[The coordinates come through a short amount of time after that, longitude and latitude in decimal degrees pinpointing a location several kilometers out past camp — the furthest point he's personally mapped on foot. Should be faster to get there by ship, so he has some time yet before he'll need to leave.
Cain scrubs his face and lays back on his cot, tense with suspended energy. Nothing to do but wait.]
A fight now almost two months in the making, from the point their last one was interrupted. Before he was worked up by a desire to make things even, then excitement over facing Cain on their own terms. As sparring partners, not as outright enemies. Now... he isn't sure what they are, and maybe that's why they need this so badly. Cain isn't the only one who deals better with fists than words.
He's early, as predicted.
It gives him more time than he wants to sit in his ship and think, back to when they first fought and a distant argument that seems harder and harder to define with time. All of their arguments feel like that, though. Quick to come, quick to go, all from one wrong step here or there. Fuck, he's so annoying... so why does that make him want him around even more?
He sees the ship well before it lands with little around them to catch the eye, crawling out of his own cockpit while Cain circles the dune. That well-worn black shirt has at least been washed by now, jacket discarded in the day's residual heat, and it's clear just by looking at him that he has nothing else on him. No weapons, nothing, just a bag with basic supplies that he drops onto the sand beneath their ships as Cain lands and his cockpit opens. ]
[By the time Cain lands his ship, that suspenseful energy has become rigid in his body, muscles taut with calcified anticipation. When he pops open the cockpit and hauls himself out, he can feel warmth from the engine under his feet — climbing down allows him to stretch both arms and legs, and once his feet are planted in the sand he shakes some of that residual tension off with a quick whip of his head.
Of course he's already seen Noctis, and if he's annoyed that he's early he doesn't show it. The question is met with a sneer.]
Are you seriously asking me that?
[Cain is wearing a neutral outfit in his usual style, black cargo pants and a tightly fitted sleeveless shirt exposing his two mostly healed injuries: the first on his upper arm that Noctis will recognize from their time during the storm, clean cut faded to a pink line; and the second on his forearm, much less neat in its inevitable scarring, where he was mauled by a barren-racer. His hands are pocketed as he approaches, black eyes fixed on Noctis in an unrelenting stare.]
[ Cain drops onto sand and Noctis feels his throat tighten, leaving behind that bag of water and emergency provisions as he approaches. Slow. Cautious. Like he would any opponent that he sizes up with a careful stare and monitored impatience. There's hardly a need to take him up on the offer. Cain's clothing is tight and highlights a figure which is broader and appears stronger – in all respects – than his own, and it brings back unwelcome memories. First, of unyielding muscle beneath fingertips tingling from dehydration and blood loss. Second, of the ridge of abdominals exposed under low light, seen only in the briefest glance before Noctis had forcefully minded his friend's privacy.
Friend. Right. Or whatever the fuck they are now. ]
Nah. You pull that shit on me again and I know how to handle you. It'd just be one more sign that you've lost.
[ If there were any doubts regarding the energy he'd bring to this fight, he dashes them immediately. He's still keyed up, a lithe but well-muscled body as tense as Cain's when he comes to a stop just a few feet from him. Fingers adjust the single glove on his left hand as boots toe at sand, the jagged edge of his own scar barely visible beneath loose high-cut fatigues. Black on black, a terrible choice in days as brutal as this, under a sun which has darkened his own olive skin and just made steely blue eyes shine brighter beneath a dark fringe of hair. ]
Anything you wanna' change about your rules? This is your chance.
[His expression is sober at first, brow creased in a line of discontent that seems to sit naturally on a face so used to wearing it. As he assesses Noctis in turn, whatever conclusion he draws is a private one — to the extent that it matters in the moment, because of course he's already thought about this extensively. Noctis is smaller and more lean than many of the other soldiers Cain has encountered, but he doesn't underestimate that, not when Noctis has been so outspoken and confident in his own ability. And from what little he'd seen that last time, Cain is prepared for a hard fight.
There's a lot on the line. More than the petty skirmishes of hierarchy and dominance so frequent among Fighters. Still, when he closes the distance between them, Cain's expression changes — maybe he's feeding off the energy between them, a natural transformation from scowl to the taunting smirk he wields now.]
Another chance? You're being way too nice, printsessa.
[Spoken out loud, there's no denying what that means, unlike when he'd written it in Cyrillic letters. Cain takes another step, edging into Noctis's personal space with no remorse — right up in his face for the intimidation act the same as last time, undaunted as he gazes into blue eyes.
He wants to see if he'll flinch. How much this boundary can be pushed, how far he can take it before Noctis loses nerve.]
Or are you just buying time?
[There isn't much daylight left; the sun's vanishing fast, horizon a deep plum color fading to black, stars already freckling the expanse above. Maybe he should've left the lights of his ship on so they wouldn't be fighting in the dark, but Cain's past caring about that.]
I didn't see you swinging the second you got out of your ship.
[ Which makes Cain as eager to engage in their back and forth banter as he is, a fact he feels especially keen to highlight considering the terms of their fight. All he has to do is be faster, hit harder, and stay more motivated than Cain is. The third won't be a problem.
His chin lifts as Cain draws closer, distance shrunk with each step but he now knows it as a familiar technique, remembering last time how quick he'd been to draw attention to their difference in size. Now, however, his eyes are only on Cain's, searching for mental weakness instead of a physical one. ]
Ten seconds down, then it's over. You're gonna' make that way too easy for me if you stay in my fucking face.
[ That smirk. It's impossible to look away from even as he moves almost imperceptibly, the soft digging of the back of one heel into sand the only sign he gives before his fist is swinging forward for a swift right, directed right at that cocky mouth. ]
[Posturing is so natural across all he's learned to keep himself alive, in the moment the behavior is automatic enough that he doesn't consider the other side of it — how good it is Noctis doesn't back down, doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink. That tension in his stomach clenches tighter, heartrate ticking faster, adrenaline fueled by the thrill of the fight and the danger that comes with a promise.
Ten seconds down, then it's over. They'll have to hit each other real fucking hard to accomplish that.
Good.
There's no more thinking then, just the swing of a fist at his face. Cain brings up his forearm to block the heavy hit; his own boots dig into the unsteady grit of sand, stabilizing him as he hooks his other arm in a nasty uppercut aimed up at Noctis's chin. Like before, his brawling style uses power as much as speed with the intent to deny Noctis precious recovery time.]
