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Saps grins, the iron tang of blood thick on his tongue.
He wipes his mouth roughly, scarlet smearing the back of his hand - he turns, spitting blood into the sand. Overhead, the lights are white hot, flooding the arena with a sickly glow. Sweat drips down his back, wings casting a dark shadow around him where they’re mantled dangerously.
The roar of the crowd is loud, pounding in his head to the rapid beat of his heart. They’re cloaked in darkness, faceless forms jeering and shouting, an undulating mob screaming for bloodshed.
Adrenaline races through his veins, electric and unstoppable. He raises the stone axe higher, his opponent stood across from him, their chest heaving, face twisted into a snarl. There’s blood seeping from the scarlet wounds Saps has cut into their body, their sword scattered across the arena. It glints amongst the sand, reflection bright under the artificial lights.
The fight has run long, Saps has been toying with his opponent, running them ragged, A game of cat and mouse. It's kept the crowd engaged and now the atmosphere is oppressive, pushing in close from all around. They want a fight; Saps can give them a fight.
Separated from their sword, Saps knows he has to be more careful with this fight now. They're not allowed to kill, nor cause lasting harm, so what once was clashing blades, turns into a more careful dance.
He surges forward, a sick rush of glee shooting through him as they flinch back, teeth bared. All they have are their fists, at a clear disadvantage, and Saps isn’t well known around here for nothing.
He strikes high, not deterred as they dodge out of the way, fists guarding their face. Throwing a volley of hits, his axe slices through the air with precision, drawing blood every time they block, spinning around one another in an adrenaline fuelled frenzy.
But his opponent is slowing, and Saps gets in close, axe arcing out perfectly to cut a nasty slash into their side.
It’s deeper than either of them expects, and Saps takes full advantage as they stumble. Colliding hard, Saps twists, pulling them forward and across his shoulder. They slam into the ground, his weapon levelled at their neck as Saps stands over them.
Saparata's chest is heaving, blood pooling from the rips in his white shirt as the crowd crescendos in a wall of noise. He steps back, axe raised high in triumph, wings spread as his opponent rolls to their feet. The commentator is loud over the din, voice booming with his win.
The lights are too bright to see past, but he’s been in the crowd more than enough to know that money is trading hands. Bets placed and won, coins sliding through the masses. Imperia guards always raise the stakes, anonymous, but their stature is unmissable. They win their fair share, and they don’t alert the higher government to the illegal ring running below the city surface.
It's been operating for longer than anyone cares to know, a relic of the city kept going by the new blood drawn in. Management stays hidden, faceless figures working behind the scenes to protect their identities from the tyrants in power and Saps is adamant that the corruption of Imperia is all that's kept this place from bursting wide open. They turn a blind eye, and the fights continue.
Saps shakes hands with his opponent, ignoring the nasty sneer on their face as they slope off into the dark tunnels. A heavy bag is lobbed his way, coins clinking inside. It’s enough to keep them afloat for a little while at least.
He leaves the mess of noise readily, cool air washing over him as he trails behind his opponent leisurely, exiting into the tunnels. His eyes take a minute to adjust, sweat drying rapidly on his burning skin. He swings by the changing rooms, grabbing his stuff without a word to anyone else down there. They're all waiting for fights he no longer sticks around to watch. He’s been fighting here long enough that he knows almost everyone that passes through.
Folding his wings under the heavy cloak thrown around his shoulders, he follows the winding corridors out into the cold night air. Snow blankets the ground in thick sheets, forever unmelting. The temperature of this district never raises above freezing, something he’s grown up with, ice crunching beneath his boots year-round.
Flux will be mad, he always is, but it’s worth it to keep them going a few weeks longer.
The walk isn’t long, but it’s still a relief as their cottage comes into view, nestled into the side of their restaurant. It’s dark, locked up for the night, empty chairs and tables casting strange shadows in the black room, but there’s a light on in the window of their small home. Flux always waits up for him, no matter how many times he’s said not to.
His key sounds loud in the lock, that eerie quiet that comes from thick snow unbroken. The curfew in place is strict, and if Saps were to get caught out, he’d be in serious trouble, but the streets are empty and silent. Opening the door, he expects to see Flux there as usual, hovering in the hallway as Saps shakes snow from his hair, hanging up his wet cloak next to Flux's own thick furred one, brows furrowed.
But Flux doesn't come to greet him at the door. Tonight, he's alone, and his boots are soaked through with slush, heavy and uncomfortable. He knows Flux is still awake, surely he'll come by, but the change in routine is unsettling. There's a sinking in his chest as he glances through to the living room and doesn't find him curled up in his favourite spot on the sofa, a mug of tea cooling beside him. It's completely empty, the fire burning low, a dying light thrown across the room.
