@psychoticgreen
Brick swung open the door of the training room with a sharp bang. He paused and gave a low growl at the new imprint of the door left in the wall. Goddammit. Motherfucking of course. Brick lumbered out into the hallway, dabbing at the steaming sweat on his neck with a towel. He had sparred for hours, but his blood still boiled with frustration after dance practice with Pinky. God, he thought. That girl, fucking hell. He half wanted to spar ten more hours, and half wanted to collapse and never wake up. Hell, if he died, at least her damn hips would quit fucking haunting him. Making his way to the kitchen with a deep breath, he tried to remember how much of the fridge the boys have cleared out this week. Yep, Brick thought, peering into the empty abyss. Nothing left. Nothing edible, anyway. Well, fuck cooking. Doesn't matter.
"Butch?" he called out over the video game gunfire sounding from the living room. "Pizza's fine again for dinner, man, yeah?"