It's a strange feeling. It isn't that he hasn't experienced pain in too long, used to it on the daily back in Eos where here the only stings have come from a single prolonged injury. He still felt it. And he still feels the aches of a much older one, chronic discomfort something he's come to accept and become accustomed to since he was a child. But this? It feels different taking a blow to the face, something so deeply satisfying in a tapestry of bruises that always faded too fast on his body – but not here.
Besides... he wants to know how punishing Cain's fists are.
It glances off his jaw as he jerks his head back, arm suddenly raising to lock around Cain's and hold him steady for the jab of a knee right into his gut. Before that location had been dicey, the site of a healing gunshot wound he'd been so angry over accidentally exploiting. Now it's free game.
Just like the rest of him as they trade jabs and he tries to mark up a body already littered with scars, faring better when he's able to keep his distance for backflip dodges or rapid sidesteps, but too motivated by his own desire to cause hurt to listen to reason. By the time they've locked themselves in another tussle, tracks left in the sand from their skirmish, he doesn't realize he's wearing that same expression Cain had earlier – though this smirk is breathless. ]
You think that's good enough? You're gonna' have to hit me harder... I told you I didn't want to fight a coward.
[ Exactly what Cain admitted he was, just a few short hours ago. It fuels him for his next rush forward, sweeping low at his legs to try to knock him down. ]
[There's so much satisfaction in landing a hit. It isn't total victory, but it's a taste of it, just a lick — pain doesn't factor into the moment, and in fact he feels nothing right now but the roar of blood in his ears as they fight. He's broken his knuckles on other bodies enough times that his sense of injury is duller than it should be, numbed by the anesthetic of that thrill when he grazes Noctis's chin.
As soon as his arm is grabbed he's braced for recoil, core muscles tight against the inevitable collision of a knee to his gut. The wind is briefly knocked out of him; it takes a few harsh breaths to get it back. He snarls like a mad dog when Noctis puts distance between them — and as an ally he might admire the lithe movements of the other man's body, the deftness and dexterity of every dodge, but it isn't on Cain's mind. He just feels that conflagration of all the emotion pent up inside of him, burning for release.
The insult is met with a dark scowl.]
Fucking try me, asshole. C'mere!
[Cain doesn't avoid the next lunge. Grappling is familiar — he lets Noctis sweep his legs, but only so he can get his arms around him too, throwing them both into the sand with a heave of strength. Rolling, then, in an attempt to get Noctis underneath his superior bulk because it's crucial in that moment not to let him have any give, any possible leverage for either escape or assault.]
[ The shout parallels his own loss of balance, a world of desolate curtains of sand as far as the eye can see – shaded a deep purple velvet with that single distant orange light ready to be snuffed out against the wavy horizon – spinning when he's thrown. They tumble into the drift together, legs immediately kicking against shifting earth and fingers desperately hooking underneath the arm of Cain's skin-tight shirt, threatening to tear fabric across the chest, as he fights for any kind of purchase. Escape is the first resort.
When it's clear it isn't feasible, with a heavier body settling overtop his, Noctis defaults to what he knows.
He tightens his grip and jerks his rival in for a brutal headbutt, skull cracking against skull as teeth grit and a boot digs in hard against his opponent's thigh. That leg wraps tighter as he suddenly throws his own weight upward, rolling them back in spite of his own dizziness while his fist raises. Perched over him there's a better opportunity to strike at that handsome face, one that pisses him off more the longer he looks at it.
Why does he feel so relieved, hitting him? It's like a release as much as it is a battle, every nerve-ending alive with pain and adrenaline. ]
[harrison's all the things she said playing in the bg]
[His shirt tears at an angle, thin fabric ripping from the shoulder down partially across the chest — exposing most of one defined pectoral muscle and a brown nipple, a view Noctis will have already seen if not by firsthand witness. Cain doesn't have time to mind; in the next second their skulls crack hard together, forcing him backward in a stunned, reflexive jerk of movement.
The sound of pain he makes is rough, Russian expletive deep in a gritty throat throat as his world turns at a dizzy tilt and he's upended in a moment of lost focus. Noctis's silhouette rises over him, backlit by the magenta horizon. When that fist lands, throwing his head back, it doesn't successfully knock loose the smirk on his mouth.]
You think— [Noctis hits him again, but his expression only broadens in a crazy kind of enjoyment,] —this counts, [a third hit and his mouth is bleeding now, lip split in a trickle that turns his teeth red,] as pinning me down?
[Cain doesn't let him get another one in. His hands come up, seizing Noctis around the waist in a tight grab that slides down, over his ass, squeezing at his thighs. It's done in a way to take Noctis off guard long enough to regain control, because in the next moment Cain tries to flip them again, snarling close in his face, uncaring of the blood that flecks Noctis's pretty cheekbones.]
[ The backlash of his punches wears at his knuckles, bruising first before the ruptured vessels leak from tears in his skin and cause blood to mix on the palette of Cain's face. Each hit brings them closer, and in his fight-induced mania he again fails to realize that the more he tries to wipe that expression off his face, the more his own twists to match. White teeth glint in the low-light of the desert sunset, one slowly blinking from existence to leave them shaded in darkness, as a reddened fist draws back for another blow that doesn't land.
Warm hands clamp around his waist and he can still feel the ghost of their heat when they touch him in ways he's never been touched, fingers digging at his hips and legs and achieving their desired goal. He's still breathless when they roll again, dazed and fighting back far too late to stop that solid weight from settling back overtop him, and when a knee jabs against his inner thigh and their bodies shift together his own half-hard arousal becomes impossible for him to ignore.
It's not the first time a fight has left him excited, but that had been excused as misplaced adrenaline and hidden well from prying eyes. Here he's exposed, unwilling to end a fight that he needs to win and loath to trade his aggression for his pride. ]
You son of a bitch– [ The words eat at him, a dual sense of humiliation and quiet panic making him forget those pretty, elegant fighting moves as he scrabbles for a win. That snarl is met with a twisted expression of his own anger, working saliva behind bruised lips that he spits up at that bloodied face. ]
Stop fucking with me!
