{Phee&Clint} - Opposite Ends
The lapel of the suit scratched at his neck, the expensive tie resting subtly further than the rest of the male guests’, and he has to fight the urge to take off the coat and roll the pristine white sleeves up to his elbows. The suit was obviously not Clint’s, he didn’t own much from his usual jeans and grey T-shirts, let alone luxury designer suits and ties. This was a loan from Abel’s closet, the rich heir of his best friend’s family fortune. His jaw clenched, stubble dusting the bone structure, he hated that spoiled bastard. In truth, this was far from the bartender’s usual scene. People were dressed elegantly and speaking behind wry smiles. It all seemed very predatory to him, far more so than anything he had handled. This whole spectacle was his boss’ idea, the greedy bastard wanted to over-reach his area of comfort and make more money, and if Clinton wanted to keep his job he would help him. His military background also appealed to the people who were running this shindig, thinking him as some added security - two fer the price of one. So here he was.
He technically wasn’t needed at the bar for another hour, trading shifts off with the other poor fuck who had been dragged here against his will. With his hands firmly in the pockets of his dress pants, he made his way outside past the bustling people laughing too goddamn loudly, and was greeted by the brisk evening air as the double doors shut too loudly behind him. He let out a sigh of relief and quickly disentangled himself from the suit jacket, half tossing it onto some sort of statue-esque art piece that guarded the door. With a annoyed grunt he rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, giving in to the earlier temptation. The cold breeze nipped at his newly exposed skin; He needed a cigarette. Fuckin’ Christ-- He had left them in the suit pocket. He fumbled with the jacket, trying to find that inner pocket that Cain had shown him -- ‘Clint, you can’t have them in your pants. People will see and that shit will wrinkle.’ Like he cared if the fuckin’ thing wrinkled. After a few frustrating moments, Clint found the damn cancer sticks and lit one up, inhaling the thick smoke and feeling a little bit more relaxed and away from the entire fuckin elitist shit. I bet Riley is havin’ a good ‘ol laugh about this. Smug prick.