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*
“Just because something is right in front of you, does not mean it is within reach.”
Ben still remembers, vividly, the day he lost his rank. He remembers the way his hair stuck to his forehead with blood and sweat, he remembers the air — copper-tinged — invading his senses. He remembers his father’s words, an absolution, stripping him bare. It had not been fair, not to him, not back then, and even now the memory burns. He feels the heat at Pogo’s words, fighting the urge to turn his gaze, to glare at Marcus.
Marcus who has what he wants, Marcus who has what is his and he’s right there, right beside him, and Ben can’t take it back. His fingers curl at his sides. God, he’s ready for a fight.
“There is always something in the way.”
Pogo moves in front of them, stoic as ever. He’s there as a mediator more than anything these days, to make sure they don’t end up killing each other. And it’s not like Ben has any strong desire to kill one of his siblings, but he doesn’t need someone there to hold him back from proving his true power. It makes him weak. All of them make him weak.
Pogo continues: “Sometimes it is your opponent.” That’s the cue: Ben steps forward, Jayme moves too. He doesn’t know the last time he had a proper conversation with her. They live in the same house, they train at the same time, they eat together; but all his remarks are short and snide these days, and Jayme mostly keeps to herself.
(That’s a lie. She lets Sloane paint her nails, and helps Fei cut her hair; she sneaks off with Alphonso constantly to smuggle food from the pantry; she listens to music with Christopher, and she hangs out with Marcus far more than Ben does. But she doesn’t talk to Ben, and he doesn’t talk to her, and he barely talks to any of his siblings anymore so it’s much easier to pretend it’s their fault. Jayme is the black sheep and Ben is too good for any of them, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.)
“Sometimes,” Pogo finishes, “it is yourself.”
His words almost linger in the air as they bow before each other. A beat of silence to punctuate, and then Pogo calls for the start of the match.
It goes like this:
To begin with, it’s almost a dance. One of them hits, the other blocks, then tries to hit back. Jayme is quick, agile. She favours short range combat, and as such she’s had to learn how to dodge much quicker than Ben ever really needs to. He lunges at her, she jumps over him effortlessly, and something snarls deep inside his chest. Pride, maybe. The match has barely begun but he can already feel it bruising. This should be easy for him, he’s Number Two by name and Number One at heart and she’s Six, and Two cannot lose to Six.
The dance continues. One of them reaches for the bell, the other pulls them away, and tries for it themself. They keep moving and getting closer but neither of them are making progress. It’s an infinite loop, back and forth, spinning and stepping around the dojo, their other siblings watching on. It’s like a performance, and Ben loves to perform.
So he breaks the rhythm, and he’s not fully sure why he does it, but he has a sudden rush of energy, a sudden wave of exhilaration, and then power is erupting from his chest in a mighty swarm.
One of his tentacles hits Jayme square in the face. She falls backwards, lands with an awful thud, and Ben can’t suppress a smirk. For a second he thinks Pogo will call an end to the match, for using his power in a hand-to-hand session, but he stays quiet, and the silence is permission.
Jayme tries to spit back at him, and it’s laughable really, if Ben is being honest, because he slaps it away without much effort. It splatters against the wall, and then they fall back into the dance, no longer just a classic waltz.
Ben gets the upper hand after that. Because of course he does; because their powers are hardly evenly matched. It’s why he’s Two and she’s Six; no matter how good a fighter she is, Jayme can’t compete with him like this.
He swipes at her again with one of his tentacles, and narrowly misses slamming right into one of the dojo support beams. The whole thing catches her off guard, enough for Ben to lunge in again. Everything after that happens very quickly. Jayme barely manages to dodge his next attack, and as she’s caught off balance he’s able to move in for the taking. A tentacle wraps around her waist, and pulls her towards Ben. Jayme doesn't scream, but she makes a sound of protest as she tries to pull away. Ben only tightens the grip.
Jayme’s in front of him, then, dragged over across the dojo, struggling against his hold. It’s futile, he knows it and he’s sure she does too. The more she fights, the more pressure he applies.
“Either tap out or pass out, it’s your choice.” Ben says.
