Chapter Text
Told you once
Won't warn you twice
But you dare to cross that line
Show you my darker side
Oh soaked my heart in gasoline
And now you'll feel the pain
When my fist reaches your face
You'll be sorry that you came
Darker Side of Me - Fivefold
The entertainment district of July inhabits many things: clubs, arcades, cinemas, brothels, and bars. But one bar, in particular, stands out — Deep Cuts.
Run by none other than Millions Knives, it has proven to be one of the most popular attractions in the city. The drinks are excellent, the interior is fashionable and the staff is pretty relaxed.
However, visits there are anything but mundane. That's the appeal, that's why people keep coming back, and what brings in new faces from time to time. Deep Cuts is notorious for its brawls.
If you have an issue with someone, invite them over for a drink and then smash their face in. Your nine-to-five job absolutely sucks, your wife left and took the kids or you just got up on the wrong side of the bed first?
Come over and let off some steam!
─────❅─────
Nicholas D. Wolfwood has faced a lot of shit in his life, and if he says a lot he means a shit ton of bad, crazy stuff that he wishes upon nobody else. He had lost his parents so early that he could barely remember them. They were just blurred faces in a dull memory. The orphanage he grew up in was a shithole, held together by the small donations it got from who knows. The staff was kind and did whatever they could to provide a stable life for the children but Nicholas was a smart kid. He knew they took more children in than they were able to feed. The kids’ clothes were mended until unrecognizable and he even had to share a bed with someone else — with Livio. This other boy had quickly become his constant appendage. A whiny, clingy kid. But Nicholas would have to lie if he said he didn’t love that dude. He was his little brother, even though they were not related by blood.
But when Nicholas was only twelve, he turned his back on the orphanage and decided to live on the streets. How much worse could it be than the orphanage? Innocently he hoped they would at least let Livio sleep alone in the bed now. The streets of July City are no place for children.
In fact, they are not a suitable place for anyone at all.
The crime rate is currently as high as it has ever been, but even then it was dangerous for a kid. Nicholas was forced to grow up quickly and learn that the roads came with their own set of laws. If it weren’t for a group of criminals who took him under their wing, he would’ve never made it. He had learned how to defend himself, how to use a diversity of weapons, how to steal and how to get the best prices for whatever illegal substances were available on the market.
Livio had found him two years later, joining the group. Nicholas didn’t know what to think of it. The gang was safer than being alone on the streets but being a member wasn’t much easier.
He’s living a safer life by now, but Nick still blames himself for letting him stay back then. He should’ve forced him to go back and find a foster family.
─────❅─────
Today Nicholas is 26 years old and works as a barkeeper in Deep Cuts. Which so happened to be owned by his boyfriend. How that happened is a story for another time.
Just now Wolfwood has enough to do with mopping the floor with a guy who took the liberty of throwing his glass of vodka at him.
“Pick a fight with the other guests if you wanna but leave the fuckin’ staff alone, alright?” he grunts and for good measurement, adds another kick to the poor guy's side.
“Ah-! Yeah, ‘m sorry!” the drunkard cries and scrambles to his feet as soon as Nicholas takes a step back.
He picks up the empty whiskey tumbler; the ice is scattered over the floor but he won’t bother to pick it up nor won’t he get rid of the spilled drink. Usually, by the end of his shifts, there will be much worse stuff on the floor anyway. Like blood. Or random teeth. The worst he has ever seen splattered across the dark floorboards has been intestines so far. Or was it brain matter?
Brawls are commonplace in the bar. It’s what got it so famous in the first place. Come here, get drunk and throw some fists without consequences. If you drop by you’re aware of the risks.
Nicholas is so used to it by now that he doesn’t bat an eye when people are turning each other into mush. Usually, he keeps cleaning the counter or preparing an order. On rare occasions, he will call an ambulance out of courtesy. His job description doesn't demand it, but Nicholas is not a bad guy. Of all their staff, he's probably one of the kindest people working for Knives. This doesn’t mean that any guest running around is allowed to tamper with him.
Nicholas’ street name is The Punisher for a reason. He’s second in command of the Eye of Michael, the gang that reigns this part of the city. Everybody in July knows this name, hell the whole country likely knows. Knives has his fingers in more than this city's schemes but this one is his main playground. You don’t want to get on his bad side.
