down his chin. Why? His grip loosens, the wound on his neck from earlier still present. Despite the pain, all he could see were the same pair of eyes that his younger self loved.
If father was here, what would he do?
Stephen looks away.
James shoves him off and pulls out a caliber pistol. He lands on his rear, holding his gun as he faced him. The two looked at each other, at gunpoint. Stephen stands up slowly and clicks the safety off. His muscles burn as if they're curling in on themselves. James pulls the trigger but the gun didn't fire, he tossed it away with a groan. Stephen blinks, tears trapped in his eyelashes. His hand trembles.
No.
He lunges, but he closes his eyes and pulls the trigger. He falls to his knees, gasping for air. James' body is surrounded by a pool of red. He slowly approaches him and kneels, holding his large hands into his. His hands are still warm. He feels movement on his hands. James tries to speak only to gurgle blood. He shakes his head and pats his shoulder. No need for that. Their fight speaks for itself.
"I forgive you." Stephen whispers. He squeezes his hand once more and James smiles weakly. His eyes glass over and Stephen covers his eyes. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and walks away.
He leans on a wall and sinks to the bottom as pain settles in. He places his fingers on his mouth and blows, whistling loud. He hears a similar sound that came from the middle.
Just great.
He groans and forces himself to stand, supporting himself with the walls. He looks around and sees Tristan, engrossed in a fist fight. His opponent landed face first with a crack.
Stephen whistles once more and catches the attention of the hot-headed blonde. He looks ruffled up but saw no blood. He let out a sigh of relief and winces.
Well, that isn't good.
"You're late!" Tristan said. He beams at the sight of Stephen. How is his thin mesh shirt in perfect condition? His suit is completely ruined now. Maybe it'd be wise to follow his sense of style.
"Heroes usually are." Stephen said. He weakly shoves Tristan, who smiles in return. He makes his way towards the exit alongside him. He places his hands on Stephen's shoulders. He bites back the urge to scream in pain and furrows his eyebrows instead.
"You alright?" Tristan said. Stephen thought of how to respond to that
Yes? No? In the middle? Just cheated death. Doing great.
His vision blurs as his head spun, he groans and falls onto Tristan, who nearly lost balance from his weight. He puts his arm on his shoulders, his hand wrapped around his waist.
"When I said come to me, this was not what I had in mind." Tristan helps him walk back to the car. Stephen chuckles only to wince in pain.
Him and his stupid jokes. How many air fresheners would it take to get rid of the smell? Mother wouldn't appreciate the red stains and blood.
"Are you... injured?"
Stephen winces in pain. It's quite obvious. The ride back is as silent as ever, excluding the radio host talking about the weather. Tristan mutes the volume and slows down under a red light. Stephen watched the timer count down and thought about James' last moments before his eyes.
How would he admit it?
"Don't fall asleep on me, Steph!"
Stephen rolls his eyes. He focuses on the color of traffic lights, unable to think of anything. Hopefully, Tristan's driving skills wouldn't kill them first. His idea of normal speed would normally result in an accident. After he parks the car, the lights inside the house turn on immediately. A young woman in a sleek, black uniform accompanied by a man in silk sleepwear stare at the two in horror. Did he speed again? That ticket is going to be quite a nuisance.
The world has become a blur of color and faint sounds. He closes his eyes, hearing the sound of voices. Tristan huffs and gently set Stephen onto the large dining table. The young woman came carrying a tray full of medical tools as the man cut up his shirt and tended to his wounds. He grimaces at the sight of ribs sticking out of his chest.
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He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling, the over-the-top chandelier teasing him. Stephen recognizes the decorations and realizes he is in the guest room.
Stephen tries to move. His entire body aches with pain, from fresh stitches to the sting of medicine. His throat felt dry and his head throbs. The door swings open, revealing Tristan in the same outfit from before.
Not even a shower?
"Oh, gosh you look terrible." Tristan drags a stool nearby and makes himself at home. Stephen gives him a side glance, careful not to move his neck.
"You seem no better than I am." Stephen croaks, which earns a glare from him. Tristan has bags around his eyes and messy hair.
"I look better without trying." Tristan grins. He rolls his eyes. His chest hurts each time he breathes too deeply. The thought of his wounds re-opening made him worry.
"Walking around half-naked doesn't count."
"You said to wear a formal long sleeve. This technically is a long sleeve, and I wore slacks too!"
An argument with him won't get anywhere. Stephen moves his arm and Tristan immediately helps him sit up. With his condition, what'll happen to the rest? If a problem were to rise... He glances at the floor.
"Don't worry, I have a few knives up my sleeve." He said.
"I believe you mean cards, Tristan."
He shows his wrists and pulls out a knife from each one. How did he not notice that before?
"They're uncomfortable but I look so cool."
"How long was I out?" Stephen asked. Tristan said nothing and avoids his eyes. In other words, he didn't take notes or wasn't paying attention. A man in his forties walks into the room. He has a slim figure and wore a navy blue suit with a necktie.
"Uncle Mike." Tristan said. Stephen pinches his nose bridge. Impeccable timing. His blonde companion shrugs and shuts the door as he leaves. His father grabs a chair and sat in front of him, not seeming to mind the blood. Stephen thought of an alibi to tell his mother about the red stains on his clothes. He could already feel her lecture, even though she would arrive much later.
