Work Text:
XADEN
There’s a particular tension in the air before our sparring matches, an almost reverent hush that coats the training yard in silence. Perhaps the other riders just want to see Tyrrish blood being spilt. Perhaps they want to see different techniques. It’s all about perspective as Bodhi once told me. Today however, it’s not just the usual anticipation crawling under my skin. It’s her, my beloved.
Violet.
Her gaze burns hotter than the sun outside, trailing down my body as I roll my shoulders, my sparring shirt clinging to the sweat already forming at the base of my neck. Her eyes linger, hungry and utterly unsubtle. And fuck, I feel every inch of her attention.
Garrick stretches beside me, groaning dramatically like he’s already aged a decade just from the warm-up. “You know,” he mutters low enough so only I hear, “this is going to be really fun, beating the mighty Riorson with your girl watching.”
I snort. “In your dreams, Tavis.”
“She’s practically eye-fucking you right now, Riorson,” he adds with a smug grin, glancing at Violet who’s perched elegantly on the stone ledge beside the sparring ring, legs crossed, cheek resting in her palm, and a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Can’t blame her,” I mutter under my breath, tossing Garrick a lazy shrug. “Have you seen me?”
He snorts. “You win one more match against me and your ego is going to become its own venin.”
I lift my blade, the training metal glinting in the light, and lower into a fighting stance. “Then let’s make sure it stays intact.”
He lunges first, as expected.
Garrick always tries to set the tempo early: fast, aggressive, confident. And he’s damn good at it, which is exactly why I don’t match his energy at first. I absorb it. Dodge. Parry. Let him throw the first ten attacks just to see if he’s added anything new to his game.
He hasn’t.
We’re a blur of motion, steel clashing in sharp metallic bursts, boots shifting over dirt and stone as we circle and strike and counter again. His strikes are tight, practiced. Mine are efficient, deliberate.
Violet’s gaze on me is more potent than battle rage, more focused than even Sgaeyl’s fury during midflight dives. I catch her out of the corner of my eye as I duck under Garrick’s swing, her lips parted just slightly, eyes following the lines of my body like she’s already planning the marks she’s going to leave later.
It does things to me. Wicked things.
“Eyes on me, lover boy,” Garrick grits out, thrusting hard enough to knock me a half step back.
I grin, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “You’re just bitter because she’s not here.”
“I’m bitter because you’re still cocky as fuck,” he replies, swinging in a tight arc that I barely manage to dodge. When in Amari’s name is he going to confess he’s in love with Imogen?
We’re both panting now, sweat dripping down our temples. He’s pressing harder, and I meet him strike for strike, our swords locking between us. I lean in, lips curled.
“I win, you tell her the truth.”
He scoffs. “I am not taking honesty lessons from you, sweetheart.”
We break apart, and I twist, slamming the pommel of my blade against his ribs. He stumbles just enough, and I take the opening - sweep his leg, slam him into the dirt, and press the blunt edge of the blade to his throat before he can recover.
“Yield.”
“Fuck off.”
I press just a little harder.
“Fine. Yield,” he grits out, coughing dust as he glares up at me. “You smug bastard.”
I step back, offering a hand, which he slaps away as he grumbles and gets up on his own but I’m not watching Garrick anymore.
My eyes are on Violet and she, gods help me, is blowing me a kiss.
I nearly forget to breathe.
She’s still perched on the ledge, her chin propped on her palm and that smug little smile on her face. She lifts her free hand, and with an exaggerated flourish, blows me a kiss which hits me square in the chest like a shockwave of lightning from her fingertips.
I catch it midair with a genuine smile, pressing it to my lips like I’ve just been gifted victory itself.
Garrick follows my gaze and groans. “You two are nauseating.”
“I think you mean enviable,” I correct, tossing him a towel. “But keep projecting.”