The random guy has already left the bar when Nicholas returns to his position behind the counter. He quickly rinses the glass and makes sure it’s pristine before putting it in one of the cupboards under the bar.
It’s pretty quiet but that’s because it’s only Wednesday.
During the week, enough people come by to get a drink and pool money into the register, but there's less fighting.
Weekend shifts are pure madness. Too many people, too loud. The repairs afterwards. It’s why the bar is closed on Mondays, sometimes they even have to close until Tuesday because it gets that bad.
Installing shatterproof safety glass in the bar's display window was Knives' smartest decision. Zazie, one of the other bartenders, had been pretty sad about it — “I liked the noise when someone went flying through it!”.
One of the regulars who never picks a fight is sitting across from Nicholas, he’s reading the newspaper and smokes. The cherry is close to burning the filter but the nasty, old guy doesn’t seem to care.
“Yo Roberto, think you wanna put that one out,” he addresses the guest.
Roberto looks from his article to the bud, then to Wolfwood and sighs. He takes one last, desperate drag, then squishes the cheap cigarette into an ashtray on the counter.
“Thanks,” he says and takes a swig from his beer as he continues to read the shabby news.
The guy is rarely a man of many words; he comes in regularly, has a few drinks, stays out of any fights and then leaves as quietly as he comes.
─────❅─────
The evening stays calm. It appears Nicholas had made a fuss about doing a late shift over nothing. Instead of planning half a renovation of the bar, which was often due after a heavy brawl, he only had to get rid of the spilled drink, clean the tables and clear all ashtrays. For Nicholas, there hasn't been a night as quiet as this one in a long time.
When he’s done tidying he takes a last glance around the lounge before locking up. The floor is dark oak, while the walls have a brick look that gives the room a fairly rustic feel. Sleek black leather sofas form sitting areas against the far left wall. Dark wooden tables and chairs stand in the open space. These are now specially made for the bar. Countless chair legs have been used as batons already, so they have to make sure they are always in stock. A warehouse outside of the city harbors a supply of furniture, should they break during fights.
The room is bathed in a muted, warm light from the ceiling lamps, a few sconces add plum-colored splashes along the wall.
The bar counter is the notable highlight of the whole room. Glossy black, it stretches along almost the entire right wall. The countertop is made out of smooth glass, there are several cracks in the glass that have been filled with red resin, making it look like volcano rocks splitting open to present its molten core. A row of wine-red, velvet-covered bar stools invite customers to have a seat; in fact, that's where most of the people who stay out of the fights sit. It's almost become etiquette to not lay a hand on those guests. Almost.
Behind the counter is a large, illuminated shelf displaying various alcohol bottles and some decorative items. Zazie keeps saying the skull is real, but Nicholas knows better. After all, he got it from the Halloween section of a double-dollar store.
Leaving the lounge, Nicholas passes a sign saying “No fights allowed.” He trails through a narrow hallway that leads to a couple of other rooms. There is a break- and changing room for the employees, a storeroom and a bathroom.
But the one he enters is the VIP lounge that was for exclusive guests and The Eye of Michael members.
It looks a little different than the main lounge, the walls are painted in a deep red color. One is completely covered by several paintings and mirrors, all framed in gold. They're depicting all kinds of things — people, landscapes, still lifes — a good portion of them have been painted by Knives himself. But he hasn't picked up a brush in ages.
Nicholas' own face greets him from the mirrors. Deep blue eyes among warm colored skin meet his own on the reflective surface. He has a bruise on his left cheek; it's nearly faded and only adds to his gruff charisma. He can't remember how many times his aquiline nose has been broken before, he doesn't mind if it's a little crooked. The cross-shaped pendant of his left earring dangles against his strong jaw as he turns to the middle of the room.
There are three, red, well-broken-in leather couches, you only have to take a quick look to know how comfy they are. The coffee table in the middle of the seats is regularly abused as a footrest.
Nicholas takes a deep breath. Knives’ cologne lingers in the air, even if he himself hasn’t visited in a while. It mixes with the sweet smell of his specially branded whiskey — there is an actual barrel of it stored in the corner of the room.
Actually, why not, Nicholas thinks and goes to the smaller counter in the far back.
