{friendly aftertaste}: uf +darcy
Jun 30, 2015 23:31:34 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 30, 2015 23:31:34 GMT -5
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.