[ One hand snaps upward to his collar, thumb digging hard and painfully beneath his clavicle as the other circles his neck, a tight squeeze intent on cutting off air. ]
[It works. He's not surprised it works at all, a hot thrill of excitement building at the base of his spine once he's got Noctis underneath him, like he's properly conquered him — and even the splatter of spit and blood on a cheek doesn't diminish that feeling. Cain rakes it off with the back of a wrist before he adjusts his weight, not one solid inch of muscle yielding to struggle.
Then Noctis goes for the throat. Cain's sneer stays, teeth bared as he's choked, face a bloody mess from the hits he took and airway quickly threatened. The constriction drives his heart faster, a pulse that pounds in his forehead when he sets one arm across Noctis's chest like a steel bar; the other hand closes over one of Noctis's wrists, squeezing tight. He doesn't have the leverage to pry Noctis's grip away successfully, so he snarls with what little breath he has left and leans in closer, close, way too close.]
See, I knew it—
[There's a voice in his head telling him not to do it. Maybe it's Jonas's voice. But recent impression is nothing compared to a lifetime of learned behavior, so it doesn't take much for Cain to slip into that self, the side of him he knows will convince both of them definitively that he's not a good person. With knees digging divots into sand, he grinds his body down against Noctis — pressure revealing in no uncertain terms that the other man is affected between the legs, where Cain's hips settle a little too well.]
[ Copper stings his nose as each word hissed in his face seems to splatter droplets of Cain's blood over his skin, dripping from a split lip and flecked into long strands of hair that graze his cheeks when his opponent leans in so close. For that moment, breathing in his scent and trapping in the feeling of that hard body rolling down against his, locking him in a feeling of exposure he's never experienced, he freezes.
A strong arm applying considerable pressure against his sternum and a throat locked tight keep him from making a sound when a sick mixture of pleasure and dread sweeps through him, and for that he's strangely grateful. It's a fantasy he hasn't allowed himself to consciously conceptualize. It's a nightmare he never expected to actually experience. Now. Here. Beneath a beautiful body he carefully convinced himself he hadn't admired, just like he convinced himself he didn't let his gaze linger too long on Jonas's warm smile. This is what sticking his hand too far into the hornet's nest gets him, despite countless warnings from Cain himself, and he wants to throw up as much as he wants to convince him to press down harder.
But he's far, far too furious to do either.
Furious that he's being so utterly humiliated in front of not just a rival, but someone that he's carefully worked himself closer to. Furious that someone he was on the verge of calling a friend would pull this shit on him. Furious that the undeniable evidence of Cain's assumptions and teasing would be forced upon him now, like this. And furious most of all that that, something life-changing and terrifying for him, might be used as a cheap ploy to try to win a single fight.
His hand wrenches at Cain's throat, suddenly, wanting to see purpling marks in the shape of his fingers when they slip free, but that's only a bonus. It's not his airway he tries to damage, instead fighting for a better angle to suddenly lean up and sink teeth into his chin, a hard bite that lands off-center and has no goal but to shock him with a jolt of unexpected fresh pain. It's a desperate move, but when his opponent pulls back from it – and he lets him go, fingers uncurling from around that bruised neck – he doesn't give him time to catch his breath. Instead his hand swings, open-palmed and brutally fast, to clap hard against his right ear with all the anger he can muster pent up in the strike. He wants to rattle his skull, leave him truly dazed as his body twists against that sand to drag himself away.
This time, however, legs don't scramble against the uneven terrain. He aims those grounding kicks at Cain, boots slamming against his thighs, his torso, anywhere he can reach as he shoves at that larger man to create much-needed distance. ]
[He's expecting pain, and when it comes it's welcomed — a bright, burning spot on his jawline where teeth rake in an act of desperate retaliation, drawing a fresh shine of blood. As soon as he feels it, Cain decides it doesn't even matter if he wins anymore. He achieved what he set out to do. He took this as far as it could go, bent it under his hands until he felt the give, that tell-tale buckle before a shattering break. Noctis comes at him then in a wild fury of violence and it's all he wanted. The blow to the side of his head is disorienting, but it's not the only thing that causes Cain to release his grip and roll off of Noctis. Not far enough to escape a flurry of brutal kicks, boots landing on his body like the blunt swing of a weapon. His ribs ache when he takes in a next shuddering breath; his head feels dizzy, thoughts a slur of adrenaline and more muted satisfaction.
When there's enough distance between them to count as a momentary disengagement, Cain climbs to his feet. His stance is unsteady at first, but then he steels himself, spitting a mouthful of blood into the sand and standing straight, shoulders rolling back to show that he's not down yet. He feels a ticklish wetness at his ear, and rubbing with a forearm confirms he's bleeding where Noctis struck him there too. He's pretty sure his ribs are bruised or worse. His vision swims, briefly spotty in the dark glare he turns onto his opponent — but he's upright, and he's not backing down. They set their terms.
It doesn't matter if he wins now, because he's done something he can't take back. He can be the villain in someone else's story. He knows how much they care about each other — it doesn't take a genius to see, the exchange of their words and glances and secrets implying a deeper intimacy Cain's not privy to. Jonas has tried, but even that Cain doesn't feel deserving to receive.
The only good that could come out of this is that it drives the two of them closer to each other and away from him. That's what he thinks, anyway, when he lifts his right hand and beckons to Noctis. He doesn't say anything in words. He doesn't think he needs to, when it's already clear he's in worse shape and he's raw with all the jagged edges of having nothing left to lose. Just that offer: Fight me. Finish this.]
[ Cain doesn't speak and the mockery is gone from his demeanor and expression, and somehow, some way, it's worse. There's no uncontrolled anger in the way he beckons Noctis forward, like he didn't just steal something from him. Something Noctis can't even name, but he feels... cheated. Minimized. And that feeling is even more familiar than the burning shame lancing through his body.
This feels like a foregone conclusion and that robs him of something else, excitement for a clash with a new rival replaced by an emptiness that can only be filled up with anger instead. This isn't how he wanted this. This isn't the experience he wanted, not the first sexual touch from someone – anyone – he's frustratingly attracted to, or the fight they've spent a month goading each other over.
There's just that hand waving him forward, and as he too spits Cain's blood into the sand he wonders how hard he'd have to work to snap it. ]
What... the fuck is wrong with you?
[ Blue eyes are steely when they lock back on Cain's, only frozen there for a moment before he suddenly moves. It's hard to get speed in the sand but with his dart forward and the close proximity of Cain's ship – Анжелика, he remembers – it's possible for him to get his hands on him and swing them both in a hard arc with his momentum, slamming his opponent against that metal body. Now it's his arm that locks across his chest, not just prepared for retaliation but hungry for it. ]
What the fuck is wrong with you?! Did you even ask me out here to fight? Huh?! Hit me already!
