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Rocket always has a way of wheedling him into things. Or, well, Sword could say the same for himself. Actually, they both get into things together—with or without a little goading, who’s to say. They both end up laughing and jostling each other by the end of it anyways, so it has a good result most of the time.
They competed in a Phight earlier and ended up winning with a close overtime, thanks to the combination of Phinishers (two out of three being both him and Rocket’s—over which they playfully bickered over who contributed more). The sun was low since their fight had been in the afternoon, about to set in a few hours or so. They had collected their prize money and headed out, still high off their victory, to wander off to find some food—
—which was what they were in the process of eating right now.
Sword chews the last bite of his burger while he watches Rocket play something on his phone, slurping loudly on a blue slushie. He smiles in amusement and reaches for a fry in the container between the two of them.
“Are you gonna head home after this?”
“Maybe,” Rocket says, chewing on the end of his straw. He lifts his head and takes a fry when Sword offers the container out to him. “I dunno. I kinda wanna stay out for a bit, don’t you?”
Sword hums a bit, taking another fry. “Yeah. I don’t feel like going home yet. The Phight got me all riled up. What do you wanna do?”
“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”
“I asked first, but okay,” His side is elbowed playfully by Rocket, whose foot he kicks playfully in retaliation. “Do you wanna get drinks or something? Me and Med visit the one just down here.”
“The one you got shitfaced at and then went and did karaoke?” His friend’s smirk is teasing, but Sword nods anyways—only after fondly rolling his eyes, first.
Rocket seems to think for a minute and Sword waits, nudging his foot rhythmically against Rocket’s, which the other unconsciously does back.
Eventually, the other demon nods. “Okay, yeah. Sure. Sounds fun.”
Sword grins and stands up. He turns to hold out a hand to Rocket, who smiles back brightly in return, taking his hand and letting Sword tug him up onto his feet. Rocket pockets his phone and tosses the finished slushie in a nearby disposal, but keeps the container of fries; only a few of which are remaining.
Sword reaches for one, only to find his hand batted away. “Hey!”
“You’re gonna steal all my fries—you’re a menace!” Rocket stumbles away from him, holding the container out of his reach—
Sword replies with some kind of retort about how it’s our fries, and who was the one who insisted they weren’t hungry but ate all my fries last time, and Rocket shoots something back, and they settle into this fond, familiar routine as they continue chatting all the way to the bar. He can’t help the utter satisfaction he receives when he finally plucks a fry from the container before they enter the bar—Rocket going easy on him, for once.
They enter the bar with easygoing grins. Sword can’t help the way he relishes the way one of them elbows the other first before they sit down, how they’re already involved in an excited talk before they even order their drinks; playing a not-quite-game that consists of ordering for each other and snickering when the other one wrinkles their nose or makes a face at the taste.
He can’t help the way they keep nudging one another and he loves the playful contact, the elation, the feeling he always misses but somehow always possesses. Sword thinks his eyes are crinkled in some kind of mirth, and he worries his expression might look a bit stupid, might say a bit too much, but he saves that and tucks it down in a little box because he just loves being around Rocket.
He takes a swig of his drink. Rocket giggles when he makes a face.
“Dude.”
They’ve been at the bar for maybe an hour now, done with their not-quite-game and having moved on to actually getting drinks they like (or rather, tolerate, because the burn never really tasted good, just familiar—). Now they’re a bit buzzed, he supposes, with their situation and the way something flutters in his chest, the way his head feels a bit light, but in a good way.
Sword snorts, his eyes glancing down to where Rocket’s collar laid askew, one fully up and the other folded at a strange angle. It seems like something Sword would find himself doing, when Venomshank made him dress for a formal occasion and always scolded him about his often disheveled look—loose tie, rolled up sleeves, his shoulders always bunched up.
“Your collar’s all messed up.”
“Wha—Really?” Rocket’s head cranes down to look, his hands reaching up to try and see if he can fix it, but Sword can tell he can’t quite see what he’s doing and there’s not really a mirror around here, so he just shakes his head.
