Chapter Text
The photo was meant for the bartender from Saturday night.
The one with the dark curls and the tongue piercing who'd scrawled her number on Kid's forearm in eyeliner. Except Kid had keyed in the digits while half-drunk, squinting at smudged liner in his bathroom mirror, and apparently transposed two of them.
He didn't know this yet.
What Kid knew was that he looked good tonight. Fresh out of the shower, red hair damp and wild, towel slung dangerously low on his hips. The bathroom light carved shadows into every ridge of muscle, highlighted the broad sweep of his shoulders, the defined cut of his obliques. He angled the phone, snapped a shot from collarbone to hip bone. His towel barely clinging, the V of his pelvis on full display, a trail of red hairs leading down, one thumb hooked under the terrycloth like a dare.
He typed out: ‘been thinking about saturday. wanna pick up where we left off?’
Attached the image. Hit send.
Then tossed his phone on the bed and went to find pants.
Twenty minutes later, Kid was elbow-deep in a bag of chips, shirtless on his couch, some gearhead YouTube video autoplaying, when his phone buzzed.
He expected a flirty reply. Maybe a "hell yes" and a winking emoji.
What he got was:
Unknown Number: Bold of you to lead with that when I don't even know your name.
Kid sat up. Frowned. Typed back.
Kid: ...mika?
Unknown Number: Not even close.
Unknown Number: But I'm not complaining about the view.
Kid's stomach dropped. Then flipped. He stared at the screen, heat crawling up the back of his neck. Wrong number. He'd sent a nearly-naked thirst trap to a complete fucking stranger.
He was halfway through typing an apology. Something gruff and dismissive, the kind of "forget it" that would let him pretend the mortification wasn't eating him alive… when the next message came through.
It was a photo.
Kid opened it.
And forgot every word in his vocabulary.
Warm amber lighting. A lean torso. Not bulky, but defined, the kind of body that spoke to discipline rather than vanity. Tan skin inked with black tribal-style tattoos that swept over pectorals and down forearms, bold and intricate. A dark trail of hair descended from a navel, narrowing, guiding the eye down like an arrow to the hem of grey sweatpants riding so obscenely low on narrow hips that Kid could see… he swallowed hard. The root. Just the base of a cock, thick enough to make his mouth go dry, disappearing into that soft grey cotton like the world's cruelest magic trick.
And beneath it, a single line of text:
Unknown Number: Your move, Red.
"Fuck," Kid breathed.
His mouth watered. Actually watered, like some kind of Pavlovian response he'd never consented to. Kid zoomed in. Couldn't help it. He studied the sharp jut of hip bones, the tattoos on knuckles spelling out D-E-A-T-H, the casual arrogance of a hand resting on a bare stomach like this stranger had all the time in the world.
Kid's thumbs hovered over the keyboard. His brain short-circuited between ‘who the fuck are you’ and ‘please ruin my life’.
He went with:
Kid: jesus christ
Kid: do you just have that loaded in the chamber for any wrong number that hits you up
Unknown Number: Only the ones with arms like yours.
Unknown Number: So. Do I get a name, or do I keep calling you Red?
Kid leaned back against the couch cushions. Stared at the ceiling. Looked at the photo again. Closed it. Opened it. Closed it.
Ends up minimising it to hover in the top right corner.
Kid: Kid.
Unknown Number: Law.
Kid: that your real name?
Law: That yours?
Kid: touché
Killer found out three days later, because Kid was a walking disaster with zero poker face.
They were in the garage. Kid's garage. Technically, the shop he co-owned, grease on every surface and AC/DC bleeding from a busted speaker, when Kid's phone buzzed and he damn near dropped a wrench on his foot lunging for it.
Killer paused. Set down the carburetor he'd been cleaning. Tilted his head, long blond hair swaying, expression unreadable behind the curtain of it.
"Who is she?" Killer asked, flat and knowing.
"Nobody." Kid shoved the phone in his back pocket without reading the message, which was perhaps the most suspicious thing he'd ever done.
"You almost broke your toe for nobody."
"Shut up."
Kid lasted approximately forty-five seconds before he pulled the phone back out.
Law: What are you wearing?
Kid: coveralls and engine grease
Law: Hm. Filthy.
Law: I approve.
Kid grinned. He couldn't help it. This stupid, involuntary, wide grin that split his face before he could wrestle it down.
Killer appeared over his shoulder like a goddamn specter. Kid tried to yank the phone away but Killer was faster, always had been, the bastard, and caught a glimpse of the screen before Kid elbowed him in the ribs.
"'I approve'?" Killer quoted, flat. "With a period? Who texts like that?"
"Fuck off."
"You're sexting someone."
