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He noticed her high up in the back of the bleachers, engulfed by her oversized school jacket and the shadows, like an omen watching over their sparring. It took longer for the rest of the fencing team to notice, because of course it did, he was always ahead of them in every regard. He wished they were a little more oblivious for once, because once that ripple of realization fully passed through, they started whispering between their sets. Why is she here? and Think we're gonna get cursed? and other inanity. It made him pull his lips back from his teeth, showing fangs and reprimands.
Any sets against him for the rest of morning practice were harsh and demanding, with him throwing every sparring partner into the maws of humiliation. Each riposte was stalwart and poised, every advance ruthless and elegant. A mix of a punishment for their distraction and verbal transgressions, and the glowing desire to put on a good show. She had been told that this is where he truly excelled, and he was eager to finally prove it.
In the aftermath, he alone stood tall and self-satisfied, undefeated among the flotsam of his uncouth teammates as they picked themselves up from defeat. One who had muttered a particularly vulgar comment about Darcy just before his face-off against Apollo, was limping the worst back to the locker room. Apollo watched his ungainly exit with a sharp, unforgiving stare.
Then he turned to Darcy when finally alone in the arena, pulling off his fencing mask before bounding up the bleachers, sweeping low to request of her: "Wait for me in the hall, I'll only be ten minutes."
She replied with her usual early morning monotony: "'Kay."
Apollo coursed through his usual post-practice routine. Undress, shower, additional hygiene, redress, towel around his neck to protect his shirt from his damp hair, collect his school bag, all done with far more alacrity than usual. Helped that the room was empty, all of his teammates having quickly dissipated when they saw him enter. No doubt trying to avoid further criticisms alongside a desire to be petty and avoidant. This suited him just fine.
When he reemerged from the locker room, Darcy was waiting, as asked, crouched on the ground like an urchin, drawing stitches along her arm with black ink. She uncurled to face him at her full height, pocketing the pen and pulling down her sleeve.
"That was quick," she said.
"I've learned to be efficient," he replied. His skin was damp and slightly flushed from the shower. "I'm surprised to see you up this early." A pause. "You did sleep, did you?"
"I did," she shoved her hands into her coat pocket, rocked back on her heels. "In my own bed. I'm sure you're proud."
"Oh, very," he replied wryly. Even though relieved was the better term. Knowing she wasn't sleeping in the middle of an open cemetery or a park bench or some other unhoused location was a balm on his nerves. And better for his sleeping schedule, as the times he knew she was going on one of her nocturnal outings, risking mugging or worse, were nights he sacrificed his own sleep as well to follow her. No matter how often she tried to shoo him away, saying that she could handle herself, that he didn't need to do this. But he did. Because he didn't trust the lich as far as he could throw it, and a couple of incorporeal spirits or brain-dead zombies just wasn't enough to assuage his worries. News traveled slow, and Darcy was even more inconsistent. If something were to happen, he probably wouldn't find out until days after the tragedy. And then where would that leave him? Leave her? Someone had to be there for her. Someone alive.
He followed up, "I'm assuming your parents weren't home?"
"Not for the next few days," she said, "so I'll be sleeping in my own bed for the week. Got a few babysitting jobs lined up, anyway."
"Hm." There was audible disappointment pinned into that monosyllable.
She rolled her eyes, and fished something out of her pocket: the spare keys to Apollo's room at the Baroness. She jingled them before him. "I can come and visit tonight, okay? So don't be a baby."
"I didn't say anything," he crossed his arms, eyes skating off her face to glance down the hall instead. But his tail, traitor that it was when it came to Darcy, flickered back and forth at the prospect of her visiting for the night. As though it was a special event, and not something she'd been doing on a near-weekly basis ever since he handed her those spare keys.
At first it was just an effort to give her a safer third option, for those nights she didn't want to face her parents and he didn't want her sleeping in the streets. And it was still that, but now they were…this, it bloomed into something less pragmatic, more tender. A fortuitous answer for both of their nights of specific loneliness. Even if she had the most bewildering nighttime routine that was aggravating in how scant and careless it was. At least he could influence her to get up in time for class, instilling some sort of good influence.
Darcy laughed, and pushed the key back into her pocket.