“Here—lemme—“ He lifts his hands to help out, and Rocket’s hands immediately lower a bit, allowing him to properly fix the shirt collar. Maybe some time ago, he would’ve been a bit awkward with this type of trust—it was a small thing, but he was still honored to be someone Rocket could trust wholly, from the utmost amount of faith in him when placing a carving blade into Sword’s hands and turning his back to just letting him fix his collar. Maybe he was a bit stupid, or sentimental, but it was a heady feeling.
When he finishes, Rocket tries his best to crane his head again to see if it’s actually fixed, but he gives up halfway through trying and just smiles at him. “Thanks, Sword.”
Sword nods, grinning in return. Maybe it was just the reminiscing, but now and then he was reminded of how glad he is to have Rocket in his life. Rocket, who raises an eyebrow at him. “What’re you giving me that corny look for?”
“Nothing!” Sword chirps, leaning back in his seat.
“Not nothing!” Rocket insists. He can’t stop grinning, and it’s so stupid.
The other demon continues questioning him, poking him in the shoulder repeatedly while he snickers. “What is it? Tell me! You got that stupid look on your face—don’t tell me this is another ‘I learned that move from you,’ thing!”
Sword smiles innocently and pretends like he’s thinking for a moment, before his eyes catch on the drink Rocket hasn’t touched since he’s been mostly distracted with talking. He makes a gesture towards the drink. “Take a swig, and I’ll spill.”
Rocket furrows his brow, considering it for a minute. But he really wasn’t one all that for considering, and raises his glass to his lips, taking a swig a bit longer than normal, as if to prove something. There’s only a few more sips left when he puts it down, and Sword is contemplating telling him to take it easy, but he knows it’d be futile. Rocket clears his throat a bit after he finishes, and immediately demands, “Spill!”
“I was thinkin’ about when you blew up those boxes when Venom brought me over for one of the first times.” Sword takes a long gulp of his own drink, partially to distract himself from seeing the look on Rocket’s face.
“Oh, shut up!” His friend rolls his eyes. “You are such a liar.” Rocket laughs again, bright and boisterous, sipping from his drink for a brief second before he slams it down on the counter.
“‘m not lying!”
“You’re so drunk, you can’t even lie properly.” The other boy tugs him in by his shoulder to wrap his arm around Sword’s lower back—a common thing between them: an arm over a shoulder, a back, a neck—shaking Sword back and forth as payback, which he idly allowed.
“Okay, maybe we should go home, then.”
Rocket’s head leans against his shoulder, his curved horns digging into Sword, but he doesn’t mind it. The rocketeer’s shoulder shake with muted laughter as he giggles into Sword’s side, grin deviously wide and it’s almost infectious, the way Sword smiles in return.
Rocket doesn’t even give him a straight reply, simply jumps to the next topic of whatever has popped into his mind that’s so funny:
“I think my dad’s totally gonna give me a lecture, Sword—he saw the Phight!”
“You’re not serious,” he gives a small laugh in return, but the only response he recieves is Rocket’s quiet giggles still in his shoulder, the other boy’s hand hitting Sword’s back lightheartedly like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Maybe it was time to go.
He doesn’t know if he says so, but eventually he finishes his drink and slides off the stool; Rocket follows, both of them ending up laughing at nothing in particular.
They recover their senses somewhat and continue to bat at each other for a little while as they walk through the bar. Sword thinks the alcohol’s kicking in when he starts to notice how cool the evening air feels against his warm skin when he steps outside. They start walking on the way home. Rocket’s still following him, chattering all the while, and Sword grabs his hand for reassurance while they try to figure out which street to go on. He thinks some of those streetlights are a little wobbly.
“Have you ever learned… like, the waltz?” The random question spills past his lips with no motion to stop him, because he was thinking about drunk karaoke with Medkit, and then karaoke, and then music and it led to dancing.
“Nope!”
Rocket’s busy staring at the sky, his free hand outstretched towards it, as if he was attempting to pluck the pinpricks of from the sky, but then squints when the yellow light from the street passes over him while they walk.