"I am not…"
"You're sexting someone and you're smiling about it." Killer said it like a diagnosis. Like something terminal. He leaned against the workbench and crossed his arms. "How long?"
"Three days," Kid muttered, defeated.
"Name?"
"Law."
"...Law." A pause. "That a guy?"
"Yeah." Kid's jaw tightened, preemptively defensive. But Killer just nodded, slow, like he was filing information.
"You got a picture?"
Kid hesitated a beat too long.
"You do have a picture." Something in Killer's voice shifted toward open amusement. Rare. Dangerous. "Show me."
"Absolutely fucking not."
"That bad?"
"That good." The admission left Kid's mouth before his brain caught up, and Killer made a sound. Just a short exhale through his nose, the Killer equivalent of howling laughter.
"You're fucked," Killer said.
"... I know."
Week one bled into week two. The texts evolved from flirtation into something with architecture, like a scaffolding of actual conversation beneath the provocative back-and-forth.
Law was sharp. Wickedly, mercilessly sharp. His humor ran dry and dark, delivered deadpan even through text, and Kid found himself barking out laughter at his phone at two in the morning more often than he'd ever admit.
Law: What do you do when you're not sending unsolicited photos to strangers?
Kid: mechanic. own a shop with my buddy. also play guitar in a band
Law: Of course you do.
Kid: what's that supposed to mean
Law: It means you look exactly like the kind of man who plays guitar in a band.
Kid: is that a compliment
Law: Take it however you want, Red.
Kid learned things. Gathered them like a magpie hoarding shiny objects. Law drank black coffee. Aggressively, almost religiously. Law read thick books with small print. Law worked long hours and kept odd ones, texting Kid at 3 AM with the same alert energy as 3 PM. Law had a dry, cutting relationship with two people he called his "roommates" though Kid suspected from context they were closer to family.
And Law got an absolute kick out of winding Kid up.
Law: I keep thinking about that photo you sent.
Kid: yeah?
Law: Specifically your hands.
Kid: what about em
Law: They're big.
Law: I have a professional appreciation for hands.
Kid: professional?
Law: Mm. I'll tell you sometime.
He deflected every time Kid pushed for specifics about his work, Law redirected with something provocative enough to derail Kid's train of thought entirely. It was infuriating.
It was intoxicating.
By week three, Kid was waking up and checking his phone before he even pissed. Killer noticed. Killer noticed everything, the quiet observant bastard, and he started a campaign of low-grade psychological warfare.
"How's your boyfriend?" Killer asked one morning, handing Kid a coffee.
"He's not my… we haven't even met."
"Mhm. You know his coffee order, his sleep schedule, and what his hip bones look like. What would you call it?"
"A situation."
"A situation." Killer repeated, savoring the word. "You're pining."
"I don't pine."
"You literally stopped mid-sentence yesterday because your phone buzzed. While you were talking to a paying customer."
"...the timing was coincidental."
"You told Mrs. Yamamoto to 'hold on a sec, babe.'"
Kid closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I hate you."
"You're going to ask him to meet up," Killer said, not a question. "And when you do, you're going to agonize about what to wear for a guy you've only ever seen shirtless."
"Please stop talking."
"Wear the black tank. The one that's too tight."
"I said stop… "
"You know I'm right."
Week four, 11:47 PM.
Law: Hypothetically.
Kid: uh oh
Law: Where do you live?
Kid stared at the message. Set his phone down. Picked it back up. Typed a response. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Settled on honest.
Kid: grand line city. south side.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Kid's heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his teeth.
Law: You're joking.
Kid: ...no?
Law: I'm on the north end.
Kid: you're shitting me
Law: Twenty minutes apart, if traffic cooperates.
Law: It rarely does.
Kid let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His chest felt tight and strange. Not unpleasant, just full, like something was expanding behind his ribs.
Kid: so when are we doing this
Law: Doing what, exactly?
Kid: don't play cute with me
Law: I don't play cute. I'm naturally insufferable. There's a difference.
Kid: there's a car show next weekend. east district fairgrounds.
Law: A car show.
Kid: don't say it like that. it's a good one. classics, customs, live restorations. and the coffee is unreal.
Law: ...go on.
Kid: roasted on the premises. single origin. they grind it fresh to order. best cup in the city, I swear on my shop
Law: You had me at single origin.
Law: Saturday?
Kid: saturday.
Kid dropped his phone on his chest and pressed both palms over his face. His pulse thrummed. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above him.
His phone buzzed once more.
Law: Wear something that shows your arms, Red. I want to see if they're as impressive in person.
"Fuck," Kid whispered to his empty bedroom. "Fuuuuuuuuck."