Serefin liked the Underground. It reeked of a seediness that he had longed for as the High Prince, and could only get it surrounded by people watching over him, making sure he was being safe. It seemed absurd that anyone cared about his life when his own father had been actively trying to sacrifice it. Serefin didn't find himself aching for death—Velyos had prevented that from being true until he, it, the god had finished with him. Serefin's risks lately came with little risk at all, because none of it was his choice.
But the fight club: all raw power and base-level aggression. He could see the appeal in people knocking each other out on a daily basis. Unsatisfactory for himself, when his catharsis came from a literal release of magic power. He was absolute shit when it came to throwing fists. Perhaps that was why he was much more open to watching others do it, or putting down his guard and welcoming it without defense.
He stood watching—was that training? He couldn't tell. Both people in the ring caught his attention for other superficial reasons, and both seemed apt in physical prowess. The fact that either one of them lacked in skill seemed absurd to Serefin. But what did he know?
That strange sensation of feeling a body beside him but not knowing if it was real settled into him. Velyos was always nearby—Serefin touched the patch at his left eye, a tangible reminder that it was not all a hallucination. But that was a different claustrophobia of sharing one mind with an old god. There was indeed someone standing outside of sight, to his left.
Serefin sighed and turned, giving away his inability to keep his eyes trained to what was in front of him. An annoyance really. But his brow lifted, smug.
"You're the one with the knives," Serefin said, and glanced back away. "Isn't it cheating to watch competitors before your matches? Do you intend on winning this weekend?"
“That’s the usual description, yeah,” Diego agreed at the assessment, his own eyebrow arching in response. Unsurprisingly, given that he worked there and hung out there, Diego also liked the Underground. He would have been the first one to argue that he hated being around other people, didn’t need other people, worked best as a solitary, isolated island of anger, but that was unraveling the longer he stayed in Vallo. He liked talking shit with Evie and Jacob, but he also knew that came with having the other’s back .He liked the community they were building there, a group of people who were good kicking (or punching, whatever) the crap out of each other, and then when the fight was done, it was done, no harm, no foul. There was a lot of mutual admiration amongst participants there, and if not, you learned it pretty quickly.
Plus, Diego was still working on that whole emotional growth bullshit thing. Sometimes? You just needed to punch something and get out the anger that way. Luckily, most of the participants in the Underground seemed to have their own issues to work through too and there was a level of empathy there, even if they didn’t want to talk about what those issues were. Thank God.
After pulling a towel off from around his shoulders and wiping off his face, Diego threw the towel into a nearby container. “I work here, so it’s not really cheating,” he pointed out. “Lot of people who fight also come here to train or workout. You get to know everyone, sure, but they know you too.” One other thing Diego liked about the Underground: the randomness of the fights. Any given day, any particular person could win or lose. Everyone had shit days, everyone had good ones.
With a tilt of his head he indicated towards the ring. “You fight?” Diego would have assumed not currently, what with the patch and all, but he also wouldn’t have been surprised if the answer was yes. He tried not to underestimate anyone and hell, the patch could have been for aesthetics for all he knew.
Serefin started to laugh. It was quiet, self-deprecating, until it was loud and full-bellied. Did he fight? How did he answer that question? He had fought. But his battles were one-sided, all blood magic and ruination. Swords and daggers appropriately trained for a royal. Serefin also knew that he had often looked like someone who had lost many fights—the eyepatch was a lost fight as it were. But he had been too young to be much of a match and the assassin had taken Ostyia's eye instead. He was the High Prince after all, so many sacrifices on his behalf.
Velyos had this eye, now. Dark, and full of stars, seeing into a world he wasn't meant to. It still gave him no upper hand in throwing fists. And wasn't that the rub?
"No, no. I do not fight. I have others do that for me," Serefin said, with a vague gesture toward the ring. "I am at a disadvantage. The depth perception causes some issues." He didn't sound serious, he had been through this song-and-dance often enough to make a joke about it. Proving how capable he was had lost its appeal. Take it or leave it, his body language tended to say. The Kalyazi people believed him to be terrifying, a monster in his own right.
The true monster was his half-brother, with his Vultures full of fanaticism. Was it wrong to be pleased he was away from that for a little while? Yes, the voice of Velyos responded.
