The Fighter woke up at 6:15 AM to his alarm blaring some pop song he'd set months ago and never bothered to change.
He rolled over, grabbed his phone, and silenced it. Lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling, debating whether today was a training day or a "pretend I'm going to train but actually just eat cereal" day.
His phone buzzed.
He typed back:
Dragged himself out of bed. Shower. The pink star clip sat on the bathroom counter where he'd left it after coming home from New York. He picked it up, turned it over in his hand, then clipped it into his wet hair because why not.
Twenty minutes later, he was walking down the street toward their usual coffee shop, hoodie on, cap pulled low out of habit. The morning air was crisp. Chicago in November felt like the city was deciding whether to be cold or just mildly annoying.
Raul was already there when he arrived, sitting at their usual table by the window, afro magnificent as always, scrolling through his phone with a coffee already half-finished.
The Fighter ordered—black coffee, banana muffin because apparently that was his thing now—and sat down across from Raul.
The Fighter shrugged.
Raul grinned.
They fell into comfortable silence. The coffee shop hummed with morning energy—people ordering complicated drinks, laptops open, conversations blending into white noise.
The Fighter's muffin arrived. He broke off a piece.
Raul considered this.
The Fighter smiled slightly.
The Fighter blinked at the sudden topic change.
The Fighter stared at him.
Raul shrugged, completely unbothered.
The Fighter didn't know whether to laugh or be concerned.
The Fighter shook his head, but he was smiling despite himself.
They left the coffee shop and walked aimlessly through the city, no particular destination, just moving. Raul pointed out graffiti he liked, argued about whether a particular mural was "trying too hard," stopped to pet a dog whose owner was very confused but polite about it.
The vintage shop was tucked between a bodega and a tattoo parlor, small and cluttered in the best way. Racks of jackets and jeans, shelves of hats and accessories, everything smelling faintly of mothballs and decades past.
The Fighter wandered more slowly, running his hands over fabrics, pulling out random items. A bowling shirt with someone else's name embroidered on it. A denim jacket covered in patches. A truly hideous sweater that he kind of loved.
The Fighter put it on. Looked at himself in the mirror.
The Fighter turned, examining the jacket from different angles. It fit perfectly. Made him look older. Cooler. Like someone who had their shit together.
He took it off.
Raul rolled his eyes.
They spent another hour in the shop, trying on ridiculous things, taking photos of each other in increasingly absurd outfits, laughing at vintage band t-shirts from groups neither of them had heard of.
When they left, bags in hand, the sun was higher and the city felt more awake.
They walked back through the city, past the coffee shop, past the places they'd been a thousand times, talking about nothing important—whether hot dogs were sandwiches, which comic book movie was actually good, Raul's theory that pigeons were just small government drones.
When they reached the gym, Raul stopped outside.
Raul's expression softened.
They hugged briefly ; the kind of hug that said everything without needing words—and then Raul headed off toward the train, afro bouncing with each step.
The Fighter stood outside the gym for a moment, shopping bags in hand, wearing a pink star clip in his hair and feeling strangely okay.
He went inside to train.