He fetches one of the heavy tumblers with a gold-plated rim and fills it with two fingers of the expensive drink.
The cherry-red leather sofa practically swallows him as he plops down on it. He lights a cigarette, takes a sip, then a drag and lets the spices mingle on his tongue. While sinking further into the cushions, he wonders if Knives is already at home. It’s 3 AM.
Maybe he is, but surely not in bed. He’d probably sit on his laptop and work. That was still better than picturing him chasing after some idiots in the street.
─────❅─────
6 years ago.
“Liv’ run!” Nicholas shouted hysterically as he skittered around a corner. His heart was racing while it desperately tried to pump his adrenaline-fueled blood, his lungs felt like they’d collapse any minute; he needed to stop smoking like a chimney. He’d do it, for real this time — later. If there was a later. If he and his brother would survive tonight.
They had been chased through half of July’s downtown, his gun was long lost, discarded somewhere after he ran out of ammo. He had wounded two of their pursuers. They would probably make it, but a shot to the knee would definitely render them useless. Another one hadn’t been so lucky when the bullet hit right between his eyes. They were Millions Knives’ henchmen — Part of “The Eye of Michael”.
The tension between their group had worsened over the last few weeks. What had started as individual arguments had quickly turned into a full-on gang war over the reigns of July's underworld. Stupid pranks became cruel ambushes which then became fights until the first deaths occurred.
As if Wolfwood didn't already have his hands full keeping the police off their backs.
But tonight was the worst night of all. Nicholas and Livio's nightly patrol stumbled into a trap. So far they had only had to deal with the worker bees of "The Eye". Tonight their queen was out on a hunt.
Millions Knives was after them, following him and his brother through one neighborhood after the other. If only Nicholas had kept the gun, had at least one bullet to defend themselves. Apparently, fists would have to do tonight.
They were passing an especially narrow alley, hoping to lose their pursuer in the labyrinth of the closely standing buildings. Families would be in there, hopefully, sound asleep, unaware of the violence out on the streets.
“Nico, head down!” Livio shouted behind him.
Nicholas didn’t have to know why, his instincts and trust in his brother let him follow the order in the blink of an eye. He threw himself to the ground, rolled forward and used the momentum to turn around, leaning on one knee as a throwing knife whizzed over his head. That could only belong to one person, which meant he had caught up. Livio ran back to Nicholas' side, helping him to his feet as Knives slowed his pace, but continued to sneak up on them. They could finally get a better look as their pursuer stalked them under a perfectly placed street lamp.
Clad in all black — boots, cargo pants, tank top — he would have looked fairly normal for his age if it wasn’t for the leather harness hugging his muscular chest which harbored a diversity of knives.
Centering his Adam's apple, two inked wings adorned his throat, making his neck look even wider. His dark attire contrasted sharply with his teased platinum hair.
Wolfwood had to admit the guy looked good. A pity that they had to be bloody enemies.
Knives stepped closer and Nicholas grabbed Livio by the shoulder, turning and dragging him along. Too late.
They shouldn’t have stopped, even if every muscle in their body ached and begged for a break. They had lost their momentum, their only trump card.
A slim throwing knife buried itself in Wolfwood's calf, making him stumble with a yelp. He could barely catch himself with his arms; the rough asphalt tore at his palms.
Now Livio tried to drag him away but to no avail. Another knife missed Livio’s hand by an inch, maybe less.
“Do you really think you can run from me?” Knives cold voice cut through the night.
“I think we did just fine so far,” Wolfwood spit, his voice full of sarcasm.
Knives laughed, “Oh I want to see you doing that when I cut your Achilles.”
“Liv, I want you to run,” Nicholas murmured, only for his brother to hear.
“No, I can’t leave you behind, Nico."
“Yes, you can. This isn’t a question.”
“But—”
Nicholas snarled. “We don’t have time to discuss this. You need to— ack!”
Another knife found its target in Wolfwood's upper arm, barely missing his new tribal tattoo.
Livio's widened eyes darted from the wound to their opponent and Nicholas knew he wasn't going to give up without a fight. He would stay and then Razlo would front and make things more complicated.
"Are you willing to beg for your brother's life?" Knives asked in a playful tone while idly twirling one of his blades between slim fingers.
