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Storm Point roared with chaos; gunfire cracking, grenades popping, the distant screech of a prowler.
Fuse crouched behind a shattered rock, his knuckles white around a nade, grinning like a madman. Beside him, Ballistic; August Brinkman, all sharp edges and sharper aim, reloaded his smart pistol with a precision that bordered on obsessive.
“Oi, old man, you gonna keep up or what?” Fuse teased, lobbing a knuckle cluster over the wall. It detonated with a satisfying boom, scattering the enemy squad like roaches.
His shield was cracked, leaving him completely defenseless when August wouldn’t give up his last shield battery. It didn’t help that his health was already low, the deep slash on his lower abdomen bleeding steadily.
Idiot, Ballistic had called him when he’d given up his last cells to their rookie. Who was dead now. Poor fella got smashed six minutes into the match.
Ballistic snorted, his posh accent cutting through the din. “Keep up? Walter, I’m carrying you.” He vaulted the wall, his Tempest ultimate already charging.
The air around him crackled, a faint hum of energy as his eyes locked on the enemy.
Fuse peeked over, more than happy just to watch the older man go insane, even as his vision swam from blood loss. August’s silhouette blurred into motion, pistols blazing with unnatural speed.
That’s when he saw it.
He’d seen it before, just vaguely, always too preoccupied with doing his part in a fight to really take it in.
Ballistic’s eyes were bloody nuts, like twin black pits, gobbling up the pale blue of his irises, makin’ him look like some feral beast ready to rip the place apart.
Fuse’s jaw went slack, heart thumpin’ hard as he watched August carve through the squad like a nightmare with a trigger finger.
One enemy dropped, then another, headshots landing with surgical precision. The third tried to run, but August was on them, a whirlwind of bullets and rage.
In seconds, the squad was down, their deathboxes smoking in the dirt.
Fuse jogged up, tryin’ not to wince, his boots crunching on debris, expecting August to be panting or smug.
Instead, Ballistic stood there, chest heaving, Tempest still active.
The energy hummed around him, his pistols glowing faintly, and those massive pupils fixed on the horizon like he was seeing something beyond the Arena. The sight hit Fuse like a snare. Equal parts unnerving and… bloody hell, cute.
Like a damn feral cat ready to pounce.
“Oi, mate,” Fuse said, slinging his launcher over his shoulder, unable to hide the wince this time as he pulled on his wound. “You okay? Lookin’ a bit… intense there.”
August’s head snapped toward him, those black-hole pupils locking onto him.
For a moment, August didn’t speak, just stared, the Tempest’s energy still sparking off him, his chest rising and falling like he was fighting to cage something feral.
It made Walter freeze in place, made his spine straighten without permission.
That gaze dropped to his bloodied abdomen and fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach out.
“You’re a mess, Fitzroy,” August muttered, voice rougher than usual, before his eyes flicked back up, searching Fuse’s face with a hunger that wasn’t just the Tempest’s doing.
It was the kind of look Fuse knew too well, blokes back home givin’ him that stare right before they’d either fuck him or deck him flat. He wanted to toss a joke over it. Instead, Walter’s mouth was going dry.
Bloody hell, he’s gorgeous like this.
Seein’ August like this was a treat, the old man usually all refined with his cool control, even when killing a bunch of poor contestants. This was the complete opposite of that.
Then Ballistic smirked, the cocky mask sliding back into place in an instant, fast enough for it to almost be unnerving. Almost.
“Intense? Walter, this is control. You’d do well to study it.”
Fuse chuckled, but his stomach flipped. “Yeah, yeah, fancy pants. Just… your eyes, mate. They’re doin’ that thing again.” He gestured vaguely at August’s face, trying to play it cool while his brain scrambled, his vision spotting at the edges.
Ah right, his stomach was still bleedin’ all over the damn place.
August raised an eyebrow, the Tempest’s glow fading as his ult wound down.
His pupils shrank slightly, but not enough to lose that wild edge. “My eyes?” he echoed, stepping closer.
Close enough for Walter to catch a whiff of gunpowder and that fancy posh cologne. He tried not to inhale too deeply, and failed.
“Care to elaborate?”
Fuse scratched the back of his neck, his grin lopsided. “Dunno, just… big. Like you’re high on stim or somethin’. Kinda suits ya, though.” The last bit slipped out before he could stop it, and he froze, hoping August didn’t catch the softness in his tone.
August’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, his gaze flickering over Fuse’s flushed face. “Suits me, does it?” he murmured, voice low, almost dangerous. His eyes narrowed, but was close enough that Fuse saw the way his pupils dilated again, not from the Tempest, but from something else he didn’t wanna assume. He leaned in a fraction, his breath warm, and said, “you’re incorrigible, Walter.”
Then he turned, brushing past Walter to loot the deathboxes, his shoulder lingering against Fuse’s for a beat too long.
His tone was all ice. “Keep up, Fitzroy. We’ve got a match to win.”
He tossed a medkit without looking back, landing it at Fuse’s feet with uncanny aim.
Fuse stood there, face warm, watching August’s back. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, breathing out harshly, just now noticing that he’d been holding in Ballistic’s scent. “Reckon I’m in trouble.”