#mass violence is one of the reasons for the political field being so fucking awful during the 30s

[femrobespierre]

can't think too long about ww1 or i'll start losing. in france 900 to 1 000 soldiers died in average each day. each day. 8 million men went to battle when france only had 40 million inhabitants. i can't wrap my head around it.

What does so much violence do to society ? how do peaple deal with coming home from the battle field (that has no common mesure with previous battlefield) ? how do people deal with their loved ones traumatised, when they barely (if at all) have the words to described the trauma?

I don't even think you can have a peaceful political climate after war to such a scale

[assignmentimprobable]

Back at it again and one thing I want to say following the release of IWTV AMC is that the context surrounding a character’s racial swap in horror is what makes or breaks the whole thing.

Analysis below the cut. 

TW for discussions of racism, violence, and eugenics. 

Light spoilers for IWTV (2022)

Let me explain using an example that doesn’t work. Albert Wesker in the Netflix Resident Evil series. Albert Wesker is a eugenicist. Eugenics is a field framed by white supremecist views and anti-disability beliefs. It feels… Wrong, to race swap him to use those frameworks as is in line with his character without any meaningful effort to address the subject or say anything important about it. It’d be different if the story tackled the idea that hierarchies based in racialized science are often enforced by members of the communities that they harm (that’s how they survive.) through respectability politics and exceptionalism, but Wesker is just? A villain. That’s it. It ends there.

Now let’s use an example that works. Candyman, acted superbly by Tony Todd. He was a white man with red hair in the original short story by Clive Barker. But we don’t care because the recontextualization of his story is constructed in a way that… idk, for lack of better word actually shows an active dedication to what choice is being made, and how it is carried out. Is it racist that a black man is chasing around a white woman and terrorizing her? Yes, at it’s nature because of the history of deaths that followed false accusations during the era of Jim Crow and the Black Codes. However, Candyman is loved by the black community. Why? Because he’s sympathetic, because he’s charming, because his power is given in the wake of something awful and not even remotely uncommon for black people living in his time. Because he’s handsome and debonair and speaks with a voice like honey. There’s this great documentary called Horror Noire: A History of Black Horror that I recommend you check out if you’re interested in seeing the topography of the genre and it’s continued cultural relevance.

Candyman works because of the setting around it: gentrification and hood poverty. How myths and horrors can float around in poverty stricken communities because honestly? What’s one more when you’re facing hunger and state indifference and violence to survive? Helen‘s critical mistake was assuming that Candyman was some mass-delusion to blame squalor on a boogeyman. Like no bitch. The Candyman stories flourish in these places because of the desensitization to horror that living in an environment with them brings. Also, centering Candyman himself: His subsequent backstory and the 2021 entry to the series do so much to lend sympathy to his character. There’s a retroactive reason he’s enamored with Helen, and we see that racist violence and cruelty made him what he is. A painter in love turned something that white people invoked- that’s why he’s Candyman. The projects didn’t name Candyman, the white people who tortured him to death did. We can sympathize with him, we can ask why Helen felt so compelled to interrupt the lives of this community. For what? To be some white savior? To chase a study in intellectualism, knowing she can go home and forget them? She fucked around and found out. Enter Candyman.

So why does it work for Louis?

Well, let’s take a look at his book counterpart.

Being half black I can’t sympathize with book Louis. I don’t give a fuck about what he’s been through. Seriously. He was a slaver. There’s no such thing as a benevolent slave owner, you have human beings as currency and *chattel*. His framing as the hypocritical, but more compassionate and empathetic of the duo is something I can’t buy. That’s not something I can overlook, it takes me out of the enjoyment. I cannot separate that from his character to enjoy him for what he’s supposed to be.

AMC Louis? completely different story. By introducing blackness to his character, you are creating what is supposed to be the ‘monster’ as is the genre’s convention, but not a *monster*. He’s infinitely more compelling, more complex as a well-to-do eldest son of an affluent black family struggling with the racial hierarchy, his sexuality; and the judgment that comes with these two categorical assignments. He’s dealing with the lapse of generational wealth- something that many black people have not had the opportunity to build to the level of glut that white affluent families have. Often all it takes is ONE generation of bad decisions to lose it all because one or in the luckiest cases: two generation’s worth is the most for many who find their footing. Louis can’t be himself. He has to be tough but infinitely patient and well mannered to appeal to his white business partners. He can’t be angry, but he must be rough for fear that he’ll be walked all over. He’s judged for the very thing that keeps his family in their comfort. He’s not free to emotionally engage with art because of what kind of policing results from being a black man AND a queer man. Those two distinctions overlap and create a separate experience that people refuse to really put an understanding to? Like people put a monolith to queerness that has its defaults in white convention. White butches and twinks and bears and hunks. The colloquial y’all don’t have to deal with how your race informs the behaviors that people ascribe to queerness. 

When Louis read his mother’s mind and heard her disgust over the simple act of *getting his nails done* i couldn’t help but think about conversations among the black elders when they see the little boys acting even a little outside their norms. “He’s got a little sugar in the tank”, “you need to snap him out of that, make sure he doesn’t grow up a punk”. Some of that is garden variety homophobia, but so much of it is also how much crueler life is when you’re black and you’re gay. The racial hierarchy exists in the communities it subjugates and it maintains racial norms of what black men are supposed to act like. Louis is bound to that.

