A/N: I do not own The Cal Leandros novels. They belong to Rob Thurman. All kudos to her. I do not own the song lyrics used to frame this piece.

Strike-throughs were used in this piece to begin with, but FFdotnet deleted them. The parts originally in strike-throughs will thus be rendered in bracketed italics, as [such.]

Strike-throughs are often used in RPG-style writing: they can be used to denote dead-end thoughts, thoughts the character wishes to unthink or thoughts unconscious, actions the character considers but won't go through with, or asides from the writer that are slightly out-of-character.

I'll let you interpret them for yourselves here.

And it is worth the wait, all this killing time?
Are you strong enough to stand
Protecting both your heart and mine?
Who is the betrayer? Who 's the killer in the crowd?
The one who creeps in corridors and doesn't make a sound

My love has concrete feet
My love's an iron ball
Wrapped around your ankles
Over the waterfall

-"Heavy in your Arms," Florence + the Machine [Cal song]

Slap of flesh on flesh, grunts and the thud of blows. Blows blocked and traded, the rapid staccato rhythm of the fight, a breathless curse, the snap and swish of the tail end of one long braid.

[Violence and love wrapped together in the only way we've ever known.]

Duck and dodge, Cal's breath hard through open mouth, grey eyes narrowed, fist flying in through opening. Twist of wrist, mine against his, impact bruising as his strike is knocked away and mine drives true. Fingers into flesh, nerves numbed and he falls away with a snarled curse, retreating even as I follow, a low kick at his knees. He snaps a leg up, twists and the brush of his heel against my throat is dangerous [intimate].

He's getting faster, faster still.

Snap of muscles as I arch and bend, drive in again from a different angle, palm of hand against numb shoulder, and he strikes the inside of my elbow, fingers hooked for a nerve strike, just like he's been taught. The follow-up, a twist and sweeping ankle, and his back bows sharply, palms hitting the matting, and where once his body would follow, instead he lands on his feet and lunges in again, right at my back and shoulder, heel of hand thudding against my ribs. I reach back, arch my shoulder and over he goes, from fighting tense to trusting limp midthrow, and only once he leaves my hands does he come alive again, writhing to land just right.

Across the room and he rolls to his feet, lunges in low and fast. Sweat on his shirt and mine; we've been at this for hours now, measured only in bruises and blows, the ever-shifting tempo of attack-retreat-defense-offense. Back and forth, now dodge and sidestep, kick and block. He feints, I follow, knowing his true line of attack.

We know eachother as no-one else ever will, in these moments of violent intent and concentration. No-one else would know to slide in so close [could ever get so close] fingers against my throat in the barest brush, bodies pressed together for a heartbeat before I throw him and down on the floor we go. He kicks and it thuds home - overbalanced and all the wrong angles and I roll. An elbow thrust down and the breath huffs from his lungs. Up and he is too, mouth wide and gasping for air, but coughing he comes in again, determined and quick.

Better and better, and I strike for his throat now.

Knuckles dust flesh and he twists - then bites down on my forearm.

Flash of pain and he lets go, knee rising to drive into my stomach. I can step back just enough to soften it, not avoid it entirely. A breathless noise of triumph, and the heel of his hand thuds against my chest, right over my heart - but softly, now, a gentle touch. I tangle my legs with his, and down we go again.

But that was a fatal hit. And we both know it.

He lands hard on top of me, bruising bones against flesh, but he's laughing too, bright and clear.

"One for me!" he declares, pulling his head up, dark hair splayed damp across face and lips, unruly as it grows out from the short cut.

"Against eight, little brother," I remind him, but I smile too. He's getting better. One day, we might be on the same level.

Not today.

Yet he's begun to fight with a style both wilder and more deadly. Fingers hooked for nerve-strikes (or like claws) and he bites more often now.

Faster, like when he gates.

But he leans on his elbows, chest-to-chest, smiling and clear grey eyes alight, proud of what he's done. What he's becoming. He'll protect himself, he'll fight to my exacting standards, and he'll survive.

And what can I do but smile back?

We'll fight together, and I'll stay one step ahead.

I'll keep protecting him, for moments like this.

Odyssey on odyssey, and land over land
Creeping and crawling like the sea over sand
Still I follow heartlines on your hand
This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone
Echoes of a city that's long overgrown
Your heart is the only place that I call home
Can I be returned? You can...

Just keep following the heartlines on your hand
Just keep following the heartlines on your hand
Keep it up, I know you can
Just keep following the heartlines on your hand
Because I am...

-"Heartlines," by Florence + the Machine [Niko song]