Completely random and pointless, I only wrote this because for some morbid reason, blood can be inspirational. Buffy Jai also said I should post and she's usually right about these things

Disclaimer: Nothing.

-Seeing Red-

A growl rumbled in his throat, echoing up from his belly and past his lips. The emergence of the sound set off alarm bells in his head across the way as he witnessed the lunge. It was not supposed to have gotten this far.

They argued, a lot, unnaturally to the point where, outside in the snow, each shoved the other roughly not once but, numerous times. The argument had lost all its value through indignant insults shot back and forth so extremely that its source had been forgotten in a blinding rage. They disagreed beyond petty bickering.

The next thing he knew, through blinking azure orbs, squeezed shut on collision was the dull pain throbbing in his cheek. He had actually punched him on the jaw. There had not been a crack from the joint bones or blood splattering in his spit, though the contusion would surely bruise a faint mauve or blue in no time at all. It was a hard shot.

His anger then bubbled past containing; overflowing as his own calloused hand gingerly cupped his sore bump. Eyes narrowed dangerously, glaring viciously as his attacker with such venom and rage that in a wild, vehement jump, he too attacked.

A balled fist, clenched so tight that his skin was as ivory as the snow itself beneath their feet, swung at the equally infuriated visage, hooking a tender rose lip. He felt nothing from the impact to his knuckles, only the cold dampness of the snow pressed against his neck, or rather, the other way around. Lying back to the ground, breathless, his opponent pinned him down, seconds later.

Fighting back first came to mind, an instinct that he could not deny, though when the surroundings shifted back into focus, a warm patter, but a few droplets dripped on his cheek. Blood from the split lip he caused fell like light rain onto his flesh. He felt no remorse or guilt but could not help but bring his hand up towards the bleeding wound.

Impulses made the injured grab onto the hesitant fingers within his palm, clenching them securely. Yet, it was not enough and against force, he reached upwards rubbing away the crimson, lightly over the gash.

''Izvinit, Boris.'' Yuriy apologized in a ghostly whisper that floated away in the frozen silence along with his breath.

He saw red in his ire, letting it consume his eyes, blinding and veiling. However, the scarlet upon his visage and the other was not the red he intended to see. He was seeing red, the wrong kind of red and…it scared him.

-EndE-

The Russian word shouldn't need a translation but just in case, when directed towards a friend it means Sorry.

Wow, there is no yaoi. Now I'm the scared one...