A woman in uniform carries a tray and serves them tea. Clara? Stephen takes a sip and slowly lets out a breath. Of course, she would serve lemon tea. A flavor the family loved.
"Thank you, Clara." Stephen thanks the maid and she dashes off with pink cheeks. He can't meet his father's eyes.
What should he say? It was all in self-defense? He didn't mean to kill him, but he didn't have a choice?
Talking carelessly would get him killed. That's an unspoken rule the family knows.
"What happened, son?"
He hangs his head.
"He tried to kill us." Stephen touches the gauze on his chest as he tenderly ran over his smaller wounds. He thought of Tristan. Does he take issue with that? The comfortable silence he shared with his father made the weight in his chest lift. He quietly finished his tea. His father placed a hand on his shoulder and pulls him in for a hug. He closes his eyes.
"I apologize." He said.
"You aren't at fault." His father said. He sets his cup down and leaves, closing the door behind him.
He lets out little breaths in an attempt to distract himself from the searing, hot pain in his chest. Stephen managed to get to his room, thanks to Clara. He's silently grateful it wasn't upstairs. He engrossed himself in a book and reclined on his mattress. As he read, James' words echoed in his ears.
How could one of his father's most trusted friends betray him? For a fat paycheck? It does not add up.
The thought of James when he and Tristan were younger, treating him like family. Years of a bond, severed by money. Then the memory of James, dying before him.
Surely, there's more to loyalty than that?
He set it aside and put the book away. He hears the sound of objects clattering to the floor, followed by laughter and barks. Stephen shakes his head in disapproval. He wore nothing but a plush blue bathrobe. That dog had better not scatter its fur everywhere. It's a complete pain to constantly brush his clothes free of fur.
Tristan shuts the door, careful not to let the dog inside. No matter how many times Stephen told him not to enter without knocking, he barges in anyway. Be it the middle of the night or to take his stuff without asking.
If a charger goes missing, it's usually with him.
"Have you heard from her?" Tristan grins as he sat on the edge of his mattress. He plugs in his phone and stretches, reclining to his heart's content. Stephen thought of who he could mean but no one, in particular, comes into his mind. The woman from earlier or his mother? No, that couldn't be.
"Pardon?"
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After a week, his wounds don't ache as much. Either he got used to it, or the medicine is doing its work. He's restless, unable to leave the house for so long. There's only so much he can do working remotely yet the paperwork gave him a headache, as usual.
He successfully made breakfast without breaking anything. Beat that, Clara. He looks upon the plates with newfound pride. He remembers the noises he heard the night before, accompanied by loud claims. Another party? He'd possibly die of alcohol poisoning one day.
"Damn, that's good." Tristan dug into bacon, steaming hot. The smell of food and he pops out like some mushroom. He ought to wear a bell. He drowns his omelet in ketchup and mayonnaise. He leans on the edge of the table, holding a cup of tea.
Stephen sets a mug in front of Tristan, who was enjoying his breakfast. That wasn't meant for him, but he already started eating. It'd be rude to interrupt. He sits beside Tristan and slowly drinks his tea.
What kind of ridiculous story would he tell next?
"I had a blast yesterday. Xingchen had this gathering... of sorts." He explains, laughing to himself. With another bite of bacon, he looks at himself and Stephen. That's much faster than usual.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry." Tristan said, his mouth full of bacon. He has bacon grease all over his mouth, along with bits of ketchup. Stephen hands him a table napkin. With a sheepish smile, he wipes his mouth. At least he ate something.
"It's alright."
Stephen slides the tablet onto the table, a rather large picture of Tristan in an obscene position on the front page of the news. Quite the gathering to make headlines. His eyes skim through.
"They chose the wrong angle!"
He sputters and coughs. That's his biggest concern? Stephen didn't want to find out. The media soaked it all up, if they were lucky it wouldn't reach the news stations.
With his terrible luck, they already know.
"Cease this attitude of yours." Stephen said. What would he gain from such frivolous behavior? Tristan puts his now empty plate into the dishwasher. He leans on the counter, his striped bathrobe marked with pink stains.
He won't even do the dishes properly. If only he put the energy towards his fashion sense into chores.
If he did, it wouldn't be Tristan anymore.
"You say that as if it's a bad thing, relax."
He grabs his keys and drives off, dressed in a white button-down and slacks. What would his parents say? While Stephen isn't a model example himself, he's aware of his limits. Clara did mention it'd be at least another week before he could return to the office. A shame. He only realizes after he had pulled into the parking lot.
Once he steps foot in the corporate building, he is greeted with smiles. As faux as ever. Stephen pays them no mind. He spots a hefty pile of papers atop his desk. What was all that paperwork at home for? He skims through each report, not finding anything noteworthy. He can feel the back pain already and he hadn't even started. The faint smell of black coffee and sugar hung in the air.
"Welcome back, sir."
A young man in office uniform leans on the door frame, a smile on his face. He chuckles. The familiar smell of pastries made his mouth water. Is that..?
"I got you the usual. You still have a late breakfast?" He said. Cedric Miller, the so-called overly helpful employee who can't say no. Upon their first interaction, Stephen thought of him as an annoyance. After spending a significant amount of time together, he had grown fond of him. His personality is similar to a puppy, simply overjoyed at seeing their master.
The taste of soft dough and sweet sugar melts in his mouth. He's the best assistant anyone could ask for.
"Thank you, Cedric."
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