something cracks under his fist, and gilbert cannot tell if it was his bone and ikar’s. it hurts just the same, and it numbs just the same too. the soldier’s knee digs into the side of the one he pins down, hoping to press some old bruise or the ghost of some broken rib, but that’s about as much strategy as he can put into it. was that not always his champion move? a fifth brains, the rest pure feeling? maybe ikar would have loved watching him in the pit, all screams and tears and careless brutality. he has enough of a show now. i hope he chokes on his blood.
“shut up.” gil hits again, but no blow is nearly as hard as the first one, accumulated like a dangerous pressure cooker. gilbert was always keen on explosions. “is this not fun enough for you?” there’s voices around them, he’s certain, and someone did risk tugging on his shoulder once, but one wild shake and that poorly sided savior was gone. it’s a spectacle. he’s reveling in this bit. beneath all layers of reason, gilbert knows he is too. the spectacle, with the wide eyes staring and the horror, has become what he knows. somewhere within too, he might even miss the cheers. get us a crowd that can love this. give me public justice.
gilbert lets himself be pulled in, almost glad. hopeful that ikar will at last fight back. make it fair, make him feel justified, not cruel. gil hopes for anything: blood spit on his face, a headbutt, a bite, try and pull my left eye out. but he’s met with whispers, which multiply in his mind until they’re a crowd of overlapping murmurs of every word out of the other’s mouth. gilbert stops, muscles frozen in place, eyes locked with ikar’s and he breathes heavily. ikar found the button. “why are you here?” it comes out more desperate than he’d hoped for. “this city is rotten, but not enough for you. you can’t do the shit you did in wyoming here. there’s nothing for you to gain.” he’s winning, he’s winning, god, he’s winning. one of his hands reaches down, fingertips (of the tip of his knuckles, where some got cut. you did this) dragging the warm blood from ikar’s face to his neck. his hand rests there, pressuring down but not grabbing. “fight back. make this a circus. we miss it, don’t we? then hit me.” the volume grows back with each word. “hit me! come on! wake the fuck up! let’s go. poor little fucking ikar, shamelessly attacked, uh? paint me as insane.” his fingers grab tighter. “bet i look fucking crazy right now, uh? bet you like that!”
you are your mother’s monster; photoshoot smile stained crimson, knowing all the right angles to play the victim. his hands are trembling in anger when he grips you, spit to teeth when the words are dragged from the depths of his fury.
he rests his hands on your neck and you want to know how his fingertips will wrap around your throat; what bruise your corpse will wear in the morning.
boy of magazine covers, blood-dipped dreams. you look at the man above you with a glint of something sharp that only he can see; know who’s pinning down who in this position.
“don’t sell yourself short. you’re here, and isn’t this more fun than wyoming?” words could be so tender if it was anyone but him, said soft, said gently.
he laughs at gilbert’s shouted words, coughing on the blood rushing into open mouths. spits it off to the side and opens his arms to the other; an invitation.
“i do,” like you crazy, unsaid, spoken like a wedding vow. like a death sentence. boy is still grinning. “don’t you want a little revenge, gilbert? for what i’ve done to you? an eye for an eye — didn’t the grizzlies kill some part of you? now you can send them back a body in return.”
you bare your throat to him. sign of submission. a challenge, a dare.
“you could shut me up for good, but i bet those voices will stay with you. wouldn’t hurt to try though, hm?”
