Fine Lines
Disclaimer: I do not own Galactik Football and I make no money from this fanfiction.
Lot's of back and forth time-skippy-ness in this fic (been having a nightmare with lines separating the sections not showing up, I hope it's fixed now though); I hope it's not too hard to follow.
Warning for some implied child abuse.
"Where did you get these?" Aarch asks, tracing his fingertips down the marks on Artegor's face, wearing a smile that's half flirtatious-half curious.
Artegor merely shakes his head, he's not telling him that story, especially not now he's got him so intrigued- it doesn't do to reveal all of your secrets.
Artegor closes his eyes, all he can feel is the warmth of the sunlight in the stuffy room, and it was just too hard to fight to stay awake. He has just a few blissful moments before he's jolted out of the start of slumber, by this father slamming a book down on the desk in an infuriated manner.
"Pay attention; I'm trying to teach you a lesson," he orders, brusquely.
Artegor nods, head bowed in submission. He can't stand these lessons; never could. Although he's far from ordinary, he's still a ten year old boy; he'd still rather be out playing football than listening to one of his father's endless moralising lectures.
It was rare his father took an interest in him, he wasn't often around, but when he did then he had better be fully concentrating. There were consequences for not respecting your elders; Artegor had learnt that lesson through experience, his father was a better teacher when he wasn't speaking.
His father fixes him with a steely glare, the warning apparent, before continuing.
"The world is covered in fine lines, literally speaking there are theories regarding ley lines, but morally speaking there are lines everywhere that represent a choice- to cross over and never come back, or to wait there. Once you cross the line, you start on a path it becomes a slippery slope, it's almost impossible to turn back. That's why there has to be a line in the sand. Are you following?"
Artegor nods, vigorously, although he's not entirely sure he does. Once again his father is paraphrasing his favourite philosopher in a way that made very little sense to anyone, yet alone someone as young as him.
'There are lines on a football pitch,' he thinks, idly, although he knows that's not what his father means.
He misses a good chunk of the lecture daydreaming about football, only realising this at end- luckily it looked like he was paying attention.
"In conclusion, Artegor, err on the side of caution- self restraint is admirable in a man," his father finishes, much to Artegor's relief.
There's a third nod- a serious one, as if he had taken the lesson to heart.
"You may go now," his father dismisses him with an imperious motion of the hand.
He walks slowly out of his father's study, resting the urge to run, a model of self-discipline.
It was weird, although he thought that his father's speeches were nothing but pseudo-philosophy and completely meaningless, the concept of crossing lines that stayed with him- possibly because ignoring boundaries had become a specialty of his.
He's seventeen years of age, and no longer cowering in the shadow of his father, a lop-sided, arrogant grin on his face. He strides onto the pitch, possessed with sneaky self-confidence, knowing already that he'll make the team. He's not looking to speak to anyone and yet..
"I'm Aarch," a voice says, a voice attached to a boy.
"Artegor."
It's weird (he's never been one to rush) but Artegor thinks he's just made his first friend.
"The Smog is changing you, can't you see it?" Aarch asks, it's not the first time he's tried to broach the subject.
He doesn't want to sound like a broken record, the same lines repeating over and over, but every time he attempts to talk to Artegor about it he just shuts him down.
"Yes- it's made me stronger and faster, why wouldn't you want that?"
"Faster and stronger isn't the problem, you know that," Aarch shakes his head.
"We made our choice; we're Shadows now."
"I know," Aarch says, consoling himself with the fiction that they'd be the greatest players ever, when all he really wants to do is to go home.
Aarch laughs into his hand, leaning over the side of the balcony; it's a night filled with alcohol and celebration and it just seems like life can't get any better than this.
"You know if we win the next game against the Shadows we'll go to the final sixteen?" Aarch asks, smiling lazily, it's the third time he's said it that night, it's like he can't quite believe it himself.
"What do you mean 'if'? We'll win," Artegor states and shivers slightly as Aarch puts a friendly arm on his shoulder.
He closes his eyes, revelling in having Aarch so close to him, feeling his skin buzzing in response to the faintest touch. He opens them again to find Aarch still smiling; he tries to smile back, but he can't because he's drowning in this moment.
"What's wrong?" Aarch asks, he can be occasionally perceptive, just as Artegor can be occasionally emotionally transparent.
He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, tongue-tied. He's just right there, just so close, close enough that a single movement would result in a kiss.
"Artegor?" he persists in response to the silence.
Artegor knows he has a choice, he's backed down so many times before, and it seems almost criminal to do it again. The lines between friendship and love were blurred in his head a long time ago and he makes it flesh by pressing his mouth to Aarch's own.
This had been his end goal for so long, so now he's here he doesn't know what will happen, where they will go from here.
He's both unsettled and enthralled; he looks out at Akillian and it seems ripe for the taking- for the two of them.
'There's a fine line between love and hate'- he's heard it enough times but he never really understood what it meant- until now. He's never loved anyone the way he loved Aarch; he's never hated anyone like him either. He's no stranger to negativity but it's never been so personal, never been so painful.
Aarch left days ago but it's only really sinking in now- that all his plans were laid to waste, that he had really gone for good.
He gasps, it feels like a struggle to breathe, he's too full of rage and wispy tendrils of Smog wrapping itself around his organs, his heart. For a second he's afraid, afraid of himself. He almost considers taking Aarch's advice- to leave the Shadows.
But he shakes it off and by the time he's left the room he has a new purpose- to get his bittersweet revenge on Aarch, by any means possible.
And as he strides out he walks all over the lines in the sand leaving nothing more than a mess.
That's it for this fic; it's kind of a different style for me so I'm not sure how good it is. It was originally just going to be like a drabble but somehow it just got longer; it was fun to write anyways (I know I wasn't exactly subtle with my theme in this fic). Please review; I'd love any feedback you could give me!