[ So he can go about burying one memory under another, and lessen that new "villainous" image. ]
[That's a familiar question. Haven't enough people asked him before? What's wrong with you. He doesn't really know, but there must be something, since he keeps doing this. There must be something seriously wrong with him, because it feels good when Noctis slams him up against the metal paneling of his own ship. The force of it knocks air out of his chest in a pained grunt, agitating the new injury of hurt ribs. That feels good too, in a way he keenly recognizes — how it feels to be sore after a fight, to press into fresh bruises, to rub scabbed wounds clean.
Noctis is shouting in his face, furious, but Cain just looks at him out of eyes hazy with the disorientation of all the damage he's taken so far. The other's features are beautiful in the vanishing light of nightfall, he notices. It's not like Cain's ever tried to deny that he's attracted to him, but it was an awareness concealed beneath crude jokes and the sensitive intuition of whatever is going on between Noctis and Jonas. And, of course, that Noctis pisses him off so much. Maybe even more because he's so beautiful — somehow he's allowed to get away with it just because he's sheltered, and naive, and privileged? It doesn't feel fair.
Cain's hands come up too, but not to deliver the punch Noctis seems to be waiting for. He just closes them over Noctis's wrists, squeezing hard enough that knuckles bulge underneath leather gloves.]
Is that what you want? [Low, rough words.] Is that really it?
[Pinned this way, he can't get much closer to him — but there's a slight tilt of his head. They're both a mess of sweat and sand and especially blood; he can smell the sharp metallic scent in that private space between them.]
[ Leather creaks and that fiery stare drops to clenched wrists, words only deepening the pit in his stomach. Is it another taunt? Or something deeper? An awareness of the urge he fights to allow a gaze to linger on split lips. An intimate shared knowledge of the fact that he's still hard, even through anger and shame and humiliation, and that a warm well-muscled body over his had made him harder. An understanding of their appreciation for violence, what it does to both of them, and how fucked up that really is.
Yes, that's what he wants. He wants Cain to hit him so he isn't alone with those feelings. Again. Affected more than everyone else seems to be. Again. The tension in his body is palpable and for a moment he doesn't want to move, focusing in on the pain of his opponent's grip and willing it to increase. ]
I wanted us to be friends, you prick!
[ He draws back only a few inches just to slam Cain back again, wanting to jostle some kind of fight back into him that he's so frustrated to not receive. ]
Fuck... No. Forget it... You could've saved us all time with a goddamn "no", huh? You selfish bastard?
I already won. That means you're not cutting Jonas out over this shit. Now let me go and get the fuck out of here, before I beat you so bad you can't even fly.
[For some reason, Noctis doesn't hit him. He thought he would — and though there's a rough jostle against the metal side of his ship, it's nothing to the violence before, not the force needed to send Cain to the sandy earth. He's not expecting those words to be thrown back in his face like Noctis actually means them. That maybe he's kind, too, and wants to understand Cain not out of obligation to Jonas but genuine self-driven intent. Maybe they don't know how to communicate in a way that isn't like this, through their fists, through tempers that chafe like kindling.
Ty krutoy. Noctis puzzled it out too quickly and demanded explanation too soon, leaving Cain raw with his own vulnerability in a moment of weakness. Like he can just say yes, that was real and he meant it, and they can go on their way to becoming real allies — friends. He can't do that when he's hiding so much. When he's ashamed of so much.
But there is a dazed kind of thought about the way Noctis shouts at him, and how much he wants him to say instead: you're not cutting me out.
Cain really isn't thinking when he acts next. He gets halfway through the motion of trying to shove Noctis away from him, so that he can fuck off as commanded, when his grip changes and seizes the front of Noctis's shirt instead. That attraction was never unreciprocated; having the evidence right in front of him is like a sick kind of aphrodisiac to a man who blurs pain and pleasure seamlessly. So he wrenches forward, not against, and crushes his mouth hard over the curve of Noctis's lips. This time not to distract from anything — just for himself.]
Just like that, no fists raise and Noctis is finally convinced that the fight's drained out of Cain, and without even an insult spat back at him it feels like a lack of closure. There's not enough bruises on his body or enough pain for him to experience as a distraction tonight either, once they've gone their separate ways and he's left alone in his cot, unfulfilled and unsatisfied. But the sooner he gets out of here the better, and the sooner he run himself through his paces of self-pity and fizzling anger.
Until suddenly the momentum pushing him away and towards a cold confused night alone shifts, and he's pulled back in.
Shock refuses to allow him to realize what's happened in that first slowed down half-second, the sharp sting of metal reintroduced to his mouth as the smell of sweat and the camp's standard issue soap fills his nose. He's warm. He's so warm, and the electric shock that's sent through his body is so sudden, that he feels magnetized to him with a sway that's almost a stumble forward, knocking them again against that ship. Too rough... but not rough enough, and his fist raises with the intent of delivering a blow that'll reject him once and for all, correcting his jumped-up assumptions about him and their relationship.
Instead knuckles collide with metal, a loud clang that stamps his blood against Cain's ship when he surges forward. All instinct and no skill introduces more pressure to that kiss, as violent as it is desperate when his free hand suddenly finds the side of his face, grasping at his jaw to hold him in place before sliding upward into a tangle of sand-matted hair. ]
[The thud of a fist on metal resounds through his body where he's shoved up against the ship — expecting that it might land on his face next, and when it doesn't, when instead Noctis's mouth seals against his own in reciprocal pressure, heat flares to violent life inside of him. It's a satisfying confirmation. Almost better than winning that fight might have felt; no, much better, proving he was right in his suspicion whenever Noctis's pretty blue eyes landed a little off, looking a little too closely.
More than that, it just feels so good. It scratches some deep, neglected ache for sex and danger and violence all in one. He can tell Noctis doesn't have much practice, but that doesn't bother him at all. Less a problem than it is an answer. There's passion in the hard hand on his jaw, grip swiping across a raw bite wound before it moves into his hair, and Cain gives an encouraging tilt of his head away, so that Noctis will have to hold his scalp tighter if he doesn't want Cain to slip loose. His own hands fall to wrap around a narrow waist in a mirror of earlier's tactic, digging gloved fingers into the fabric of Noctis's shirt with a low, muffled moan between their lips. The kiss doesn't remain an inelegant collision; Cain roughly re-firms his mouth, aligning them a little better, then introduces the hot drag of a tongue across that seal where he can taste blood and gritty sand.