Either way this ends, he comes out on top. At this point it’s a matter of pride for her, more than anything. And Ben knows pride, can feel it swelling up is his chest now as Jayme whines and grunts and tries, to no avail, to break free from his grasp. Ben knows pride, and it beckons him to tighten his grip around her chest.
Ben leans forwards, and suddenly it’s not his sister he’s fighting against, not any sort of ally or friend, it’s just an opponent, and he’s winning.
“Hey,” he says softly, through a smirk, “it’s your life.”
Jayme wails, a wounded cry. She’s starting to lose her fighting spirit, Ben can feel it being crushed as a snapping sound tinges the air. Sloane is the first one of the spectators to speak. “Ben that’s enough, let her go!”
Alphonso, then: “Jayme! Jayme, c’mon, just tap out.”
“I’m afraid there’s no tapping out in the real world.”
The air in the room shifts suddenly, and Ben’s gaze snaps to the corner of the room where Reginald Hargreeves now stands. His smile only spreads further, almost too-wide now. Their father is here, and he’s here to watch him win.
If you asked him, Ben would never say that he cares for the old man’s approval, because he doesn’t, honestly. He doesn’t need Reginald’s cold eyes lighting up just a little to tell him he’s done a good job, he knows that well enough on his own. But he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t something thrilling about his father — his trainer, the man they all do all of this for — looking on as he comes out victorious.
It’s not about approval, it’s about proving something to him. Reginald has his resolves, but he can’t deny hard facts when they’re laid out in front of him, and Ben just wants to take advantage of that, any chance that he may get.
Jayme wails again, shrieks against the pressure to her lungs, to her chest, pushed against her face. Pogo throws up a hand. “That’s enough—”
No, Ben thinks, let me take this victory.
“No,” Reginald says, “Jayme will let us know when she’s had enough.”
Ben almost wants to reply, but he keeps quiet, keeps composed. The smile stays firmly plastered across his face, though, as he lets the seconds pass by.
When Ben was Number One, he was an excellent Number One, as far as he was concerned, because he was always willing to go all the way. Even now, there are times Marcus struggles to make a call, and Ben has to bite his tongue to not curse him out. He doesn’t understand why the others struggle so much with it, when it always seems so clear to him. Sometimes people get hurt for you to win, it’s an unavoidable truth. He seems to be the only one to understand it, though.
He’s also the only one who Sloane never made a bracelet for, who Alphonso never smuggled chocolate to, who Marcus can barely look in the eye. But that’s besides the point, and if anything it makes him stronger. He doesn’t let his siblings tie him down, and so he never gets tied down in a fight. He doesn’t let them make him weak. He would’ve kept being a good leader, he thinks, if only he was given the chance.
He tightens his grip, just a fraction of a degree. He would’ve been a great leader.
Jayme screams.
It’s muffled, but it’s undoubtedly a scream, and something about it makes Ben’s skin prick, ever so slightly. Someone off to the side makes a desperate sound — Sloane probably, or maybe Alphonso — and Pogo yells in return. Ben looks to Reginald, but his expression hasn’t changed, and Ben thinks he must be okay, then; he must still be doing good.
He doesn’t know why he pushes harder. He doesn’t need to, he’s already won. But his gaze is fixed on his father’s face, and something burns deep inside of him. Blood and sweat and copper-tinged air, it burns white-hot inside of him. He pushes harder.
Jayce goes silent, all at once. She stops fighting, stops moving altogether. She goes limp in his hold.
And Ben knows what he does next is stupid, even as he’s midway through the action, but in the moment it seems right; because his father and his siblings and his sensei are all watching, and they’re going to watch him win.
He drops Jayme, and he runs forwards, and Ben rings the bell. And then he looks over at his dad, a smile wide across his face—
And Reginald turns on his heels, and leaves.
And then three things happen at once.
One moment, the bell is in his hands, and then it slips from Ben’s fingers and crashes to the floor with an awful smashing ding. Two twin shouts go up as Alphonso breaks all formalities and runs towards where Jayme now lies crumpled on the ground. And Pogo bounds over in barely three steps, rushing out something incomprehensible as he joins Alphonso at his side.
