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The lining of Mordecai’s esophagus burns like it’s been set aflame, and there are two handprints around his throat. Wide and red with irritation, it looks far worse than it feels.
Running a hand over the skin, he recalls the night’s events. Being curled up in his tent, on the cusp of sleep when he heard the fabric behind him start to tear.
The blade of the axe sliced through the canvas with ease, giving him mere seconds to react. He scrambled backward, groped blindly around the tent in search of his boot, and the knife within.
He wasn’t fast enough. The bandit was on him before he could scream, strong hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing.
As he clawed at his attacker, he could hear a similar scuffle taking place in the tent next door. A wave of smug satisfaction flowed through him, despite the situation he found himself in.
Nobody could beat Brick in a fight. Not even with the element of surprise. It was only a matter of time before—
Crack.
There was the sound of bone being crushed, then silence. Mordecai had no time to celebrate the victory.
The hands around his neck grew tighter, more desperate. Vision blurring at the edges and limbs becoming significantly harder to move, his struggles weakened. He started to choke, dry and barely audible, lungs screaming for air.
Then, mercifully, the flap into his tent was torn open. Brick made a noise that could only be described as a growl, face contorted with anger, and dug his fingertips into the bulk of the bandit’s shoulders. Tore them off of Mordecai, and dragged them out in a single fluid motion.
Mordecai coughed loudly as oxygen returned to his battered lungs, clutched his bruised throat and rolled to his side. Heard the brutal sounds of fists colliding with flesh and bone, Brick grunting with exertion.
He crawled out into the desert night, skinny arms still shaking from strain. Countless grains of sand dug into the flesh of his palms, and he blinked his vision clear in the inky night.
Lit only by the moon, he watched Brick take the bandit’s life. Hit them until his fists were stained crimson, then shoved their body into the remains of the campfire.
The two men stood in unison, bloody and bruised from their battle. Closed the distance between them on unsteady feet, respective hearts pounding in the chests.
“It hurt?”
Mordecai lets go of his throat. “Nah.”
Brick reaches out to touch Mordecai’s jaw, mindful of the fresh bruising below. Leaves splotches of crimson on the sunburnt skin, holds the line of bone firmly.
“Never gonna let anybody hurt you,” Brick’s lips press together into a firm line. Mordecai feels his gaze flicker toward the bandit’s corpse. “Promise.”
“I think you’re my best friend,” Mordecai says after an extended pause. Brick’s standing too close, towering over him. He doesn’t feel small.
“Yeah,” is Brick’s reply, because he already knows.
Their first kiss tastes like blood.