if we're never together
if i'm never back again
well i swear to god that i'll love you forever
evelyn i'm not coming home tonight
- Against Me!
Young Lions
(1/3)
"Pints of Guinness Make You Strong"
Roy's dreams sent him crashing through the dark some days. Summers were warm here, a muggy thickness that hung damp in the air, weighing heavy on his chest as he lay in bed. He worked long hours on the graveyard shift, couldn't afford to have insomnia. But ghosts from the past always found him in sleep. Sometimes he woke reaching for the hand of a father he could never touch. Other times he woke swinging fists into the wall. The plastic covering of the mattress would stick to his skin, the fabric bed sheet having slipped off with his thrashing.
He went to bed at ten in the morning and was always wide awake by two in the afternoon, staring at the glowing screen of his phone in the shuttered dark of his room. The only messages he got were from creditors.
Friday was his day off. The sale of the dojo had closed. The only thing left to do now was head downtown, where he could pawn off the remnants of his family's dream to a martial arts supply store.
By the end of the day, Roy had cash in his pockets and time to kill. The pubs were open; he was feeling brand new. He had been breaking promises for years, what was one more?
So that was how he found himself, quite honorably, throwing up next to a dumpster in the back alley behind a bar at 2 AM, nursing a swollen cheek and a busted lip. He'd already lost count of the number of places he'd been thrown out of.
Funny how your mouth got your ass into more trouble than your fists.
In another time and place, he would have found something better. He used to hate spending his nights alone, used to go out looking for someone to take home.
But the last time that happened, you ended up with his name tattooed on your chest. He could read it in reverse in the bathroom mirror if you had him bent over far enough on the counter. Hated how quiet he was, but if you were doing it right, he'd brace one hand against the misted glass, eyes meeting yours in the reflection through a veil of dark bangs, a look that made your stomach clench tight because it was the only time he ever looked at you as if anything you were doing actually mattered.
You didn't want his respect, or equality, you wanted his submission.
Rivalries laced with lust are bittersweet that way. They come with a comforting whiskey burn. It punishes you on the way down.
Roy pressed his forehead to the concrete wall, thought about bashing his skull open on it.
One more promise. What did it matter now?
"Looks like you're having a productive night."
He knew that voice. Roy turned around, staggering with the motion, his world lost in the vertigo for a moment before all the pieces settled into place.
"Wha' chu sayin, gramps? It's fucking beautiful out here." That was the drunk within, talking. Roy patted his pockets until he found cigarettes. "But if you're gonna interrupt a guy's business, you oughta at least help him with a light."
A flame flickered to life before him. Roy leaned in with the stick between his lips, inhaled and watched it catch.
"Throwing up is 'business' now?"
"Shut up, Snake."
The man in question shook his head. His eyes slid to the right, to the piled up mess beside the dumpster. "Are they dead?"
"No." Roy counted three pairs of shoes attached to legs. Might have been a fourth hiding underneath his buddies. Roy wasn't too sure. "Or - fuck, maybe? I don't know. You wanna check?"
There was blood on his knuckles. Couldn't recall how it got there.
Fucking hepatitis B. He was gonna get it one day, for sure. Or the goddamn dysentery. He was pretty sure that was how people got dysentery. Fighting with other piss-drunk losers behind a bar.
Snake, good fucking Samaritan Snake, did check to see if they were dead. They must not have been, 'cause when he got up, he didn't seem none too impressed.
"Roy."
"Hm?"
"Have you ever tried not being the master of disaster?"
"Is that a serious question?"
Roughly ten minutes later, they were at a 24 hour gas station, and Roy was emptying his bladder into the world's most disgusting toilet. He had no clue how they got there. When he left the restroom, he was yelling about health code violations.
"You all tryin' ta give people dysentery, or something?"
The old man behind the counter told Roy where he could stick his opinions, and Roy jumped at him, only to be knock down by a bullet-proof glass barrier several inches thick. Snake dragged him out the door. The little bell attached to the door jingled.
"Thanks, Chen." Snake seemed to know the guy.
"Next time, keep the garbage outside!"
"Fuck you!" Roy shouted. "You and your dysentery!"
Two minutes - or maybe twenty minutes - later, Roy was cradling his head over a cup of black coffee and a plate of bacon he didn't remember ordering. Seriously, who ordered a plate of nothing but bacon? Someone had taken a bite out of each strip and arranged the pieces so that they spelled out his name.
The diner ran all night. Only a few other tables were occupied. Weird to have the place so quiet on a Friday night. All the bars and clubs tended to empty out into the diners; that was how shit worked in Roy's world.
