{friendly aftertaste}: uf +darcy

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

D   a   r   c   y .

He wipes the blood from his nose, uselessly trying to stifle the flow with a hand as it drips from the spaces between his fingers. There's the familiar burn of copper and salt at the back of his throat, and it's almost tedious now to be reminded of what he's made of. It's nothing shrouded in secrecy to Darcy anymore — he's seen his own blood and muscles exposed to the open air enough times to no longer feel a sense of trepidation at the thought of wounds.

Pain and people are ephemeral, he's been told. History is not; names are not. Sacrifice is only part of a greater victory. (Repeated words.) He stares down briefly at his half-healed wrist, the discoloration of greens and purples fading into his skin like patchwork. The bruises spell out his stolen name.

(And maybe he just wants to matter more than that.)

Wincing, he pushes himself up, and stumbles away from the mat. He doesn't look at his opponent as he drags himself off, knowing well enough the way his stomach's bound to do back flips at first sight. (And he's always been so sorry afterwards at the things that he's done, at his own capability for violence, and at himself for feeling these things at all.)

Despite their assigned fight, there's nothing aggressive in the way Darcy hurries out of the training room as soon as the instructor breaks them up. He doesn't glance back at the older boy; he doesn't wait for the sinking doubt soften his resolve as it always does.

He is a career. He shouldn't feel sorry.
(But an apology is already on the tip of his tongue.)

The bathroom is blissfully empty when he arrives. One, two, three — a deep breath in to calm his strained lungs — and he coughs and spits blood into the sink barely an exhale later. The red runs slowly down the basin before he turns on the tap, and the water pools into a diluted pink as he washes his hands and his face.

In the mirror, he can already see the shadows working their way underneath his eye, and the unrelenting throbbing is a dead give-away of the inevitable bruising he'll be wearing for days. These are the skin-threaded badges of someone that is not a champion: not untouchable, not unshakable, and still too fucking fragile to be anything of worth.

One, two, three — he inhales deeply not for air this time, but to steady his shaking hands. The sound of the running tap starts to play like static after awhile, and he shuts it off in favour of the silence.

It's stupid, but he doesn't want to go back to the training room; he doesn't want to fight or pick up a weapon or do any of that shit, no he doesn't want to do this anymore. And it's so entirely stupid because this is all that he has, all that he is supposed to do and be good at. There's no wants and desires if there is no choice.

He should know what he's good for.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

[googlefont="Titillium Web:400"]

"Andrew" NorthROp short lyric here

I hadn’t fought like that in a while; most of the reason for that was because I chose to not fight for the past five or six months, but the other was that the male I had fought seemed close to me. He had confidence; just like me, but it seemed fake just like mine after the fight had ended. I had won surprisingly, but I still had a bloody nose and my wrist was sore from punching so much. My knees, my legs, my feet hurt too from trying to use force from those to keep myself steady. My arms and hands hurt from pushing against the male. everything hurt. He looked like me too, but that was probably just because we both had a remarkable amount of freckles.

After the fight he had walked away to the bathroom, probably to clean himself up. I decided going in there would not be the best idea. I walked away towards one of the benches in the centre, the occasional "good job" and "congratulations" was scattered through the way to the bench butreally I didn't receive an award. All I received was a bloody nose and a screwed up wrist.

That doesn't help the fact that I'm already screwed up enough.

I sat down at the bench, the blood still running down my face and dripping onto the bench occasionally. I raised a hand up to my nose and wipe it, leaving the blood remaining under my mouth as if I were to look like an insaned killer. Maybe I am one, will be one. But that's not possible, Andrew, you can't hurt a damn fly. But you can hurt another person the exact same age. My hands are shaking. My arms are shaking, my legs are shaking. Everything is shaking. In pain and in horror that I caused another person to get a bloody nose. I decide that I might as well run into the bathroom to check up on him and prove that it all wasn't just for me. It was an act.

If only the wounds I had left were an act too. (But you did it, and they will be able to be seen by people and see that they had gotten hurt by another being).

Making my way into the bathroom its silent, the faucet probably just had turned off as I hear the water running down the sink and the pipes until it leaves our building to head who knows where. I walk in and he's just standing at the sink, breathing heavily it seems and his hands are shaking just like my own. I inhale, trying to control my shakin but its inevitable. It will shake as I will, almost like an earthquake. Except the only damage caused by me was his battle wounds. I look in the mirror to see the blood under his nose, it runs freely like a river, similar to my own. My shoes can be heard walking as I get to the sink next to him. I turn on the faucet and run my hands through it.

It hurts. The cold water falling and rushing down my hands and into the sink stings, but I can't do anything about it. I bet he's probably laughing internally; finding it funny that he probably had just gone through this process and it's now my turn to take a hit for what he's done to me.

My hands shake, but I place them as a cup under the running water and I lift it up to my face, splashing it slightly as I keep my face towards the sink, not wanting to create a large mess. The water turns into a light pink as it twists and turns in the sink, and then after I turn off the faucet it disappears down into the pipes.

I turn towards him, my hands and body still shaking in pain. "I-" I don't know how to phrase it, almost like I was at a loss of words but I know exactly what I need to say.

"I'm sorry."

---

okay so this was a 674 word post wtF
yeah so your turn
i tried??

made by anzie

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

D  a   r  c  y .

His second thought at the reflection in the mirror is that he doesn’t look like himself. And it’s not because of the wounds, he knows. He’s lost something just a little beyond that.

But there isn’t quite enough time to dwell on it, as sound of muffled footsteps thuds closer, and Darcy whips his head around just in time to see the bathroom door swing open. He can feel his inhale caught someplace between his lungs and his throat, choking out all words. He backs away from the sink now, trying to put some distance between himself and the other boy. For a second, they look at each other, an insubstantial gaze barely held before their eyes quickly avert. Then he walks in, shaking earthquakes all the way through the door. He echoes Darcy’s movements, and heads over to the sink.

He doesn’t know his name, but he knows the way the boy’s hands shake under the tap as if it were his own. Whatever inkling of hostility felt towards this stranger had long dissolved at the sight of blood trickling down his chin and hands. They are careers, they all have things to prove, and there are always winners and losers in the games they play. It’s only part of the way the world spins around and around. (But it doesn't feel right.)

‘I did this,’ he thinks. And there is no pride that he can find.
Suddenly, the bathroom is too small for two, and he feels a sickening sense of claustrophobia.

But before he can leave, the boy turns to him, his dark eyes unwavering this time when he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

These are not the words that Darcy had expected to hear; these are not the two words that he had even dreamed that would be spoken in the bathroom of the training center. He can feel the air rush back into his lungs – so fast it almost makes him cough. (He’s forgotten how to fucking breathe for a moment.) For awhile, he stares dumbly, unsure how to respond to the words he’s never known. No one’s ever apologized to him for winning. What does this even mean? Why is he sorry?

(He knows and he doesn’t.)

“M-me too,” he finally says. His voice comes out just above a whisper, and he makes himself up his volume a bit to be heard. “…I’m sorry too.”

The person in front of him is still trembling tremors – out of pain, out of exhaustion – he can’t tell. But before he's sure of what he’s doing exactly, Darcy reaches forward and takes the boy’s hand very carefully. The knuckles are raw and bloody and likely to be throbbing like shit – and he should know this because his face was punched by that hand, and by the laws of physics their pain is measured in equal proportions.

“Does…It hurt?” He asks. And of course it does, but that isn't the question he wants to say. He’s looking for an answer in a reaction, and what he really wants to know is if this is okay, if he’s allowed to hold his hand right now, or if he was mistaken to think they were even a little alike.