Chapter Text
I wouldn't be seen walking through any door
Some place that you're not welcome to
You stare at the faces smiling from somewhere warm
From somе place the sunlight won't come through
Zahir knew, to a certain extent, that Robert wasn’t normal.
He had to be at least a little bit insane to deal with them, after all. And for free? That was pure lunatic behavior. And he had heard, from Coupé and Punch Up, that Robert was a rather scrappy fighter. Not to mention the fact that the man hardly ate. Like, ever. It was concerning just how thin Robert was.
But still, even then. It didn’t explain any of this.
Robert had only let Flambae into his apartment twice. Once when he was drunk, which led to Flambae immediately kidnapping him to his apartment. The second time was right now—though Flambae will admit that he mostly had invited himself. If he thought it was bad before, it was actually Hell on Earth now that he had more time to process it. For Christ’s sake, the man didn’t have a bed! Just a sad, sad plastic lawn chair. With the amount of money that this man had stolen you’d think that he would have a luxury house—but he didn’t. Most of it just went to whatever job he had before.
He didn’t know what Robert did before this. Zahir doubted that anyone did, they still had a bet after all.
“How do you live like this, bitch?” Zahir asked him.
Robert looked around confusedly before looking around his apartment. “Like what?”
“Like this!” Zahir waved his hand around.
Robert looked around again before shrugging.
“Bob Bob, you don’t have a bed. You only have things for Beef and medical supplies under your sink—and this place literally always smells like bleach. Like, all the time.” he said as he sifted through what was under Robert’s sink. There were at least four bleach bottles underneath the sink. “I guess that makes sense.”
Robert was sitting on the lawn chair. “My balcony doesn’t smell like bleach.”
“Because your balcony is outside, dumbass.” Zahir sighed before walking over to the balcony. “This door doesn’t even fucking lock, dude. How the fuck do you deal with an unlockable door?”
Robert shrugged. “People don’t expect me to know how to fight.”
“Yeah right,” Zahir rolled his eyes before trying his best to close the door. It wouldn’t lock, the lock simply wasn’t there at all anymore. But he tried his best. “You can definitely fight. I so believe you.”
Robert sighed before pushing past him to get to the balcony. Zahir followed.
The two of them were leaning against what railing was there. It seemed like a sturdier one than the other balconies had, but Zahir wasn’t complaining. Robert’s elbows were pressed into the metal.
“How come you don’t have anything?” Zahir asked. His voice was quieter than what it usually was—gentler than how he talked to Alice or to Herm. Maybe on par with how he talked to Moska, but she hated when he would talk like that half of the time anyways. No, this gentleness came from something else inside of him. Some urge inside that wanted to see Robert more taken care of—better fed and better rested. More like himself, even if Zahir didn’t know who he was.
“I never really felt like I deserved it, anyway.” Robert said. “Had a bed. But I used it for a project.”
Zahir’s head titled. “Why wouldn’t you deserve a bed?”
“Dunno.” Robert shrugged.
Zahir huffed. “Everyone deserves that, bitch. I burnt down an entire bank before I got arrested—and even I got a bed even when I was in prison.”
Robert looked at him funny. Maybe he forgot that the Z-Team members went to prison? Whatever it was, Zahir watched it fade almost as soon as it came up.
“Do you mind cigarettes?” he asked.
Zahir blinked. “You smoke?”
“Sometimes.” Robert pulled out a box of cigarettes from inside his jacket pocket. An unopened pack of Camel crush menthols, green and blue mixing on the package. “I don’t really do it often. Haven’t in a while.”
Zahir watched as Robert opened the plastic with his fingernail before pulling one out. Zahir didn’t take one, only watched as he put it in between his lips and teeth—biting down on the filter around the outside of it.
“Got a light?”
Zahir blinked before he snapped his finger, lifting the tip of it to light Robert’s cigarette.
“Thanks.” he whispered and took a huff.
The night was dark and barely any light came through. Which meant that the only thing lighting Robert’s face was either Zahir’s flame or the soft glow of the cigarette. The light looked nice on him. Good. Zahir wasn’t sure why he was allowing this inner monologue to continue but he was. It was a nice sort of thing. It wasn’t until now that Zahir realized just how serious he was about Robert. Maybe he had thought of it before. Maybe he had the idea—the notion, one might say. But he didn’t know it like he knew it now.
“You seriously need some therapy,” Zahir huffed. “Bitch.”