He sighs, pressing his wings close to his body as he ascends the narrow flight of stairs, each step creaking under his weight. It’s habit by now, for Saps to strip out of his damp clothing, hop in the shower to rinse all the blood off and then wait for Flux to come by and tend to his wounds. He could do it himself, of course he could, but there's something so intimate about letting another person take care of him. An action of love, to be held and caressed so softly. It's Saps' favourite part of the night, a reminder of why he does what he does.
As the steam clears, towel wrapped low around his waist, he catches sight of the sweatpants folded on the side of the counter, still warm from where Flux has left them in front of the burning hearth, anticipating Saparata's return. It makes something fond bloom in his chest, washing away that cold feeling from earlier. He’s sore and aching but satisfied. It’s another fight won; another wad of cash deposited into his hands at the end of the night.
The same can’t be said for Flux. Despite leaving clothes out, he still hasn’t come to see Saps and he hasn't said a word since Saps got home, not even to call out a hello. It's unusual, but he settles as he hears quiet footsteps padding down the hall. The door opens and closes, a small billow of steam pouring out.
He doesn't acknowledge Saps, just moves around in total silence with something unreadable on his face. Cabinets open and close with a click, until finally, he comes to a stop in front of Saps, supplies gathered and laid down on the basin beside him. The fingers that slide under his chin are warm, tilting Saps’ face up to the light. He can’t help the grin that slips into place. Flux frowns deeper.
“I wish you would stop doing this,” he says, voice terse. He brushes a lock of white hair back from Saps’ forehead, picking up the gauze to his right and pours out a splash from a bottle Saps can't read the name of. The harsh stench of rubbing alcohol floods the space.
The wound stings as he dabs at it. It's nothing serious, just a glancing blow that’d caught him, a superficial cut that likely won't even scar, but Saps fights the urge to flinch back anyway. “You worry too much.”
“I think I worry just the right amount, especially when you come home looking like you’ve had the shit beaten out of you.” He moves on to the shallow wound in his side. It's shadowed by a nasty purpling bruise blooming along his ribs.
“Hey, that’s not nice! I won my fight,” he pouts. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”
Flux makes a disapproving noise under his breath, his violet eyes dark and worried. The air around them is oppressive, balanced on a knife's edge. It's been this way for months, an undercurrent of unease working its way through the district. It's got everyone on edge, Flux more so than some.
There's something brewing, some unrest that's tangible in the air. The patrols have cracked down, more frequent than ever before. Whispers spread through their sleepy village like wildfire, but so far no one has quite worked out what's going on. It's keeping the atmosphere tense and jumpy. People aren't leaving the house as much, and their restaurant is suffering because of it.
He finishes up with the wound at his side, packing a fresh sheet of gauze over it and taping it down. It's not deep enough to need stitches, but any wrong movement could pull it open again.
"How are your wrists?" He asks quietly, concern radiating from him. Saps had sprained one of them a few weeks back, bad enough that he'd needed to sit out a couple of his scheduled fights. It'd left money tight and things tense between them. As much as Flux doesn't like it, he knows they can't survive without it.
Saps rotates them and winces at the stabbing pain that shoots up his right one. "Not the best."
Nodding, Flux gets to work. He holds Saps' hand out, letting it rest slightly against his side. He starts at the palm of his hand, bandage unrolling as he works it around the back of his hand and then steadily further down his wrist. It's tight enough to provide support but not enough to cut off the blood flow. It's perfect, and a hell of a lot better than Saps could do on his own.
"Anything else hurting that I should know about?" He says, staring at Saps as he ties the bandage off, daring him to lie to his face.
Saps thinks for a minute, running over his whole body mentally. There's the usual aches and pains that come with fighting in an illegal ring, and a twinge in his ribs, but other than that he's not feeling terrible. Just exhausted.
"I don't think so. Nothing that's bothering me now anyway," he responds truthfully. He's sure by morning he'll be feeling tighter than a string pulled taut on a bow, muscles seizing up the way they always do after vigorous exercise, but for now it's bearable.
"Go on, I'll be through in a moment." He turns away, cleaning up the bloody gauze and medical supplies. Compared to usual, it had been a pretty quick clean-up.
Saps gets up, ignoring the pop in his knee and heads into the bedroom. The bed is large and inviting, covered in thick blankets they've accumulated over the years. He flops down face first, sinking into the mattress below him. It moulds to his body, cradling all the aches as his wings spread out either side of him.
Flux joins him a minute later, kneeling down at his side, the bed dipping with his weight. A cool hand slides up his bare back, making Saps shudder, long fingers scratching through the soft down at the base of his wings, white and fluffy.
It's all at once the best and worst thing in the world. Saps becomes hyper-aware of the arena sand strewn through his wings, of the loose feathers ready to be teased out. They feel gritty and dirty and so disgusting that he wants it all gone immediately.