“What? Seriously?” Sword questions, and gawks at him. There is seriously no way. Actually, he should’ve just shut his mouth because he was the one who practiced. He learned to waltz after his father caught him trying to learn by himself (and utterly failing, while he was at it) and taught him properly.
“What? You take fancy dance classes?”
“No!” He denies it immediately, the heat of embarrassment crawling up to weigh on his neck. His lips feel loosened by the alcohol and it's as if he needs to tie them shut if only so he stops blurting random shit. “I just—learned! Y’should too, in case you go to anything formal…”
“I don’t know, Sword, sounds mighty suspicious…” The smaller demon waggles a finger at him. “What, are you gonna teach me how to waltz at ass-o’-clock in the night in the middle of a street, like a block from my dad’s house?”
Sword juts his head out challengingly before huffing. He slows his gait, which pulls Rocket’s hand. “Well, only if you say so.”
“Woah, wait, really?” Rocket laughs as he notices Sword actually stops in his tracks, swinging their hands together. “Oh my gods, you’re actually gonna teach me how to dance on the sidewalk at ass-o’-clock in the ni—“
“If you keep rambling about it, I’m—‘m just gonna push you over onto the ground and see how long it takes you to get up—“ but Sword can’t properly issue the threat because Rocket laughs and then he laughs, and then they’re leaning on each other again, grinning and trying to recover their breath.
“Okay, so… to start, your hands go here.” Now that they’re stopped underneath the light, Sword can properly see what he’s doing. He gently takes ahold of Rocket’s wrist, eased enough as to merely guide him, and places Rocket’s hand on his shoulder. He maneuvers their other already intertwined hands outward, and his hand finds its way to Rocket’s back.
“Can I just step wherever?” Rocket looks around at their position, a bit confused, his eyes locking on the ground.
“No,” Sword shakes his head fondly. “Just do what I do. We’re basically just going around in a circle.”
He starts out slow, for Rocket’s sake, taking one step and waiting for him to get the memo. Another step, he takes a little while again. Another, he reacts a little faster. Then there’s another step and another and another; Rocket’s reaction time is improving, and he seems to get a hang of their rhythm. Sword squeezes his hand as their stiff, stilted start fades away and they occasionally have a small whispered bickering when Rocket steps on his foot or Sword goes too fast, but it’s them.
Sword can hear music coming from a place nearby, quiet jazz drifting to his ears. The night is cool and dim. He’s not glancing down at their feet so much anymore to make sure they aren’t stepping on each other’s toes. He watches Rocket’s eyes follow their movements, careful consideration present on his face as he tries to rush them even faster; and Sword, as always, goes along. Light dances across his horns, his face, as they saunter in and out of the light from the lamppost, and Sword thinks it’s a strange sort of beauty, a strange sort of moment.
Eventually, they’re still dancing and they’ve got the hang of it and they’re going a little fast, but Rocket looks up. The dancing has cleared their minds a bit—or at least for Sword it has—but he second guesses that thought because he swears his breath hitches a little when Rocket looks back at him. Being drunk is the only way to explain the way his chest feels tight, like a vice has wrapped itself around his heart and refuses to let go.
Rocket’s face is fond. It’s the only way to describe the slight quirk of his lips and the crinkle in his eyes as he stares at Sword. It’s in his eyes, it’s in the way his hand squeezes Sword’s, it’s in the way their fingers are intertwined although they don’t have to be; it’s in the way he was gripping Sword’s shoulder a little anxiously at first when they started to sway, but went along with it anyways because he trusts Sword and Sword trusts him. Rocket smiles wider, his brow a little furrowed in slight confusion.
“You’re givin’ me that corny look again.”
Sword tamps down on the smile that had unknowingly creeped onto his face, he averts his eyes to look down at where they’re still slowly dancing back and forth, leaning into the dance. He shrugs noncommittally. His face feels like it’s alight. “I guess my face is just stupid.”