That kind of context makes it easier to sympathize with Louis and feel his pain. It lends itself well to his relationship with Lestat and the balance they’re supposed to strike. Lestat, a white man, is able to kill as he does because his whiteness gives him carte Blanche to see himself superior to ‘humans’. Whiteness, the construction, incentivizes putting people into categories of ‘other’ and situating yourself at the top. ‘Humans’ replace ‘blacks’. Of course he doesn’t care that he’s taking human beings out of this world, of course he takes delight in the killing. Vampirism gives him the tools to do what the world (the social stratosphere, the *law*) already encourages and incentivizes white men to do completely unimpeded! People don’t like to talk about it, but like the Vampire genre lends itself a little too well to capitalist greed and colonial wealth hoarding. Louis does not, and has never had access to these tools. Of course he is horrified, of course it is unnatural to him. Of course the transition is difficult! That makes the divide between them so interesting. That’s what makes this change for Louis’ character so good.

Context *matters* if you’re going to reclaim a character in this genre. Race swaps in action and fantasy? 

Nah, you don’t need a reason lmao fuck y’all. Black MJ, Black Ariel, Black Catwoman, Iris West, and Jim Gordon for life idgaf idgaf idgaf. 

Anyways. If your character has a storied history of racist belief or politics, and the change will fundamentally alter the fabric of how the story is carried out then writers have an obligation to accommodate and write carefully around it. Which I think they’ve done here in the series so far. I’m excited to see what happens next. 

[andypantsx3]

war paint | 3 | captain

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

The first few weeks of your enlistment were inarguably the worst you’d ever lived.

If not on patrol, soldiers were awakened before dawn every morning and marched to the training pitch behind the castle where you drilled in different formations with various weapons. You were run through exercises that seemed designed to drop anyone with less than iron willpower, then set to menial tasks like cleaning the barracks or repairing any damaged weapons or equipment. The midday meal was the first break in your day, followed immediately by training in basic first aid and survival skills, then by more weaponry drills that took you until the dinner bell.

Between your extra training with Nishimura and the time you had to invest in sneaking off to use the lavatory or a spot to bathe in private, you were hardly resting. Even the time you did spend bathing, you spent in a constant state of anxiety, wondering if a random bunk check would reveal you missing. You hadn't chanced more than a wild, lightning fast scrub down in weeks.

At the end of the first week, you’d collected your enlistment fee with hands blistered from sword work, and it took you longer than you’d ever admit to count it out, stopping every few seconds when your eyes drifted involuntarily shut. You’d been happy to send it off to your family, though, with a short note that told them you were doing well.

Which was, of course, a lie.

You weren’t exactly the most popular among the kingsguard thanks to the show you’d put on when you arrived, and you had the misfortune of dorming in the same room as Nishimura. Despite Captain Bakugou’s warnings, he’d gone out of his way to make life uncomfortable for you, slipping bugs into your sheets and loudly discussing you in less than flattering terms well within earshot.

More than that, you were terrible at nearly everything and it was obvious. Kaminari helped you to the best of his ability, and so did Sero, the guard who’d poked fun at your age at the castle gates. Neither of them, however, could make up for the fact that as a woman, you were somewhat smaller and slighter, and hadn’t had the same opportunities building up muscle mass as men your age. Every sword felt like an anvil in your hands; lifting a mace like hauling a boulder.

The only thing you seemed to excel at was the first aid trainings. You found yourself listening with rapt attention as the court physician walked your battalion through wrapping injuries and cleaning wounds, noting which easily obtained herbs and flowers could slow blood loss or ease pain. Kaminari was always eager to pair with you during the practical exercises, as you were among the least likely to accidentally poison him with the wrong herbs. It was gratifying to be good at at least one thing.

Your favorite part of castle service, though, was the patrols.

After your first month of training, you’d been assigned thrice-weekly patrol routes and found that it was like wading into a cool river on a hot day. Patrols got you out of whichever drills were happening at the time and took you out from under Captain Bakugou’s purview and behind the relative safety of the castle walls.

Though monotonous, you only had to walk a specific route throughout the castle with a partner, and you were rarely supervised. On your first patrol with Kaminari, you also found that patrols were - for him - more of an opportunity to make social calls.

“L/N,” he said, nearly the minute you stepped inside the castle walls. “We’ve got an excellent route today.”

You raised an eyebrow in question.

He chuckled, gesturing you along. “Come on, our first stop is right over here.”

“Our first stop?” you echoed.

Kaminari grinned and grabbed your sleeve, pulling you into a side door. On the other side sat a cramped office stuffed with bright fabrics and colorful spools of thread. A woman with shocking pink hair hunched over a spill of pretty silk, working tiny, perfect stitches into the fabric.

“Mina!” Kaminari boomed and the woman sat up with a smile.

“Denki!” she said, reaching over to hug him. “It’s been a while since patrol took you over here! I have so much to tell you!”

Kaminari laughed and pulled you forward. “Me too. Mina, this is L/N! He lied about his age and wormed his way into the kingsguard.”

You whirled on him. “I’m old enough to be in the guard!”

The absolute wrong gender, but definitely the right age.

He gave you an innocent look. “I’m just passing on the popular opinion.”

Mina chuckled. “Oh, ignore him, L/N. We all do. It’s quite nice to meet you.”

Kaminari whined but Mina just laughed again, redirecting his attention to the dress she was making, saying it was for the princess-to-be. Apparently, Prince Shouto’s bride had been a kitchen girl that Mina and Denki had both been acquainted with, and they talked eagerly of the wedding they’d both been invited to and the food that would be there.

“Think old Bakugou will show up?” Kaminari asked at one point, making himself comfortable at Mina’s workstation. Mina met this with a shrug.

You gave them both a questioning look. “Why would the captain be invited?”

Kaminari turned to you conspiratorially. “Captain Bakugou and the prince grew up together - they’re something like old friends. Plus, Bakugou’s a marquis, he’s probably got an invitation just for political reasons.”