And only because he can't resist, because he wants to see what Noctis will do — he uses the hold around the other man's waist to roll them, flipping their positions in an effort to push Noctis against cold metal this time, to cover him with the full length of his own muscular body.]
[ The sound of that moan is like a revelation all its own. For a second it's almost intimidating, flustered by how deep it drives arousal down into his core, but that unease is soon replaced by a towering sense of satisfaction. It's something he has earned from someone based on how he managed to make them feel.
No... not just someone. Cain.
There's no sense of competition in this, at least not in the way that he doesn't crave it. Cain isn't looking down on him or lording experience over him like a weapon, and that makes it so much easier to sink into the good feeling settling into pleasantly aching muscles. Even that tongue–
The urge to hurt him is replaced by a hunger to be close and lips part with experimental interest, fingers now scraping across his scalp with what could almost be called tenderness between the two of them. Strands feel soft and cool against split knuckles and he thinks, for a moment, that he could push forward against him again. Understand the shock of excitement that he'd experienced beneath him on the sand, this time of his own volition and this time without the accompaniment of dread disguised as disgust.
But before he can there are hands on his waist, tight and secure, just like Jonas's had been.
The thought is startling enough without the cold of the ship's hull against his back causing him to jerk, a soft sound lost against Cain's mouth when his hand suddenly drops to the other man's shoulder instead. Solid, worth digging his fingers into – and he does – but he just as abruptly turns his face to force an attempt at another kiss to glance off the corner of his mouth instead. ]
[There's nothing so heady as that acquiescence, that slight give at the wet seal of lips where his tongue drags, tasting the hot space of Noctis's mouth beyond it — and even he is shocked by the force of arousal in himself then, aware that this isn't something done lightly. Noctis would never kiss him back if he didn't like it, or want it too. Cain's so hard it's like a second aching pulse alongside the rapid heartbeat still a live-wire from their fight, kicked into a higher level with the pleasure of reciprocated kissing.
He's not really in his own head. He's not thinking about anything but Noctis's body up against his own, pinned to the side of his ship. In a clearer mind, later, familiar guilt will rush in like a tidal wave and take him out to sea — but this is so good for right now, he doesn't want it to end. He doesn't want to compare Noctis's mouth against his own to how it feels kissing Jonas; he doesn't want to wonder if the two of them have done this yet, too, and if they have, would they tell Cain?
Sense seems to be surfacing somewhere, even if it isn't with him. The next kiss misses Noctis's mouth, but smoothly its attention drifts down the column of a throat, inhaling the scent of warm skin, nosing at the collar of a shirt so he can put his mouth right above it instead. Unconsciously, he starts worrying a mark to the surface as one hand drifts beneath the hem of Noctis's shirt at the back, gloved fingers tracing the base of his spine.]
You know what we're doing. [His palm flattens, almost hot through the leather glove.] Don't think about it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Less noticeable than going back up where the scanners will track them, and it means they can return to camp faster if they need to.]
don't let anyone see you.
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Send the coords early.
[ He's still getting used to flying, and the last thing he wants is to be late. ]
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Cain scrubs his face and lays back on his cot, tense with suspended energy. Nothing to do but wait.]
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A fight now almost two months in the making, from the point their last one was interrupted. Before he was worked up by a desire to make things even, then excitement over facing Cain on their own terms. As sparring partners, not as outright enemies. Now... he isn't sure what they are, and maybe that's why they need this so badly. Cain isn't the only one who deals better with fists than words.
He's early, as predicted.
It gives him more time than he wants to sit in his ship and think, back to when they first fought and a distant argument that seems harder and harder to define with time. All of their arguments feel like that, though. Quick to come, quick to go, all from one wrong step here or there. Fuck, he's so annoying... so why does that make him want him around even more?
He sees the ship well before it lands with little around them to catch the eye, crawling out of his own cockpit while Cain circles the dune. That well-worn black shirt has at least been washed by now, jacket discarded in the day's residual heat, and it's clear just by looking at him that he has nothing else on him. No weapons, nothing, just a bag with basic supplies that he drops onto the sand beneath their ships as Cain lands and his cockpit opens. ]
Hey.
No knives this time?
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Of course he's already seen Noctis, and if he's annoyed that he's early he doesn't show it. The question is met with a sneer.]
Are you seriously asking me that?
[Cain is wearing a neutral outfit in his usual style, black cargo pants and a tightly fitted sleeveless shirt exposing his two mostly healed injuries: the first on his upper arm that Noctis will recognize from their time during the storm, clean cut faded to a pink line; and the second on his forearm, much less neat in its inevitable scarring, where he was mauled by a barren-racer. His hands are pocketed as he approaches, black eyes fixed on Noctis in an unrelenting stare.]
You wanna pat me down just to be sure?
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Friend. Right. Or whatever the fuck they are now. ]
Nah. You pull that shit on me again and I know how to handle you. It'd just be one more sign that you've lost.
[ If there were any doubts regarding the energy he'd bring to this fight, he dashes them immediately. He's still keyed up, a lithe but well-muscled body as tense as Cain's when he comes to a stop just a few feet from him. Fingers adjust the single glove on his left hand as boots toe at sand, the jagged edge of his own scar barely visible beneath loose high-cut fatigues. Black on black, a terrible choice in days as brutal as this, under a sun which has darkened his own olive skin and just made steely blue eyes shine brighter beneath a dark fringe of hair. ]
Anything you wanna' change about your rules? This is your chance.
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There's a lot on the line. More than the petty skirmishes of hierarchy and dominance so frequent among Fighters. Still, when he closes the distance between them, Cain's expression changes — maybe he's feeding off the energy between them, a natural transformation from scowl to the taunting smirk he wields now.]
Another chance? You're being way too nice, printsessa.
[Spoken out loud, there's no denying what that means, unlike when he'd written it in Cyrillic letters. Cain takes another step, edging into Noctis's personal space with no remorse — right up in his face for the intimidation act the same as last time, undaunted as he gazes into blue eyes.
He wants to see if he'll flinch. How much this boundary can be pushed, how far he can take it before Noctis loses nerve.]
