WHO Diego Hargreeves & Serefin Meleski WHERE The Underground WHEN Backdated to Saturday, August 8th (during the psychic plot) WHAT Both share an embarassing memory during psychic storytime, and then find out "what's up" with the eyepatch. STATUS Complete! WARNINGS Talk of eyes, but nothing gross or in detail!
When Serefin asked (awkwardly suggested) that Diego teach him how to throw a punch that wouldn't result in him flinching, missing, or looking like a wet noodle against the competition, he did not expect to be sweating so much. Or be this tired. Or overheated. And all of this resulted in really wanting to rip Diego's throat out because he was annoying. But Serefin, ever the gracious (at least he thought so), simply gave Diego the sharpest grin and said, "I'm not done."
Then was promptly punched in the face. At least he didn't go down that time, and his feet were moderately still stable underneath him. Progress. Serefin was thriving. Except he did make a wounded noise, then a frustrated one, and paced away. He probably should have blocked that, dodged it, whatever notes Diego was going to tell him Serefin had already heard it.
He waved him off, you don't have to say it. He already had a running commentary too often from Velyos—which was usually darker, more dangerous, haunting in ways Serefin was not exactly thrilled to be kept awake about. The only thing he wanted to hear from Diego was a compliment on how well he was doing, how he was growing, that Serefin was the best student the Underground had ever seen.
So not compliments, but undeserved praise. Serefin leaned against the ring ropes, heavy and dramatic, as was his usual way of leaning on things.
"If we go a round again, I want to hit you first," Serefin said, pointing at Diego like a challenge, but as he lowered his arm, a flash of a memory, Diego hanging upside down, flitted across his mind and was gone. Serefin frowned.
There was one thing Diego had to say for Serefin: he kept showing up. Truth be told, when Serefin showed up with his eye rolling and his sarcasm asking (demanding) that Diego teach him how to fight, he’d been pretty convinced Serefin was going to last for all of ten minutes before walking out in a huff. But he hadn’t. He kept showing up. Still with the eye rolls, still with the sarcasm, still with the way he lounged around on things like the world was meant to keep him upright, but. Still showed up. Still gave Diego shit.
So Diego showed up too.
“You know,” Diego said, around the strap of his boxing glove he was attempting to tug at with his teeth to free his hand. “The last time I checked, you learned all kinds of ways to avoid getting hit. Hell, at this point, I’ll take you just covering your face with your hands.” His own hand freed, Diego cracked his knuckles and then shoved his hand back in the glove and pulled the strap with his teeth, again. He eyed Serefin, flopping on the ropes, and sighed. An eyebrow arched, he walked over and rapped Serefin on the head, lightly. “The fuck you think I’m going to let you hit me first, huh, you little shit? Get your ass in gear, remember what you learned, and maybe you’ll get lucky and maybe I’ll stop being fucking awesome for a split second, the stars will align in the goddamn skies, and you’ll hit me.”
Diego’s tough love wasn’t for everyone, by far. He wasn’t full of platitudes that he willingly shared with a benevolent, kind smile. There was no talk of tapping into your inner strength or spirit, no gleeful delight at small victories. But he lifted Serefin’s arm over his shoulder and all but dragged him to the center of the ring. “Come on, let’s go, you’re not done yet.”
"Can't I appeal to the masses who have a small amount of pity?" Serefin asked, holding his index and thumb together, a negligible amount of space between. "Blocking a punch from you is certifiably unfair."
This was why Serefin's battle prowess came from magic rather than anything hand-to-hand. Spilling blood and pain should have had something to balance it out—that was why blood magic existed, to be that balance. A distant hum of satisfaction back from the deep recesses of his mind. Velyos was alert and awake, and the grimace Serefin made was for the old god, and not for Diego dragging him back to the middle of the ring. Serefin purposely went dead weight, just to make the whole thing difficult.