“He’s a marquis?” you asked. That explained the Lord appellation on your contract, then. “Why join the palace guard if he’s titled?”

Kaminari shrugged. “Probably not enough opportunity to torture innocent civilians in Musutafu. If he wants to hold the land, he’s got to be nice to them, hasn’t he?”

You grimaced, thinking of all the drills he’d run you through since you’d gotten here. That definitely wouldn’t endear him to anyone.

“Speaking of our favorite captain,” Mina said conversationally, “I heard he’s been meeting with the prince more often than usual.”

“Wedding stuff?” Kaminari asked, but Mina shook her head.

“As if he’d touch that mushy shit with a ten foot pole. He wouldn’t know romance if it pranced in front of him wearing a soldier’s uniform. No, I heard it’s because a bunch of papers and other valuables went missing from the prince’s study last Thursday night.”

Your mind wandered back to last Thursday, wondering if you’d been on patrol when it had happened. You only dredged up a memory of snuggling down into your bunk, relieved that Nishimura and his goon friend Hasumi were out on their own patrol and your bed was thankfully bug free.

Kaminari’s eyebrows went up. “Important papers?”

Mina raised a thin shoulder. “From what I heard, it seemed to be a weird selection. A couple letters, some wedding arrangements. But a land treaty disappeared as well. They think it’s a spy.”

Kaminari whistled. “Bet old Baku is pissed this happened on his watch. No wonder he’s been in such a foul mood lately.” He turned to you. “Don’t you think he’s been a little too happy when one of us gets clipped by the wrong edge of the sword?”

You thought back to his threats in the mess hall. “He seems normal enough to me.”

Kaminari mulled that over. “I suppose he’s usually that awful.”

Mina smiled. “Talking of which, shouldn’t you be getting on with your patrol? I’d hate to find out what he’d do if he found out you were in here gossiping.”

A spike of panic stabbed through your heart and you grabbed Kaminari’s sleeve. “Excellent observation, Mina. We really should be going. It was wonderful to meet you!”

You tugged Kaminari roughly back through the doorway. You thought it was a testament to his own fear of the captain that he went willingly enough.

The rest of your patrol proved uneventful, however, Bakugou thankfully never being alerted to your social stop. Your patrol ended just after the dinner bell and you ate quickly in the mess hall, then rushed off to the training pitch.

Today was also the last day of your punishment for fighting in the mess hall on your first day, and you thought dreamily of all the rested muscles and extra time you’d have on your hands once extra training ended. You might be able to sneak off to bathe at a normal time of the evening instead of in the dead of night, starting tomorrow.

Your good cheer faded quickly, however, as you arrived at the pitch to find Captain Bakugou there.

Nishimura was just behind you and he stopped short at your side. “Where’s our usual drill officer?” he demanded.

A horrible grin cut into Bakugou’s features, bearing his sharp canines. He looked like a wolf ready to tear into a nest of rabbits, and your stomach flipped. “Ojiro’s off duty tonight. Thought I’d see if you’d learned your lesson myself.”

You inhaled sharply, and Bakugou caught it, laughing. “Thought I’d forgotten about you two fucks, didn’t you?”

You lowered your gaze and took a deep, steadying breath. Just tonight. You just had to get through tonight and you would be free.

Nishimura seemed to steel himself as well, sweeping a hand through his dark hair. “What are our drills tonight, Captain?”

Bakugou’s crimson gaze flickered over you both. “Fight me.”

You looked up, startled. “Fight you?”

He looked you over disdainfully. “You’re a goddamn soldier, you telling me you can’t fight? Didn’t seem to stop you in the mess hall.”

You bit your lip, but Nishimura stepped forward, that violent gleam in his eye. “Yes, sir.”

Bakugou grinned. “I’m gonna fucking wipe this field with you.”

Nishimura didn’t dare correct his superior, but his hand went quickly to his sword and he leaned forward eagerly. Before you even had time to blink, the clash of metal rang out across the field and Bakugou had Nishimura on the defensive, pushing him back into step with you. You hadn’t even seen him go for his sword.

Swearing, you fumbled for your own blade, whipping it out just in time to catch the swipe Bakugou aimed at your side. You stumbled under the force of the strike, tripping backwards.

Nishimura growled and lunged again, but Bakugou was faster, parrying his attack and following up with his own. A low chuckle escaped him as he caught Nishimura with the back edge of his blade, winding him and sending him staggering back.

Bakugou whipped back to you, targeting you with another fast swipe that you barely caught in time. The strength of his blow almost knocked your sword from your grasp, shuddering up your arm and leaving you gasping.

“What the fuck are you in the kingsguard for if you won’t fight?” he snarled. Another swipe came your way and again you barely caught it. Your heart beat frantically in your chest and you tried to duck out of range of his arm.

“Come back here, pretty boy,” Bakugou taunted, advancing on you, but Nishimura cut in with another attack. Bakugou whipped the edge of his blade up again, faster than your eye could follow, catching the strike. You caught the curl of that savage grin on the corner of his mouth again before he moved, ducking under Nishimura’s arm and twisting his blade. It slid along the edge of Nishimura’s sword with an awful screech, then caught the hilt at an angle, ripping it straight out of Nishimura’s grip.

A kick from Bakugou had Nishimura on the ground and just as quickly he twisted back around, stalking back towards you. Your heartbeat quickened in fear as he approached, crimson gaze burning into you.

“You don’t belong here if you can’t face me,” he ground out. “Fight me or I’m discharging you. That’s a fucking order.”

