The story was giving me trouble … I'm sorry, if you were waiting, that it took so long. Thank you for sticking with me, and thank you especially to vock on livejournal, whose kind poke of encouragement really got my butt in gear to finish this bit.

Esca had refused to kick Marcus out of his bed, and Marcus had refused to make Esca take the couch or the floor. Which is how they wound up in this position, backs to each other and awkwardly squished on separate sides of the bed, like brothers forced to share at a hotel and unwilling to touch each other.

It was almost six am and Marcus hadn't slept at all. This happened to be a pattern for him for the past… two days. Two days since Esca had promised to stay.

Things could not get any more awkward, Marcus decided.

He'd promised to keep his distance. That was the point, wasn't it? "If you don't want to have sex with me, don't." Marcus kind of really wished he hadn't said that, actually. Not that Esca seemed particularly receptive to him, at all. They barely talked to each other, in fact – Marcus got up early to go to the garage, and stayed late. He figured that if he picked up extra hours or projects, he could get more money to support a housemate, and avoid said housemate as well.

Esca, for his part, was trying to make good on his promise to find another job. So far, the only forthcoming option had been a night janitor at an office building a bit of a walk away. Esca had started tonight. It made it so that their schedules would barely overlap at all, except for the early hours of the morning, which was to be spent… well, like this.

Finally, Marcus couldn't stand it any longer. He still had almost forty-five minutes before his alarm went off, but he rolled out of bed and stood up to go take a shower. He could feel Esca's eyes on him – apparently the other man had not slept much as well. Marcus ignored him as best he could.

The warm water only added to his agitation with his situation, making him hot and sticky. It was ridiculous. Something had to happen, or else he'd go mad with it. His only real consolation was his fight tonight. Usually, the underground ones scared him shitless. This was no exception, really, but the fear and excitement felt good, right now, instead of just sickening.

The phone rang.

"…fuck…" he muttered, turning off the shower, which had begun to grow cold anyway. He should just let it go to voicemail, he thought, grabbing a towel and intending to go answer it anyway.

Then it stopped ringing.

He heard Esca's voice. "…he's in the shower, can I take a message or something –"

Who was calling at six thirty in the morning? The only person Marcus knew who had that little regard for timing and propriety was –

"Very nice to meet you, Cottia, I'm sure…" Esca was mumbling.

Shit.

"Damn it, damn it," Marcus muttered, sliding out of the bathroom and grabbing the phone out of Esca's hands. Esca gave him an affronted look, and Marcus tried to mouth an apology, but he wasn't sure if it had been accepted. He had more important things to tend to, anyhow. Like damage control.

"So that's why you haven't shown up for coffee!" Cottia exclaimed as soon as Marcus got his ear on the receiver. She sounded gleeful and fox-like, something Marcus was very, very wary of.

"You sound like you know something, but you really, really don't," Marcus muttered. He was very aware of Esca's eyes on him, watching him, analyzing, never showing anything on his face.

"Don't know anything? You have some man with a gorgeous accent in your room – your room! – at six thirty in the morning. What's there to know?"

Esca had re-curled on the far side of the bed, not even pretending not to listen. Marcus was hyper-aware of every move that he made.

"Nothing," Marcus answered her wearily. "Please don't sound so excited…"

"Me? I'm not excited, " Cottia purred into the phone. Marcus took the phone to the kitchen as fast as he could, unwilling to begin to explain while Esca was still within hearing distance.

"Listen, Cottia, it's really complicated, okay? And it's not what you –"

"Did you do him?"

"Excuse me?"

"Then it's exactly what I'm thinking," she said proudly.

Marcus groaned.

"Why did you call me at 6:30 am?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh!" Cottia said in excitement. "Right! Listen, dad called last night, real late – does he not understand time zones or something? – and he said that he's got something better for you than an offer to let you work the farm."

"I don't think I want to hear about it," Marcus grunted. He was kind of tired of his lovely, generous old uncle prodding into his personal life. It was nice, at first, but Marcus was done listening to him – or him-via-Cottia – trying to convince Marcus that being out in the country would do him good. Marcus was determined to make good on his own.