He should have hated Diego for his constant, obsessive need to stay determined. But Serefin supposed that was what made him a good teacher. Or better yet, a good friend. Were they friends? Kacper and Ostiya would be proud—he did it all on his own. He didn't regret saving Diego's life, for now.
With a beleaguered sigh, Serefin forced himself to straighten up, widen his stance (like he had been taught), and then place his hand over his clear eye. "You did say if I covered my face with my hands, it would be acceptable, did you not?" Serefin said, with a laugh, but it was strange to be in the darkness. Stranger that the memory of his first time being presented to the nobility—alive and well, and not assassinated—sprung to mind because of it.
“Yeah, exactly, just like that,” was the only warning Serefin got before Diego hit him in the stomach--not hard enough to actually do anything of course, cheap moves were saved for douchebags on the street, not for smart ass blood mages (whatever the fuck that meant), thanks. Diego might have been an asshole first, and everything else last, but he had standards. Especially when training smart ass blood mages.
Whatever comment (likely a smart ass one himself) Diego was going to say cut out when he was hit with one weird ass fucking damn thought of prancing around a room (first of all, Diego didn’t fucking prance so CLUE NUMBER ONE this wasn’t his thought, he definitely wasn’t something he had any familiarity with), half-seeing, half in darkness, reaching, and a sharp thud to his head. “The actual fucking fuck?” He demanded, rubbing at a spot on his head with his stupid boxing gloves still on.
Oh, goddamn. This was whatever people were going on and on about sword dicks and flying cats and goats eating shit and whatever else, wasn’t it? “Hey, hey,” he shook Serefin’s arm, as much as he could considering, again, still wearing boxing gloves. “Hey, hey. Stop thinking of shit. Stop thinking right now.”
Serefin doubled over at the punch. And honestly, it didn't hurt—not like it usually would have if someone suckerpunched him, and he didn't know if Diego was being easy or if he was just gaining immunity to hits. However, because it wouldn't be their friendship if Serefin wasn't an asshole right back, he stayed doubled over and made a scene about it. Because why not?
It wasn't until Diego was shaking his arm telling him to stop thinking that Serefin dropped the act, and pulled away. "You realize that telling me to stop thinking doesn't work and honestly is so—" The expression on Diego's face caught Serefin off guard. And then a brutal, terrible, embarrassing realization hit him. Diego saw that memory. That stupid idiotic incident when he was younger, which he didn't want anyone here to know because who knocks themselves out cold with a door? And now Serefin couldn't stop thinking about it.
He pushed Diego away and backed up, as if proximity would somehow stop it, but based on what everyone had been going through for the last two days? Unlikely. "Unthink it. Unthink it right now."
“Fuckballs, now you’re thinking it louder, fuck a duck!” Diego groaned, rubbing at his temple as if that would somehow block out Serefin’s thoughts--he, instead, gave himself static shock. God, he could practically feel Serefin’s embarrassment, which was somehow worse than the event itself because it was way too fucking invasive for Diego. For as obviously ‘Diego’ as he was, loud, said what he thought when he thought it, abrasive, inserted himself when he thought he was right regardless, he had literally no desire to hear what anyone was thinking (except if it was some asshole crime lord and he could hear said asshole’s thoughts and prevent crime but that went without saying).
It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like Serefin was choosing this.
“God stop fucking thinking it! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He hissed, lip curling in distaste. With a huff and a world weary sigh (because he too knew how to be a dramatic asshole) he bit at the gloves yet again and threw them to the ground. His hands raised up, Diego took a careful step forward. “Okay, okay. This is fine. This is totally fucking fine, right? Your head’s not going to explode, my head’s not going to explode, but if my head does explode the very last thing I do is kick your ass, by the way, this is fucking. Fine.”
Right, not helping.
“Just think of like, something else, okay? Maybe--fuck, I don’t know, look around the gym and think about what you see?” The hell if Diego knew, he never really had a control issue. Other issues, sure, Diego had a fucking magazine’s worth of issues. But as long as he had something to throw, he was good. Mostly, at least. No, fuck that, he was always good.