"So, you usually beat them up that bad?"
He allowed this turn of the conversation. "More or less. They've improved incrementally since I've started the year, but they'll never be worthy opponents."
She sighed forlornly. "Damn. I was hoping to see you get stabbed."
"And I was hoping we'd be past the point of wishing the worst on each other. My mistake." He tilted his head. "Or maybe you could give the rapier a try." He leaned close, lifting his hand to point at his chest, right above the heart. "I'll even be nice and give you a free hit, right here."
"No, you won't," her mouth quirked.
"No, I won't," Apollo agreed, "but it's important to inspire confidence in a potential opponent. False or otherwise. They're more likely to slip up that way."
"Glad I'm not an exception to that," she snarked.
"You'd hate it if you were, Darce," he pointed out. He'd hate it, too. Regardless of what they were to each here and now, an opponent was an opponent in the arena. That said, the thought of trying to fence with Darcy was still a uniquely attractive prospect. To share more of himself with her. Even if she might not enjoy it, or be particularly good at it, it just seemed like a natural way to round off this relationship. Of sharing this personal part of himself. Just her being here, coming to visit far earlier than she would normally wake up, just to watch him practice, was enough to make him preen for the rest of the day.
"Give it a thought," he encouraged. "I'd be more than happy to teach you." The encouragement quickly bled into outright eagerness.
"I'll…think about it," she answered, voice softened in the way that meant she really will.
It was good enough for him, visibly perking up with a smile. She reached up and pushed her hand against his cheek, forcing him to look away. "Ugh, don't smile like that, you creep. I'm going to want to say no, now."
He caught her wrist back, trapping it in place so he can slide his face back and press his lips into the cup of her palm. Her worn fishnets rubbed against his mouth and chin.
"Gross," she muttered, but didn't pull away. He could see her scuff the toe of her boot against the polished floor, however. An idiosyncrasy she committed whenever embarrassed.
"You are the last person to make that complaint," he pointed out, face still pressed into her hand, so the words were partially spoken into her skin. He'd spoken a lot of things into her skin, lately. Secrets. Fears. Complaints. Compliments. Chemistry answers.
"Okay, okay," she wriggled her hand free, bringing it down to cup in her other, rubbing at where his mouth just was with the pad of her thumb. Through the gaps of her thick bangs, he could see the florid glow of her face and ears.
The hallway was still empty. He knew it would be for a while.
Apollo shifted his bag strap over his shoulder, moving it fully out of the way between them before stepping close, arm snaking out to her waist. He could smell cigarette smoke on her. A detestable habit he didn't push against nearly hard enough because, unfortunately, he loved the smell and taste of the smoke. It reminded him of home.
"I don't think you've seen me fence before."
"Nope."
"Well, now you have. I'm sure you were impressed." He didn't hide the expectant tilt of his voice and form, leaning close enough to press her into him. He was in search of praise, both verbal and physical.
"Oh," she shrugged mildly. "It was okay."
"Just okay?" He recoiled, grip loosening. He knew fishing for both compliments and kisses from Darcy was an uphill battle; it was one of those things you had to let occur naturally. But he still went for it anyway, because it was in his nature, too.
She snorted, and reached up to grab either end of the towel hooked around his shoulders, pulling him down to her face. "Learn to take what you can get," she muttered before kissing him.
If this was what he'd get, then he'd certainly take it.
There was smoke and sour coffee on her tongue and behind her teeth, the taste so complete he had to wonder if she even had anything else for breakfast. But he couldn't ask, being so occupied, feeling the slide of lipstick across his mouth and jaw, her waist in his hands, with his claws slightly digging in, because he knew she liked their bite, and he liked leaving the marks. In turn, her hands cupped the back of his neck, fingers always bone-cold, making him shiver, and that made her smile into his mouth, and he couldn't do anything about it because he didn't want to. His tail, going back-and-forth-back-and-forth in his rising thrill, would betray this if his greedy touches didn't already.
But even with the pleasure of her mouth on his, his ego still stumbled back to the previous conversation, and in between the third and fourth, or maybe the fourth and fifth, kiss, he muttered despondently: "Just okay…"
"Oh, my god, I was joking, you fucking narcissist. You were fine."