"I think you do," Cottia told him. She always had been willful. "He has a neighbor – well, within the same ten miles or so, so I suppose that counts for neighbors, out there? – anywho, this neighbor just died and the bank is selling off and settling up – he's got parcels of land for sale, real cheap, house in for the bargain. I mean, even five, ten thousand can get you a good sized area. So dad was thinking –"

"Whoever gave Uncle the idea that I wanted to be a farmer?" Marcus demanded.

"Oh, don't be cross. He's just giving you a chance to make something of yourself."

And that's about the time in these conversations that Marcus decided that he'd had enough.

"Make something of myself, Cottia?" he growled, trying not to raise his voice, trying not to let his anger bleed into the other room and alert his all-too-alert roommate.

"Marcus, don't be offended, but do you really think that garage is any sort of life at all?" Cottia pressed.

"We are done here," Marcus said with finality.

"You're only pissy because you know I'm right."

Marcus hung up the phone.

When he turned around, he found Esca leaning in the doorway, shirtless, blinking sleepily at him and trying to hitch up his sweatpants. He looked entirely too curious and a bit miffed and rather gorgeous. Marcus decided he really didn't want to deal with this.

"I've got to go," Marcus said shortly. "I'll be back late."

"Marcus –" Esca looked like he wanted to say something, but Marcus slammed into his room, dressing and gathering his things, including some stuff for the fight. He came back to find Esca in the kitchen, rooting around and trying to make coffee. Marcus attempted to breeze out the door without another word, but Esca's voice interrupted him.

"Who was that?" Esca asked, eyebrow raised, glaring determinedly into his coffee.

"My busybody cousin, if it is any of your business," Marcus snapped, regretting it almost instantly. It was bad enough with the both of them being neutral; if Esca was mad at him –

But Esca didn't look mad; he looked almost relieved, and was staring up at Marcus' face with a weird and mixed-up sort of expression.

"Marcus, I –"

Marcus really, really didn't want to say anything else that might be stupid or get him into an argument, though.

"I really have to go," he muttered, and didn't wait for an answer. He was out the door and down the street before he could even begin to think about why Esca seemed so concerned as to the nature of the caller.

Whatever Marcus had thought that morning about looking forward to the fight, it was all lies. Right now, concentrating on quelling rising panic and a heaving chest and leaning against a non-descript door in an alley that smelled like piss, Marcus wondered if he'd be able to breathe right at all, or at least enough to make him go through the door, and down into the underbelly.

Guern was there with him, pointedly looking the other way and shooting concerned glances in Marcus' direction out of the corner of his eyes. It was probably supposed to be covert.

He'd drink when he got home; he'd drink a lot.

Marcus dismissed that idea as soon as he thought of it – he never drank. It was less a moral compulsion to stay dry and more of a lack of funds, than anything. He didn't even have enough to keep himself in bologna and orange juice. It had been up Esca to buy groceries, when he had been sick.

Which would not happen again. Marcus would not take any of his money, not anymore. Especially not the way it was earned… but extorting anything from Esca felt wrong, somehow. Even though he knew it was a mistake, Marcus wanted to support Esca, at the very least until he got a proper job and a proper paycheck and was back on his feet. Yeah, then he'd put in his fair share. Probably. Maybe.

Guern cleared his throat, kicking idly at the door.

Marcus was not scared, not really. It was more icy, trembling nerves, something he'd be worried about if he lost them. He'd seen people who lost them – He'd seen most of them at boot camp, ahead of him, barking orders on the practice field before the stupid day and that stupid ATV that lost a wheel and -

"You ready?" Guern asked, gently, but growing impatient.

Marcus pulled back from the wall, punching the air a few times in hopes of bleeding the nervous energy from his veins. "Sure," letting out all the air in his lungs. Before he could think about it, he swung open the door and ducked inside.

A quick jog down a concrete stairwell and through another thick steel door, and he was in the pulsing veins of a coiled and bloodthirsty beast.