“Isn’t there a—a spin in this dance? The twirl.” Rocket’s eyes glimmer, and Sword can’t deny him. He’s grateful for the change in topic, but…
“I dunno if that’s the best id—whoa!” Sword picks up on the signal of Rocket raising their intertwined hands too late, and stumbles into something vaguely reminiscent of a spin, which is mostly him trying not to fall flat on his face.
“Oops. Sorry.” Rocket apologizes, but raises their hands again—stops mid-air, as if to wait until he’s ready, this time. Sword knows with their positions, it should be him spinning Rocket, but he merely rolls his eyes and obliges.
He spins again. And again. And then Rocket wants his turn, and Sword is always obliged; can tease and poke fun and laugh but he doesn’t deny him. He spins Rocket so many times it seems like a bad idea, but eventually he does stop. Not without stumbling a little bit and needing to hold onto a slightly-less-unsteady Sword, but, well, the good thing is that drunk Rocket wasn’t going to spin into oblivion.
The dance ends as they fall into something less of a waltz and more of an aimless sway. Their hands aren’t together anymore, in favor of Sword’s arms wrapped around the other’s back. Rocket’s head rests against his shoulder like before at the bar, tired out and giggling. “Gods, ‘m so dizzy.”
“We totally need to get home.”
Sword gazes down at him as they sway—at his closed eyes and satisfied grin with a few teeth showing. Rocket laughs into his shoulder, and it’s a light feeling that sprouts in Sword’s chest at such a familiar sight. Rocket mumbles, “M’dad will totally lecture me once I get back.”
“Dude,” Sword says, but he thinks he ends up mumbling or crossing some of his words, the clarity from dancing quickly fading after the dizziness, “how’d y’know he’s even upset at you? Y’sure he saw the Phight?”
He thinks it’s funny how Rocket snorts, leans into Sword’s space and grins with such a force Sword can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the lighthearted touch of the evening that makes a smile worm its way onto his own face. Rocket leans against him more, even though he probably isn’t the most stable right now, so they end up just swaying and leaning on each other, snickering and giggling under their breath at how unbelievably stupid they’re being.
“He was deeefffinitely disappointed. He sent me a text with—with a period.” Rocket’s slurring his words a lot more as he talks, waving his hand around loosely again. Okay. That’s their signal they should probably get going before they actually fall over.
Something smacks his shoulder suddenly and Sword realizes it’s Rocket’s hand as the other demon abruptly moves off him, his eyes wide and mouth gaping like he’s come upon a revelation.
“What?” He asks, but he has a feeling the smaller was going to blurt it out anyways.
“You have to carry me,” Rocket blurts, and Sword notices they’re only a few blocks away from Zuka’s, like they’d been unconsciously following the path. “If I pretend I’m totally shitfaced he won’t even bother trying to talk to me and I can pretend like he’s not disappointed—“
“You’re still going on about that?” Sword squawks, but Rocket cuts him off again, alight with his idea that will probably take the form of wheedling the other into going along with his plan. Which will definitely happen.
“Okay, if you’ll just listen, it’s—hic—it’s a good plan!” Rocket’s speech speeds up like normal at first, but his careless downing of the drink from earlier is showing in the way he’s slurring some of his words. Sword snickers, but he knows he isn’t that much better with the way the world is still spinning.
“What, do you want me to fling you over my back? ‘m not even sure if I can stand by m’self. ‘m not keen on showin’ up at Zuka’s place drunk. He won’t even let me in—”
“No, dummy!” Rocket’s hand playfully smacks his shoulder again, and his face scrunches like he’s thinking again. After a painful minute of silence, his genius idea is, “He’ll let you in cause I’ll tell him to!”
“I thought you were s’posed to act passed out—“
“Okay, but,” Rocket jumps to defend himself with waving hands, and Sword can’t help his endeared chuckle as he watches how unsteady Rocket is. He’s making no sense by now, just jumping to and from different ideas with emphatic gestures and a voice trying it’s best to sound like he knows what he’s talking about. “If you would… if you would just listen—”
Rocket yelps in surprise as Sword abruptly wraps one arm around his middle, the other sweeping up his legs, and lifts the other demon up—albeit with a little difficulty, but Sword determination wins through—and proceeds to stride down the sidewalk. He adjusts Rocket in his arms, definitely not light with all the metal and muscle, but Sword’s strong enough to carry him—even while drunk. He squints his eyes so the streetlights stop wandering, forces the world to stop spinning while he walks.