This might have been more actual cursing than Serefin was used to from Diego, which was truly telling of the situation. "You have to stop yelling at me!" Serefin said, sounding absolutely flustered by the aggression. Serefin could take it, but everything was working in the complete opposite direction than what the yelling at intended. The memory was burrowing further into his mind projecting louder to Diego, which meant the stress of it would definitely wake Velyos from whatever half-awake slumber he was in or be swallowed whole never to be heard from again—
Oh, that was an idea.
Exasperated, Serefin started looking around the gym to help Diego out or help himself out. It didn't matter—his eye raked over the punching bag, crash mat, bathroom door, wall climb. And oh, a strange wave of embarrassment came over him. And then a memory not his: Diego, younger, free of his current scars; jumping one, two, three; and hanging from the corner of a roof. Serefin turned and faced Diego, his one eye, widening in horror and amusement. There was something incredibly strange seeing the knife-wielding vigilante do something absolutely mortifying.
"I do not want this," Serefin said, shaking his head. "If you're trying to make us even, you've done enough. Take it back." There was a pause, and when that awkward uncomfortable shameful feeling didn't leave, Serefin added, "How do you get stuck on a roof?"
“I’m yelling at this bullshit situation, not at you!” Diego insisted, which was probably as close to an admittance of guilt as Serefin was going to get. “Look, just, take a deep breath or something. Think about what’s around you, huh? Just a deep breath in,” he drew in an exaggerated breath and gestured for Serefin to follow suit because if Diego was looking like a dumbass, Serefin was going to have to look like one too. “And breathe out.” This was starting to sound like mindfulness bullshit that Diego never really cared about because he certainly didn’t want to be left alone in his head with his own thoughts. Hard. Pass.
That, of course, didn’t protect him, judging from Serefin’s face.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he said, quickly, as if he could speak over the memory of Diego, young, frustrated because yet again they had to listen to Luther and his ideas on the mission were stupid so Diego charged out on his own, determined to prove that he didn’t need Luther’s stupid leadership or any of his other stupid siblings so he charged ahead on a rooftop to save time, tried to jump, his foot caught on a ledge, Diego went tumbling down--
Only be spared by his pant leg catching on a piece of gutter, suspending Diego upside down over the sidewalk. “I didn’t get stuck,” he insisted. “I performed a gravity defying move which was completely badass, thanks a lot.” Sure. Something like that. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a towel from the side of the ring to wipe his face, and after that, a water bottle that he squirted in his mouth. “Come on, get your ass over here and get a drink. Maybe that shit will wear off soon enough.”
Serefin could not believe he was giving into Diego's deep breathing exercises, but he was. In, out. In, out. What was worse was that he couldn't believe it was actually working. Every exhale was a reminder that his body was sore, and Diego punched him in the gut, and the face, and he was overheated again. He was not thinking about royally, literally and figuratively, wiping out—the first of many. He was only thinking about how he was annoyed that he couldn't actually punch Diego in the face anymore because he felt bad.
"I think," Serefin started to say as he followed Diego for a drink. He took the water bottle from his hand because Serefin couldn't be assed to grab the other one. "I think that you are very good at making mistakes look purposeful." And then mimicked shooting the water into his mouth, not looking miserable doing it.
Groaning, Serefin gracelessly collapsed to the floor of the ring, leaning his head on the ropes. It was wholly uncomfortable, but at least he was sitting, and not being reminded of the ridiculous look on Diego's younger face when he realized he was stuck. "I have an idea," Serefin said, in a way someone says something that is inherently a bad idea, "what if we both agree to never speak of this again? Or I swear you to a blood oath under penalty of death? I could do it right now."
He'd probably have to do the same to Jacob too, all this annoying psychic business really getting in the way of remaining aloof and mysterious to people.
