Vices

Their usual spot wasn’t explicitly agreed to in the first place, but now it’s their usual spot, and it’s too much of a headache to try to arrange anything else. Rather, it became their place through a lot of what can only be described as many little coincidences.

Therefore, Medkit and Ban Hammer’s agreed-upon meeting place is on some decrepit apartment complex’s rooftop in the second ring of Crossroads. It is a shitty meeting place, but it’s theirs. 

The two men don’t get up to much during their meetings, as ‘standing around mysteriously’ and ‘brooding’ aren’t exactly productive behavior. They usually share their presence in silence, occasionally dotted by offhanded conversations:

How was your Phight today? I saw it was at the Bread Factory. Oh, damn that arena. I’m always reviving people just to get them squished again. Or banned again, I suppose.

Something like that. It is comfortable in the same sense that sitting one seat apart from strangers is comfortable. It’s predictable and safe and easy to exist around.

Speaking of predictable, it’s about that time of the evening where Ban Hammer will turn around and see the deer-Inphernal clamor his way up the stairs to their spot.

Around this time is when the bulk of the Phights are winding down for the day, and the cacophony of the city fades to a quiet hum in anticipation of what the night brings.

This particular hour, at the tail end of sunset, is a little window between noon and night where the golden hour still fights for daylight.

And if you speak of an Inphernal, they’ll show up. The familiar clunk-clunk-thump of footsteps on metal stairs alerts Ban Hammer to the corridor behind him, and the creaaak of an opening door soon follows it.

Medkit steps out of the doorway and into the fading sunlight, and it’s easy to notice that, even after so many meetings, he still becomes winded from climbing the stairs. 

“Hey,” Medkit greets. “It took me longer than usual, sorry. Swung by the market to pick up a few things. Hope you don’t mind.”

Ban Hammer replies with a silent nod, eyeing him up and down. 

The man’s ensemble today is hardly befitting his usual uniform—he has traded the elegant cravat and suit for a worn-out T-shirt and trousers likely lifted from the thrift store.

Instead of his eponymous medicine kit, a grocery bag dangles from his arm with a great green leek poking out of it, as if to announce to the whole world that he’ll prepare miso soup tonight. 

Medkit shrugs, then opts to shuffle around in his pockets for something. The rustle of plastic and cloth is the only accompaniment to their comfortable silence. Though, it looks a bit cumbersome, really, and Ban Hammer almost sneers at the ridiculous sight, but graciously refrains. 

The shuffling stops. 

“Here.” The shorter Inphernal holds out a crushed little paper box with 6 little sticks inside—cigarettes. He doesn’t follow up with any other instruction, expectantly shaking its contents in front of Ban Hammer.

“Uh, thanks.” Ban Hammer plucks one of the little sticks from the box and proceeds to twiddle it between his claws.

Admittedly, he is unfamiliar with the vices mortals engage in. He is well accustomed to alcohol - such offerings of sake, wine, and other spirits are common among gods - and he does know of Inphernals who drown their sorrows in it.

It is said to loosen the spirit and the tongue. Truthfully, many of the mortal vices do some variation of the whole ‘losing inhibitions’ thing. Other than that, however, the demigod is utterly unaware of why it’s considered such an indulgence. 

Oh, not to mention this is the first time that Medkit has ever offered him a cigarette during their evenings.

Ah, but time is running out. Medkit has already produced one of his own cigarettes, shuffling around in his pockets again to put away the box or something like that.

Okay, so he’s seen people with cigarettes, they carry them in their mouths, and smoke goes out of them, and he has no idea how that works, but…

With little triumph, Ban Hammer sticks the cigarette right in his mouth and makes a rather dramatic sucking noise. 

No smoke goes in or out.

Instead, what he hears is a snort and maybe a snicker, but truthfully it’s something like a “hah, hee-hee!”, and it is DEFINITELY not from himself.

No, in fact, the laughter comes from that befuddling little man next to him who is about to drop his groceries after witnessing what is apparently the most hysterical sight in the Crossroads.

It’s not a dainty or calculated bemused huff, no, it’s an ugly laugh complete with wheezes and the works.

He’s practically doubled over, quivering in a full-bodied spell of laughter, with even his little cotton-deer tail wagging in delight. That stupid big green onion threatens to slip out of his grocery bag and smack onto the floor. He deserves it if it does.

Medkit halfheartedly attempts to cover his toothy grin with the back of his hand. It is an unfamiliar sight, fangs all sharpened and teeth a little yellowed from the smoking habit.

His eye twinkles with mirth, crinkled up at the corners, and somehow Ban Hammer thinks that crow’s feet would suit him. Clutched in his other hand is a small metallic-gold lighter glinting in the sunset. 

“I… what are, hah, what are you doing?” Medkit’s voice is tickled by a breathiness that only laughter can cause. 

“…Just makin’ a joke.” Yep. Definitely a joke. ‘Cause Ban Hammer is a big ol’ prankster. He fumbles the cigarette around with his lips if only to find something to occupy himself with.

He can’t tell if Medkit buys the excuse. His face is still twisted with the remnants of a full-bodied grin.

What he can tell, though, is that Medkit has expertly flicked the lighter’s cap open, a tinny little click preparing for… something. 

“You’ll spit that poor little cigarette right off the balcony,” Medkit replies, still shaking off a few snickers.

He gets closer, steps into the shadow that Ban Hammer’s presence casts, hidden from the sunset. It makes Ban Hammer feel a little funny.

The little deer stands there, eyeing him with an utterly neutral expression (such quick recovery!), and Ban Hammer feels foolish again, which is really not something he wants to get used to.

Reading mortal body language is one thing, but deciphering whatever the hell Medkit does may as well be learning an entirely separate lexicon. 