Rocket scolds him at first for the sudden carry, but it’s with a smile and a giggle, so Sword knows he really isn’t mad; he rambles the whole way there, his elbow and horns jutting into Sword from where he’s being carried, but Sword doesn’t mind. Rocket’s hands move with the same emphatic gestures and he speaks with the same varying volumes as before while music still plays from down the street—and Sword is just content to listen.
And try his damndest not to fall over, if that counts.
Zuka opens the door to find Sword standing awkwardly outside, holding his son in his arms, Rocket’s head lolled over onto the taller demon’s chest. He nearly has a heart attack, hands jolting forward in concern, from the way Rocket’s barely moving. His fingers brush the back of Rocket’s head. Was he hurt? There wasn’t any blood, but if Zuka needed to get his gear out from the back and dust it off, he’d gladly do so—
“He’s fine, Zuka,” Sword’s face is understanding, his eyes softened. “We just went out for drinks. Sorry if he didn’t tell you.”
“Ah.” That lines up with the unsteady way in which Sword is standing and the flush on his face. He’s surprised he was able to carry his son all the way home. Zuka sighs, half in relief and half in annoyance. His son. He’ll talk to him in the morning about this kind of stuff. He lifts a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “Take him to his room, please. Are you staying here?”
“If you’ll—if it’s okay.” Sword stumbles on his words, nodding. Rocket shifts for a second, but Zuka can tell his son’s trying to be as still as possible.
Zuka waves him off dismissively. These two were going to end up shoving him in a casket one of these days. “You should get going to sleep. I’ll bring you guys water in a minute.”
Sword nods again, and moves along past him to go down the hall. Zuka hears him mumble something incomprehensible, and then the familiar sound of Rocket’s giggles—soon to turn into laughter—before they walk into Rocket’s room reaches his ears. Something akin to “We did it!” is exclaimed before the door shuts, and by the way Zuka can hear Sword’s hiss and slight laughter after, it would make sense. Damn it. His son is so unbelievably—
Zuka rubs the bridge of his nose. Gods. Why was he even worried?
“They think they’re so sneaky,” he mutters, locking the door with a turn of the keys. He can faintly hear the not-so-subtle giggling (turning into chatter and laughter) from Rocket’s room. He fell for it again. He’s seen this before, and if Rocket really was passed out, Sword is probably one of the only people Zuka would trust him with. At least he knows they’re safe. That was the most important thing Zuka could offer them.
“At least you let ‘em have their fun!”
Broker spins in the chair he’s sitting in backwards, his arms wrapped around the backrest. He grins with a playful nature, obviously amused by seeing the other two walk in. “When did Rocket get old enough to drink, again? It seems like only yesterday I was spooking him from the cabinets.”
“He still hates you for that,” Zuka retorts, clipping his keys onto his belt and turning on his heel to walk down the hall. “By the way, you need to get all this ‘Brokercoin’ shit out of the house. I’m not getting incriminated.”
“No can do, Zukes!” Broker’s lips quirk in a closed-lipped smile and the man simply watches as Zuka strides past him. He seems content.
Zuka hears him humming nonchalantly from the living room while he saunters further down the hallway, eyes idly trailing around. Eventually, he retrieves a trash bag from the box in the closet he keeps all his cleaning stuff. He’ll get the kids water right after this.
He shakes the trash bag out once to unfold it, but after careful consideration of the man in the next room, he repeats the motion multiple times—loud enough, just so he knows the Broker will hear it. He doesn’t wait for a reaction as he trods over to where he knows that stupidly huge pile of coins lay.
“Wait—Zukes! Zukes, Zuka, come on!”
A small smile finds its way onto his face.