He pulled back slightly, still offended. "Fine?"
"Ugh," she yanked him down to kiss his cheek. "You were great."
Better, but still not ideal. While his skin sung bright with the kiss, his expression stayed sullen.
He could tell this genuinely annoyed her, because when she kissed him on the mouth again she bit down very hard on his lower lip. He hissed. She scrunched her face back at him. "Okay, you were exceptional, totally annihilated them, I'm shocked you're not biting down on an Olympic gold medal right here and now. That work?"
He ran his tongue over the new welt on his lip. Not the worst she'd given him. There was no blood this time. "Not with that tone."
"Well, I haven't seen much fencing, so not like I have a good frame of reference, man."
Apollo pulled away, sobering up from the gin of their affection. "This Saturday I have a tournament. I want—no, I need you to come. I'll get you a ticket."
Darcy hesitated, and he feared rejection. A fear he made exceptional strides to stay a foreigner to, but Darcy continued to be a source of many novelties for him.
She could have a number of plans already. A babysitting job she'd agreed to. Some necromantic duty she kept putting off that she already decided to dedicate her weekend to. Or even just the fear of attending something completely alien to her, to plunge herself into an unfamiliar crowd to partake in an unfamiliar event.
"Alright, sure," she answered.
He hugged her. He pressed his face into the comforting fluff of her hair, appreciating the tangible press of her form into his. But even after all this time together, sometimes the old Darcy still came back and stiffened under affectionate touches, as though remembering, suddenly, that she was Darcy Graves and Darcy Graves was not meant for hugs or kisses or any other sort of living, human touch. As the time went on, these moments of locking herself up became more sparse, but they still cropped up at random intervals, like now.
But it came as it went, and she softened eventually, hands reaching up shyly to hug him back.
He hoped she really meant it. Her attendance would mean a lot more than just winning this lighthearted battle for compliments. It would mean that, for the first time since coming to Earth, that there would be someone in the crowd there wholly for him.
Because despite all his easy victories throughout the year's gauntlet of tournaments, with all ribbons and medals piling high and proud in his room, there was still that empty space in the crowd. His father had yet to visit, been unable to attend a single tournament. Not for a lack of interest or trying, but his duties took precedent above all else. This, Apollo understood.
But Apollo's heart still clenched whenever he saw all the families and friends and lovers in the crowds, cheering on their beloved, no matter how inevitable their loss to Apollo was. They had flowers and hugs and You'll get him next time! for them. Apollo would be handed his formal prize and the routine congratulations, and then left to no one but his ride home waiting for him. Compounded with how dreadfully easy all the victories were, it made the tournaments feel less like a genuine event and more of a motion.
Darcy was not his father. But Darcy was still someone for him, and him for her. The prospect of finally having a face in the crowd turned only to him, for him to actually have someone whose opinion he respected and whose vision to awe, ignited a new motivation he didn't realize he'd been lacking until now.
(Especially since, well, it was long overdue for her to finally watch him perform. Granted, there hadn't been any tournaments since they got together, just practices leading up to the next one. So he'd been planning on extending her an invitation eventually anyway, but this wasn't the context he exactly had in mind. Apollo had planned something more formal, preferably when he hadn't just come out of the shower while risking PDA in the gymnasium hall, but, as Darcy said: he'd take what he can get. And then some, because Apollo always strove for more.)
"Good! Good," he said, and leaned down to cement it with a another quick press to her temple, but staggered at the shrill call of a bell. "Damn!" He hissed, pulling back.
Usually the time after practice was for personal clean-up, straightening out his clothes, restyling his freshly-dried hair before disembarking for class early. The way Darcy continued to pull at the threads of his refinement, managing to loosen the parts that never been loosened before. Going to watch bizarre movies. Staying up past midnight, sometimes while in a cemetery or the remnants of a haunted house. Getting in homework a week in advance instead of two because of how much time she's begun to take up. Cutting it close to class because she came to see him. Whenever he finally went back home, would those threads stay loose? With no Darcy to pick at them, he'd probably be able to restitch some of them back in line, but he felt that some were far past the point of salvation now.
