Round Two
by KC

Disclaimer: I don't own the turtles.
Other info: Inspired by the mythic artwork of spacefille, "Leo Midstride" which can be found at my livejournal.
Pairings: OT4

I'm going to win. I can feel it.

I haven't even completely pivoted to face my last opponent, and a smile creeps onto my face. I don't mean to smile--I never do in a real fight. In any other fight, I'm scared, on guard, thinking only of the next strike, the next block, the sudden blur of movement that could turn into a sword burying itself to the hilt in my chest.

But here and now, running over the bodies of fallen foes, I only feel victory, certain triumph as I bring my sword up midway to block, my other sword prepped to slash away any defense.

Someone grabs at my ankle. Their hand slides away and I keep moving, running, leaning into my attack the way I never would if I had any doubt that this would work.

I step into my enemy's attack. Having sharp steel so close so fast would make anyone back up, and he tries to throw himself out of range. My sword twists his sai away and I run up on him, bringing my other sword in an arc that makes him fall backward.

He should be able to use the fall's momentum to carry him farther, but he goes down in a bad position, one leg twisting under him. I fall with him, catching his remaining sai on my sword. There's no way to flip it out of his grip--he's stronger than I am--but I don't have to. I lean to the side and my weight forces the sai away.

And then I'm straddling my enemy's waist, his defense broken, my sword at his throat, his gaze first on the steel, then up at me in anger and frustration. We're both breathing hard as we stare at each other.

"I win," I say, and I can't help it. My smile creeps a little wider.

Raphael glares and looks away, but he doesn't deny it.

"Hey," Michelangelo says from behind me, "you gonna sit on Shredder like that, too?"

I bring my swords back and slide them back into their sheaths, grinning over my shoulder at him.

"I don't think fighting him would be as much fun as fighting you three."

Rolling on his front and sitting up, Donatello sighs and stretches. Beside him, Michelangelo gets to his knees and then crawls toward me, nuzzling my shoulder.

It's part of the game. As we grew older, our training changed. There's a reward for winning and a punishment for losing, if you can call it a punishment. I'm sure Donatello doesn't always try as hard as he could, and I know Michelangelo deliberately lets us win sometimes. Only Raphael and I truly vie for dominance. Our pride won't let us stand for anything less.

They're on either side of me now, slipping my swords out of my hands and tossing them aside, tugging the sais away from Raphael. Then my hands are drawn behind my shell and my mask is pulled off for a quick-tie around my wrists.

"Yeah, you win," Raphael grumbles, taking off his mask.

He sets it over my eyes, drawing the knot tighter since his head is a bit larger than mine, something Michelangelo teases him about endlessly just because Mikey enjoys the way Raphael makes him pay for all his comments. With the mask slightly askew, I can't see anything. My other senses expand, and every touch becomes a flame, a shard of ice, a light in the dark. They know it, too--that's why I'm always blindfolded, and they take turns making me wear their colors.

Raphael sits up, which puts me firmly in his lap. Donatello's behind me, trapping me between them, and Michelangelo enjoys moving around, sampling us at his leisure. I feel like I'm the center of a fire that's only going to burn hotter.

"You won," Raphael whispers again, his voice a dangerous growl that sends a jolt of fear through me.

"Time for round two..."

end