Ben takes a step back. He won, he fucking won and no one seems to care. He won and yet any feelings of pride have drained away into a pit of shame. Except Ben Hargreeves doesn't do shame, and he tries to push it down, binds it in anger instead. He knows anger, it’s familiar; it’s what lets him make the hard calls. It’s what makes the aftermath of them easier to swallow. Because Ben Hargreeves was a great leader and he could be again, if given the chance, and he’s proved it once again in winning against his sister.
His sister who, as he dares to drag his gaze towards her, isn’t moving.
For a terrible, unending second, Ben thinks she’s dead. That he’s killed her, in a harmless sparring match on a Tuesday afternoon, and everyone else had watched it happen. He thinks she’s dead, and he finds suddenly that he is far less okay with that than he thought he would be.
The rest of his siblings have gathered around her now, and he’s peering through the gaps with a bated breath, fingers twitching at his side. The bell’s still ringing next to him, or maybe it’s just the blood rushing in his ears. Everything is so loud, consuming him, pulling him to pieces. Blood and sweat and air alight with a copper-tinge, that awful metallic stench and he’s burning, burning, burning—
Jayme gasps.
It’s weak and wheezing but it’s a sound nonetheless. Her chest dips as air filters back into her lungs, eyes fluttering briefly before they slip back closed again. Sloane lets out a choked sob, and Marcus has to grab Alphonso by the arm to stop him pulling Jayme up into a hug then and there. Pogo moves closer to her, ever so deftly pulls up the hem of her top.
Ben doesn't see what’s underneath, but he can imagine, and it’s confirmed enough by the look of sheer horror and sadness and pure, pure anger that burns suddenly in Pogo’s eyes.
Pogo looks up at him, meets his gaze, and then he says — no, snarls — to Ben, “What have you done?”
Ben opens his mouth, and then slams it back shut again. He can feel everyone’s focus on him now, expectant.
He takes on one long, shuddering breath, nails digging into the flesh of his palms, eyes darting around the room as the reality of everything sets in, all at once. He opens his mouth again—
And runs out of the dojo.
*
It takes two hours and thirteen minutes for anyone to come looking for him, not that Ben is keeping count. He’s still wearing his sparring clothes, and he’s moved around his room more times than he cared to count.
He’s made it to the window, fingers gripping the windowsill as he stares blankly at a grey sky, when there’s a knock at his door.
“Fuck off.” Ben spits, without second thought.
Marcus does not fuck off, and pushed his way into the room instead.
Ben whips around, already fed up. “I said, fuck off.”
Marcus gives him the sort of look you give a toddler when they’re throwing a tantrum. All in all, about as fed up as Ben is.
“Sorry, Ben, but that’s not happening.”
“Why? Did dad send you to come give me a lecture? Give me a slap on the risk and a few harsh words?”
“Enough, enough, dad didn’t send me.” Marcus sighs. “Honestly? No one’s seen him since he left the dojo, I thought maybe he’d come by to talk to you.”
Ben isn’t sure if he should be glad that it isn’t just him their father’s ghosting, or worried by the very same fact. He settles on ignoring both things although, turning back to the window. “Well, he didn’t, so you can get on your way now.”
“Ben, please, I’m not here to fight.”
“Well I’m really not in the mood for a chit-chat Marcus, so I suggest you leave before I lose my temper.”
Marcus scoffs. “What, are you going to crush my chest too?”
Ben freezes. His fingers curl, instinctively, and he tries very hard not to dwell on the words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grits out.
“Don’t I? Because as far as I’m aware, I’m the one who helped Pogo patch Jayme up, and you were long gone by that point.”
“Yeah, well, didn’t really get the impression any of you wanted me there.”
“Well at least we can agree on one thing.” Marcus moves further into the room, looking around briefly before settling himself on the edge of Ben’s bed.
He notes the lack of decor on the walls, the carefully arranged books and training items, the violin in the corner that has sat untouched for far longer than either of them can remember. It’s been a long time since he’s been in Ben’s room. Somehow it seems to perfectly reflect him.
“Why are you here, Marcus?” Ben asks eventually.
“Because you broke half of Jayme’s ribs.”