It was a basement – if the lights were on and the people gone, it would be nothing more than a greasy, grey concrete box, a few doors, a few pillars keeping the structure up. But the house lights were off and the strobes on and the world took on a red-pink-blue-green hue, people moving in slow motion. The throb of dark and angry music seemed to incite dancing, but no one heeded that. They stuck to the edges of the room, drinks in hands, clinging to each other like limpets as they spoke in whisper-yells above the noise. Someone had erected a flimsy bar; folding chairs were set up along the walls. The middle was completely bare, just a slab of floor with a crack down the middle of it, from wear or stress or age.

It was toward the center of this crack that Marcus stalked now, shucking off his tee-shirt and sweats, toeing off his shoes, leaving him in gym shorts and bare feet.

The conversation ceased completely, but the music was still there, beating under his eyelids. The lights continued to flash and spray. All eyes were trained on him; he was their entertainment.

And he was solid and hard as granite – the pulsing fear from the alley only moments before was gone, pushed somewhere else. All he could think was: Fight. At this moment you fight, and you win. There was nothing else to think. Fear wouldn't help him here, no emotion would, especially not the strange and wondrous things dredged up by the man currently waiting for him at his apartment.

Esca…

Marcus' opponent stepped into view.

He was large, and Marcus understood why the Boss wanted him to fight. Most of the other guys that were in Boss Hadrian's pay were the lightweights, or the pretty ones, for the rooftops. Only a handful big guys, strong guys, could survive down here.

The man was about Marcus' height, strong and defined, dark features bordering on Asian, dark eyes bordering on feral. His face was set into a determined expression: no fear, no bloodlust, just raw willingness to live.

Marcus felt that he was this man's mirror, in that respect.

It was the man behind the makeshift bar that officiated the contest, sliding over to the center of the floor and standing directly on the crack in the cement that separated the two opponents.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the night's entertainment is about to begin," he said, voice smooth and oily, bearing excited. The pulsing music faded to a dull roar. "The rules of the fight are simple – first to a knock out wins, no outside help." Marcus could see the spectators salivating with lust for the fight. "Our opponents tonight are battle-tested – perhaps you even have a favorite. I encourage you to cheer for your men, because they are now in your hands."

They didn't even get names – "your men", they belonged to the crowd – and Marcus felt it, that subtle shift of power from controlling his own destiny, into simply trying to stay afloat.

The officiator untied a red scarf from around his long hair, holding it in the air.

A moment of tension, two, and it floated to the ground.

Dark Eyes struck.

He threw himself at Marcus without a moment's hesitation, completely bypassing the tense dance of who should strike first. Marcus was utterly unprepared, and barely hefted up a forearm to block the downward smash to his shoulder. He caught the second fist, though, squarely in the gut.

Doubling over and wheezing, he watched Dark Eyes barrel in for another strike. Marcus dropped to his good knee, ducking his head and shoving his shoulder into Dark Eyes' stomach as he hurtled forward. This time, Dark Eyes was the one to go down, and they were both on their knees, panting for breath and watching each other warily.

God, the man was fast.

Marcus was on his feet first, testing his balance before deeming it good enough. Dark Eyes sprang to his feet as well, and this time they indulged in the shuffling, sizing up that it would take before one of them threw a punch.

Again, it was Dark Eyes first, directly towards the same bruise on Marcus' ribs that he'd inflicted moments before. Marcus dropped an elbow to counter, threw up his other arm to catch the second crack at his head, and threw a knee into Dark Eye's torso.

Hitting bone was a painful experience for the both of them. Marcus was forced to land heavily on his bad leg, and the other man let out a grunt, fixing Marcus with a stare that promised retribution.

People were hollering, now, deafening even over the music, shouting encouragements to kill and maim, but Marcus couldn't hear them at all. It was just him and the body in front of him.

Watching Dark Eyes move, Marcus was reminded of his time in training camp, watching the military, solid grace of men taught hand-to-hand. Dark Eyes moved the same way, square and precise, accurate but with little thought for not hitting his target. The swings came with no recoil, no room for error in the body movement. It was hard to push over a brick wall, after all, but if you could get it off balance, nothing would save it.

Marcus' shoulder ached, and his side did, too. It was all he could do to keep throwing up forearms to catch raining blows against his upper body.

The other man had noticed by now, that Marcus was favoring one leg, and he looked pleased, suddenly throwing neat, roundhouse kicks into the mix.