Flux seems to understand this because he starts to brush through white feathers methodically. He's preened Saparata's wings more times than either of them can count. It never seems to get old. There's a quiet love that comes with Flux seeing Saps this vulnerable, malleable and at his mercy. His wings are the most sensitive part of his body, the most sacred, and to have someone else running their hands through them feels like laying his heart bare. It's simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. He trusts Flux more than anything and allowing him to preen them is proof of that.
Dropping his head further into the blankets, Saps exhales. Air deflates from his lungs as Flux begins at his scapulars and works his way outwards, fingers nimble and confident in their path. It's soothing, mind numbing as he moves through them to the layers of coverts. He's long over the days of shying away from the feeling of hands sorting through his wings.
Sand slides from between his feathers, relieving the itch burning under his skin. If Saps had the energy to move, he'd find the sand falling into the bed gross, but as it is, he can't bring himself to even twitch. And he reasons, they can always just chuck the top blanket onto the floor when they're done.
Flux pauses as he gets to his primaries, fingers tracing over the harsh, clipped edge. Flight feathers cut short, shackling Saps to the ground. Every year since his wings grew in fully, he's made the trek to the capitol to have them clipped. It'd been terrifying, at the grand old age of six. Tall imposing buildings, cold stone flanked by hard faced guards. He'd cried and cried, held down by cold hands as white coats flashed in the corner of his vision. Cutting the feathers themselves hadn't hurt, but they'd been so unbelievably rough as they wrestled with his flailing wings that it'd made it all worse.
It's still not something he enjoys, but it's something he's gotten used to. He can hold still for it now, unflinching as they destroy his wings over and over.
He's never been able to fly, at most he can glide down from higher areas, but he'd give anything to take off and touch the sky, to get lost in an empty oblivion. It's a pipe dream, nothing more than a fantasy, but it leaves his heart hollow and aching sometimes. A flightless bird, trapped in a cage as the walls of Imperia loom high, and he's not left them even once.
The only thing keeping him here is Flux. Flux, who's always been gentle with him despite it all. He's all harsh angles and biting words, yet with Saps he softens. They've built a life here, something worth keeping, even through the uncertainty. They've both heard the stories, of those who've left, but there are even more stories of those who have failed. Saps has walked past more public executions than he dares to remember.
He doesn't want to add to that number. He'd do anything to keep Flux happy, and until he truly wants to go, Saps will keep his head down. It kills him sometimes, to hear their screams, their begging, but he'll do it for Flux.
Finishing the outside of his wings, Flux taps his hip gently. Saps rolls over, huffing as he pulls his wings under himself to splay out so that Flux can reach the underside. He hates lying on his back, it leaves him trapped and panicky, but Flux knows this. He's quick, unwaveringly gentle, yet efficient, as he preens through the feathers there.
Saps can reach these himself, but exhaustion weighs him heavy, and sometimes he likes letting Flux do it. It's easy, and he stares up as he works, watching the furrow of Flux's brows, the shadow cast over his dark violet eyes from the section of hair that falls in front of his face. The soft lighting throws shadows across the contours of his face, and Saps would lean up to kiss him right now if he could.
Instead, he stills, lets the beating of his heart level out, content just to watch for now.
He loses time, drifting in the top layers of sleep as Flux goes on. It's relaxing, to feel the sand brushed from his feathers as they're straightened, careful fingers working their way through his plumage. Vaguely, he's aware of Flux as he gets up, moving around to his other wing.
Sometime later, there's a soft brush against his face, a thumb sweeping high across his cheekbone. It pulls him from the light doze, and he finds Flux studying him, turbulent violet eyes searching across his face. They keep getting stuck on the gash at his hairline, at the blooming bruise racing across his ribs, at the litter of faint scars wrapping across his chest from previous fights. None of the wounds have been serious, but they've left him marked a pale silver.
"You're all done," he says quietly, looking away to stare down at the stack of loose feathers he'd gathered up from the bed spread. Reaching across, he places them on the bedside table for Saps to keep hold of or burn later.
He sits up, ruffling his wings to shake out the flattened feathers from where he's been lying on them. Grabbing Flux's hand, he runs his thumb over his knuckles.
"Thank you," he says softly, the words carrying weight. It's a thanks for looking after his wings, for tending to his wounds, for keeping their life some semblance of normal with the restaurant, for hating the fact that Saps fights but still not actually doing anything to stop him, for understanding how important it is that he continues, for loving him so resolutely and unendingly.
Drawing Flux closer, the dark-haired man follows, violet flicking down to his lips and then back up to gold. They meet in a soft press of skin on skin, sliding against one another with familiarity. He tangles his hand through Flux's curls and pulls him in, finding the curve of his waist, warm beneath his hand. The kiss is easy, knowing, a comfort poured between the two like a whisper of home.
This is their home, it will be until the dominoes tip over and the government of Imperia, built on a fragile house of cards, cascades into nothingness. It’s close, he can feel it in the air, and he lies back down, settling his head on Flux’s chest, warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. All they can do is wait.