Home. Darcy. He tried not to think extensively on how much those two clashed, even though the day of their fissure was rapidly approaching. Being able to find a way to continue making both fit was a pipe dream, he knew. Darcy knew it too. They both had duties they had long assigned to themselves as a priority, and a cross-dimensional relationship just wasn't convenient enough. (And this was already without delving into whatever prospective political matrimony Apollo had to face when back home, something he felt indifferent at worst before, but now inspired genuine dread.) They'd discuss this once, and never again, because only once was needed for them to make their mutual resignation.
Apollo pushed it all out of his head. He let go of Darcy, and swept his drying hair out of his face before rubbing the back of his wrist along his mouth and cheek, pulling away an appropriate smear of black lipstick.
"How do I look?"
Darcy looked no more ruffled than usual. He supposed that was the advantage of already looking like you climbed out of your own grave; it obfuscated any additional messiness. Even her lipstick looked relatively un-smudged, which bode well for him. Must have been a new brand.
Darcy answered dryly: "You look awful. They're gonna wonder if you even own a mirror anymore."
Sarcasm meant that he looked fine. He didn't want to risk any more time after that bell, so he extracted himself from her, his tail trailing along her lower back in final departure.
"Perfect, just what I was hoping to hear," he echoed her tone. "I'll see you at class. And I mean it," he began his march down the hall, throwing his words over his shoulder as he readjusted his collar. "Don't forget there's a quiz in chemistry today, so you better not skip."
"There is? Huh. You learn something new every day…" her voice trailed off into an odd laughter.
"I mean it! And don't just stand there, you heard that bell too. I better not find another tardy slip in your bag tonight!" And he was gone, detouring only to push open the locker room door to chuck his towel in the hamper. Were he not prioritizing his own punctuality, he would have otherwise personally made sure she was heading off too. Times like these, though, he just had to hope his words were enough.
As he left the gymnasium, his tongue prodded at the bite still stinging his lip. Smoke and coffee and copper. Darcy clung to him wherever he went.
-
He managed to get to his first class, calculus, by the skin of his teeth. An uncharacteristically hurried trip that, combined with his more unkempt appearance, attracted additional attention from usual. While he was already used to eyes on his back and whispers at his heels, being the beacon of perfection that inspired envy and admiration alike, this felt more severe, more scrutinized, rising in disturbance as he progressed further into the day. Even when he settled into class did the professor give him a long, funny look.
Surely his hair wasn't looking that bad, was it?
After class, as he was considering where the nearest restroom was, he stepped out to face a passing underclassman, who slowed to look at him. Apollo raised a brow. The underclassman smiled, and then whistled, sharp and jeering. "Hell of a night with the death freak?"
Alarm erupted in his chest. The lipstick.
He didn't bother dignifying the miscreant with a reaction—although he certainly wouldn't forget the words nor unappealing face—but darted past with a focused stride towards the restroom, pushed faster by the laughter that followed his path.
When he shoved open the restroom door, he caught his reflection first thing, and stopped dead, door banging shut behind him.
Black lipstick smeared the entirety of his mouth, crawling along his jaw and up to a single unmistakable kiss mark stamped on his lower cheek. It was an unavoidable admission of what, or who, he had been involved with just now. He surged forward, snatching paper towels to soak and scrub at his face. But the lipstick was stubborn, and even after wiping his skin raw did it still stain his skin in a purplish rot. Less recognizable as lipstick, now, but still a noticeable discolor along his mouth and bone structure. He bared his teeth. There was even some flecking his canines.
"Oh," he hissed, remembering Darcy and her carefully sardonic reply, delivered in a way that she had to of known he wouldn't have taken her seriously. "I'm going to kill her."
-
For the next two days there was a interconnected, school-wide web of bills and favors being exchanged as a nearly year-long bet was finally, officially broken.
And even for those who still clung to what they had bargained, claiming that some lipstick wasn't enough justification, that it could have been any other liaison with some previously unaccounted party, it was quickly put to rest by verified claims of an intense argument that broke out outside of second period chemistry, the damning back and forth of Why didn't you tell me I looked like that? and I did, you moron! were uttered in that acidic way only lovers could. (Although, many would note that the way Apollo and Darcy argued now was no different from how they argued all throughout the year.)
At the very least, Apollo had been right: it was a new brand of lipstick.