“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. If only his parents knew what Dreu was really up to when he said he was going “out”.
A hesitant prod in the shoulder accompanied with “Hey man, you okay?” brought him out of his sulking and made him turn to see Kyle, one of his better friends from fencing standing there bare chested with arms crossed, his white fencing gear flung over his shoulder. “You look pissed. Something up?” Kyle gave one of his characteristic smirks that looked so out of place on his long-featured face, giving him a positively bird-like appearance that matched his lanky build.
“Naw, it’s cool. Just thinking about stuff, ya know?”
“Well if you care, me and some of the guys are going to Heather’s tonight. Care to come along? She invited lots of her friends,” commented Kyle with a wink and a slight nudge. Ambrose shook his head and bent over to untie his shoes.
“Can’t. The
‘rents are mad about my grades again.
You know how they are.” He
paused to emphasize this point with the universal sign for crazy people,
twirling a finger in a circle at his temple and rolling his eyes. “Besides, Dreu invited
Kyle shook his head, lips pursed with sympathy. “Sorry man. I guess I can fill you in tomorrow or something. It’s supposed to be the party of the century.”
Ambrose repressed a grunt and resumed untying his shoes. Every party was supposed to be the party of the century and frankly, he hadn’t heard of anything happening at them that was note worthy. The same thing always happened….people got drunk, did stupid things, hooked up with people they hardly knew, and some got arrested by the cops. That was supposed to be fun?
“That’s fine,” he said instead, kicking his shoes off against the bottom of the lockers, straightening up to pull his jacket off. “Sorry I can’t go.”
His friend shrugged nonchalantly before they exchanged a handclasp and Kyle sauntered away to chase after whatever girl had currently caught his fancy. Ambrose let his eyes once again narrow slightly in irritation; not because he was jealous, but because he found this whole routine to be just that...a routine, and nothing more. With a groan, he finished stripping down from his gear and gathered his belongings.
“Go wash up for dinner….and for god’s sake change that shirt. It’s filthy!”
He hardly ever got any sort of
real greeting when he walked through the door anymore, so he didn’t bat an eye
at the command from the kitchen as he strode into the house and attempted to
dodge question from his parents. He
was late and knew it but part of him didn’t care. This whole dinner was just a façade for
his parents to try and impress
Ambrose changed quickly for fear of having someone sent up after him like he was a toddler and thundered back down the stairs, running a hand through his hair to style it a bit, having forgotten that the mesh masks really did nothing for one’s hairdo. Unfortunately for him, Dreu was at the bottom, his wolfish gaze lighting up mischievously upon Ambrose’s appearance.
“’Bout time, squirt. Dinner’s all ready and we were hoping you’d grace us with your presence some time this YEAR.” Dreu then laughed merrily at his own wit.
The younger boy grunted in
response and slipped past his slightly taller, slightly older sibling before
heading for the dining room, carefully wiping his expression to one of neutral
indifference. His father was
already at the head of the table, his mother at his side holding some sort of
steaming casserole.
Dinner was uneventful, per usual, revolving mostly around Beth and Dreu as Ambrose expected. Only briefly was the younger son’s skill at fencing brought up and when Ambrose had just gotten interested in the conversation, the topic had switched to Dreu and his football prospects.