"Was gonna ask how you've been," Snake said, "but it looks like I already have the answer."
"Does it bother you that your voice sounds like a bag of rocks trying to fuck itself?"
"I'm sure that sounded funnier in your head."
"You should stop smoking. Who ordered all this bacon?"
"You did."
"Seriously? Game & Watch works here?" Roy took a piece of bacon off the plate and started nibbling on it.
Snake nodded calmly, as if the noise coming out of Roy's mouth made perfect sense.
"You got work, Roy? Money to pay the bills?"
"Yeah, I got work."
"Doing what?"
"Electronics. It's totally legit this time."
"Pays the rent?"
Roy shrugged. He pulled out a small hard-case object, about the size of a phone, and set it down on the table. "We make these."
Snake picked it up and examined it.
"What is it?"
"You play games on it, you idiot."
"Most phones can do that too."
Roy snatched it back. "Yeah, whatever."
His job was an assembly line position. The doctors said that it was the root cause of the chronic pain in his hands. He took painkillers for it. Of course, alcohol worked just as well. They had suggested that he find a job that didn't involve fine motor hand manipulations. But he'd never heard of a job that didn't involve use of the hands.
No matter what the job, work always wore down some part of the body.
"I see."
"Yeah, you see."
"Nothing ever changes for you, does it?"
"What are you, my therapist?"
"You're still stuck in the past. You can't let go of it."
All Roy could do was let out a bitter laugh. "The fuck do you know about it? Huh? Such a fucking tough guy. Big man. Soldier. You beat all your enemies, right? You work for politicians in powerful countries, playing the little guys like puppets. You go into any place and stir up trouble. If there's a tyrant you got in your pocket, you keep him in power. To hell with the people he's got locked up in the dungeons. If he's not your guy, you raise a rebellion against him. You go in and promise people you'll help them stand up, but when the war really heats up, you lose your balls and bail the fuck out, tail between your legs, to hell with your fucking allies. Guys like you just piss me off. You're not a fucking hero, not even a tough guy. Guys like you are two-faced cowards. The fuck do you know about my fucking past?"
Something flickered in the old soldier's eyes, something dangerous, and if he had jumped up and clocked Roy in that moment, Roy would have known what it meant, that the words had hit, had hurt. Roy would have claimed victory in that case, even if it'd earned him a concussion.
But Snake didn't move for a while. Finally, he said, "I knew your father, Roy. I knew your mother too."
"You abandoned them, their countries, and their cause, so it don't matter what you think you know. You're not entitled to jack shit from me."
"Those are big words coming from someone who's never been tested." Snake's voice didn't rise. Its tone remained calm. "You've never seen your parents' war."
That wasn't true. But the fact that Snake said it meant that the soldier didn't know everything. Roy grinned recklessly, in spite of himself.
"They told me enough."
Roy clutched his head in his hands. A headache had started up.
Something slid across the table towards him. Roy glanced at the screen of Snake's phone. Moving images. Phone camera footage. Volume muted.
"That's live," Snake said. "There's been a popular uprising in the capitol."
Roy shrugged. "That's been going on for years. Those poor kids don't have a chance."
Snake measured him with eyes that revealed nothing. "You talk big, but can you back it up?"
Roy glared at him.
"Tell me something, Roy. Is this the life you wanted for yourself? Working twelve hour shifts on the assembly line, breaking your hands to make toys, renting month to month at a motel. And then getting shit-faced by yourself on your days off and brawling low-lives in some back alley. You think your parents would be proud of what you made of your life?"
A cagey aggression started to take over, one that made Roy's palms sweat and his shoulders shake. "Hey, asshole, don't talk about my family like you were close with 'em, 'cause you weren't."
Snake leaned back, completely at ease. "I know you think you take after your father, but really, you are your mother's son." He picked up his own mug of coffee and took a casual sip. "Eliwood eventually let go of his dreams of liberating his homeland. At least in public. Your mother, on the other hand, never compromised."
Roy didn't counter that statement. He knew it was true.
"And your mother's name is being shouted on the streets of the capitol today."
Roy sneered. "Let the Lycians fight their own goddamn war. My father's heir is still alive, isn't he?"
"Officially, your father has no heir."
"And unofficially?"
"They'll call you. Because of the alliance your mother helped negotiate. The blood oath her descendants must live by."
Roy had the urge to punch the other man so hard it'd knock the beard off his face.
Indifferent to Roy's agitation, Snake continued with the sagely advice. "The rage you've felt all your life, Roy - you inherited it from your mother. It's going to boil over eventually and destroy everything in its path unless you do something about it. Your father wanted you to take it out on the stage, in orchestrated mock battles for public entertainment. But you never were very good at it, and your mother raised you for something else."