“Nah, no blood oath needed,” Diego started, sitting on top of the tallest turnbuckle. He tapped Serefin’s head with his foot. “Just, y’know, if you tell anyone, I will kill you, that’s all.” Probably, at least. That was at least something decent about sharing an embarrassing story with someone, besides the bonding bullshit, you had their embarrassing story too. The knife cut both ways (which reminded him to get more ninja stars).
He peered down at Serefin, scarred eyebrow arched. “Hey. You’re hanging with it. That’s not shit, huh?” Which wasn’t much as far as compliments went, admittedly. Diego was terrible about giving them because they were too much like an emotion and he sucked at emotions that weren’t anger, bitterness, or ‘holy fuck my idiot siblngs did WHAT now?’ But he at least recognized he should be better about them, the people who for some reason chose to be around him, the people he cared for with every clench of that rusted, worn, bruised organ he called a heart, deserved better. He could continue blaming Reginald Hargreeves for everything, and he did, but at a certain point in time he had to stop letting that bastard win. Of course, knowing that and actually putting it into play were two very, very different things.
As if to shake off the itching, grating feeling that came with introspection, Diego quickly pivoted. “So. Do I get to know about the eye or are you keeping that to yourself for now?”
Serefin turned his head, arching his one brow at Diego. "That was almost a compliment," Serefin said. He was going to get a complex with all these unexpected accolades about his resolve. He tapped into his egalitarian side, and offered Diego his own praise."You're hanging with me, I think that says something about you."
The memory was fading, and Serefin was feeling more like himself the longer he did this ridiculous breathing exercise and focused on other things. But he was all tangled in the ropes looking like a goat trying to weasel through fence slats. He decided that he wasn't getting up any time soon, and let the nudge from Diego's foot go without retaliation. He was going to become one with the ring. The Fryes would hate it.
"Was the memory of knocking myself out with a door in front of the entirety of Tranavian court not enough for you? I couldn't even blame it on the wine, I was too young for that to be believable," Serefin said with a sigh. Almost if on cue, his eye—the one under the eyepatch—itched. It took so much self-restraint not to not do anything about it.
He sighed. Giving a cursory glance around, Serefin noticed they were surprisingly, suddenly, conveniently alone. "What do you want to know about it? The assassination attempt or the other thing."
Diego watched Serefin become more and more wrapped up in the ropes, amusement flickering on his face. Maybe he could be assed to help, eventually, especially if Serefin’s antics meant he was going to break the ring...or his face, whatever. Right now he was finding the whole thing too funny to do much. “Yeah, well, apparently I’ve got a masochistic streak in me, I guess,” he smirked with a head tilt. Gotta keep the kid humble, after all.
“Woah, hang on here, start your ass at the assassination attempt then go to the other thing.” Not that Diego was completely surprised only because Serefin came from one of those worlds with royalty and land disputes and all, and if Diego remembered anything about the hours upon hours their father had droned on and on about history it was that if there was an opportunity for a power grab, an assassination would do it. Hell, presidents had been assassinated too.
“Which came first? You seemed...young, with the whole head meet door thing,” Diego said, and ugh, there was that whole twisting, stretching feeling all over again. His fingers flexed, knuckles cracking. He’d much rather concentrate on facts, or on being angry for Serefin. That was a lot easier.
"I have people regularly suggest they punch me in the face," Serefin said, nodding toward Diego—case in point. "You are finding it hard to believe that an assassination was out of the question?" Out of all the things that had happened to Serefin during his very short life, and even shorter second life, the attempt to end his life as the High Prince of Tranavia ranked incredibly low. It was something he had lived with for far too long, and something everyone knew, that it made something strange and uncomfortable settle in his gut.
Oh, someone cared. That had to be it. Serefin didn't do well with that sort of focus. He touched his scar instead, the one that peeked out on either side of his eye socket from the patch. "That's how I got this. It has made me more dashing, don't you think? Although, my romantic prospects did not find the scar cool." But his enemies had found it terrifying. He supposed he couldn't have everything.
