“That was a cheap, dirty move and you know it!” came a throaty grumble of protest as mesh face masks were pulled off by both parties and tucked beneath an arm, weapons drawn aside tamely so the blunt points were jammed in the material of the fencing strip upon which they both stood.  The protestor, nearly a head shorter than his adversary, knit his heavy brow into a stern glare that was not all becoming to his thick, somewhat irregular features.  “Since when was a hit counted at the neck?” he inquired hotly.

On the opposite of the strip, a blonde boy with much more delicate, defined features stood, his own brow raised casually into a look of mild interest as he surveyed his opponent.  His sword hand draped casually over the handle of his epee as he twirled it lightly against the material of the strip.  It seemed as though at first glance he hardly cared that his fencing partner was displeasured, yet the slight challenging glare that projected from this boy’s ice-blue eyes combined with the slight shift of weight said otherwise.  No one criticized his tactics.  No one.

“This is epee style fencing, Braden,” the blonde said with edge to his voice as he released his hold on the sword, letting it rest gently against his thigh as the boy pulled the thick dueling glove from his sword hand.  “You forgot the rules of engagement but I certainly have not…but then again, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.”  His gaze shifted from his hand to the thick-featured Braden, projecting clearly a feeling of superiority with the condescending tone that dripped from his mouth.  “I’d have thought you’d pay more attention to one of the senior instructors since you demanded a place on the team.  You know, my team.” 

Braden snorted heavily and raised a hand to point Ambrose in the face, tension running down his jaw.  “Maybe if you weren’t such a cocky son of a bitch, you’d have more people willing to spar with you and spots wouldn’t keep opening up,” he retorted darkly before letting the hand drop back to the belt of his padded pants, a thumb wrapping tensely about the waistband.  “And so what if I’ve only been doing epee style for a day?  Foil is more challenging anyway.  You couldn’t hack it.”

Ambrose blinked demurely at the dark-haired teen before him before giving him another look of exaggerated tolerance, like a mother might give an insolent child, and waved him off.  “I suggest you ask the instructors for more help if you want to stand any sort of chance against someone at a bout.  Since, you know, you couldn’t land a hit on the broad side of a barn earlier.”  That comment was punctuated with a smile and a flippant flick of his sword before he turned on a heel and left Braden on the strip to digest that last comment in peace.  That clod didn’t know anymore about fencing than Ambrose did about being that “oh so perfect” youngest son.

Perfect.  Lord knew Ambrose had heard that word more than he’d ever wish to hear.  Hardly ever did he hear it in a sentence containing his name; usually it was always accompanied by the name Dreu, his insufferable older brother who acted as though he had the world in the palm of his hand and in truth, did in most cases.  He had the best car, had a beautiful, if not somewhat conservative girlfriend, and worst of all he had the wool pulled over his parent’s eyes.  Dreu could do no wrong both academically and socially, it seemed, while Ambrose constantly was peppered with comments of “You can do better” or “Can’t you be like Dreu?” from sunrise to sunset of every day.

It was this thought that brought a light snarl to the blonde’s features as he strode into the locker room to dispose of his fencing equipment, turning down the dark corridor into the overly bright section of lockers reserved for the use of the fencing team.  Not surprisingly, this area was unoccupied as most of the team had gone home already; hardly anyone rivaled Ambrose in dedication.  Fencing was his niche, his ticket to fame as it were, and likely the only thing that his parents avidly paid attention to.  He swore that some day he would be on his way to the Olympics…his parents often retorted that the only place he’d be going was medical school.

 

“Over my dead body” he thought.

 

Ambrose let the phrase echo in his mind as he dwelled on the clear preference his parents showed towards Dreu as well as the mindless existence Ambrose had adopted more for the sake of his parents then himself.  Image is everything, afterall.