The Narrative
Disclaimer: I do not own Galactik Football and I make no money from this fanfiction.
Starts during the days of the Akillian Team, before the ice-age.
"Where did you get that?" Artegor asked, running his fingers down the slightly raised line of skin on Aarch's left arm. He'd been wondering about it for ages, ever since he had first seen it when Aarch had rolled his sleeves up in one of their earlier practice sessions, but until he'd never known how to ask, or rather they hadn't been close enough for it to be appropriate (at least in Artegor's mind). But they were close now, as close as two people could be, lying together in bed.
Aarch laughed. "That's Norata's fault…he was supposed to be cutting the flowers but he ended up swiping at me instead. In fairness, he was eight…"
"I see and what about that?" he asked, gesturing to a smaller scar nestled close to the elbow; he might as well start what he finished and he wanted to know everything about Aarch.
"Barbed wire accident, I kicked my ball over old Mr. Collins' fence and I went to retrieve it myself and well…I didn't even get the ball back after all that…" he said, grimacing at the memory, he could still recall the pain he had felt like at the time very clearly.
There was nothing else that Artegor could see to ask about, just the occasional freckle, so the conversation naturally died down. He had no scars of his own; his body was unmarked, blank. It was always a source of shame to him that he had lived such a sheltered life; he was always fascinated to hear about Aarch's childhood, it sounded so much more exciting that his own, everything about Aarch was more interesting.
Months later at the Shadow's Archipelago…
"When did you get that?" Artegor asked, pointing to a large, black and painful looking bruise on Aarch's right shoulder.
Aarch turned so that his back was facing the mirror, craning his neck to see what Artegor was referring too.
"Oh, that. Must be from practice," he said, shrugging. Even with their own teammates the Shadows could be kind of rough. "It doesn't hurt."
It looked to Artegor like it should hurt a fair bit but he knew better than to say so, Aarch had become increasingly argumentative, they both had. He traced the bruises that he, himself, had acquired, realising that they didn't hurt either, (not now anyways, later was a different matter). It never occurred to him to attribute it to the black fumes that coursed through his body on an almost daily basis.
Shrugging, he pulled down his sleeve, leaving with Aarch for their next practice session; it was the two of them and everything was fine. Everything felt fine.
Short and kind of random, I know, I just got the inspiration for this whilst writing that continuation to 'All His Life' that indecisive-ays requested (which I am still working on, don't worry). As ever, reviews are highly appreciated.