Velyos grumbled distantly in the back of his mind. Serefin wondered if he could just tell the old god to shut up, but he suspected that would not help. There was no hiding when sharing a mind. Serefin added, "Also tried to kill my friend Ostiya that night—same outcome."
He purposely did not mention the other thing again.
“Okay but I don’t actually punch you in the face,” Diego pointed out. “Or, I wouldn’t, if you’d learn how to block just one goddamn time.” But he wouldn’t apologize for it, after all, Serefin had to learn how to take a hit, arguably before learning how to punch. It was that whole fear of the unknown thing, only after did you actually think instead of just trying to avoid getting punched. He also wouldn’t apologize for not taking it easy on Serefin because he was missing half of his sight, if anything, that meant he had to work twice as hard.
Especially if people were going to try to assassinate him. Ugh.
“Fuck anyone who thinks scars aren’t badass as fuck,” he scoffed, Diego who had more than one obvious one to his name, bisecting his eyebrow, cutting through his hairline to under his eye. Dressed in a sleeveless shirt like he was now there were gnarled knots of scars from various run-ins peppering his biceps and shoulders. “We had assassins. Worked for the same group Five did, and if you swoon over Five being an assassin like Jacob did, I’m going to rub your face into the ring.” Diego was a bit dramatic, it turned out. “Wore ugly as fuck masks.” Killed Patch. That bit, no matter how much time had passed, would always sit bitterly with Diego. Even though they had been broken up for years by then, and their relationship had changed to become close friends rather than romantic, she had been a good person who wanted to make the world better. She deserved better, Diego would always think that.
“But I’m still disappointed the eye doesn’t shoot lasers.”
Serefin frowned, disgusted. "Isn't your brother small?" Serefin asked, holding his hand just barely above the ring floor for height emphasis. "I have no intention in swooning about your brother and his choice of job." Though he couldn't ban associating with all assassins—his friends here were one, previously and currently. It seemed ironic given the topic of conversation, but Serefin was always drawn to doing stupid things that were not good for his health or safety. Befriending assassins ranked somewhere in between.
"Doesn't a good assassin not need to wear a mask at all? Jacob wore a white frock that was absolutely unsubtle and said it was from his world's best assassin. I never saw mine, but I never actually died—" That time, at least. He had a handful of years before it came true, "—so he must have been new. Or poorly trained."
Somehow, when not paying attention, Serefin managed to extract one arm, then the other from the ropes. He leaned back on his elbows, out of foot range of Diego and far away from getting tangled again. He was looking at the ceiling when he spoke. "It could. I do not actually know what it's capable of. Maybe nothing. It's why I keep it covered." He was still wholly blind out of it, but the eye didn't belong to him anymore. Explaining that seemed heavy and complicated. "You know, for safety."
Look at that, Serefin freed himself! Diego gave him a slow clap in recognition of his efforts “Guess it depends on where you’re doing the assassinating,” he mused. “Evie’d probably say the best assassins could do it in the middle of a crowded plaza or something and escape without being noticed.” Hell, Evie might be hiding in the shadows right now hiding in plain sight. Diego himself tended to take a middle of the road approach in his vigilantism if such a thing could be said about vigilantism, he wore black basically 24/7, but he also leaped through a glass window instead of checking if the door was unlocked. Hey, it worked, okay?
He cracked his neck from side to side, moved out his jaw. Considering a few months ago he could basically grind his teeth to dust with how hard he clenched his jaw, Diego being anything but an angry asshole at any given moment was a surprise even to him. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he said. “You can tell me to fuck off, it’s none of my business, which is true.” Sure he was curious, but Diego’s prying only went more in-depth when he thought there was trouble he could avert. Which….granted, was often. “But then you better have a damn good story to back it up, or I’m going to make you get your ass up to attempt to hit me.”