These were harder to fight off – Marcus couldn't block them with his arms, and he only had one knee to use to rebuff any attack. He was off-balance from almost the beginning and blows kept hitting at such speed that he didn't have time to retaliate –

There.

Dark Eyes had changed up his round kicks to something straight-forward, aiming a stomp straight for Marcus' injured knee. But Marcus saw it, too, caught it with his opposite shin, and the man had judged the distance wrong; his leg was crunched up too close to his body. One shove, and he was stumbling backwards.

Marcus followed him, digging into his chest with a shoulder, one arm hugging his body until he had a good hold, and then he dropped, hung all of his weight of the other man, and he went down like a stone. It was a simple matter of bringing one palm up against Dark Eye's forehead and smashing the back of his skull into the concrete to knock him out completely.

Marcus stumbled back from the body on the ground as the crowd screamed for blood.

"- is he dead -?"

"- did he kill him -?"

"- get up, get up, finish him off -!"

The officiator grinned at Marcus, rushing to grab his arm and raise it above their heads like this was a boxing match, a professional affair.

"I believe we have a winner!"

He stepped over the blood pooling on the floor from the back of Dark Eye's head, as the man's handler rushed to get him to sit up. Dark Eyes stirred fractionally, and Marcus' body uncoiled in relief. He was alive. God, that was good.

The rest passed in a blur as Guern grabbed Marcus' forearm and led him out of the throng. Marcus waited until he was in the alley outside to throw up.

Esca was curled up, asleep, by the time that Marcus got home; he must have only just come back from work. Marcus stumbled into the bathroom, taking a long shower in an attempt to wash the jittery ache out of his bones. His body was bruised all over, and his knuckles were covered in scrapes, but nothing was outstanding on his face, nothing that would cause questions.

Yeah, visibly, he was fine; he only felt like shit.

Marcus crawled under his blankets with a muffled groan, realizing Esca had hogged most of the blankets and not able to bring himself to care. He only turned on his side and waited for exhausted oblivion to overtake –

A sharp poke to his bruises caused him to yelp.

"Esca?"

Marcus turned over to find the man in question, tousle-haired and wide-eyed, staring down at Marcus with an almost murderous expression.

"What in the hell happened?" Esca demanded.

Marcus closed his eyes in exhaustion. "I don't think I've got to tell you all my whereabouts all the –"

"Marcus," Esca breathed, sounding equal parts sad, tired, furious, and worried.

Marcus' eyes flipped open again, and this time Esca was so close to his face that his eyes crossed and he could feel warm breath against his lips.

"Marcus, why don't you ever tell me anything? You ask me to stay but you barely say a word to me. What is going on with you – you keep coming back hurt."

Marcus was now thoroughly confused, his sluggish, tired body unable to handle the puzzle that was Esca.

"I thought you hated me. You act like you hate me – ah… don't you?"

Esca recoiled, looking pained. "I don't - ngh, Marcus, you are so stubborn."

Marcus just blinked, trying to process. "Um…?"

"Do I actually have to say it?"

"…yes…? Because otherwise I don't understand a thing you're telling me."

"I like you Marcus. I only stayed because I do. I thought you understood that. Really. What kind of man nurses you through a bloody fever, if they don't like you? I let you screw me, you oaf. I came back and asked to stay with you, and you're telling me that you really didn't –"

"Esca, shut up," Marcus said with a wide, stretching grin. "I like you, too."

Esca let his head drop to the mattress. "You're an idiot," he muttered into the sheets.

"And you like that," Marcus said, realizing that it must be true. Esca liked that. Liked him. "You do. I can't believe it."

"Believe it, don't, I don't give a rat's ass anymore," Esca moaned in defeat, but that didn't shake Marcus' glee in the least.

"Does that mean I can have sex with you?"

He found his face buried in an accurately-hefted pillow.

"Go to sleep. You're fucking delusional. Talk to me in the morning," Esca ordered. Marcus couldn't see him, but he could swear that there was a smile in his voice.

So Marcus closed his eyes and let the feeling of a full bed wash over him as he felt a slim, strong hand curl possessively over his hip. He didn't even mind that it hurt his bruise there, a little. This whole venture was shaping up rather well.