"I don't fight anymore, Snake."
The old soldier finished his coffee. "This wasn't a social call, Roy, but I think even you have it figured out by now." He set down the empty cup. "A position just opened up in the company I work for. Whenever you finally decide it's time to grow up and fulfill your obligations, you know how to reach me. Just keep in mind we're working with a restricted window of opportunity."
The man stood to leave. Roy averted his glare to the world outside, to the streets barely lit by street lamps. Everything looked like a mirage.
And Snake said, "Don't you think it's time to finish your parents' war?"
"Not my fight, gramps. Not my war."
The soldier considered him with a weighted look. "The uprising didn't start in Lycia," he said.
"It started in Sacae."
The only other person in the assembly department shorter than Roy was the guy he roomed with. And Roy never made fun of him for it, just in case Mac had issues with being short, the way Roy had issues with being short. Part of the reasoning had to do with the fact that Mac was built like a bulldog but sprinted like a greyhound and Roy wasn't sure he could dodge those fists if they ever came his way. But Mac had no bad temper. If anything, he was enthusiastically friendly enough to the point that Roy almost wanted to start shit with him just for the fuck of it.
They worked the same shift. Mac was always up when the alarm went off, like he had springs in his feet, punching the top bunk to keep Roy from rolling over and pulling the sheet over his head. And he made so much noise getting ready in their tiny room that Roy couldn't fall back asleep even if he wanted to (most of the time he wanted to).
His incessant talking kept Roy awake through their 3:30 AM snack breaks, when Roy downed his second energy drink of the night, trying to keep his eyes open. Not easy, even under the fluorescent glare of the break room, where workers gathered at lopsided tables to share vending machine food and watch whatever was on TV. A small group stood out in the parking lot under a plastic tent, rain or shine, puffing away at cigarettes. Sometimes, Roy joined them. Mac, being a good guy, tagged along to keep Roy company, even though he held his breath most of the time.
"Sorry!" the others kept saying if the secondhand drifted his way. They knew he was a runner.
After work, he and Roy split ways on the ride home, with Mac getting off the bus a couple stops early to go to the gym. Mac spent a lot of time there. Roy used to.
One night, when they weren't working, Roy dozed on the top bunk while Mac held a pretty one-sided conversation from the lower one. Mac had used the employee discount to get one of the company's games off the bargain rack. He played it now on Roy's handheld. The light of the screen hit the wall in an otherwise dark room, and Roy noticed something taped up there. A poster. He turned toward it, squinting his eyes to be sure. He couldn't make out the details, but he caught the shape of a familiar logo.
From below, Mac was saying, "I just don't get how Jigglypuff only evolves once into Wigglytuff, but then Pichu evolves twice. Like, does that even make sen - "
"Mac."
"Yap."
"Where'd you get that poster?"
"Huh?" From below, the sound of weight shifting. "Oh yeah, they were giving those away at the gym."
"Huh."
"Yeah. You want one? I could probably grab one tomorrow."
"Nah. So, you a Smash fan or something?"
"Yeah! See, there's something my trainer taught me. If you got a goal, you oughta put up little reminders, things you can see, so you don't lose track or get distracted. Like, you wanna new bike? Find the one you like, print out a picture, and put it up where you can see it. Wanna take an expensive trip somewhere? See the sights? Same thing. That way, it stays fresh in your mind."
"So, you wanna go to a Smash Tournament."
"Yeah, but not as a spectator, man. There's only one way you really wanna go to a Smash Tournament."
"Oh."
"That's what I'm training for, man! That's why... Like, you ever hear about the underground? For fighters, I mean."
"Yeah, I heard of it."
"I been there a few times. Haven't fought. Yet. But, you know, there's a rumor that the Smash Bros. recruit outta there. Don't know if it's true or not, could just be rumors, but still, could be true."
Roy released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, pictured wisps of cigarette smoke escaping his blackening lungs and floating up into the darkness like the funeral incense he lit for his parents twice a year.
He said, "That ain't a rumor, dude, that's real."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"Haha! That's great! Maybe, I could win a couple matches and get noticed."
"You don't have to win," Roy said. "All you have to do...is fight."
"Yeah? You sure about that?"
"I know." Roy closed his eyes. Pictured his soul escaping out of his body and floating off to the place where smoke went when the candle burned out, where dreams went when the dreamer woke up, where kings and warrior-queens went when nations fell.