Or are you just buying time?
[There isn't much daylight left; the sun's vanishing fast, horizon a deep plum color fading to black, stars already freckling the expanse above. Maybe he should've left the lights of his ship on so they wouldn't be fighting in the dark, but Cain's past caring about that.]
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[ Which makes Cain as eager to engage in their back and forth banter as he is, a fact he feels especially keen to highlight considering the terms of their fight. All he has to do is be faster, hit harder, and stay more motivated than Cain is. The third won't be a problem.
His chin lifts as Cain draws closer, distance shrunk with each step but he now knows it as a familiar technique, remembering last time how quick he'd been to draw attention to their difference in size. Now, however, his eyes are only on Cain's, searching for mental weakness instead of a physical one. ]
Ten seconds down, then it's over. You're gonna' make that way too easy for me if you stay in my fucking face.
[ That smirk. It's impossible to look away from even as he moves almost imperceptibly, the soft digging of the back of one heel into sand the only sign he gives before his fist is swinging forward for a swift right, directed right at that cocky mouth. ]
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Ten seconds down, then it's over. They'll have to hit each other real fucking hard to accomplish that.
Good.
There's no more thinking then, just the swing of a fist at his face. Cain brings up his forearm to block the heavy hit; his own boots dig into the unsteady grit of sand, stabilizing him as he hooks his other arm in a nasty uppercut aimed up at Noctis's chin. Like before, his brawling style uses power as much as speed with the intent to deny Noctis precious recovery time.]
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It's a strange feeling. It isn't that he hasn't experienced pain in too long, used to it on the daily back in Eos where here the only stings have come from a single prolonged injury. He still felt it. And he still feels the aches of a much older one, chronic discomfort something he's come to accept and become accustomed to since he was a child. But this? It feels different taking a blow to the face, something so deeply satisfying in a tapestry of bruises that always faded too fast on his body – but not here.
Besides... he wants to know how punishing Cain's fists are.
It glances off his jaw as he jerks his head back, arm suddenly raising to lock around Cain's and hold him steady for the jab of a knee right into his gut. Before that location had been dicey, the site of a healing gunshot wound he'd been so angry over accidentally exploiting. Now it's free game.
Just like the rest of him as they trade jabs and he tries to mark up a body already littered with scars, faring better when he's able to keep his distance for backflip dodges or rapid sidesteps, but too motivated by his own desire to cause hurt to listen to reason. By the time they've locked themselves in another tussle, tracks left in the sand from their skirmish, he doesn't realize he's wearing that same expression Cain had earlier – though this smirk is breathless. ]
You think that's good enough? You're gonna' have to hit me harder... I told you I didn't want to fight a coward.
[ Exactly what Cain admitted he was, just a few short hours ago. It fuels him for his next rush forward, sweeping low at his legs to try to knock him down. ]
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As soon as his arm is grabbed he's braced for recoil, core muscles tight against the inevitable collision of a knee to his gut. The wind is briefly knocked out of him; it takes a few harsh breaths to get it back. He snarls like a mad dog when Noctis puts distance between them — and as an ally he might admire the lithe movements of the other man's body, the deftness and dexterity of every dodge, but it isn't on Cain's mind. He just feels that conflagration of all the emotion pent up inside of him, burning for release.
The insult is met with a dark scowl.]
Fucking try me, asshole. C'mere!
[Cain doesn't avoid the next lunge. Grappling is familiar — he lets Noctis sweep his legs, but only so he can get his arms around him too, throwing them both into the sand with a heave of strength. Rolling, then, in an attempt to get Noctis underneath his superior bulk because it's crucial in that moment not to let him have any give, any possible leverage for either escape or assault.]
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[ The shout parallels his own loss of balance, a world of desolate curtains of sand as far as the eye can see – shaded a deep purple velvet with that single distant orange light ready to be snuffed out against the wavy horizon – spinning when he's thrown. They tumble into the drift together, legs immediately kicking against shifting earth and fingers desperately hooking underneath the arm of Cain's skin-tight shirt, threatening to tear fabric across the chest, as he fights for any kind of purchase. Escape is the first resort.
When it's clear it isn't feasible, with a heavier body settling overtop his, Noctis defaults to what he knows.
He tightens his grip and jerks his rival in for a brutal headbutt, skull cracking against skull as teeth grit and a boot digs in hard against his opponent's thigh. That leg wraps tighter as he suddenly throws his own weight upward, rolling them back in spite of his own dizziness while his fist raises. Perched over him there's a better opportunity to strike at that handsome face, one that pisses him off more the longer he looks at it.
Why does he feel so relieved, hitting him? It's like a release as much as it is a battle, every nerve-ending alive with pain and adrenaline. ]
[harrison's all the things she said playing in the bg]
The sound of pain he makes is rough, Russian expletive deep in a gritty throat throat as his world turns at a dizzy tilt and he's upended in a moment of lost focus. Noctis's silhouette rises over him, backlit by the magenta horizon. When that fist lands, throwing his head back, it doesn't successfully knock loose the smirk on his mouth.]
You think— [Noctis hits him again, but his expression only broadens in a crazy kind of enjoyment,] —this counts, [a third hit and his mouth is bleeding now, lip split in a trickle that turns his teeth red,] as pinning me down?
[Cain doesn't let him get another one in. His hands come up, seizing Noctis around the waist in a tight grab that slides down, over his ass, squeezing at his thighs. It's done in a way to take Noctis off guard long enough to regain control, because in the next moment Cain tries to flip them again, snarling close in his face, uncaring of the blood that flecks Noctis's pretty cheekbones.]
You're so fucking naive.
i had to listen to it for this tag you MONSTER
Warm hands clamp around his waist and he can still feel the ghost of their heat when they touch him in ways he's never been touched, fingers digging at his hips and legs and achieving their desired goal. He's still breathless when they roll again, dazed and fighting back far too late to stop that solid weight from settling back overtop him, and when a knee jabs against his inner thigh and their bodies shift together his own half-hard arousal becomes impossible for him to ignore.
It's not the first time a fight has left him excited, but that had been excused as misplaced adrenaline and hidden well from prying eyes. Here he's exposed, unwilling to end a fight that he needs to win and loath to trade his aggression for his pride. ]
You son of a bitch– [ The words eat at him, a dual sense of humiliation and quiet panic making him forget those pretty, elegant fighting moves as he scrabbles for a win. That snarl is met with a twisted expression of his own anger, working saliva behind bruised lips that he spits up at that bloodied face. ]
Stop fucking with me!
