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The problem did not arise until Jimmy Hopkins knocked him out in round one. His vision: bleary. His nose: throbbing and bleeding, though unbroken. Bif was familiar with the pain of a shattered nose bone, and there was a hairline of space between this pain and that pain, but the distinction was unmistakable. He tasted the wrought copper of his own blood in his mouth, felt the throbbing swell of an eye already turning black from how Hopkins had ruptured the blood vessels around it.
As was usual, Derby didn’t rush to his side. Were it socially acceptable, Bif was certain Harrington would only spit on him every time he lost to someone else. Thus, he never did lose ; the pain of a broken nose was less than that of Derby’s disdain, and this was because his adoration, by comparison, could erase any ailment. The cavernous space that existed within Bif without it was intolerable.
Hopkins hit hatefully. Distastefully. With knuckles that felt like they punched through his gloves, and right into that fragile fissure in Bif. On his first fake left, jab right, Bif thought oh no. It was the initial hit that set the tone of any good match, and Hopkins’ blow was three times the size that little boy was. The more Bif took, the more he felt himself slipping into loss, and the more anxious he became for the stinging way Derby would react.
You disgust me.
It stole time from him as he rolled out of the ring. With nary a helping hand, he made sure he disappeared quickly, to lick wounds and all that. Limped up the stairs against the wall, despite the way the room was tilting on its very axis. Feeling his way around, Bif found the light switch of the office above where Jimmy was shouting about who was the strongest below. Flicked it off so that the room would bathe him in sweet darkness, where he could hide in his shame, and hopefully fight off the oncoming migraine behind his eye.
The world swayed hard to one side, and he was hardly able to make it to the waste bin by the end of the bar before he was sick from vertigo, on his knees and retching so hard that tears started to stand out in his eyes. Ah, but it wasn’t only the vertigo making him sick, was it? No; it was the coil in his gut from the flash of Derby’s hatred.
He went down the rest of the way, resting his back against the bar, hugging the bin like it was a kind lover, if he even knew how to spot one of those. Still , he hadn’t caught his breath, closing his eyes and attempting to coax some calm to the wreckage of his body. Moments passed, and blended together. All he could think about was Hopkins’ boot on his chest, and you disgust me .
When Derby slipped into the office, he was kind enough to announce his presence with the smell of his cologne first, and then gave Bif a second gift, when he decided to leave the room dark. His presence did nothing but work Bif’s stomach into a whirlwind all over again, however, and he had to take a long, shivering breath, even though he knew that it was loud enough to be heard by anyone else in the space.
“How on earth could you let that plebeian get the better of you?” Derby asked it as softly as he would touch a glass egg through a velvet glove, and if Bif kept his eyes closed, he could simply choose to take the statement as sorely disappointed. But inside, he knew Derby’s expression would be cruel.
For the time being, he didn’t look. Couldn’t take it.
“His punches were demonic, Derby,” Bif tried to explain, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but whatever hate he has inside gives him the unfortunate avantage.”
“Oh?” Derby drew nearer; the sweet scent of him made Bif shiver down every vertebrae. He wanted him to come even closer. To choose not to say what he was about to say. To help Bif clean the blood off of himself. “I find it hard to believe that he could carry around any more hate in him than you do. No, I don’t think it’s a question of hate. I think it’s simply a question of competence. Or maybe? Hm.”
His words cut so cruelly that his touch, even on the outside of Bif’s glove, was overwhelming. Bif was ravenous, desperate for more of the tender way Derby pulled the leather kindly from his hand. Brushed a thumb over his knuckles – more of that sting, more salt in his wounds, please, for the brief moment of touch it awarded him.
Derby continued, raising Bif’s knuckles to his mouth. His words danced in warm huffs over the throbbing bones in Bif’s hand. “I suppose he might just be more powerful than you. You should be fucking ashamed, Bif.”
He would be. Gladly.
“I think you’re weak,” more cold words rained down, from the same mouth that Derby used to kiss the bandages still wrapped around Bif’s fingers. “You couldn’t protect me from Jimmy Hopkins if he decided to launch an attack. You would simply drop dead while defending me. I think I ought to really consider which of you I would rather have at my side. Maybe I’ll ask Hopkins himself.”