You trembled, but lifted your blade. You needed the money to send back to your parents. It was too early to be discharged - if you left now, they’d have no way of clearing the debt.

You thrust your sword forward but Bakugou dodged easily. You quickly flicked through all the maneuvers you’d been drilling the past month, and followed up with a lunge. Bakugou grinned, flicking it aside with a quick twist of his wrist.

“Put your back into it, shrimp,” he demanded.

You gripped your sword with both hands, bringing it down on him with all the force you had in you. Bakugou deflected, and before you knew what was happening, your sword was rent from your grasp, skidding along the dirt of the pitch behind you.

The flat of Bakugou’s sword came up to tip your chin up to him.

“Pathetic,” he spat, “you fight like a damn woman.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. Bakugou’s sharp eyes caught it and he smirked. “You gonna punch me, pretty boy?”

You struggled to tamp down the hot anger bubbling up inside you like a spring from the earth. “No, sir.”

He eyed you distrustfully, pressing the flat of his blade into your chin a little harder. “I’d think seriously about what the fuck you think you’re doing here. This is the kingsguard and I don’t need weak little shits like you endangering the royal family or your fellow soldiers.”

You stared back at him, not daring to speak. Your blood rushed in your ears and your heart hammered wildly in your chest.

After a long moment he lowered his blade, sheathing it back at his hip. He looked over at Nishimura, who was delicately picking himself up off the ground.

“Disappointing,” Bakugou said roughly. “I’ve seen enough here. You’re both dismissed - back to your dormitories.”

You nodded, backing away from him. Nishimura stalked off, and you turned and picked your way gingerly back across the field, stopping only to pick up your sword and tuck it back into the belt at your waist. You set off slowly for the barracks, something like hot tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

You didn’t look back, but you swore you could feel a pair of crimson eyes on you as you slipped quietly through the dark.

[upsetapplecart]

Day 3- Hey you, dick bag!

Fandom: All Out!! Prompt: Angst Words: 4903 Rating: PG again? There is a fair bit of swearing, and teenage boys try to beat each other up? Warnings: Swearing. Fist fights near some lockers. More swearing. Another fist fight in a park. Relationships: Matsuo Toshinosuke/ Ebumi Masaru (pre anything more than blushing and crushing.) Characters: Matsuo Toshinosuke, Ebumi Masaru, Ise Natsuki,  Sekizan Takuya,  Hachiōji Mutsumi.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you! Don’t ignore me, you potato faced dick bag!”

It was more screech then shout, and had the voice a physical form, it would have been shoving its way to front of a crowd in an attempt to start a posturing competition with you.

In this it was a summary of it's owner.  

“Ebumi. Dude-“

“Shove off, Ise. You’re a fucking coward, Matsuo!”

Matsuo didn't turn around. He was tired, and well, maybe Ebumi would burn himself out and lay off. Stranger things had happened, Takku’s hair for one.

Logically, he was doing what was best for the team. Subbing himself out so that he wouldn’t be holding them back on the field. No matter how much they postured, talked, trained, it did not change the facts, and the facts were that Mastuo could not give them 110%.

Oh how he wanted to. How he wanted to fling himself into the training with frantic intent. The feeling of actual improvement was addictive as the taste of victory.

But he couldn't. Not with the sound of that cough echoing in his ears. Not with his so fake smile.

He was stepping down so they could step up.

At least the third years had accepted that. Or seemed to have accepted that. Knowing Hachi, he was just biding his time.

“Oi! Come on! You just gonna ignore me? Lame!”

As always, Ebumi had decided to make himself a very loud expectation.

One of his class mates bumped his shoulder, “I’m pretty sure he's talking to you, dude.”

The classmate seemed to be trying to hint to Matsuo, that maybe, if he, Matsuo, had the power, he should put a stop to the ranting lunatic in the school corridor who was following them like a dog behind a suburban house fence, yapping the whole time.

Matsuo would be damned before he gave Ebumi the satisfaction. Matsuo could be sensible and mature about many things in his life, but apparently, Ebumi was not one of them.

“Why would a second-year thug want to talk to me?”

The classmate did his best to look at Ebumi without actually turning his head to look at him, as if eye contact might draw his wrath. To be honest , it probably would.

“Dunno, dude. Isn’t he on your rugby team, or something?” he whispered, hunching in towards Matsuo.

“Maybe he is. There are so many faces, I forget who's who sometimes.” Matsuo said, loud enough that Ebumi was sure to hear.

The screech of rage in response made his heart warm a little.

Smiling now, riding his tiny wave of smug satisfaction at an Ebumi well annoyed, he decided to get going while he had still won this little skirmish.

“Come on, we’ll be late for class.” He said.

A swift glance at a phone screen proved him right. “Oh shit! Dude, hurry!”

The unfortunate classmate ran off down the hall, not loyal enough to stroll with him, but stopping to wave him forward occasionally before running on. Matsuo chuckled and strolled after. You didn't run from a victory. You especially didn't run from Ebumi, because like any speed hunter, he'd run you down.

“That’s right! You run away you-you great big bag of dicks! Fucking coward-“

Matsuo cut of the end of that sentence pretty effectively with the witty comeback of stepping into his class room and shutting the door.

Ebumi retaliated by kicking the door on the other side, making the handle rattle under Matsuo’s hand.

“Dick.” Said Ebumi.

Matsuo nodded, because, yeah, probably.

Then he took a deep breath, and ventured into the classroom, ready to have his young mind moulded, because you can't run a successful business if you can't do math.

***

“What do lame arses even eat for lunch? What you gotta eat to be this weak?”