[ One hand snaps upward to his collar, thumb digging hard and painfully beneath his clavicle as the other circles his neck, a tight squeeze intent on cutting off air. ]
😇 but also... cw for dubcon... cries
Then Noctis goes for the throat. Cain's sneer stays, teeth bared as he's choked, face a bloody mess from the hits he took and airway quickly threatened. The constriction drives his heart faster, a pulse that pounds in his forehead when he sets one arm across Noctis's chest like a steel bar; the other hand closes over one of Noctis's wrists, squeezing tight. He doesn't have the leverage to pry Noctis's grip away successfully, so he snarls with what little breath he has left and leans in closer, close, way too close.]
See, I knew it—
[There's a voice in his head telling him not to do it. Maybe it's Jonas's voice. But recent impression is nothing compared to a lifetime of learned behavior, so it doesn't take much for Cain to slip into that self, the side of him he knows will convince both of them definitively that he's not a good person. With knees digging divots into sand, he grinds his body down against Noctis — pressure revealing in no uncertain terms that the other man is affected between the legs, where Cain's hips settle a little too well.]
You're fucking hard.
cw for biting 😭
A strong arm applying considerable pressure against his sternum and a throat locked tight keep him from making a sound when a sick mixture of pleasure and dread sweeps through him, and for that he's strangely grateful. It's a fantasy he hasn't allowed himself to consciously conceptualize. It's a nightmare he never expected to actually experience. Now. Here. Beneath a beautiful body he carefully convinced himself he hadn't admired, just like he convinced himself he didn't let his gaze linger too long on Jonas's warm smile. This is what sticking his hand too far into the hornet's nest gets him, despite countless warnings from Cain himself, and he wants to throw up as much as he wants to convince him to press down harder.
But he's far, far too furious to do either.
Furious that he's being so utterly humiliated in front of not just a rival, but someone that he's carefully worked himself closer to. Furious that someone he was on the verge of calling a friend would pull this shit on him. Furious that the undeniable evidence of Cain's assumptions and teasing would be forced upon him now, like this. And furious most of all that that, something life-changing and terrifying for him, might be used as a cheap ploy to try to win a single fight.
His hand wrenches at Cain's throat, suddenly, wanting to see purpling marks in the shape of his fingers when they slip free, but that's only a bonus. It's not his airway he tries to damage, instead fighting for a better angle to suddenly lean up and sink teeth into his chin, a hard bite that lands off-center and has no goal but to shock him with a jolt of unexpected fresh pain. It's a desperate move, but when his opponent pulls back from it – and he lets him go, fingers uncurling from around that bruised neck – he doesn't give him time to catch his breath. Instead his hand swings, open-palmed and brutally fast, to clap hard against his right ear with all the anger he can muster pent up in the strike. He wants to rattle his skull, leave him truly dazed as his body twists against that sand to drag himself away.
This time, however, legs don't scramble against the uneven terrain. He aims those grounding kicks at Cain, boots slamming against his thighs, his torso, anywhere he can reach as he shoves at that larger man to create much-needed distance. ]
they're in it now lads
When there's enough distance between them to count as a momentary disengagement, Cain climbs to his feet. His stance is unsteady at first, but then he steels himself, spitting a mouthful of blood into the sand and standing straight, shoulders rolling back to show that he's not down yet. He feels a ticklish wetness at his ear, and rubbing with a forearm confirms he's bleeding where Noctis struck him there too. He's pretty sure his ribs are bruised or worse. His vision swims, briefly spotty in the dark glare he turns onto his opponent — but he's upright, and he's not backing down. They set their terms.
It doesn't matter if he wins now, because he's done something he can't take back. He can be the villain in someone else's story. He knows how much they care about each other — it doesn't take a genius to see, the exchange of their words and glances and secrets implying a deeper intimacy Cain's not privy to. Jonas has tried, but even that Cain doesn't feel deserving to receive.
The only good that could come out of this is that it drives the two of them closer to each other and away from him. That's what he thinks, anyway, when he lifts his right hand and beckons to Noctis. He doesn't say anything in words. He doesn't think he needs to, when it's already clear he's in worse shape and he's raw with all the jagged edges of having nothing left to lose. Just that offer: Fight me. Finish this.]
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This feels like a foregone conclusion and that robs him of something else, excitement for a clash with a new rival replaced by an emptiness that can only be filled up with anger instead. This isn't how he wanted this. This isn't the experience he wanted, not the first sexual touch from someone – anyone – he's frustratingly attracted to, or the fight they've spent a month goading each other over.
There's just that hand waving him forward, and as he too spits Cain's blood into the sand he wonders how hard he'd have to work to snap it. ]
What... the fuck is wrong with you?
[ Blue eyes are steely when they lock back on Cain's, only frozen there for a moment before he suddenly moves. It's hard to get speed in the sand but with his dart forward and the close proximity of Cain's ship – Анжелика, he remembers – it's possible for him to get his hands on him and swing them both in a hard arc with his momentum, slamming his opponent against that metal body. Now it's his arm that locks across his chest, not just prepared for retaliation but hungry for it. ]
What the fuck is wrong with you?! Did you even ask me out here to fight? Huh?! Hit me already!
[ So he can go about burying one memory under another, and lessen that new "villainous" image. ]
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Noctis is shouting in his face, furious, but Cain just looks at him out of eyes hazy with the disorientation of all the damage he's taken so far. The other's features are beautiful in the vanishing light of nightfall, he notices. It's not like Cain's ever tried to deny that he's attracted to him, but it was an awareness concealed beneath crude jokes and the sensitive intuition of whatever is going on between Noctis and Jonas. And, of course, that Noctis pisses him off so much. Maybe even more because he's so beautiful — somehow he's allowed to get away with it just because he's sheltered, and naive, and privileged? It doesn't feel fair.
Cain's hands come up too, but not to deliver the punch Noctis seems to be waiting for. He just closes them over Noctis's wrists, squeezing hard enough that knuckles bulge underneath leather gloves.]
Is that what you want? [Low, rough words.] Is that really it?
[Pinned this way, he can't get much closer to him — but there's a slight tilt of his head. They're both a mess of sweat and sand and especially blood; he can smell the sharp metallic scent in that private space between them.]