"So I was watching this thing," Mac said, "some documentary, about where these obscure martial arts come from. So I guess, there are places out there where people still live like the old, old days you see in movies. They's hardly got any tech at all. They hunt animals, forage their own food, and basically they live like nomads. The country is beautiful out there. All open plains and wild. And so I was thinking, hypothetically speaking, if you could go live out there for the rest of your life, would you? Just walk away from modern life, go back to the old ways. How you think that'd be?"
Roy opened his eyes to the dark. A familiar pain started up in his fingers again.
"Sure," he said to Mac, "the place is beautiful, and every one in five births dies within the first year. You got no vaccines, no running water, no heat in winter. You also got no education or jobs besides herding and growing poppies. And plains land is hard to defend from invaders. The terrain offers no resistance. Armies march in and do what they want. You wanna push 'em back, it'll cost ya. So you spend a lot of time running, fighting skirmishes, using sneak attacks, but you're always running. Eventually, they'll come in and set up shop and there ain't nothing you can do. Just learn ta live with it, I guess. And over time, all the young people start leaving to find jobs in the big cities and they forget about their families, their traditions. Who wants to die a herder? Or a poppy farmer?"
Mac chuckled. "Well, since you put it that way, sounds kinda rough. Always figured you for a realist, Roy."
Something was burning behind Roy's eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. He said, "But you know what? Those people never questioned why they were alive. They just lived. And they rained hellfire on anyone who tried to take that life from them. If they needed a leader, someone stepped up. If a leader needed soldiers, they stepped up, all those common folks from the villages. If someone tried to take what was theirs, they fought to the last one standing. They may not have had indoor plumbing, but they never lived long enough to go paralyzed and senile and die attached to a machine.
"You ever take a good look at the shit that goes on in this city? Ever see the crazy people out in the streets trying ta stop traffic, druggies bashing old people until their skulls bust open, mothers threatening to kill themselves because the government took away their kids. You ever wonder what the fuck is wrong with us out here? Half of us ain't living, not really, we're just surviving. But we don't even know what for anymore. Whatever those people had back then, whatever it was that gave them direction in life, we lost it now. Like someone pulled the plug on us but we're still wandering around, aimless, like drones on autopilot. I don't even know sometimes."
Roy stopped, waiting for a reply. But all he heard from below was the soft sound of snoring.
"Asshole," he hissed, eyes burning with tears that refused to fall. "You're the one that brought it up in the first place."
She wore a long overcoat, despite the warm weather. Her hair was dark and sleek, reaching nearly down to her waist. But what had Roy's attention was the cylindrical carrying case on her back. She had a solid grip on the leather strap, slung over her shoulder, even as she eased casually onto a bar stool next to Mac at DK's. Security should have checked it, but most likely they thought it was a yoga mat or some new fashion trend in women's purses or something.
The shoulders of her coat were patched with a sword academy's insignia. She could only have been an elite fencer.
Mac's grin widened. "Ya made it!"
"Good evening, Mac."
Mac turned to Roy. "This is the girl I was tellin' ya about!"
With that, Roy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He recognized those academy stripes. Mac had no chance with this one, whether he knew it or not. None at all.
"This is my roommate," Mac was telling the girl. "Lucina, meet Roy."
She extended a hand. Roy took it. Her grip was strong, and when he tried to match it, he felt a jolt of pain through his fingers, one that he hid beneath a mask of indifference.
"Nice to meet you," she said.
Roy nodded. "The same."
The crowd at DK's was denser than usual. They were there to watch some blond kid with a funny sword get his ass ripped off by Megaman on pay-per-view. Sounded fun in theory, but Roy wanted to run from the place. He wasn't anywhere near drunk enough for this. It wasn't his scene anymore, and he couldn't face its ghost sober.
At least the pre-fight fights offered some entertainment as Roy pondered his drink options.
While the Iceclimbers slammed Wario back and forth in a brazen and bizarre game of mallet hockey, Lucina moved her chair to squeeze in between Roy and Mac. With Mac pre-occupied by the ongoing match, Lucina leaned closer to Roy so she could be heard over the noise of the crowd.
"You're Lord Eliwood's son, aren't you?"
Roy downed the shot in his hand before he had time to think about things. He met her eyes.
"Who's asking?"
"I am, of course."
"Let me rephrase that. Why?"
She inclined her head, an informal bow. Her eyes shone like a killing edge. "I want to learn the Pharae sword style."
Roy laughed out loud. It caught Mac's attention.
"All good, buddy?"
"I'm buying your girl a drink. Don't read anything into it."
Lucina perked up. "Do they have mead?"