Ben tries very hard not to cringe at the words. Technically speaking, he could’ve already guessed that’s what happened, because he heard the cracking — felt it, even, though he’d tried hard to ignore it in the moment — but hearing it said out loud is still unpleasant. He tells himself it’s because all broken bones are messy and a hassle to deal with, especially the ribs; and it definitely isn’t that it’s anything to do with the person involved, or the fact he was responsible.
Marcus’ tone has an air of absolution to him, like a priest on the stand telling you back your own sins. Like he’s accusing Ben of something damming.
“I didn’t kill her.” Ben says plainly.
Marcus laughs. It’s hollow. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t get close.”
“It’s a sparring match, people are gonna get hurt. This is hardly the first time one of us has been injured.”
“But that’s the thing you don’t get, this isn’t like other times. Because usually when something like this happens, it’s an accident. But you did this on purpose, you could’ve stopped.”
“No, no she could’ve tapped out. She didn’t. I was well within my rights—!”
“How could she tap out with her mouth covered and both her fucking arms bound?” Marcus snaps back. “You want to keep tossing the blame because deep down you know you can’t handle the truth.”
Ben runs his tongue against his teeth. “And what truth is that?”
“That you’re too dangerous, Number Two.”
Number Two, because he was One and he isn’t anymore, Marcus is, and Marcus had the gall to remind him of it. Blood and sweat and copper-tinged air and Marcus is here to remind him of all of it. Ben bites back the urge to scream in his face.
He turns around instead, eyes locking onto Marcus. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” Marcus replies. “It’s the same reason you’re Number Two to begin with, it’s the same reason none of us soar with you unless we’re made to. You don’t care about other people, and it’s your greatest weakness.”
Ben does laugh at that. “I think you’ll find it’s the opposite, Number One.” He spits. “I don’t let people hold me back, that’s a sign of strength.”
“But you’re willing to let your teammates — your family — die for your own satisfaction. If we’re talking as heroes, that makes you a liability.”
“People die Marcus! Someone has to make those hard calls, and I’m the only one willing to do it for this academy!”
“There won’t be an academy if you continue to have no concern for the people in it!” Marcus growls. “You’re just trying to be the best to prove a point.”
“I don’t need to prove anything.”
“Yeah, and that’s why you looked at dad expectantly the whole time he was there.”
Ben tries not to feel wounded that he was entirely less subtle than he had hoped. “That didn’t mean anything.” He mutters.
“Sure.” Marcus says. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter either way because we’ll never know what dad thinks because he left the second you took things too far. If I had to guess, it’s because he doesn’t take kindly to one of his children trying to kill the other, but if you don’t have anything to prove to him then I guess you won’t care.”
“I don’t.” That’s a lie. “And like I said before, I didn’t kill her, so I know why there’s such a fuss.” He does.
Marcus sighs, long and deep and lined with exhaustion. He looks at Ben, and there’s something sad in his expression. Regret, almost. “Look, Ben, I just came here to tell you you need to be more careful moving forwards. And that I think we need to start trying to work more as a team again because otherwise… one of us might…” He trails off. “I just don’t want something like this to happen again.”
And Ben won’t admit it, not here and not, not ever, maybe, but he doesn’t either. Because for all the victory had tasted sweet in those few moments as the bell rang out across the dojo, the more times he’s had to sit with it, the more bitter it all tastes.
“It won’t. Now get the fuck out of my room.”
Ben still remembers the day he lost his rank, and he has fought tooth and nail to get it back ever since. And yet as he sits here, with Marcus’ stoic gaze trained on his face, and the memory of snapping bones more fresh in his mind than the copper-tinged air, he wonders, suddenly, if it’s all been for nothing. If it’s all had the opposite effect.
His fears are realised as Marcus stands, quiet all the way as he walks across the room, until he pauses at the door and states, plainly, before walking out: “You never even asked how she was.”
The door slams, the room goes quiet, and Ben tries desperately to tell himself that he doesn’t care. Not about his siblings being afraid of him, not about his father being anything but proud of him, not about the fact that he will never — can never — be Number One again. If he tries hard enough, he can make the feeling real. He can’t afford to start caring now.
It might just burn him alive.