A/N: Hey guys. So I've been reading a LOT of Percabeth stories lately and I suppose it inspired me to begin with one of my own. I hope you enjoy the story and please don't hesitate to let me know what you think.
In my deepest heart, I always wanted to be a lover; but there was no approval in bouquets of red roses and no fulfillment in poetry with careful words that rhymed at the edges.
I'd spent two years slamming my fist into concrete, admiring the way that blood sometimes resembled the color of rose petals. The shade of crimson matched the warmth of my mother's smile. It was the only image of her that hadn't yet vanished from my head. Triggering it, recognizing that reddish color, was the most effective way of keeping her alive.
People say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. When she died, it felt like I was seeing her life only once before all of the memories vanished.
Fighting is the simplest form of self destruction. You lose your dignity as you watch your teeth drop onto an unknown floor. You lose your morality when you start picturing people not as friends but as moving targets, each with an "x" where there eyes should be. But most of all, you lose your faith in the moments when the clock nears zero, knowing full and well within your steel heart that the sound of the buzzer is the sound of God determining your fate.
Sometimes I compare that intensity to love.
If fighters can reek of violence and if love encourages you to commit violent actions, why are the two not interchangeable?
Because, as my step father always said to me, "the only way to be the stronger man is to uphold an invulnerable heart."
His breath smelled like a mixture of whiskey and coffee when he spoke to me. I'd learned to ignore the words that he chose to give. He spoke of happiness being related to ignorance, disgust and hatred. He spoke to me like I was nothing more than an itch on his shoulder - one that he was dying to shake off. I'd kept myself sane in his presence for the sake of my mother. But for the last two years, she hadn't been around to keep me anchored. Now, at age sixteen, exhausted from my own exhaustion, I'd lost my anchor. I'd shredded my sanity. I'd moved my home into the attic of a building that reeked of sweat.
My fist slammed against something less rough. Leather. The punching bag constantly swung back into place. The sound of my skin hitting the raw material made a noise like music.
A girl with bright red hair had joked about that, once.
"Hey, Percy. You ever not working on those muscles?" she asked me, eyeballing my body like it was some sort of machine.
"Not sure, Rachel. Try me on a day that doesn't end in 'y'."
We laughed it off, but the way that her eyes shot glances in my direction sometimes made me feel like there were other things that she wanted to ask.
There was no opposition inside of me when she rested her fingertips on my arms, her hands into my jet-black hair, her words into my ringing ears. There was no opposition to the way she constantly decided to slowly say my name.
But there was no passion. There was no feeling. There was no color within the clouded grey that colored the room of the Long Island Boxing Club. There was my body and Rachel Elizabeth Dare's body.
And then there was the fighter.
She was golden with every step she took. Her hair fell in ringlets across the top of her shoulders. In the split second that she looked at me, her eyes shined with a grey that brought mystery to the dullness.
Today was Wednesday afternoon.
Tomorrow might be less empty.