Page 72 of Broken By Silence
Crew finally pushes off the ropes, dragging a towel over his face. “Yeah. I could use something cold, but only soda for me.”
We spill out of the gym, the night air cool against sweat-slicked skin. The streets are quiet, neon buzzing from the pub across the way. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours for the night.
Inside, the place smells like wood polish and stale beer, music humming low under the chatter. We take a corner booth big enough to cram us all in, bruised knuckles resting on sticky wood, shoulders knocking. No one bothers to clean up—we’re too used to it.
Roman orders the first round, sliding pints across the table and a soda for Crew with a smirk. Oscar doesn’t say anything, just drinksdeep, eyes darting between all of us like he’s still translating, even without words.
Crew’s the last to pick up his glass. He stares into the liquid for a long second, jaw working. For once, he doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t grin. He just exhales, slow, and mutters, “To keeping our promises.” Then he drinks.
I sip mine, letting the bitterness coat my tongue, and glance at Crew. He looks tired. Not the hungover kind of tired, but the kind that sinks into bone. He’s still here, still clean, still fighting—and maybe that’s all any of us can ask tonight.
Roman breaks the silence with a laugh that’s too loud, leaning back until the booth creaks. “Well, shit. Didn’t think the night would end with Archer’s dad handing Crew his ass.”
That earns a round of chuckles, even from Crew, who shakes his head and mutters, “Old man’s built like a damn tank. Who knew?”
For a while, it’s easier. Laughter bleeding into drinks, insults softened by bruised smiles. But every so often, I catch Crew going quiet, staring into his glass like he wishes it were more.
The bar has quieteneddown to the low hum of conversation, the jukebox spitting out some old ballad no one’s really listening to. The table in front of us is littered with empty glasses and a pile of fries none of us are going to finish.
Oscar sits beside me, still wound tight, but not from the fights anymore. His fingers tap against his glass, restless, like he’s carrying words he hasn’t decided whether to release.
I nudge him, catch his eye, and sign small, so it’s just for us,“You alright?”
He gives me that flat look of his.“Define, alright.”
I smirk.“Not trying to punch anyone?”
That earns the ghost of a laugh. His hands flicker again.“Maybe.”
“These assholes are really starting to grow on me,”I sign back, finally being honest that I don’t completelyhate them.
Crew glances up from across the table, narrowing his eyes. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, but Oscar shifts before I can cover for him. He lifts his hands deliberately, slowly.“I said maybe I won’t punch anyone, and he said you assholes are finally starting to grow on him.”
Crew freezes, mid-sip. Elijah blinks. Roman arches a brow.
And then Crew, of all people, sets his drink down and signs back—clumsy and awkward.“Good. My nose is pretty.”
Oscar stares at him like he’s grown a second head. His gaze flicks to Roman as the man raises his own hands, smoother than Crew’s but not perfect.“We’ve been practicing.”
Elijah adds,“Since Roman’s recovery.”
It hits Oscar like a punch, but not the kind he throws. His shoulders stiffen, eyes wide, and for once, he doesn’t have anything to sign back right away.
Finally, his hands move.“You learned this? For me?”
Elijah nods.“Yes. For you. So we could talk. Not just through Archer.”
The air shifts. I can see the wall Oscar’s built for years begin to crack. His throat works like he’s holding back tears.“You didn’t have to.”
“We know.”Roman’s answer is nonchalant for what this actually is.
Crew’s grin softens.“We wanted to.”
Oscar looks at each of them in turn, weighing the truth in their faces. And then something small, rare, flickers across his own—relief. Gratitude.
His hands shape words he doesn’t sign often.“Thank you. You’re still assholes, though.”
