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Heavy boots stomp out of the pub at this relatively early hour, maybe only 11pm. Sword does not know; his vision is a little bleary with all the drinks he's had. Coming to a new place meant finding a new favourite drink fast.
Like some lost duckling, as approachable as he attempts to be, when Rocket stepped outside 'for some fresh air', he found himself unable to properly focus on occupying himself. So instead, he followed a minute or two later, hoping to find his best friend outside the doors and able to share a good moment or two.
Although, every time Sword has done this, he forgets the momentary vertigo and strike of cold anyone gets upon leaving after a fair few drinks. How many had he even had at this point? Venomshank wouldn't be happy. Does he have training in the morning? All plans for that have probably been thrown out by now. Sword stumbles for a second, almost tripping backwards onto his own cloak, but manages to pull himself together. Some inphernals on an outside table chuckle at him lightheartedly, one drunkenly cheering "Steady there, gladiator!". Sword gives a bright smile back, mind too numbed to any embarrassment he could have felt.
Turning the other way, Sword sees Rocket leaning against the outside of the pub, kicked back lazily yet elegantly. His mechanical leg is set straight, all weight on it, whilst his right leg is bent slightly, relaxing yet stretching out too. His jacket is rolled comfortably up his arms, and the way the streetlamps hit his figure illuminate the dog tags round his neck and the goggles on his face. That familiar blue sheen has Sword pick up pace a little, admiring the way Rocket looks upwards at the night sky -- although he fails to rationalise the alcohol working too, and the astigmatism-type vision that's currently plaguing him.
Rocket turns slightly, spotting his ever-conspicuous best friend, and waves. At this point, only now, does Sword see the ember glow at the end of Rocket's mechanical hand. A cigarette. When did that happen? The dizzying scent of nicotine fills the air as he gets closer, and Rocket seems to notice the surprise.
"I never knew you smoked?" Sword says, a lilt in his voice signalling confusion.
Rocket goes 'tch', tapping the cigarette to let some ash fall: "When would I have ever told you? It's not like I go around telling everyone I have a fag every once in a while."
Sword looks at the burning tip, orange glowing embers almost pulsating as Rocket takes another drag. He's almost mesmerised, but he's not entirely sure if it's by the smoke or the way it frames the inphernal beside him.
"Anyway," Rocket continues, "Nice to see you again. Did you need some fresh air? Or a break from all the heat in there? It started feeling like Banland with how hot it was. Only our faults for going on a Friday night though."
"Where did you get it?" Sword asks, ignoring Rocket's comments and questions. He looks back to the table that cheered at him when he stumbled, seeing a few of them also with cigarettes in hand.
"Just those folks you're looking at over there. One of them recognised me, apparently I'd worked on some gear for her in the past. Took the warm welcome as a sort of invitation and asked because why the hell not. She gladly let me have one." Rocket was being nonchalant, Sword thought. This information is astounding, at least with what a sizeable revelation it would be. He thought he knew everything about Rocket. Maybe everyday is a school day.
"Then is this your first time?" Sword stares at the little burning stick in between Rocket's mechanical fingers. It's not as though Rocket hasn't handled things larger and more prone to fire and explosion before. It's just a new sight. He knows Medkit smokes, and that has never bothered him, nor does this, right? Medkit smoked from the get-go, always having known he does such a thing.
"You're asking with such innocence!" Rocket laughs, flashing those sharp teeth of this mischievously, "Not at all. Purely a social smoker. I see others doing it and get a little itch to as well. Habit I picked up back in Playground. After coming here though, I do it much less. Don't worry about it, Sword."
Sword shifts uncomfortably, finding the scent around Rocket a jarring thing. Smoke was reserved for contraptions and when Rocket's arm or leg or gear weren't working properly. Sword recognised it as something near the corners of Crossroads that Venomshank told him not to go to. It was the smell of a pub at night, when trouble was roaring and raucous. He always expected trouble, but maybe not feeling like the source of it. Leaning back on the wall next to Rocket, he crossed his arms, gripping his biceps a little too tight.
"Concerned?" Rockets asks casually, taking another long drag, but exhaling away from Sword's direction. The adventurer is grateful for that. He doesn't know why.
"I don't know," Sword admits, staring intently at the ground and kicking a pebble with his boot, "Maybe I'm just tipsy."
Rocket gives him a disbelieving look, "C'mon. I know you, Sword. If this is about me smoking, I'm not proud of it. It helps take the edge off, y'know? It's complicated."