Nicholas didn't need to think twice. He knew they were fucked, even together they wouldn't be able to take this bastard down. Not without any weapons. He was already on the ground anyway, wounded, tired from running.
"Please, let him go. Take me, I’m the leader. Let him go unharmed."
Livio tried protesting again, but Nicholas hushed him.
Knives stood still, blocking their way back to the main street, tilting his head in a manner of dramatic thinking.
He clicked his tongue, then nodded once and took a step to the side.
“Run. Don’t dare to come back.”
The brothers exchanged another glance, pained, torn.
“Don’t come back,” Nicholas repeated merely as a whisper.
Livio sighed and ran, throwing a hateful glare at Knives as he passed him.
Relief flooded his older brother.
As soon as he had left the alleyway, Knives crowded Wolfwood. He grabbed him by the collar of his dirty t-shirt and pulled him upwards. The dull pain in his leg spiked as he was forced to put his weight on it. It was quickly drowned out as Knives fist kissed his face with a blow of punches.
Knives only stopped when his knuckles felt raw enough and Wolfwood was spitting blood. All the pain had mixed, he wasn’t sure which part of his face was still intact. A well-aimed hit had broken his nose and the gruesome cracking had echoed through the alley. Knives' several rings had left ragged cuts. Blood was steadily dripping onto the pavement.
Shaking out his hand and then brushing a few strewn strands of hair out of his face, he colored the innocent white macabre red.
Wolfwood chuckled at him with a bloody grin that turned into a pain-filled moan as Knives fisted his hair and forced his head back until their eyes locked and Knives assured the beaten man was listening; his breath was hot on Wolfwood's abused face. Would he kill him now?
"From now on, you're under my command. Your group, the GHG, will join The Eye of Michael and follow my orders. And you will listen because you won't get another chance."
Wolfwood couldn’t breathe, with his stuffed nose and how his head was tilted, air could barely pass into his lungs. He was shaking, he thought he’d choke. Throw up. His lungs were screaming and all he got out was a croaky, weak “Yes.”
The darkness that welcomed him as Knives delivered a final blow was peaceful.
─────❅─────
The small lamp in the hallway is on when Nicholas enters the apartment. So Nai is home. Most of the time he isn't. There are enough days when they don't see each other at all.
Nick steps out of his boots and kicks them under the coat rack, where he hangs his battered leather jacket, he caresses the EOM logo and the Deep Cuts patch on the back almost with reverence. His keys, wallet and belt chain land on the sideboard.
He makes his way to Nai's office, the door is just ajar and along with a strip of light, soft piano tunes spill into the hallway.
Nicholas' knuckles brush the door frame as he walks in, but he's sure he made enough noise when he entered the apartment for Nai to notice him.
"Good evening," Nai says without looking up from his laptop, typing something with a steady rhythm. Nick rounds his desk in a swift motion, his hands settle on Nai’s shoulder and he leans down to plant a chaste kiss on his boyfriend's temple.
“Whatcha working on? Blackmail?”
Nai answers with a snort and resumes typing.
“No, an email to the mayor. The usual soft-soaping…”
“So it is fancy blackmail.”
Nick's thumbs rub the nape of Nai’s neck, forcing an involuntary sigh out of him as he works on the tense muscles there.
“You’ve been working all day, haven’t you? Come to bed with me.”
“Let me finish this and I’ll be right there. You should take a shower, you smell like vodka.”
For good measure, Nick adds another soft kiss to his neck, then takes a step back.
“Yeah, someone picked a fight earlier and threw his glass at me. Mopped the floor with him afterward.”
“Good,” Nai says with pride.
The sheets are cold when Nick slips between them, his hair still damp from the shower. But Nai is warm beside him so he’s pressing his chest into the other's back.
“Hey, Babe~” he murmurs and slings one arm around Nai who melts into the embrace.
He rarely allows himself to be tender. It’s reserved for Nick only.
“Nick~” Nai hums back, already on the verge of sleeping, his breaths evening out.
It’s these moments that Nick cherishes the most. Their life is full of ups and downs. Violence, betrayal and the struggle against the upper class of July. Nai’s constant conflict with other gangs and Vash…
But he would do everything exactly the same way again if he got to hold Nai in his arms at the end of the day.