“Ahem,” Medkit points to the lighter. “Need to light us up. Get closer.”

Okay.

Okay, okay, okay. Ban Hammer leans in ever-so-slightly. He can see the wisps of white hair clinging to Medkit’s forehead and the worn threads of his eyepatch.

It’s too intimate. Suddenly, another click, and a whoosh of light flickers to life between them – another little sunset resting between the mountains of men.

The wavering flame catches on the ends of both their cigarettes, embers dancing at their tips.

He’s not looking at the cigarette. He’s looking at the deep brown in the younger man’s deadened eye, made clearer by the light.

He can’t tell why he keeps looking, but he wants to get lost in that dark pool, an all-consuming vortex, and would be okay with never seeing the light of day again.

Before Ban Hammer can even register what’s going on, Medkit has already shut the lighter and ducked out of his shadow.

One of his elegant, bony hands reaches for his cigarette, and he lets out an appreciative little huff, his tail flicking all the while. A small cloud of smoke follows, dissipating into the cooling air.

How hard could it be? Ban Hammer mirrors Medkit’s relaxed stance, taking in a breath, and oh, fuck, what, huh?!

It tastes terrible! The sensation is burning and awful.

Something is reaching right into his lungs, scrabbling and crawling into all the wrong places. 

A sound that’s half-roar and half-cough escapes Ban Hammer, and, with all the grace in the world, he spits, sputters, and grunts in anguish.

He wants that devilish little stick out right this instant! Spittle flies everywhere, and the damned cigarette flips right out of his lips and right off the balcony, disappearing into nothingness.

A few greyish puffs of smoke fade away as if to ridicule him, dancing away before his doubled-over form.

Belurgh. Disgusting.

“You mortals,” he manages to wheek out, “are just actively destroying yourselves with this sorta’ junk…” Ban Hammer doesn’t even bother to look at Medkit, but he’s sure that the man shrugs in response. “For one, at least alcohol gets you all buzzy. It’s a real hoot when that nonsense happens at shrines. What’s the point of this?” 

“It makes this mortal buzzy. Haha.” The answer is accompanied by the sound of footsteps tapping near him – Medkit has padded closer once more to lean against the balcony’s railing. 

He leans a little past the rails, looking down at the streets beginning to flicker with life that the evening invites. There’s no way he’s looking for the lost cigarette. He’s just looking at his city.

Lampposts are flickering on, street hawkers hoist their carts away, led by the soft lights of lanterns amidst flapping banners. Crossroads truly comes to life in the night – Inphernals are children of the darkness after all.

“Um,” Ban Hammer starts, but he shuts up because ‘um’ isn’t becoming of the Tyrannical Warden of the Banlands.

‘Um’ is becoming of clumsy mortals and a weird old man with insane mommy issues named Ban Hammer standing next to a spindly, weird deer freak on a random bummy rooftop. Of course. 

Try again. 

“Good thing I didn’t let your evil cigarette kill me. And, uh. I guess you were right about the whole balcony spitting thing.” Good start.

To this, Medkit looks up and softens that crow’s-feet smile with his eye again.

“You owe me 600 Bux,” and the healer smirks softly. “Those things are expensive, you know.”

“Aren’t you acting a little too in-character?” Ban Hammer grins back. “Fine, take your Bux, go buy another hundred packs of your murder sticks.” 

He shoves a 1000-Bux bill towards Medkit, but the timing is all clumsy since Medkit has also maneuvered one of his arms off the railing and towards Ban Hammer’s general direction.

Their hands brush against each other, and the bill is instantly forgotten about. 

Neither of their hands is surprisingly soft or any of that poetic fluff. They are both battle-worn from Phights, from gripping their Gear closely to themselves.

They are only men, even if one will live for thousands of years and the other merely a drop in the sands of time.

Ban Hammer’s hands are absurdly large and dwarf even the length of the 1000-Bux bill. His claws are misshapen, likely from absentminded gnawing at their dulled tips. There are worn-in calluses dancing across his palms, clear indicators of a spawn using his given Gear day in and day out. 

Medkit’s claws are trimmed and proper on his right hand, but Ban Hammer is maybe eighty percent sure that his left hand’s claws are all chewed up.

He has seen the man worrying away at his claws during little windows in matches before, especially when big-Bux multipliers appeared.

Little flecks – scars, perhaps – are scattered across his skin and bones, pockmarking a lifetime of violence. It’s a shame he usually hides them under velveteen gloves, because they’re beautiful. 

When their hands brush, sparks don’t fly. The air is humid and clings to their skin in sheens of sweat.

For some inexplicable reason, Ban Hammer finds that his palms are sweaty and that Medkit’s hands feel kind of dry.

It feels just right.

Then the 1000-Bux bill is swiped out of his palm, and he returns to reality.

“You’re so generous, Mr. Warden,” and Medkit’s gentle laughter smells of tobacco. He has to think of a reply, and quickly! Wittily! Snappy! Don’t lose the tempo! 

“Don’t go mixing me up with the pompous asses around here,” Ban Hammer retorts, images of his cousins and that strange Pwnatious coming to mind. Bleurgh. Way to kill the mood. “But if you keep the ‘Mr. Warden’ bit, I might start gettin’ used to it.” 

“Alright then,” Medkit replies after another drag of his cigarette. He then proceeds to stub it out on the railing. “I’ll see you next week, Mr. Warden.”

Ban Hammer could get used to this sort of thing. Maybe even addicted to it, if he dares indulge in laughter and standing too close to Medkit too often.

Alas, a fixation to tobacco or alcohol would likely be simpler than running after happily-ever-after. Those mortals were onto something after all.

And there’s always next week.