"That sounds like our most illustrious Dame Frye. Showing up everyone with her prowess," Serefin said, with a wave of his hand. Not that he would ever talk assassination logistics with Evie; he'd rather not know it was coming. Ignorance is bliss or something like that.
Serefin almost took up Diego's offer to lie through a story. He hadn't truly spoken to anyone about the most recent events in his life. Jacob knew some—his father killing him, Malachiasz going insane, all of it resulting in a miserable excursion through the woods. But Serefin had conveniently left out the aftereffects of his resurrection, the who and what was left behind. Like the static buzz after a lightning strike, the awareness that Velyos was ever-present and more awake than before did not escape him.
He really didn't know what would happen. It would be like gazing into a dark cosmic abyss, perhaps. Velyos was weaker, nonexistent in the tangible sense, only an annoyance in his mind. Serefin blamed that on Vallo. But anticipation, not belonging to him, swelled as he reached to reveal what was beneath the covering.
"Just give me a moment before you get excited," Serefin said, out loud to Velyos. And then belatedly added to Diego, "Not you, him. It. The so-called god living inside my head." He lifted the eyepatch, and looked up to Diego—one eye startling clear blue, the same one he viewed the world through every day, and the other fathomless black and delicately lit by stars.
Diego stared into the darkness. It was strange, he thought, the eternity of the sky, the vertigo feeling of something much larger than your mind could ever comprehend. The secrets that lurked there, the vastless sense of being smaller and insignificant.
“Huh. That’s fucking weird,” he said. “Good thing there were no lasers, I would have been fucked.”
He frowned then, head tilted to the side as if he could glean just what, exactly, was going on--and whether or not Serefin was just screwing with him. It seemed possible, he supposed, ‘I have a god eye’ seemed about as plausible of a story as any. But Diego didn’t think he was lying, for the very reason that if Diego had someone in his head, hearing his thoughts, seeing what he did, basically a voyeur on his life, he got it. You’d want privacy. “So...it’s listening now?”
Yes, Velyos answered immediately, and Serefin flinched, just barely, at the strength of his voice. He had gone all morning without the deep, low grumble dripping with its vicious charm and the unsettling conniving feeling that it was uncomfortable to be torn between two conversations. He tried to force the god back into whatever compartment it had crawled out of it, though it seemed ridiculous to think it.
Velyos was awake, alert, and given this one fleeting permission to see through his own eye instead of Serefin's. The god would not waste the opportunity. Serefin, however, had the control in this instance.
"He's always listening," Serefin corrected, and let the eyepatch drop back into place. Diego was right about one thing, there were no lasers or otherwise destruction coming from his eye. That was the silver lining. "The story is very complicated, and we do not have enough time for me to explain it all to you." It could be considered laziness on Serefin's part—certainly, he could distill down death, god, resurrection, destruction of all mankind. He often wondered how Nadya had ever dealt with more than one rattling around inside.
His eye narrowed at Diego. "I see that look on your face. You do not have to believe me. I barely believe it. I was appropriately raised to not pledge myself to any sort of religion given the complete blasphemous nature of my abilities. So, you can imagine the irony of the situation."
“Cut that shit out right now,” Diego said, immediately, waving the thought away. “I believe you. First, it’s too weird of a story to come up with, second, if that was me I’d cover it up too, screw anyone watching, and third, you know I’d hang you out and let a unicorn bite at you if you were lying.” Not his most effective threat, Diego knew, but it got the point across.
“Does it...hell, I don’t know, hurt?” Which seemed like a dumbass question but Diego had literally no frame of reference for this to compare it to. Monkey butler, robot mom, apocalypse, powers, sure, but this whole gods and magic business was beyond him entirely. Even now, after months in Vallo, knowing people who used magic, Diego was still baffled. Five would have probably said something like that was because Diego was easily baffled (fuck you for that!) but none of that had ever interested Diego. Training, learning about ‘acts of valor far beyond your current capacities, Number Two,’, that had always been where he was drawn. “Or like, it doesn’t make you do shit you don’t want to do, right?”
