Guys, Guns, and Getting along

AN: Hey everyone! Welcome to the fic! This may be a slightly slower burn Pico x Boyfriend fic. I apologize in advance for grammatical errors! This chapter is actually being republished with fixes pointed out by a reviewer (seriously thanks so much!), enjoy!

Pico lay awake that night, his mind stuck on what had occurred in the evening. He'd lost. He'd lost! It still baffled him, keeping him up. It'd been months, no, years since he last lost a rap battle. His patented style had made him king of east side. No one dared cross him, in words or a fight. It was both a feeling of pride he'd carried, but admittedly, it was lonely at the top.

Yet one day, everything changed. He got a letter, with fancy stationary and even a wax seal. Who still used those? He'd never forget the seal, a simple signet with horns and a mic, embossed into the rich, red wax. Inside was an invite to a competition, to test a challenger hoping to prove himself the best at rapping. Supposedly if you beat the kid, you'd get a prize of 20 g's cold cash. Now Pico was no business man, but when you see an offer to make a ton of scratch while also getting a good challenge? Who's he to say no? Yeah it was a little sketch, but still. It's not like he had anything to lose out of the damn thing anyways.

That damned kid. With his stupid blue hair, and bright eyes, and totally 90's looking fashion. That damned kid walks in and matches him note for note like they were having a casual conversation. He got trumped by some short dork in a snapback. And damn, could the kid sing. It felt less like a battle, and more like a dance. Their words wove between each other in a melody. Pico still didn't know whether to be pissed at being trounced, or absolutely ecstatic at having someone worth fighting again.

He roughly pushed his hair out of his eyes, sighing through melancholy. Rolling over he looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. It mocked him with that vibrant glow of the blue display. Same color as that fucker's hair. Christ he needed to clear his head. He sat up, wincing with the motion. He shifted, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Getting up, he kicked aside today's clothes, shoes, and magazines that littered the floor. Out of habit, he grabbed the MAC-10 from the nightstand and shoved it down the waistband of his sweatpants.

Entering into the bathroom, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His freckles were standing out strongly today, his green eyes looking worn. He turned on the water, filling his cupped hands. Under the harsh fluorescent light, the bags under his eyes, the marring of scars along his neck and collarbone, everything, was easily apparent. The gun glinted from his waistband, his pants hanging off his thin frame. Fuck, did he always look this fucking tired? No wonder he never got fuckin laid. He cracked a smile at his reflection, being met with a confident smirk instead. It was unnerving, but it felt like the first time he'd seen himself in months. The older teen staring back at him through the grimy mirror was nothing like the scared kid he remembered, huddled beneath the table as- He shook his head to clear the bad memories. It'd been years since then. His eyes flicked to his now overflowing hands.

He leaned down, splashing the water across his face and scrubbing at his skin lightly. The cold water electrified his nerves, doing the exact opposite of his goals, fuck. Wiping his face on a towel, he wiped the mirror before replacing it onto the hook. It'd be nice to have another rap battle like tonight. What a fucking challenge. Like yeah, fuck losing all that money, but damn, he can't deny that now, after getting crushed, the idea of winning was all the more alluring. If only he could get a rematch with the punk.

…

Well there's a thought.

A smirk came to his face as he went back to bed, a determined glint catching in his eyes. That could be fun. A rematch, battle again. And he had the opportunity waiting for him. If the notification in his email was right, he had another match Wednesday with the brat. He'd get his shot at the end, they'd all see. Even as his eyes drifted shut, a small smile seemed to pull at his lips, with dreams of a certain blue haired boy across the auditory battlefield.

The wailing of his alarm clock pulled him from his slumber. Glaring at the offending object, he brought a hand down to silence it. God he hated mornings. For a Tuesday, today was a late start for him, waking up at 1 PM. But whatever, he couldn't sleep any more. He slipped his feet out of bed, stretching his arms over his head. Fuck, he hated mornings.

