Dillon O'Nyle -- Eight -- Fin

"You gonna cry or something?"

Dillon says softly in his typical hoarse voice. The freckles that follow the lines of his face seem to furl into flames beneath the small overhead light he is angling at the other boy. By all means the boy is a brute, his muscles masterfully making up the complete curvature of his body. Dillon can't hide his teeth tearing into the flushed flesh of his lower lip as he examines the fighter still soaked in sweat. It's even more irresistible when the boy blares a snarky stare at the O'Nyle for his comment. There's something about the sensitive beasts that has always fully floored Dillon, not to mention the hormones which are flowing after such a fresh fight. Some might find the stench of sweat and blood revolting, but to Dillon they are intoxicating aromas. 

"Fuck off I'm not going to... ah!"

The brutish boy bellows as Dillon drains the last ounces of alcohol he has stored into a cut cresting the other boy's chiseled cheek. Water wells in the bigger boy's eyes, but he seems to sustain his strength at the sight of Dillon's sinister smirk. It's alright though, the sound of his scream is more than enough to satisfy Dillon's desire. In fact, it helps him focus on fixing the winner's wound. They need the fighters to seem fit and like fully functioning wrecking balls of destructive energy at all times. Lucky for them, that's where Dillon has always come in. He's fixed fractures, bruises, cuts, and countless broken noses to become well versed with sutures, gaze, and various medical motions. Nothing like being the pretty boy who gets to patch up the hunks. 

The smell of sterilized steel always sends memories of his own fighting days through Dillon. They were incredibly short lived as the seventeen year old found far more fascination with boys in other ways than fighting. According to his sister Iris, Dillon has quite the reputation around the ring for his more promiscuous passion. However, before he was known as the pretty fuck boy, Dillon's reputation was one of respect. In the ring, Dillon was notorious for his lightning rounds specializing in strong swift strikes. He fought for all of eight months, only losing twice, before opting out of the competition entirely. Iris wouldn't speak to him for two weeks due to the revenue reduction his fall out from fighting would cause, but he made it up to her with his medical work. Well, that and the other job he started.

Since he was old enough to talk, Dillon has loved the limelight. Settling center stage is something he is always more than willing to do. In school it was through singing and outside of it was through fighting. Once fighting faded to the background though, Dillon had to find something new to fill his foreground. Dillon loved the few underground clubs District Eight had anyway, he often spent most of his nights drinking there with friends. Getting a job as one of their dancers seemed second nature to Dillon, and the money he brought back with him certainly assured Iris of his retirement. His new reputation was cemented.

"There, you big baby. I'm done here. Is there, anything else you need?"

Dillon remarks cutting free the excess sewing from his sutures. As always, the perfectionist in him is evident leaving a wonderfully wrapped wound. If the boy manages to stay out of the fighting circle for at least week, Dillon is sure he will be lucky enough to only have a small scar. Alas, more often than not boys of this type Dillon finds himself back to patching up in only a few days time with much less chance of a clean recovery. They are weak when it comes to the seduction of their impulses, but Dillon is as well so, how can he blame them? He simply smirks instead as he watches the other boy while he cleans his station. 

"Yeah, there is actually."

It's past midnight when Dillon finally finds his way out of the fighting area, but that, and his rampantly ruffled brown hair, is normal. While the District dozes off to the sleep Dillon works. He leaves for the clubs and knows he won't be home until well after dawn. He loves it though, the long nights them seem to last for eternity. To Dillon, that's what makes life worth living: spending every second possible in the pursuit of experience. As far as the young O'Nyle is concerned, sleep can wait for death.

At the thought blows a kiss to the stars, sleep tight cousin.