@feracovina for Nessandra
It was dark and late, the rain was pouring outside and as the Irishman made his way into the latest location where the fights were to be, Lance shook the rain from his jacket, pale blue eyes scanning the crowd to judge just how well the fights were this evening. From the hustling that Lance caught in subtle exchanges and the rowdy comments coming from closer to the action it seemed to be a good night. This set his nerves on edge, prepared for something that might come, he hadn’t fought in some time, moving from place to place and especially doing his best to keep away from the supernatural side of the world. But sometimes he rolled back into it for the sake of his sanity, it was lonely out there where no one knew what he was and if they did, often enough, they wanted him dead. At least in a place like this they all were hunted and haunted. Here pasts didn’t matter, all that mattered was the amount of destruction you could dish out with a clenched fist and not using your powers.
If Lance had become anything since he was still a human it was a weapon, amazing how he could be the most golden and sunshine-like person yet be so bent on hate and violence. The man couldn’t live without it, sure, he told himself it was to keep the beast within at peace, to balance things out. At least he didn’t kill anymore, not for money, he’d left that life behind many decades ago. But he still craved that side of him. It was there, hidden within his bright and adoring blue eyes as he moved around the curve of the crowd that stood around the fight. Sliding between bodies to get closer, the smell of sweat, testosterone, and blood hung thick in the air. Lance was familiar with these places, more than he might like to admit, it was more than that, however, it was the place he knew the best. When he was in that ring, face to face with another creature that wanted to make him bleed just as much as he wanted to feel the pain, it was the closest to home he could get.
Sad, that he found such comfort in the violence, but everyone had their demons. Lance had more than he would like to admit, more than he acknowledged when he put on that charming front to keep people at arms length. It hadn’t always been this way, he hadn’t always worn such a beautiful facade, but he never really did allow people to fully know him.
The Irishman had luck in a lot of things, but love was not one of them, he had a wall, mostly he told himself it was to keep people safe from him. Taking on lovers in doses opposed to settling down like he always wanted. But what was the point when he was nothing but a masked man of violence? No matter where or what he was doing, it all ended in pain and loneliness. Even now, as he made his way through the crowd, pulling a flask from his jacket to take a swig of liquid courage, not that he really needed it. The pulsation of the crowd was strong that night, Lance got an elbow or two to the gut before he even broke through to the middle of the crowd surrounding the cage where two tortured souls fought. He stole a glance into the ring to see better but only caught movements, the flash of a swing and the roar of the crowd as another blow was landed, it didn’t phase him, if he could find the teller he would be in that ring in the next hour or so beating the red out of some poor bloke. Lance was many things, a gentleman, a seeker of justice, a lover of broken souls like him– but he was best as a beast, taking blows was easy, giving them back ten fold was no problem, living with his past, that was a different story.
So he used these events to forget, this was more effective than drinking, although he did that for the same reason. There was something about fighting that kept him sane, amazing, really, how a man so full of love, a man who could love so hard could be so red with violence. It was in his blood after all, in a way, it was the best way to keep himself from becoming that monster. The one he killed so many centuries ago, the night still haunted him, Lance still woke up from night terrors fighting off an unseen assailant that plagued his dreams. The fighting helped. Made him so exhausted he had no choice but to sleep.
Another wave of cheers broke out as there was a slam into the fencing that kept the fighters inside the ring and Lance moved a little closer to get a better look. Suddenly, he was pulled into an arm lock, someone’s hand going to his hair before he was pushed back and he put a hand on the person's body to keep that distance until he realized it was simply his buddy. They weren’t really friends, just acquaintances who made each other a lot of money when bets went around. “You knock ‘em dead tonight, my Irish friend.” The man said before he ruffled Lance’s hair and slapped him on the arm fairly hard. Lance chuckled, nodding in affirmation that he would do his best, but they both knew he was one of the best BEASTS in the ring on any good night.
Turning away from the other man as the crowd split, it was really like a scene out of a movie, if fantasies like that actually came true it did at that moment. The last person, the last fucking person Lance expected to see in the this place was there. His heart picked up in pace and he started moving towards the woman. Pushing people out of his way so that he could get through, just to be sure it really was who he thought it was. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides when he got close enough, his expression worried and severely confused but when his gaze was met, the hot blooded animal went ice cold. There, in the crowd, was a ghost from his past one he had failed to keep alive.