Leaning through the open lunch room window Ebumi had taken it as an opportunity to resume his verbal barrage from the morning. Not much one for variety, was Ebumi, but he did have an aggressive amount of enthusiasm to level at his few interests.

“Fucking rice balls! Lame!” he said, leaning so far in through the window he was at risk of falling through.

Aggressive being the key word there.

“You have rice balls.” Said Ise from somewhere in the corridor, a sullen voice of reason.

“We’re not talking about me, you dick.” Ebumi’s fist pounded on the window sill, the other swinging out at the end of his arm, ending in an accusing finger. “We’re talking about that arsehole.”

Matsuo kept chewing, his mouth full of lame rice ball, content to let Ebumi wash over him.

The finger drooped a little at the lack of reaction.

Shinshi, who was sitting across from him, opened his mouth, and Matsuo cut him off with a shake of his head and a smile.

You didn't fight rip tides, you let them take you for a ride and then you climbed out at the other end, or so Matsuo had read. That or you drowned, but fighting back did nothing either way.

Shinshi shut his mouth. He didn't look happy about it, but he shut it.

Matsuo smiled vaguely in Ebumi’s direction and put his next lame rice ball into his mouth.

Going by the twitch developing in one of Ebumi’s eyes, this was not how he had intended the interaction to go.

Seeming to decide he wasn’t going to get what he wanted out of Matsuo, he switched tactics and went for the weaker link in the chain. The kinder link.

“Oh? You got something to say? Come on, I wanna hear it! Defend that potato faced fucker. Come on! I dare you!” Ebumi said, leering at Shinshi now instead, all teeth, eyes sidelong to keep watching Matsuo. Gaging.

Matsuo kept on chewing.  

Ebumi huffed. “You gonna let everyone else talk for you, smarty pants? Cat got your fucking tongue?”

“Oh, that’s it.” Shinshi rose like mountains do, slowly and with volcanic violence.

“Shinshi. Don't .” Matsuo warned.

“Yeah come out here! Come on! Have a go at me! Potato face ain’t goanna do it, so come on! Defend him. He’s too much of a coward to do it himself!”

Ise's face became visible in the window. It had the look of someone who was torn between loyalty, and just letting nature take its course. If that meant the end of his friend’s gene pool, well, natural selection wasn't a kind mistress. It was the face of someone who was chewing on their lip in indecision, deep inside their soul.

“Ebumi” he said, “teacher.”

“Oi, You! Get down from that window.” The voice was already tired, and was more than ready to make somebody suffer for making them more so.

“Aw, fuck. Don’t think you’ve won, you potato faced bastard. This isn’t over.”

Pointing at Matsuo the entire time, Ebumi walked backwards from the window, and then, spotting the teacher, bolted down the corridor in the opposite direction. Ise following cold on his heels.

Matsuo could hear shouts of annoyance and anger out in the corridor as they fled the teacher at the peril of anyone in their way.

Shinshi sat back down, graceful for such mass.

“And here I thought he’d been getting politer, more reasonable.”

Matsuo couldn't help laughing at that. “Well, he’s a bit upset.”

“We’re all upset, Matsuo. We want to help, you know that right?”

“Maybe Ebumi thinks he's helping too.”

“Matsuo-“ Shinshi sounded strained, like being unable to fix Matsuo’s problem was hurting him, and Matsuo couldn't take it. There was nothing to fix. He'd said his piece, said as much as he could bare too, and he couldn't take their pity, their well-meant kindnesses. It hurt too damn much. He didn't deserve them.

“Have you finished that assignment we got the other day? That Japanese lit one?” he asked.

Shinshi suddenly looked like he wanted to throw up.  

“Oh no! Aw no. I haven’t. Oh blast.” He shoved a rice ball into his mouth, as if it could stave off his panic, and the potential vomit.

“Do you have notes on it?” he asked, mouth full of rice, meaning it came out more as a panicked, “o yow half nots on it?”

Matsuo smiled and reached for his bag.

“Of course, but a moment.”

“Oh, thank you! Thanks a bunch!”

“No problem.”

He appreciated the efforts they made to talk, but telling would only make them want to help, and well, there was nothing to help. Nothing wrong but his selfish desire to keep playing. To win again and again.

Better to stay quite. Better to keep it all bottled up, with the cap screwed on, oh so tight.

***

“Lame! Lame! Lame! That’s what you are! Don’t even have the dignity to stick around and lose! Laaaame!”

Leaning against the row of windows opposite the third year lockers, hands in pockets, and shouting dramatically, Ebumi looked every inch the delinquent he dressed himself to be.

Matsuo grimaced and continued jamming his text books into his bag. So much for hoping that Ebumi had gotten bored with his little crusade, and that Matsuo would be able to escape home in peace.  

“Lame! I mean, if you aren’t tough enough you could have tried to get better, but no,” his voice became higher pitched, and highly sarcastic, “You’re taking the easy way out, subbing in a first-year. Wah. Wah.” Ebumi punctuated each ‘wah' with an aggressive foot stamp.

Matsuo smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. Choosing not to play, to not torment himself by going all out, when there was no future in it. To not make an embarrassment and a liar of himself, was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

Matsuo, very carefully, did not slam his locker closed.

Ebumi was so close now that Matsuo nearly elbowed him as he turned. When Matsuo meet Ebumi’s eyes, he was still smiling.

“I’m sorry.” He said, aggressively polite to the point where, if he had been a housewife, Matsuo would have been offering Ebumi his worst cups of tea. “Were you talking to me?”

“Oh! Oh!” Ebumi crowed, “The coward speaks! Did you hear that Ise? He can talk.”

Ise’s smile was all nervous and non-committal teeth. He was still over by the window, and looked intent on staying there for the foreseeable future.