"I came to bother Dame Frye and her brother," Serefin said, a little louder than necessary. "But you'll fit. With all your fighting knowledge, who do you suppose will likely win on Saturday?"
“Oh, others do it for you, my mistake. Diego shot back, snark at half power because he at least recognized that there was something else going on. His ability and want to psychoanalyze was at a zero. So instead of empathy or sympathy, Diego opted for sarcasm in return. “And here I thought it was something cooler like shooting lasers. But if it was just for aesthetics, I was going to have to give you a shit ton of shit, so you’ve spared yourself that.” The ‘for now’ went unspoken but was certainly implied. Diego’s sarcasm was how he communicated, but it also doubled as a first test of sorts for people. They either gave it back and passed, or they didn’t, labeled him an asshole, and that was that.
He caught the way Serefin’s voice raised and even glanced around for a second, as if he’d said it attempting to summon one of them. Nope. Serefin was stuck with him, or more appropriately, he was stuck with Serefin. Fortunately for his highness (not that Diego knew that) Diego didn’t have anyone scheduled to come in, so his role right now was to sit back and watch and make sure nothing burned down and things didn’t get too out of hand.
And it was a decent question, at least. So, why the hell not.
He considered it with a shrug. “Not as easy as that, really, which sounds like a bullshit answer, but hold the fuck on. It’s not the same group of people as the month before, or the month before that, right? So someone new could win. Or, the way the pairings go, maybe you fight a row of people you’ve already fought so you’re more used to that, right? Someone else gets people who are all different and have to adapt more. When those two people meet at the end, who wins? Which is all too fucking hypothetical for my blood.”
"You don't know, it could shoot lasers," Serefin said, awkwardly tumbling over the word laser because he didn't exactly know what lasers were. But it was not out of the realm of possibility, he supposed. Velyos seemed to keep surprising him, and the god's general quiet rumblings in his mind felt too lazy for his previous assertive dominance. Serefin worried what would happen when Velyos decided to be more present in this world.
His attention stayed stuck on the two sparring in front of them. He did not have the ability to side-eye Diego, though his attention slid over to him every once in a while during his spiel. Serefin's hopes were instantly dashed.
"That is a very long winded way of saying that you do not know." Serefin sighed, disappointed. He didn't intend to gamble, but if there were odds he could be sure during his stretched thin financials he might have been tempted. That took the fun out of the fight club this month—no upper edge, no insider knowledge.
"Ignore the hypothetical," Serefin said, his expression turning serious as the trainer took a hard uppercut. He flinched. "How long would it take to train someone like me to take on the likes of you?"
Diego rolled his eyes, the puff of breath he exhaled close to a laugh.“You don’t even know what lasers are, there’s no fucking way your eye shoots them.” But between Isabela and the Fryes, Diego was used to explaining modern conveniences. And it wasn’t like the universe that the Hargreeves came from was all that up to date, even though the date itself hadn’t been much different. He still hated the phone, because although it meant he could be in touch with his siblings in case anything went wrong it also meant they could be in touch with him.
He turned away from the ring to fully face Serefin and look him up and down. “Someone like you, huh?” he repeated, considering. “Take longer than you might think if it’s true you’ve only ever had others fight for you, and we gotta get you to stop wincing because that’s what’s going to get you fucking hit more, but,” Diego shrugged and held up a flat hand. “Hit. So that I can see what someone like you’d be starting with.”
Serefin did not like the way Diego eyed him. As Serefin turned to face him, he took a bit of a step back. Being so thoroughly assessed—despite asking for it—made him visibly uncomfortable. He was used to many eyes on him all the time; it came with the duty of being High Prince to a country constantly at war. But there was something about the possibility of some relative stranger finding something lacking meant that it was obvious. That Serefin couldn't hide it.
He frowned, deeply, as if Diego's ask was absurd. It kind of was. His one good eye narrowed in on the palm of his hand. "Throwing fists isn't the only damage a person can do, you know," Serefin said, petulant. Okay so he didn't know how to fight, but his magic more than enough made up for it. His currently half-bound tome sat in his apartment. He was a little incomplete without it, but he was trying something new—something for his own sake.
But he steadied his shoulders, and braced his feet, when Diego didn't lower his hand. He actually wanted Serefin to punch it. Fine, his exhale seemed to say. And he swung, with poor technique and shitty balance, but it was the depth perception that made him miss Diego's hand completely.
... and sock him rightly in the jaw.
