:break: the\\ p a i n | (Xanthus/Elegant)

I'm in the de-details with the devil
So now the world can never get me on my level
I just gotta get you off the cage
I'm a young lover's rage
Gonna need a spark to ignite

"Never show them what you can do until it is too late, Xan, that's the secret."

One of my father's last pieces of advice still rings in my head after all these years. The idea was to never show the enemy your full potential until it is too late, for them. For example, here I am at the blades station, although I have been working with steel since I was ten. Almost reverently, I pick up a saber and inspect the balance, trying not to look too well-versed. I can hear boys and girls around me, but I don't take my eyes off of the steel. I know a few of them by name now, and a few by more, but I am not a social person by instinct. I certainly don't plan to make friends out of people I may kill later, that is a poor choice, and rather distasteful to boot. Of course, I do plan to have allies, I know as the District One male, I am desirable. Not, however, if I come off as an incompetent idiot. I don't want weaklings clinging to me like parasites. If I am to ally, let them be strong.

I couldn't afford to trust just anyone either, not when trusting people had made me who I was today. I learned from a young age that trust is a faulty thing. For example, my father trusted certain men he shouldn't have had, and now I am here; orphaned and undeniably twisted. If my parents hadn't trusted who they had, they'd be alive, and I wouldn't spend every waking minute trying to scrub their blood out from under my nails like dirt. Such is the life of a child growing up in a dystopian society, however. I have read things you know, I do know that my present is not perfect. People assume that districters are sheep, we don't question or fight back. They think that we're content to do as we're told. I have never been content with anything. I am a wolf in sheep's skin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a boy. A likely ally? He is tall, broad shouldered in a young way. Not bad looking from the back. I wonder how his blood tastes. I freeze, the thought ghosting over my brain so easily. I thought I could handle this for at least a few hours. It has been far too long however, I can physically feel the need for it in my bones, controlling me like a puppet. I could drink him, cause an accident, I could.

Guilt creeps at me, for once in a long while. Where before I blamed shock, I think this might be forced. My mother taught me guilt. If my father taught me how to sneak and cheat, from her I learned honour. Honour tells me that to drink this boy's blood, it would weaken him. It would be unfair. He has more than enough time to recuperate.

I'm acting before I even realize it. Turning swiftly, I tip myself forward, sending the sword flying in front of me, just far enough away to nick him in the neck. The sword is sharp, it only creates a thin line, yet blood begins to bead immediately. Beautiful. To keep my illusion of a beginner, I let myself fall to the floor. I sacrifice my body, elbows hitting with a soft thud on the slightly soft flooring for occasions such as these. Still, I am at a disadvantage down here, where he is most likely shocked and angry up there. Yet, there is a thin line of blood on the edge of my sword. I have to mentally restrain myself, itching to lick it off. It glistens dark red against the bright steel, so beautiful in this light.

My attention is brought back to the boy I've just nicked when he turns to look at me, an exclamation of anger on his lips. He is lovely, tanned skin, raging hair, and fire in his eyes. I allow myself to appear properly embarrassed. Quickly, I pick myself up, and smile in what I hope to be a sheepish, manner. Bowing slightly in a apologetic manner I say, "I am horribly sorry, I'm not very good at this training thing, Is it bad?" I direct my voice letting it flow out soft and yielding. Don't I look Like a sheep? Carefully, I rest the sword against a wall, and let myself appear to have an idea. "I'm rather well versed in first aid, as an apology, I cold patch you up?" Artfully, I place a design of hope, mixed with honest sadness at what I have done on my visage.

A constellation of tears on your lashes
Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes
In the end everything collides
My childhood spat back out the monster that you see
My songs know what you did in the dark

I'm in the de-details with the devil
So now the world can never get me on my level
I just gotta get you off the cage
I'm a young lover's rage
Gonna need a spark to ignite

I couldn't have held back my grin when he accepted even if I'd tried. Of course I have ulterior motives, but to get right down to the route of all of this, the guy is drop dead gorgeous. He's worthy for more than a one night stand, at the least. The ache in my throat at the scent of iron in the air taunts me, and I lead him away, out of the room. My fingers pick up bandages, and the like, not that I really plan to use them. Still, my hand encloses around a bottle of sanitize, I'm willing to sacrifice the first taste for this. No matter where I go, or what I do, I will always be Xanthus Grimm, and I don't do germs. Still, I hurry along the hallway, feet gliding over the tiles, barely making a sound.

If there's one thing you learn growing up in the Grimm household, It's important to be seen and not heard. My mother was a Fletcher, a practitioner of the old ways, from a time even before the great war. There were a few of those, that wished to return to a simpler time. She choked herself in corsets, and practiced medieval things like ignoring her child, handing him off to a nanny instead. Not that I'm bitter about it. I didn't speak unless spoken to, the moment they saw me in the room when I shouldn't be, I was pushed out. I had to become invisible. It's upsetting because that worked almost too well. I have spent long evenings behind the couch of my father's sitting room, childish ears tingling as he listened to fortunes of war. The second thing I learned in my father's household was grow up.

I usher him into the bathroom ahead of me, and carefully lock the door behind us with a soft click. I wouldn't want any interruptions. Appreciatively, I watch as he pulls his shirt over his head, muscles bunching up, moving fluidly along with his simple movements. It's a lovely thing to watch, and the fact that his body is not horrible to look at is only another turn on. I was only here for his blood. Yet, I find myself wondering when it was the last time that I allowed some fun in my life. It's been a horribly stressful couple of days, I deserve to unwind.

"So, do you accidentally stab people often?"

I make my way over to the sink beside him, and slowly line all the items up, making sure they all line up in a tidy way. I take great care with my hands, scrubbing them clean, and then scrubbing them again. As I clean, I give him a languid smile, and answer, "Never accidentally, no." Not a lie, not at all. It's always calculated. Carefully, I dry my hands, and pick up the sanitizer. I place myself far too close to him for anyone's liking, dab at the cut with a white towel. "I come from one, although some may doubt it, where do you hail from?" I ask softly in return. I know where he comes from, Drace from three. I had been uncharacteristically curious on the train ride to the Capitol. I can't help noticing the way I tower over him, especially like this with him on the counter, and my standing. I am gentle this way, like my mother always wanted me to be. Look where getting gentle got her.

He tries to tell me that it really isn't that bad, and I narrow my eyes, staring at the cut. It was good cut by me, for one that was supposed to be accidental, it did little damage. Just shallow to create a wide spread of blood. It screams to me, the ruby beads dripping down his neck, even as I dab at them with the towel. It stains the white expanse in such a beautiful manner. As if to test the wound, I press my fingers to it, long fingers applying a soft preasure. Suddenly, I cannot bare it, it has been too long. Heat seems to grow from nowhere in my stomach and I shake softly. A mischievous smile arches it's self across my face and I drawl out, "Yet I feel that you need a better apology."

I lean in, my sudden forwardness surprising even myself a little. My lips press against his almost too quickly to be registered. They brush his lightly, and the sudden warmth against my own lips almost hurts. It is quiet, soft, deadly. The first taste is of wood smoke. Pulling back, I study his shocked features, and before he can properly react, I let my bloody hand run into his hair. I grab it in a fistful, and press his lips to mine own again. This time it isn't a peck, it is bruising invitation.

A constellation of tears on your lashes
Burn everything you love, then burn the ashes
In the end everything collides
My childhood spat back out the monster that you see
My songs know what you did in the dark