“Yes, he can.” Matsuo said, dry as the dessert and feeling about as friendly.

“Yes he can.” Ebumi imitated, leaning in towards Matsuo, hands in his pockets and chest brushing Matsuo’s.

A paper thin gap.

Something about the just contact made Matsuo stand a little straighter, loom a little higher. Lean forward into Ebumis space, just a little more.

Matsuo said, “Now that you have my attention, did you actually have something to say? Or was that all you wanted? My attention?”

“Of course I wanted your fucking attention!” Now Ebumi sounded like the house wife, and desperate.

Matsuo smiled. He couldn't help himself. The opening was just too easy. The jab too petty to leave unsaid.

He leant down closer. “Of course you wanted my attention.” He laughed in Ebumi’s face. All pity. “Oh, Ebumi.” He shook his head in that sad way that disappointed authority figures have, when they had known, just known, you weren't going to do any better.

Ebumi slammed into him and Matsuo crashed against the lockers, still smiling. He laughed a little at the pain in his back.

“Don’t you fucking ‘oh Ebumi’ me!”

Ebumi pulled Matsuo forward by his shirt front and then slammed him against the lockers again. “What happened to all the wanting to win shit? Huh!? Why’d you just fucking give up?!”

“I haven’t given up. We’re still going to Hanazono. I think even you’d remember, what with Gion shouting about it all the time.”

“What the fuck? I’m not talking about the team, shithead.” Ebumi dropped the fistful of uniform and stepped back, hands back in his pockets, pouting for the Olympics.

“I’m not talking about the fucking team! I’m talking about you! Why the hell have you given up?! Oharano, please save me, I can’t catch the ball properly. Oh, your plans are so much better than mine. The fuck they are, Matsuo!”

“Look, Ebumi. I know you mean well-“

Ebumi’s hyena cackle was more unstable than normal. Close to the edge. Desperate in a way that Matsuo didn't understand.

“Fine. You’re a loser. I get it.” He threw his arms in the air, cackled again. “Silly me for thinking you actually wanted to win as much as I do.” He said. And then he turned away.

Turned his back on Matsuo.

“I do.” Matsuo said, an involuntary defence against Ebumis scorn.

Ebumi’s waved hand said, ‘yeah, yeah’ better than words ever could.

It was the dismissal that did it. It held no pity and no understanding, nor did it seek to find them.

It was the fact that Ebumi, Ebumi of all people, was disappointed in him.

Matsuo’s fist was swinging before the more rational side of his brain had time to catch up and put a stop to it.

The fist clipped Ebumi on the side of the head, and never having tried to punch anyone in his life, Matsuo felt a small thrill when Ebumi staggered under the admittedly poorly aimed blow.

He'd been working on his arms.

Ebumi clutched the side of his head, “What the fuck Matsuo? You wanna go?!”

Matsuo laughed. His knuckles stung already, but there was a satisfaction behind the pain. A satisfaction he normally associated with hard training and those fleeting moments when he could taste victory in the air, on the tip of his tongue.

When Ebumi said rugby was like a fight, he'd been right. Matsuo felt almost giddy, the lurking guilt suspended on the thrill of spontaneous action.

With a screech that sounded more like a hyena’s battle cry, Ebumi head butted Matsuo, which, since height difference was a thing, meant he landed a solid crack against the bridge of Matsuo’s nose.

Matsuo staggered, blinking back involuntary tears. He didn't have long to come to terms with this new pain, when thumbs began pushing into the corner of his eye sockets.

Matsuo grabbed at Ebumi’s wrists, and tried to force them backwards, away from his face and his easily damaged eyeballs.

“Ebumi! What the hell!?” Ise shouted.

What little space there had been between them was gone now. Matsuo could feel Ebumi’s breath on his face, heavy and frantic.

The rest of the world had become unfocused, like when a camera in a movie only wants you to watch this character. This one here. All others irrelevant.

Ebumi’s mascara was smudged, and his eyes were red.

Running over Ise locked his arms under Ebumi’s elbows, and tried to drag him away from Matsuo. Ebumi struggled against him, still trying to hook his thumbs into Matsuo’s eye sockets.

The sensible thing, Matsuo thought, would be to let Ise pull him away.

He was so fucking sick of being sensible.

He head butted Ebumi. Not being all that experienced in what needed to be done to deliver a truly devastating head-butt, he went for the biggest, most obvious target, and smacked his forehead against Ebumi’s.

It hurt more than he thought it would.

Ebumi hyena laughed, and spat in his face. Matsuo laughed back, still trying to push Ebumis arms away.

He was bigger than Ebumi. Heavier too. He could feel the strain of Ebumi’s muscles as they pushed up against him.

“Ise!” Hachioji shouted, somewhere in the distance. “I've been- What the?! Matsuo? Sekizan, help me!”

Hachioji arrived several heavy footsteps later, and grabbing Matsuo by the shoulders, put his considerable strength to work, and heaved him away. Ebumi taking pot-swipes for his eyes the entire time, and well, that must mean the maniac laughter was him.

“What the hell, Matsuo!” Hachioji shouted. “If you two get caught fighting you'll be off the team! What the hell were you thinking?”

Matsuo snapped his mouth closed, sealing away the laughter, as all the not thinking that he had just done slammed home with all the gentleness of a well delivered tackle.

The freeing giddiness fled as well, an unreliable teammate.

Experiencing one of those truly depressing existential moments where one really is not sure where to put ones face, Matsuo yanked his arms free and tried his best not to look at anyone.

He hadn't been thinking, and he had no way of explaining that without bringing their concern down on him once more. Concern he was really starting to think he didn't deserve.

