Pizza boxes littered the coffee table in the apartment living room, grease stains blooming like abstract art. A video game sat paused on the TV, its screen saver bouncing lazily in the corner.
Elena stood in the center of the room, holding up two paintings like a game show host unveiling prizes, lamplight catching the thick blues and blacks of her work. Her fingers tightened briefly on the frames — old habit, knuckles paling like they remembered gripping something less forgiving.
"Okayyy, be honest: 'Broken Sky' or 'Detroit at 3 AM'?" she asked, voice light but eyes searching.
The Fighter, sprawled on the couch with a slice halfway to his mouth, chewed thoughtfully.
"The blue one."
"They're both blue…"
"Then the one that looks angrier."
From the kitchen, Raul's voice drifted over.
"They're both angry. You just like the one with more black in it."
"…Okay, yeah."
Elena sighed, the air going out of her as she leaned the canvases carefully against the wall. She stared at them a moment, thumb brushing an old scar on her knuckle — faint white line from some forgotten scrape — then turned back.
"I should've just done portraits of dogs. Everyone likes dogs."
"You could still do that," the Fighter said. "Paint a dog in the corner of each one. No one will notice."
Raul walked in carrying three mugs, steam curling up from chamomile tea.
"Here. Chamomile. And don't say you don't like it; it's either this or my espresso, and you won't sleep for a week."
Elena took a mug, cradling it close as if it might vanish, and offered a weak smile. Her gaze flicked to the door — quick, involuntary.
"What if no one shows up?"
"Then we get all the free cheese cubes," the Fighter said. "Win-win."
"He's not wrong," Raul added. "Also, I invited people."
She stared.
"What people?"
"People. From the scene. The record store. That girl who fixes motorcycles."
"Kai's coming?" the Fighter asked, perking up.
"She said maybe. Stop grinning."
Elena laughed a little, but her free hand ghosted her forearm — tracing where a bruise used to sit.
"So my art show is now a… punk reunion?"
"It's a support system," Raul said. "With cheese cubes."
She sank to the floor, sitting with her knees hugged tight to her chest, mug balanced precarious.
"I just don't want it to be… a pity party."
The Fighter slid off the couch, lying down on the rug beside her, arms folded behind his head.
"It's not pity. It's pride. I'm gonna wear that ugly scarf you hate."
"The orange one?"
"Yeah. I'll look so bad everyone will stare at me instead of the art."
She shoved him lightly. He didn't move — solid, there.
Raul dropped into the armchair.
"You know, in France, artists are supposed to be miserable. It's part of the aesthetic. You're right on track."
"I don't want to be miserable. I just want to be… good."
"You are good," the Fighter said. "Even my coach said so, and he thinks modern art is a conspiracy."
"It is," Raul said. "But so is boxing. You're both in on it."
They fell into comfortable quiet. The video game screen saver bounced around the TV. Elena's fingers relaxed on the mug, tension easing in the shared space.
"Thanks, guys," she said softly.
"For what? We didn't do anything."
"Yeah. We're just here for the pizza, nomnom."
"Exactly :)"
> Chapter complete. Cheese cubes and quiet camaraderie... █