shorn lambs } pascal/tom
Dec 24, 2016 18:04:00 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Dec 24, 2016 18:04:00 GMT -5
T H E R E I S A L I G H T T H A T N E V E R G O E S O U T
Titus has got the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his siblings say, grins flashing white whenever he fixates on the last slice of chicken on the plate, or the pair of fighting gloves in the window, or the older kid goading the skinny blond to hit harder over the metallic scratching of their clashing swords. Half his vision is currently cut off by the heavy bag that he's currently beating the shit out of - with a muted rhythm of tap-tap melding with the controlled breaths of his voiceless frustration - but the older kid, Pascal, is easily kept in sight.
"You're gearing up for a fight," his trainer said that morning, suspiciously, as Titus paced the edge of the ring, like a caged mutt behind the bars ready to go. He looked only briefly at the ex-career before returning to the door as it whiffed open - Ivoire Blackmore stalked in, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She noticed him staring and gave him a predatory smile he still refuses to return. Titus rolled his shoulders forwards and kept pacing, flexing his fingers. Blackmore had been Mason's, and even if Titus gave a damn about her he respected his brother enough to give her the cold shoulder. She's not the predator he wants to take on, but the one he does hadn't yet made an appearance all morning. The clicking of his mentor's fingers caught his attention, and he looked over. "Want to tell me what this is all about?"
Titus shakes his head free of memories from that morning, catching the heavy bag before it swings back at him with a vengeance, metal hook squeaking painfully on metal hook. His mentor raises an eyebrow at him. "Did I say you could stop?"
"Water break," he mutters, and shoves the heavy meshed bag vindictively towards his trainer. The quiet oof is gratification enough for him to stalk by towards the benches by the far wall. He's not calm enough to plop down onto the hard and cold metal, and his water trembles slightly in its bottle when he lifts it to his mouth for a drink. Cool relief trickles down his throat, playing against the heat of his heart beating in his ears; he caps it with a little plastic click, staring openly at Pascal and Ivan, or whatever the blond's name is.
He's fought a few people in this school, usually on their terms. Semantics he can't care less about, and even if he hasn't won every match, neither party stepped out of the fighting ring unscathed - which, in his opinion, is what matters. If like his brothers Titus is destined to die in a distant arena by the hands of a skinny asshole from district fuck-that, then he wants them to at least tomorrow be at the vicious mercy of some other asshole.
But he's never asked for a match. Never had to, before - but Pascal. Titus crosses his arms and watches the dark-haired kid dance out of the way of the blond's attack. He wants to fight Pascal.
T I T U S