His own breathing was too loud in his own ears.

“I wasn't. Obviously.”

“Matsuo-“ Sekizan said.

Matsuo wiped his mouth, and took a steadying breath.

“I’m going home. I’m late to help with the watering.” He said, maintaining eye contact with his shoes, unable to bear the thought, let alone the action, of meeting Taku’s eyes.

He could just tell Taku, but, no- that would just make it harder on Taku, and that wouldn't be fair.

He walked past Ebumi, who was still struggling in Ise’s arm lock. Some of the savagery seemed to have gone out of his movements. Whether that was from fear of hurting his friend, or fear of drawing the Captain's wrath, Matsuo was too tired to guess at.

He didn’t look Ebumi in the eye either.

“Yeah! Well fuck you too, Matsuo-san! Fuck you too!”

“Ebumi!” Ise hissed. “Quit it.”

“Not until he does!” Ebumi shouted, sounding hilariously indignant for someone who had been brawling moments before.

Matsuo went home.

***

“How’d your watering go, fuck face?” Ebumi’s voice said from somewhere above Matsuo’s head, sounding far friendlier than it had four and a bit hours ago.

Matsuo was sitting at the top of a grass mound. Gloriously green, it rolled down into the rest of the park, offering a wonderful view of trees and walking  paths, all of it faded yellow in the glow of the surrounding street lights.

Watering had been a disaster.

His parents had both been paragons of parental concern. Fussing over the fact that he was late, and then, when they got a better look at his face, by the fact that he was late, and had two blackening eyes.

By the time that he had managed to convince them, that, no really, everything was fine, he'd tell them if it wasn't, yes he knew he could talk to them, the watering schedule had been thoroughly disrupted and everyone was just standing about, having their own guilt decorated pity parties.

It was at that point he'd said he might go take a walk, and they'd nodded solemnly at him, as if it was they that were failing him, and not the other way around.

“Fine.” Matsuo said, and kept staring down the hill.

Ebumi shoved at one of Matsuo’s knees with his foot, almost gentle. “Liar.”

“Why would I lie, Ebumi?”

“Cause you’re a liar, Mr. ‘I don’t take the game seriously’.”

“But I don’t.”

Ebumi kicked his knee again, this time with more force.  

“Liar.”

“Would you quit that.” Matsuo shoved the foot away. “What are you doing out here anyway? Running?”

“Do I look dressed for fucking running? No, cause I’m not. I’m fucking out here trying to find out why the fuck you decided to just roll over to that fucking pretty boy.” Ebumi said, huffy as a house cat whose had it's furniture moved about.

“I already told you. He’s better. And I just can’t take this as seriously as the rest of you.” Matsuo said. Lying to Ebumi of all people shouldn't be making him feel this guilty. It wasn't the same guilt as he with Taku either. Taku, like his parents, Matsuo couldn’t bear let down.

Ebumi- Ebumi it was like, it was like lying to-

“Bullshit.” Ebumi shoved his face into Matsuo so fast he nearly head butted him. “Your just scared of a little competition. Got performance anxiety, or some shit. Well listen the fuck up, Matsuo-san, your better than that twerp any day.”

Matsuo laughed. “That’s not the issue, but I thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“Then what the fuck is the problem?” Ebumi said, throwing himself to the ground beside Matsuo.

Matsuo squeezed his own hands together. Why couldn’t Ebumi just leave well alone? Leave him in peace to work through his disappointment and guilt.

“As I said, I don’t take it-“

“And I said I didn’t fucking believe you! Now tell me your real fucking problem so we can get you back out there and win some games!”

“It’s not that simple, Ebumi.” Matsuo said, his smile made his cheeks ache, and he could fell his bones under his hands he was gripping them that tightly.

Ebumi lent back on his elbows so he could kick at Matsuo’s knee again. “In my experience, it usually is. Now talk.”

“And you are, oh so experienced in these matters, Ebumi.” Matsuo said.  

Ebumi ignored him, and pushed onwards.

“The other third years would let you back into the game in a heartbeat, so stop holding everyone back and say yes.”

Matsuo laughed, “I’m not holding anyone back.”

“Sure are. Why do you think we lost against Ryoin?” Ebumi sounded indignant.

“We’re inexperienced, and need to improve?”

“No. Because you weren’t fucking there!” When Ebumi kicked him this time it was hard. It hurt.

Matuso felt his eyes water, and for the second time that day, it was all too much.

Thinking fuck no, he wasn’t going to cry, and not in front of Ebumi of all people, but mostly not thinking at all, he grabbed Ebumi’s foot, and using it as a sling, sent him skidding down the hill.

Ebumi yowled indignantly as he slid across the grass. Scrabbling for purchase he recovered, and lunched himself back up the hill, grabbing the front of Matuso’s shirt with both fists.

“You know what? Fuck you, Matsuo.” He hissed into his face.

Tipping himself backwards, Ebumi dragged at Matsuo’s shirt, so that Matsuo toppled over top of him, and between Matsuo’s weight and the laws of gravity, he rolled them both down the hill.

Bracing his feet against the grass, Matsuo swung a fist up, and managed to slam it into Ebumi’s stomach as he was trying to stand, sending Ebumi straight back to the ground.

Gasping for breath, Ebumi swung his foot out and connected with Matsuo’s jaw, snapping his head back and causing him to skid further down the hill. A desperate grab at Ebumi’s ankle, and Matsuo dragged him down the hill with him.