The spring that had coiled in Bif’s gut forced him forward by a few inches, eyes now open and searching Derby’s expression. Wind was blowing from within him, thunderclouds rumbling behind his eyes, and lightning striking the points where they made contact. Every lungful was painful, but in that moment, he could tear Derby apart with his bare hands, if he really wanted to.
“Then I would destroy him and you,” Bif challenged him low, seething. Hate danced wildly in hand with possessive adoration. It was a dark want that felt too old and too real for someone like Bif to really, truly comprehend. “I would massacre both of you.”
He wanted Derby to feel fear. Understand that he could hurt him. Beware that he could cut as deeply as Derby did with his words.
There was no such terror in those eyes. They were steely when he leaned closer still to Bif, mouth parting, eyes darting downward to the split lip Hopkins had given Derby’s favorite servant. Traveling further south, his glance came to rest on the hand of Bif’s he’d taken. Languidly, he began to uncurl each finger that had tightened into a fist. Once open-palmed, he pulled the bandages that were wound around every knuckle free, until there was nothing but slightly chapped, and exposed skin.
“Those are villainous threats, Bif Taylor,” he exhaled, raising that well-worn, semi-broken hand to his own throat. Suggestions of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as he closed Bif’s grip around it. His pulse was hitting a quick rhythm underneath Bif’s touch. “So why don’t you put every penny to your name where that pretty mouth of yours is. Make me believe you have that kind of power.”
Bif struggled to swallow.
Derby traveled the rest of the space between the pair of them. Brushed their mouths together, and it stung. His tongue flicked out to taste the blood that still stained Bif’s bottom lip, and he murmured: “ Squeeze .”
A sweet and sick ache bloomed in the darkest pit in Bif. His grasp began to tighten around Derby’s adam’s apple, and while they were pressed so close, he took what had been rightfully his since they had been young enough to understand one another, more so than they understood anyone else. Bif locked Derby into a kiss, full and fighting, teeth and tongue.
Derby hinted at wanting. Tried to suck in a breath, but Bif cut it off by gripping his throat ever tighter, catching the moment in the space between them. Still, being choked didn’t stop the prodigal son from reaching out to thread fingers in Bif’s red hair, reminding him that he was still, somehow, the one in control. He kept petting, as if Bif was his favorite dog, until he began to instinctively make an attempt at swallowing breaths.
It stopped their kiss. Tighter.
You disgust me.
He was changing color. Tighter.
You disgust me.
One hand reached up and set itself on Bif’s wrist weakly. Tighter.
You disgust me.
But the ill blossom in Bif began to wilt, when he saw Derby’s eyes begin to roll back into his head. That vision would sear itself into the backside of Bif’s sight forever, living in his dreams, invading his thoughts every time he would even think of kissing Derby again. All at once, he found his mercy, releasing as if Derby’s whole body had suddenly caught flame, and Bif was in danger of being burned. But he caught the prince before he could fall sideways, onto the filthy carpet. Pulled him close into his lap, wrapping him in strong, bruised arms.
“ I’m sorry, ” he murmured, “I’m sorry, are you alright? Are you alright?”
Derby was sputtering and hacking up dry noises, taking in long, greedy drinks of air. Panting. Red welts were already starting to rise on his throat, and he reached up to touch them, fascinated, before he said anything to Bif. The clock wound around a long minute, before he wet his lips, and pushed himself completely upright, then free of Bif’s hold.
They met his glances. Derby’s, unreadable. Bif’s, sorrowful. Mournfully regretting. Was it to soothe him, when Derby raised a hand to his bruised cheek tenderly? No – he gave it two quick pats for a job well done.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he attacked with a distant disappointment. Bif fell into that dark cavern of loneliness, wanting nothing more than for Derby to give him something that he seemed entirely incapable of giving. “There’s not much that’s powerful about you, is there? Still,” he examined Bif’s eye, half-swollen shut. “I suppose a bad guard dog is better than no guard dog at all.”
It was a scrap. Enough for Bif to savor, until Derby deigned to throw him another.