“Yes, I know it fucking isn’t the only damage a person can do, Jesus Christ,” Diego groaned, sounding for the world as if he’d been standing there waiting for hours upon hours instead of just the ten or so seconds. The Underground, however, didn’t allow for powers. There, it was just skill on skill, hand to hand. “But this is the type of damage you’re going to learn to do, so fucking punch my hand.” The hand in question held steady, a solid target. In actuality, Diego should have had the sparring pads on, but he was assuming that this punch wasn’t going to be anything crazy.
He saw the way Serefin had adjusted himself and already Diego was ready to grab him and say, step one, do the exact opposite of whatever you’re doing, but he kept his hand up and a scarred eyebrow arched, ready.
To get a punch to the jaw.
“Fuck you very much,” Diego swore, shifting his mouth from side to side. He thumbed his lip to see if it had split, it hadn’t, but still. But still. “Okay, first of all, if you’re going to aim, fucking aim, second of all, did you break your hand, because it looked like you broke your hand, third of all,” he shoved Serefin’s shoulder to capitalize on his crap balance...and maybe a little bit for revenge. “You are a son of a bitch.”
Serefin did not look surprised. He did not look remorseful. There was not one ounce of apology shining in his one good eye. The violence of it felt good, and a small rage inside of him burned with Velyos's pleasure. But the problem was the satisfaction of accidentally punching Diego—which he absolutely was not saying was an accident—sputtered out quickly. His hand throbbed something fierce, and Serefin kept clenching and unclenching his fist to dull the sting.
"If we're being honest, I believe my aim was excellent," Serefin said, tilting his head in that casual way as if to say the facts beg to differ. He had managed to land one on the guy who told him to stop wincing. Serefin clearly had no problem when the attack was coming from him.
He did stumble a little with the shove, but the look of affront he shot at Diego more than made up for the slight embarrassment of tripping over his feet. And how little effort it took to knock him off balance. Serefin was not used to all this useless posturing and his hand still fucking hurt. "Oh, is that all? I'm a son of a bitch, and you don't even know my mother." Not that Serefin wanted anyone to know his family—as unstable and megalomaniacal as they were.
"You can try another insult if you would like. Or I could try hitting your hand again. Perhaps it's all about which one I use—" He lifted his other hand, in offering.
Diego nodded, slowly, shucking his teeth. No blood there either, Diego didn’t think there had been because Serefin’s punch had been off kilter and his fist in the wrong shape. Good thing he hadn’t broken his thumb. Still, a punch to the jaw was a punch to the jaw. “Okay,” he said, simply, nodding again. Diego couldn’t remember the first time he threw a punch at someone--likely it was Luther, likely it was at what was probably seen as too young of an age. Luther had always been stronger, his powers evident quickly, and Diego’s took longer to be seen so he doubly had to prove himself.
Wait, no, he didn’t have to prove himself. Because they were children. That was supposed to be enough. Right.
“You’re right, I don’t like to insult mothers, you little shit,” he replied, and then he punched Serefin in the jaw, in the exact same place he’d been hit himself. It wasn’t enough to do any kind of actual damage because he actually did like working at the Underground and training people and because Serefin had missed, he hadn’t actually aimed, but he did need to get over the flinching. So, take your first punch, Serefin, it was a rite of passage.
Okay, yes, and the kid was a little shit.
“Didn’t flinch that time, did you?” Diego asked, lip curling in a smirk. “You’re getting ice for that hand, Jesus Christ, could’ve broken your fucking fingers and then what, idiot.”
That was unexpected. Scratch the 'learning how to fight' bit, Serefin wanted to know how Diego could go from looking annoyed to catching him off-guard in milliseconds. Serefin just went down. Not because the force of the punch to his face—yes, now ow—was too much. But that he was stunned, stunned into sitting, stunned into just being on the floor. The surprising urge to lay down overcame him, but Diego was saying something about ice and Serefin needed to pay attention.
Maybe. His hand. Right, his hand. Serefin looked at it. Then, to Diego. He touched his jaw, which stung more. Then back to Diego. Pain was being redirected everywhere. Serefin couldn't figure out where the problem really was. And shushed Diego so his mind could concentrate.
At the final time he stared up at Diego, assessing what had just happened, a horrible terrible smile crossed his face—pain in his jaw be damned. "Go again?"