“You’re not even capable of shutting up. Learn to step down. Learn to give some ground, any ground, okay? Please.”

Fumbling to break Byron’s grip, Tristan was scratching now, groping for weak points. He wasn’t putting up half the fight he had been. He hadn’t even been choked for that long.

“All I want is my own space. Give me room to figure shit out,” Byron said. “I’m not asking for the world here.”

Tristan’s hand fell to his side.

“Just… nod, okay? Nod, agree. Or tap out, show me you can tap out.”

Tristan moved his arm. Byron felt a piercing pain.

He’d been stabbed.

What followed was nonverbal, almost animal. His grip tightened, because there was no other way this would end in his favor, because he was worried that Tristan would keep stabbing with whatever he’d just stabbed him with.

An impulse or thought ran through the background of it, he knew it was unrealistic on a fundamental level, but he couldn’t afford to lose this last one time. He’d already been beaten down so much, people he’d once liked had turned ugly, turned on him. ‘Ribbing him’.

If he lost here, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t break.

Tristan’s stabs, more aimless, caught on the underside of his arm. A worse cut than before, but it didn’t seem that much worse.

The blood, though. What followed was a ridiculous, outright scary amount for the size and depth of the cut.

In desperation, he maintained his grip as best he could, fingers digging into flesh. Tristan flailed, a flash of gold and black, a sharp point dragging against and puncturing skin.

He felt his own consciousness slip, and it wasn’t because of the blood loss.

He saw silhouettes, paired. Human, with something to them that he recognized on a fundamental level, or because the vibrations in the background of it all spoke to him. Warrior and scholar.

Another pair of silhouettes. Not human. Not a warrior and a scholar, but a creator and a destroyer.

Another pair…

⊙

He opened his eyes. They widened a bit further as he saw the amount of blood soaked into the carpet.

Mama and Papa were going to be pissed.

He coughed, and in that small action, everything felt wrong.

He coughed again, and when his hand came to his mouth, it wasn’t because he wanted it to.

His lips moved and pronounced a single hoarse word. “Fucker.”

His vision swayed. His limbs moved. He found a standing position, before coughing again.

He hadn’t bid any of these actions to happen. He was… an inside observer, viewing through eyes, feeling sensations, hearing the hum of the fan upstairs. He could smell the blood.