This time there was no one to stop them. Matsuo was bigger, had more weight to throw around, so theoretically, he felt, he should have an advantage. But Ebumi had that psychotic drive to win known only to small dogs and used car sales men, and so while Matsuo went with the traditional elbows and punching, Ebumi hissed and spat, and generally made himself hard to hold onto, all-the-while, trying to claw Matsuo’s eyes out.

Ebumi eventually struggled to the top of their little brawl. Straddling Matsuo, he braced his knees against the ground, pushing down with his full body weight, and raised his fist to come down like an insomniac’s dream.

And Matsuo- Matsuo started to laugh. Big belly laughs that he hadn’t felt capable of since the coach walked onto their field and everything changed.

Ebumi’s fist froze. He cocked his head. “What the hell, Matsuo?”

“Sorry, sorry. Carry on. Carry on.” Matsuo gasped between laughs, lungs aching.

Ebumi’s smiled crookedly down at Matsuo, and then with a giggle, he brought his fist down to bump gently against Matsuo’s nose.

Matsuo screamed with laughter on impact.

“Fuck, you’re weird. Way to ruin a good fight.”

Matsuo waved an apology, still gasping for air.

Months of being responsible, doing what was right and proper, and here he was, brawling in a public  park with Ebumi at night, when any sensible person should be putting on their pjamas.  

And as far as he could tell, it would be fine, he could blow off this steam with Ebumi, and no one would get hurt. No one would feel bad for him. There was a magic in that.

Ebumi thumped him once on the chest and rolled off to sit beside him, which only set Matsuo off again. Giggling and laughing alternately, until he was almost hyperventilating.

When he finally managed to regain control of his sense of humour, Matsuo blinked away tears, staring up at the sky and feeling lighter than he had in some time, although that could just be the oxygen deprivation.  

The stars twinkle back at him, some peeking out from behind scattered clouds.

“I can’t go to college.” He said eventually.

It was shocking how much less concerned he felt about telling Ebumi that, then his fellow third years.

“So?” Ebumi said. “What’s so good about college?”

Matsuo laughed again. Ebumi would fight anything.

“I promised Taku and the others I would go with them and play. But I can’t. My- my dad's not well, and he needs me to stay and-"

“What’s that got to do with playing now?” Ebumi asked, dog at a bone.

Matsuo waved his hands at the stars as if that could, and would, explain everything.

“Fuck. That would just make me want to play more than ever. I’m not going to college neither, and these two years, they’re all I got left.”  Ebumi looked down at him, and Matsuo made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

There was a challenge in that look, and as always Matsuo wanted to throw himself into it. Knock it down, shove against it, until it caved. Show Ebumi that he wasn't the only one that wanted to win so badly it hurt, and knowing he couldn't felt like rubbing sand paper on his pride.

Matsuo looked away quickly, back to the stars and their more distant gaze.

Ebumi huffed, “Well I’m gonna play the fuck out of what I’ve got left, whether you’re with me or not, and you, you’ve got even less. Would think you’d wanna play while you had the chance.”

Wouldn’t be sensible, Matsuo reminded himself. Would only be prolonging the inevitable.

“We’ll probably lose if I play.” He said instead.

Ebumi’s ‘bah’ was loud in the quite park, “Just pass me the ball. I’ll get us points.”

He elbowed Matsuo in the ribs, “Plus, the other third years are such saps they probably wouldn’t consider it worth winning if you didn’t play.”

Matsuo couldn't help his fond smile. They were saps, the lot of them.

“You can be rather disrespectful at times, Ebumi.” He said.

Ebumi threw back his head and cackled up at the stars.

As the sound faded into the night, Ebumi stared back over at Matsuo, and he looked less sure this time. A little more nervous.

“I'm sorry about, you know.” He made a gesture that suggested it explained the ‘you know'.

Matsuo raised his eyebrows.

“Not about hitting you! About your dad, you idiot! If you need hitting again, I'll do it.” Ebumi said, nervousness blown away by indignant rage.

Matsuo felt the dopy smile on his face again, and he was certain that rage filled rants should not be this endearing.

“Thanks, Ebumi.” Matsuo said, “And, I'll try not to be such a lame loser.”

“Urgh. Whatever.” Ebumi said, and stood up. He offered Matsuo a hand, wiggling his fingers.

Matsuo sighed, took it, and let Ebumi pull him up.

They stood like that for a moment, hands joined. Matsuo looked down and looked back up at Ebumi, he had that glazed look he had going on sometimes when Matsuo came over to congratulate him on  particularly good try he'd just managed.

Matsuo smirked and tipped his head down at the joined hands.

Ebumi meet his eyes, blushed red as the team colours and yanked his hand back, wiping it on the front of his shirt.

Ebumi said. “Er, so, your parents gonna approve of you going home looking like that?”

Matsuo stopped smirking at Ebumi’s blush and looked down at his dirty hands and grass stained shirt. “They won’t be too hard on me about it, but I'd really prefer not to come home looking like I'd been in a fight twice in one day.” He rubbed his hands on his pants and then inspected them, no luck. “I might be able to sneak in the back door?”

Ebumi dug the tip of his shoe into the grass. “There’s a corner store not far from here. We could get some baby wipes or something? Try and clean you up a little?”

Matsuo couldn’t help himself, he ruffled Ebumi’s hair. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Ebumi knocked the hand away, blush still proudly red.

“Fuck off. Come on, it’s this way.”

“I'm getting mixed signals here, Ebumi.”

Ebumi gave him the one fingered salute and stomped off across the park, grumbling to himself, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.  

Maybe, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to tell his friends. He'd been worried that they would take pity on him, or try to talk him out of his decision, but Ebumi hadn't-

“Matsuo, are you coming or what?”

“Coming. Coming.”

He jogged to catch up with Ebumi.