Practice Sessions by Opal Roseblossom

Practice Sessions

We fight, as always. Practice fighting, we say, to keep in shape, to improve, to learn new moves. We fight for convenience.
Right. The others nod in awkward agreement, avoiding the tension as best they can. Right, for practice.
Your blood is a ruby splotch on my shirt and it trickles down your face. Your kicks are fast and brutal; they hit my chest like bricks.
I roll and regain my balance. I wince as I breathe in; I never even heard my rib crack. Your stance is reckless, you refuse to play defensively.
And I refuse to let you off easily, despite your handicap. I remember when we first began these sessions. Your bones would break like twigs under my attacks. You would sit there, clueless, helpless. But you would never surrender until I reluctantly pulled myself off of your shattered body.
You know me too well now. It is almost an advantage, you are much cleverer than I, and you can so easily use my predictability against me.
I can still feel the first punch you ever landed on me, my eye bruised a beautifully bright purple. We were both so stunned. You recovered first, of course.
I couldn't do anything but let you throw another, and another.
I won that fight, but barely.
My jump kick doesn't startle you. Your duck is perfection, and I find myself suddenly on the ground on my stomach, with your foot between my legs.
Now, we both know how dangerous that is.
You stumble back, a rare mistake, and my sweep kick sends you to the ground.
Our fights are made of layers of deception, though I doubt that you ever would admit it, even to yourself.

We always say, trying to convince the others and ourselves that it is to make us both stronger.
We say it, and say it, until the words are meaningless.
The others know, or they think they know, that it isn't true.
The problem with our flock is that there are two males and one female of the same age. Or so they've come to believe.
It's instinct, they think, we think; it's a fight for the right to mate. We convince ourselves that it's a battle for love, because we're both such romantics.
That would make sense. We all think it, you, I, them, even she thinks that it's about her.
But she always thinks it's about her.
However, as I sit on your chest, triumphant, excited and uncomfortable, I realize that it's not.
We've both done a bang up job convincing ourselves otherwise.
It's because this is easier. This violent, horrible touching is some sort of sick therapy for the both of us, I think.
We can't admit anything; we can't do anything, so we just fight. Why?
We're trying to condition ourselves, maybe. Our subconciouses might be saying, "Look, look how much this all hurts, look how much trouble touching him, wanting him, needing him, causes. Feel your broken bones, smell your sweat, this would never work. This can only wound."
Maybe this is the only way we can do anything about this burning that we feel. Maybe it's the closest thing to being together we'll ever be allowed.
Or maybe we're trying to drive each other away, both so unsuccessfully.
No matter what, though, this isn't about her.
Right now I can tell from your widened eyes as you examine the suggestiveness of this position. I understand because I freeze for a moment with a little rush of pleasure.
And I comprehend from the way that we scurry away from each other, a little too aware of something

that neither of us has ever consciously considered before.
The moment is gone quickly, you run at me with a foolish flying front kick, desperate to break the mood.
I move with it, a little more famished and a little less ignorant, thinking that maybe I was done with fighting.

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AN: Review please? I'll give you a cookie. I recently wrote a fic that never got a review, and I'm doubly bummed out, because I've never not gotten a review for a fic before. So I'm going to shamelessly beg for reviews on this one. Puweese! Crit and flames are welcome. If you don't like slash, deal. I'm not satisfied with this, so be as harsh as you want.