As it turned out, Shulk held his own against the crowd favorite. The match went to sudden death, wherein Megaman fell victim to a ridiculously far-reaching counter. The patrons at DK's booed.
"Yeah!" Roy shouted, fist in the air.
"You were rooting for that guy?" Mac asked, genuinely confused.
"Nah, just felt like being an asshole." On the big screen, Shulk held a victory pose for the camera, oblivious to the hate thrown his way.
Gradually, the crowd thinned out. The three of them stayed at the bar.
"You gotta figure that's how things were gonna work out," Mac said. "I mean, the guy had a sword."
"Mega had the gun," Roy pointed out. "You never bring a knife to a gun fight. That defies logic."
"The range on that counter is exceptional," Lucina mused.
Roy shrugged. "It's useful, I guess."
Lucina turned to him. "Is it true that the Pharae sword style is the only effective counter to the Altean sword style?"
Roy almost fell over laughing. "No."
"What is then?"
"Guns."
Lucina didn't seem impressed.
"Arrows and missiles work too," Roy added.
"I was thinking with regards to sword techniques."
Roy shook his head. The buzz he had going made it okay to talk. "The Altean style is adaptive. It has an answer to almost every other sword style out there. Most masters would say though that the modern Altean school is going to best the traditional school in just about every scenario. There's really only one practitioner of the traditional Altean style who can use it at the professional level. And that's only 'cause he's superhuman. After him, there won't be any others."
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
Roy sighed and ordered another round. "Because they don't train anyone else that way anymore, the way we used to train."
"Are you dissatisfied with the new generation of sword students?"
"Nah. It ain't that. The traditional style is hard to use. You hafta condition yourself for it in a way that most people would find too much, if you get my meaning. It came from a time when the art of the sword broke you down and remade you. It owned you. Back in the day, the masters of the art lived for nothing else. That's too much commitment to expect of students these days."
Lucina contemplated her drink for a moment. She said to him, "I practice the modern Altean sword style."
"Then you're not gonna need anything else."
"There's a chance," she said, "that I could face the last living master of the traditional style in the professional arena."
Roy's eyes fell again to the academy patches on her shoulder. "Congratulations."
'"I feel that I need to find some sort of special technique, something to neutralize his strengths."
"Pharae techniques ain't gonna help."
Lucina became silent, thoughtful.
"You sword people are losing me!" Mac cried.
"Drink more!" Roy fired back. "Shit makes more sense that way."
"This guy!" Mac nudged Lucina. "His family was in the business. Get him to train with ya!"
"That was the plan," she said, pulling a rueful face. "But he's not taking me up on that."
"Hey." Mac leaned in toward her, as if they were sharing a secret. But he'd had a few beers already, and what he thought was a discreet whisper didn't come out that way. "Pay him for lessons. The only people who call him these days are creditors. Sad story. He inherited the family business from his parents but couldn't make any money from it, had to sell it. Now he's flat broke with an ass-load of gambling debt and his wife left him. Help a brother out, wouldja?"
Roy growled. "God fucking damn it, Mac..."
"I am sorry to hear that," Lucina said. "I didn't know you were married."
"I wasn't, he just made that part up."
"The rest of it was true!"
"Shut up, Mac."
Lucina pointed the boxer toward a glass of water. He followed her lead like a wobbly puppy. Then Lucina turned to Roy, whispering in his ear, "Does he know you were in Smash Bros?"
Roy shook his head.
Lucina silently mouthed the next word, "Why?"
Roy looked away. "When you explain something you have to relive it."
"So you guys gonna do it?" Mac asked brightly.
Lucina nodded in Roy's direction. "Name your price," she said.
The look in her eyes made him think of his mother's the day they went to war.
Mac raised his drink in the air. "To the smashing!"
Lucina raised hers, and after a moment, Roy followed suit.
Mac meant to toast, but when he thrust his glass towards theirs, he did it with all his enthusiasm. And Mac was all enthusiasm. All three glasses shattered on impact, dusting the bar top with broken shards.
Lucina had the decency to look somewhat appalled. Mac began apologizing profusely to the bartender. Roy fell off his stool, laughing so hard he almost threw up.
He looked up at his companions from the floor. He could feel the stupid grin taking shape on his face.
"Let's do this," he said. And meant it.
Then, as he watched, a few more glass shards slipped off the edge of the bar. Roy followed their trajectory with his eyes. They hit the floor dangerously close to his head, but he didn't care. On the way down, they had seemed to glitter, as bright as diamonds.
and in his wallet she kept on her nightstand
an a.a. card and a lock of red hair
she kept secrets of pride locked so tight in her heart
it killed a part of her before the rest was gone