Grumbling while getting up, he grabbed some clothes to pull on. It wasn't the streetwear he loved, instead plain kakies and a simple cyan polo. He tugged at the collar of his work uniform, trying to get it to lay flat around his neck. He headed to the fridge. Reaching inside, he grabbed an energy drink, popping the tab and taking a pull.

"Well, no time like the present" he muttered to himself. He pulled on his sneakers and grabbed the longboard next to the door. He jogged down to the sidewalk from his front door, locking it behind himself. On the short walk down, he noticed posters for the upcoming battle between himself and blue haired dick.

"Huh, so Keith is his name…" he paused, eyes scanning over the image, before widening in shock, "battle to keep their soul? Demonic contracts? What the fuck?"

He tore it down, stuffing it into his backpack. He hopped on his board, trying not to dwell on the poster.

"What the fuck do they mean with all that bullshit? Better be just some fuckin' PR crap. There wasn't jack in that letter about fuckin' souls and crap." He grumbled, weaving past people. The protests of passing pedestrians fell on deaf ears as he skated.

Outside of the stage, the longboard is where Pico felt most free, the wind whipping back his curly hair. He could change everything with a shift of his legs, with a change to his stance. It had a beautiful elegance to it, like a cooler version of dancing. He took another sip from his beverage, his eyes never leaving his path ahead. It took an empty kind of focus to skate, so unlike rapping. With rapping, if your mind was out of the game, you'd lose the flow. But skating gave the buzz of rapping while giving him time to think. For Pico, skating was a kind of meditation, he supposed.

He'd long ago gotten used to the strange shit that seemed to center around town. The fact that some punk ass blue haired kid was a normal one was proof enough. Hell, he remembered in high school, before he was expelled, two of the kids would go everywhere together, always talking about Halloween. Pico would swear up and down one of them was legitimately a skeleton. Just bones,no mask! Add to that the weekly shootings, the sightings of creatures once every few months… Pico just couldn't deny the reality of the supernatural in this town. So with that, deals with Satan definitely weren't off the table for him. And most places just have to worry about persistent Mormons…

He pulled his weight to the back of the board, skidding to a stop before his destination. Santa Kraus Firearms Market. For all his worth his boss had, Pico still doubted the man's ability to name things. He shook his head. First thing when he got back home, he'd be rereading the contract for any fine print. Either way, a part of him knew he was fucked. He hoisted the board onto a shoulder and kicked the door open. The bell above the door jingled as he pushed through. His boss, a stout, muscled man, sat cleaning a rifle. To say the man looked out of place in the cyan polo would be an understatement.

"Hey kid, you're 15 minutes late. Again." the man Growled out, the action shaking the thick brown mustache stuck to his lip. Outside of the mustache, the man was all but hairless.

Pico rolled his eyes, "Oh please, don't get your panties in a twist, Mr. Kraus. Not like I missed any customers. Plus I mean, you know how busy I've been." he hoisted the poster he'd nabbed.

His boss raised one thin eyebrow in response, his beady brown eyes focusing on the smaller man before him.

"you got a mouth on ya kid. If I didn't need someone who wouldn't blow off both their hands controlling a firearm, I'd fire you right now."

"Oh come on," Pico muttered. He hung his board on the coat rack and jumped over the counter.

"You're just too afraid to admit you like me." he shot back at the man, the only response being a low grunt.

After moments of silence, his boss pointed to a pile of firearms in open cases.

"These were the weapons fired during last night's competition. Gimme a hand with cleaning and setting 'em."

Pico didn't say anything, simply grabbing a revolver of the stack and getting to work.

Several hours later, Pico wished his goodbyes, grabbed a box of ammo for his MAC, and started his journey back home. The night air was much crisper than his first trip, softly tugging at his bangs. It whistled past him like the gentle words of a song. A song. A song! He needed to work on another song! He flexed his fingers, shifting his weight to pull a tighter corner without careening into traffic.

A train blared in the distance, and inspiration hit. The staccato click of the wheels over the sidewalk formed a simple beat, joined by the tapping of his hands on his legs. Soon, he started humming, getting a simple tune down. By the time he pulled up on his block, the words of his next killer beat were swimming together, getting cleaner with each sing through. Kieth would never know what hit him.