"I know..." Sword faces Rocket, seeing his pretty face and softening, "It's just not anything I ever associated with you. I'm not - I dunno - betrayed or anything. It's just an odd thing to learn on a random Friday late at night. I'm like unnecessarily nervous."
"Four beers will do that to ya, Sword." (And at this point, Sword's eyes widen, shocked that he's had four already, plus whatever else he's been having.) "I'm not here to walk you home. So take care of yourself and your alcohol intake, silly."
Sword takes another moment, seeing Rocket inhale and exhale, smoke going up into the night air. Despite his own complicated feelings and the slight nausea, it is still undeniable that Rocket looks mysteriously beautiful like this. He wonders if Rocket knows. Then, Rocket reaches down to pick up a glass off the floor, necking the rest of some dark drink (was it a rum and coke? Sword forgets if Rocket has a proper preference) and then setting the glass on a window ledge.
"Medkit smokes too," Sword states.
Rocket blinks back. "I know. I've shared one or two with him before." Before Sword could interject, Rocket turns to face him properly and places his left hand on his shoulder. "Just after a maintenance check on my limbs. Also because it's mega awkward between us sometimes when you aren't there. I'm not surprised you manage to even make someone as cold as Medkit soft for you."
Sword smiles at that comment, letting some tension he didn't realise was there go. It seemed that Medkit smoked more when he was stressed, right? He remembers Medkit possibly going through a few more than usual after coming back from some work-related trip. He's never questioned it. He's maybe too afraid to. Asking why someone does something bad isn't the easiest thing to do. At least Rocket is open and honest. Rocket doesn't seem stressed at all. He's more relaxed than ever.
The cigarette was then reaching the orange bit. Wherever it stops working, Sword doesn't know anything about this.
"Rocket?"
"Yea?"
"Would you mind me having a try?"
Rocket coughs, as though in disbelief, but he knows when Sword has his mind set on something. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes as he hands the cigarette to his best friend.
"Right, you just hold it like this-" (Alcohol or not, Rocket messing with Sword's hands and fingers like this made him heat up unexpectedly) "-and it's almost like sucking on it but not. It'll make sense when you do it."
Expectations too high. Sword fumbled with the stub and inhaled far too hard. It tasted like soot and fire and concrete and charcoal.
Dropping it instantly, Sword started hacking and coughing badly. He brought a hand up to his chest, another balled up in front of his mouth, eventually then coughing into his elbow. Rocket laughed heartily at the sight before him, little puffs of grey air sputtering out of Sword's mouth with every jerk. Wiping away a tear, he then placed a soothing hand on Sword's back, who was currently curled in on himself and crouching.
"Look, at least I knew you'd hate it. It tastes bad."
"That tasted like absolute ass, Rocket." Sword was wincing slightly from the pain in his lungs. He hadn't coughed like that in a long time. The close proximity didn't do any good for him either, as Rocket's scent still had the lingering ash on him. He probably tasted like it too, if Sword would ever know how Rocket tastes.
"Who knew you'd ever tried it?! But that's good - Venomshank'll be proud of ya," Rocket giggled.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or the physical experience of a cigarette, or the contrast from warmth to cold, or Rocket's closeness and radiating heat, or the suggestive joke; Sword felt his face flush and he scowled playfully back.
"Whatever. Whatever! I'm never doing that again." Sword turned away, huffing and crossing his arms, feeling Rocket's smug smile burn into his back.
"Well, you finished it anyway. You wanna head back in or head home?" Rocket extended his hand out to Sword, who looked at it curiously.
"As much as I'd like something to wash away the taste, I think I've mostly sobered up from that experience." Sword clasped Rocket's hand.
"'Course you have, you idiot. Let's go, I'm not feeling like a stupid hangover tomorrow morning anyway." Rocket grinned, something with a mix of whimsy and tipsy, pulling Sword away down the street and dropping his hand.
Sword's vision cleared a little, still staring at Rocket who stared back. His eyes looked nice in this bleary city lighting. Goodness, his mind was dumbed by drink.
Rocket's place wasn't too far from here, he was pretty sure. Apparently Zuka was the one who recommended that pub in the first place. The vibes were good, and the people were hospitable. Much change from what Sword heard about most bars around here. Apparently the beer was good too. The headache will be tough tomorrow.
Rocket's elbow dug into Sword lightly, breaking him out of his thoughts. "You owe me a fag at some point, Sword."
"Piss off." He pushed back, his best friend stumbling for a moment.
Rocket laughed, the sound filling the Crossroads streets late at night.