Work Text:
He curls in closer to himself, in the darkness of his dorm room. His hair is still wet, drops of water cool on where they collide with his skin. The grey shirt he wears shifts against his abdomen as he hugs his knees.
The scent of blood permeates; not just that, he can feel the warm drip drip drip—
John looks around his room. There are various things strewn around, his eyes scanning for that roll of white amongst the dark background.
There.
He wills himself to get up to reach the bandages. He should patch up his hands, with how bad his knuckles’ condition is right now.
He should. Does John really want to? Does he think he particularly deserves it?
The roll of bandages isn’t new—he’s had it for months now, but it’s still barely used. The familiar itch of healing wounds prods at him.
That’s not the extent of his injuries, obviously. His nerves are still frazzled, and he has a persistent cough that makes his chest feel like it’s shattering. The pain, where it used to bring him some degree of satisfaction, now only infuriates him.
It’s like they left an imprint on him. He hates it, he hates them—they don’t deserve to leave a mark on him. His shoulder aches, as does the middle of his thigh. As the adrenaline eventually runs out, John can begin to feel the throbbing pressure of his injuries begin to pick up.
The pain is a punishment. He reminds himself. A punishment for winning. For surviving.
Fighting, to John, isn’t fun. He’s never really liked turf wars for the fighting aspect—it was always just the thrill of getting stronger. How could fighting ever be fun?
John fights like his life depends on it. The ever-consuming fear, that if you don’t beat down your opponent they will you, dominates his mind. He mauls his enemies like a rabid animal, he fights as hard as he can because the other option is getting put down.
John doesn’t want to lose. Losing means pain—but if he’s considering his current situation,
Can’t you see? She says, and John ignores her grating voice. You’re going too far.
I’m not lying, Adrion pleads. John takes his words and shoves them far, far down his throat. Until he’s face to face with Sera and spitting the same truth.
He’s not lying.
It pours out of him like bile, as John drops the roll of bandages to clutch his hair.
—Winning doesn’t feel much different from losing at all.