Serefin was surprised by Diego asking if it hurt, and recoiled. It never occurred to him that it could hurt or that someone would ask if it did. Dying had hurt but Velyos was something that Serefin had begrudgingly accepted as penance for being resurrected. Not every god would give someone like the high prince the time of day without ulterior means—and yes, Velyos was making him go on a wild goose chase back home, but the old god had no purpose here. There were no seats of power to reclaim; he was a hitchhiker that wouldn't get out of the Serefin-shaped carriage.
"No, it doesn't hurt," Serefin said slowly. He gave Diego a once over. "And no, to the other thing." He held a lot of his own agency in Vallo. He moved around autonomously without Kacper and Ostiya dragging him from one place to the other, or Nadya running off to find Malachiasz and Serefin wanting nothing to do with it. He was starting to like this unexpected freedom. Putting up a fight with Velyos, should the banished god decide to take over, would not be out of the question.
"Not yet, at least. It's a fairly new situation for me. But if you have any tips, I'm willing to listen."
Diego snorted a laugh, slightly incredulous. “You realize I’m literally the last person anyone would suggest to ask for advice, right? Which is bullshit, because I give fucking awesome advice, so clearly in this one instance you’re a lot smarter than most of society.” He sucked his teeth in thought, rare for Diego who normally threw himself headfirst into any situation. But he wanted to repay this confidence, though words never came easily to Diego.
“Don’t know, really. I think--it’s probably better to figure this shit out though, instead of ignoring it or hoping it’ll go away. Then it won’t be so overwhelming, I guess.” He thought of Vanya, and what might have been if she had someone in her corner earlier. None of them knew she had powers, of course, except for their parents and Pogo, but still. And it wasn’t like they had it all that easy either, in spite of how it seemed in Vanya’s book, they all went through shit while Vanya got to play the violin. But still. It was more complicated than that, Diego was starting to realize.
He hopped down off the turnbuckle and pulled out a knife from who knew where, but Diego always had a knife on him. “But mostly, my tip is that you get someone who doesn’t give a fuck in your corner. Don’t move.” That was when he held up the knife to Serefin’s covered eye, his lip curled in distaste and disgust. “Hey, fuckface, you can hear this? Cool. You give this little shit any business and I swear to everything I’ll carve you out myself and step on you, how about that? No fucking grumbling, no fucking trying to take over, nothing. You hear me?”
Sure, Diego, threaten a god, why not. Not his smartest move, maybe, but whatever. He meant it.
He sheathed the knife and grabbed his boxing gloves to put them back on, as if nothing had happened. “Break’s over, let’s go, on your feet.”
When Diego pulled out the knife, Serefin's first thought was from where?. Followed immediately by he had that on him the whole time? Before he even understood was Diego was aiming for—why did he ask him for tips?, the point of the blade was aimed at his eye, and Serefin had never been more thankful for the covering.
There were logistical problems with threatening a god. It required belief, it required conviction, and it certainly required strategic planning for what happened if said god retaliated. But in this moment, Serefin's smile just grew, weirdly pleased by the aggressive nature Diego took. Velyos went alarmingly quiet—whether that had to do with the threat or that he grew bored with the conversation now that his sight was no longer uncovered remained to be seen.
He'd take this memory out later, when Diego was long gone and Serefin was staring at his ceiling alone in his apartment, and think about the ramifications of friends. Ones who weren't assigned to him by the royal family and liked his company enough to be in his corner.
It was too dangerous to think about it now, given the weird psychic nature of the day and how much embarrassing cannon fodder they now had on one another.
Serefin climbed to his feet at the order, immediately invigorated. This only meant the next words out of his mouth were, "Some people would think you cared, Diego. You're growing soft for a vigilante who was hanging by the leg of his pants."
“They would, would they?” Diego mused. “Huh.”
Then, without warning, snake in the grass, quick, harsh, he punched Serefin in the face.