The night had come, it was here. His rematch with the blue haired punk had arrived. Over lunch, he'd reread the contract quickly, still making final changes to his latest song. It had led to an interesting tidbit; 3 matches across the week. The first was Monday, tonight the second, and the final on Saturday. More importantly, if he beat Kieth even once, he won. But even if he had one more chance, tonight was going to be his opportunity to prove how good he was to the first person to truly challenge him in months. Everything was perfect. His location, a nice spot by the railroad, would get the atmosphere. The full moon lit up their impromptu stage. The sound guys already had his beat loaded, and the stereo set up. And as if on cue, a foreign black car dropped off the kid and the girl from last time. He had that damned smirk on his face again, his hair hidden partially by a cap on his head. Pico couldn't wait to wipe that smug look off his stupid face.

When their eyes met, the fire in his gut reignited. Win or lose, Pico had just found himself a rival. He gave a nod at the pair. Kieth walked over, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His walk a short swagger of a stride that oozed confidence.. His eyes were hazel, the fire of determination alight in his eyes.

"Hey, uhhh… Prezo, right?" Kieth spoke up, holding out his hand in a friendly gesture.

Pico couldn't help but grind his teeth slightly, "Pico. It's Pico. Like a Piccolo. You know, the musical instrument?" He reached out and grabbed the other teen's hand, noting how his blue hair shifted in front of his eyes, "Hope you took these last few days to prepare. I don't want to stomp youtoobad in front of everyone, especially your girlfriend over there," he jutted his head at the redhead currently on her phone. She waved her hand animatedly, clearly enjoying the conversation.

Kieth laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, "Ahaha, yeah, she's not my girlfriend, at least not yet" he shot Pico a grinning wink. He only rolled his eyes in response, "But you can bet your balls I'm all set! I'll be matching your performance shot for shot!"

he paused, looking Pico up and down, before seeming to resolutely speak up, "Hey, not to be like, weird or anything but, your song last time was fire! The duet we had in the middle was soooo badass. You sing well."

Pico's cheeks heated up at the praise, and he averted his gaze. "E-er, yeah, thanks, you too man, good singing." he jumbled out, though his eyes hardened quickly. He couldn't forget why they were here.

"I don't think you'll have as much ease tonight, I've got something special in mind for our battle."

Kieth grinned ear to ear, it looked good on him, "Oh yeah? Care for a friendly wager then?"

Pico looked at him, feeling his palms sweat under the close scrutiny of his rival. Subtly, he wiped them on his pants to hide his nervousness, feeling his MAC-10 shift in his waistband.

"Fuck, why not. I'll take a dumbass's money any day." He said with false bravado. He didn't like the confidence in Kieth's eyes.

Keith cleared his throat, then smirked, "Money? Don't be so boring. Who bets with money in a demon rap battle? Haha!" Pico widened his eyes, "No, how about we wager something fun. How about, say, if I win, you have to help me practice for all the upcoming matches, and yes, that means attending them." he shot Pico a wink.

"Why-" Pico started, before thinking it through. It made sense to need someone to match his skill level at least, to practice effectively that is. He cleared his throat, deciding on what he considered fair.

"If you want my work, then I say it should be an equal trade. If I win, I get your songbook," Pico finished.

For a split second Kieth's eyes narrowed, before softening slightly. "Sounds like a deal." He held out his hand towards Pico expectantly.

As they shook, Kieth clasped Pico's hand with his other as well, his face adopting a softer look He softly spoke, "May the best rapper win. And thanks, for being so cool."

The red head, whose name he'd forgotten to get hopped up onto the speaker, "Alright boys! Let's get this show on the road!" She pointed at Pico, "Ready?"

He gave a nod, the confident smirk of his mask quickly falling over his features again. She turned to Kieth, "Set?"

He gave her a Jaunty salute with his mic. She smiled happily in response, "Alright! Three! Two! One! Go!"

And the battle began in earnest.