C'mon, just finish it. Don't you want to win?
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[ Leather creaks and that fiery stare drops to clenched wrists, words only deepening the pit in his stomach. Is it another taunt? Or something deeper? An awareness of the urge he fights to allow a gaze to linger on split lips. An intimate shared knowledge of the fact that he's still hard, even through anger and shame and humiliation, and that a warm well-muscled body over his had made him harder. An understanding of their appreciation for violence, what it does to both of them, and how fucked up that really is.
Yes, that's what he wants. He wants Cain to hit him so he isn't alone with those feelings. Again. Affected more than everyone else seems to be. Again. The tension in his body is palpable and for a moment he doesn't want to move, focusing in on the pain of his opponent's grip and willing it to increase. ]
I wanted us to be friends, you prick!
[ He draws back only a few inches just to slam Cain back again, wanting to jostle some kind of fight back into him that he's so frustrated to not receive. ]
Fuck... No. Forget it... You could've saved us all time with a goddamn "no", huh? You selfish bastard?
I already won. That means you're not cutting Jonas out over this shit. Now let me go and get the fuck out of here, before I beat you so bad you can't even fly.
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Ty krutoy. Noctis puzzled it out too quickly and demanded explanation too soon, leaving Cain raw with his own vulnerability in a moment of weakness. Like he can just say yes, that was real and he meant it, and they can go on their way to becoming real allies — friends. He can't do that when he's hiding so much. When he's ashamed of so much.
But there is a dazed kind of thought about the way Noctis shouts at him, and how much he wants him to say instead: you're not cutting me out.
Cain really isn't thinking when he acts next. He gets halfway through the motion of trying to shove Noctis away from him, so that he can fuck off as commanded, when his grip changes and seizes the front of Noctis's shirt instead. That attraction was never unreciprocated; having the evidence right in front of him is like a sick kind of aphrodisiac to a man who blurs pain and pleasure seamlessly. So he wrenches forward, not against, and crushes his mouth hard over the curve of Noctis's lips. This time not to distract from anything — just for himself.]
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Just like that, no fists raise and Noctis is finally convinced that the fight's drained out of Cain, and without even an insult spat back at him it feels like a lack of closure. There's not enough bruises on his body or enough pain for him to experience as a distraction tonight either, once they've gone their separate ways and he's left alone in his cot, unfulfilled and unsatisfied. But the sooner he gets out of here the better, and the sooner he run himself through his paces of self-pity and fizzling anger.
Until suddenly the momentum pushing him away and towards a cold confused night alone shifts, and he's pulled back in.
Shock refuses to allow him to realize what's happened in that first slowed down half-second, the sharp sting of metal reintroduced to his mouth as the smell of sweat and the camp's standard issue soap fills his nose. He's warm. He's so warm, and the electric shock that's sent through his body is so sudden, that he feels magnetized to him with a sway that's almost a stumble forward, knocking them again against that ship. Too rough... but not rough enough, and his fist raises with the intent of delivering a blow that'll reject him once and for all, correcting his jumped-up assumptions about him and their relationship.
Instead knuckles collide with metal, a loud clang that stamps his blood against Cain's ship when he surges forward. All instinct and no skill introduces more pressure to that kiss, as violent as it is desperate when his free hand suddenly finds the side of his face, grasping at his jaw to hold him in place before sliding upward into a tangle of sand-matted hair. ]
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More than that, it just feels so good. It scratches some deep, neglected ache for sex and danger and violence all in one. He can tell Noctis doesn't have much practice, but that doesn't bother him at all. Less a problem than it is an answer. There's passion in the hard hand on his jaw, grip swiping across a raw bite wound before it moves into his hair, and Cain gives an encouraging tilt of his head away, so that Noctis will have to hold his scalp tighter if he doesn't want Cain to slip loose. His own hands fall to wrap around a narrow waist in a mirror of earlier's tactic, digging gloved fingers into the fabric of Noctis's shirt with a low, muffled moan between their lips. The kiss doesn't remain an inelegant collision; Cain roughly re-firms his mouth, aligning them a little better, then introduces the hot drag of a tongue across that seal where he can taste blood and gritty sand.
And only because he can't resist, because he wants to see what Noctis will do — he uses the hold around the other man's waist to roll them, flipping their positions in an effort to push Noctis against cold metal this time, to cover him with the full length of his own muscular body.]
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No... not just someone. Cain.
There's no sense of competition in this, at least not in the way that he doesn't crave it. Cain isn't looking down on him or lording experience over him like a weapon, and that makes it so much easier to sink into the good feeling settling into pleasantly aching muscles. Even that tongue–
The urge to hurt him is replaced by a hunger to be close and lips part with experimental interest, fingers now scraping across his scalp with what could almost be called tenderness between the two of them. Strands feel soft and cool against split knuckles and he thinks, for a moment, that he could push forward against him again. Understand the shock of excitement that he'd experienced beneath him on the sand, this time of his own volition and this time without the accompaniment of dread disguised as disgust.
But before he can there are hands on his waist, tight and secure, just like Jonas's had been.
The thought is startling enough without the cold of the ship's hull against his back causing him to jerk, a soft sound lost against Cain's mouth when his hand suddenly drops to the other man's shoulder instead. Solid, worth digging his fingers into – and he does – but he just as abruptly turns his face to force an attempt at another kiss to glance off the corner of his mouth instead. ]
Stop... What the hell are we doing?
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He's not really in his own head. He's not thinking about anything but Noctis's body up against his own, pinned to the side of his ship. In a clearer mind, later, familiar guilt will rush in like a tidal wave and take him out to sea — but this is so good for right now, he doesn't want it to end. He doesn't want to compare Noctis's mouth against his own to how it feels kissing Jonas; he doesn't want to wonder if the two of them have done this yet, too, and if they have, would they tell Cain?
Sense seems to be surfacing somewhere, even if it isn't with him. The next kiss misses Noctis's mouth, but smoothly its attention drifts down the column of a throat, inhaling the scent of warm skin, nosing at the collar of a shirt so he can put his mouth right above it instead. Unconsciously, he starts worrying a mark to the surface as one hand drifts beneath the hem of Noctis's shirt at the back, gloved fingers tracing the base of his spine.]
You know what we're doing. [His palm flattens, almost hot through the leather glove.] Don't think about it.
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🎀