Like Tea and Coffee

by Middy Miles

High school is rough for anyone–homework and drama aside. Now try being the new girl at a formerly all-boys school. Or worse–a murdered noble's son, on the run from a civil war in his own country, who has to stay undiscovered at all costs. So combine these two teenagers, fencing meets, outside motives, and conflicting interests, and, well, it's like trying to mix tea and coffee.

16. Are You Nervous, Alek?

A/N: I am absolutely ashamed of how long it's taken me to update. There's no excuse for it, but my excuse is that my life has been totally crazy. We're not just talking homework; this is the works. Musical practice, work, jazz band competitions, track practice and everything else under the sun I could get myself into. So, I'm sorry that I've made you wait so long, and I'm forever in your debt if you still happen to be reading this fic.

Also, it's necessary to note that there is exactly one chapter and an epilogue left in Like Tea and Coffee. I won't be posting the last chapter until I have the epilogue written, so you don't have a long, awful gap between the two; they need to be read close together. The world should stop spinning so fast after next weekend, so maybe I'll have some free time.

And sorry for the really long Author's Note. And the long chapter, but that might be a good thing.

Water is a fascinating thing–it's been revered by cultures and religions for as far back as human history extends. What's so captivating about it, I think, is it's ability to create change. Take the ripple effect, for example: a single drop of water–one event, one moment–hits a pristine surface, and it changes everything.

But what if it's not just one drop? What if it is part of a rainstorm, and there are hundreds–thousands–of drops all hitting the surface at the same time, all creating their own ripples that collide with each other? Don't they crash together and create utter chaos, or is it possible that they could combine and become a single, giant ripple that soaks everything in its path?

I suppose, though, that none of that matters. When the storm ends and all the individual ripples fade away, the lakes and the puddles will all settle back into and immaculate mirror of stillness, as if nothing had ever changed.

And then it will wait, motionless, for another raindrop to dare disturb its peace.

The water drips off my hand as I lift it from the tub, blurring the image of my legs and focusing the idea that I've been procrastinating too long already. I run the hand through my hair, freshly shaved close to my head for the occasion, and the feeling triggers something in my memory.

Deryn's hands on the back of my head as we kissed properly for the first time.

To be completely honest, I think having to wait so long to kiss Deryn has made it even better, because every touch is a thrill, and it's nearly impossible to think of anything else with the feel of her hand in mine. It's like we've crammed a year's worth of time together into the last two weeks, and they've been some of the best in my life.

Which is ironic, considering my parents are dead, my country is at war, and my life is in very real danger. What's worse, I've known from the start that everything I have here would disappear after today, because tomorrow Edward Malone will publish his story. And by that time, my men and I will be long gone.

I shake the thought off and stand, reaching for the towel I've hung over the sink and drying myself off slowly. Once it's wrapped securely around my waist, I sit on the edge of the draining bathtub and hold my t-shirt in my hands. It's my gym shirt, washed last night after I cleaned everything out of my locker at school. It seemed right to wear it today, to commemorate how I've gone everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

It is a plain gray crew neck, the sleeves cropped shorter than the other few t-shirts I own. My fingers bunch in the fabric, turning it into nothing more than a mass of wrinkles as I press it to my face and breathe in deeply. The garment is completely devoid now of the scent of anything but laundry detergent, and I almost miss the reek of sweat that clung to it like a memory.

Like sitting in a locker room, preparing myself for a fencing match that was the result of nothing more than my own stupidity. But then again, I've never been the best at keeping my head low; pride keeps it up higher than is strictly comfortable. So here I sit again, sliding my arms into the sleeves of this t-shirt like I have any choice in the matter.

I pull my head through the collar and settle it on my shoulders. Then I unfold my jeans absently, considering all the duels I've won–and lost–since coming here just a handful of months ago. That first week, matching my skills against Matt's in the gym at Leviathan, and then at Colchester days later, and every one since then. Oddly, it's not the fencing I remember so much as everything that surrounded it. The excitement, the worry, the need to stay invisible and the moment when I threw that need away for the sake of the team.

Now all of those things slam into me at once, and it strikes me that I've gone in a complete circle in my time here–my first fencing match was at Leviathan, and so will be my last. The school is hosting the regional tournament this year.

A lot has changed.

And yet–nothing at all.

Because when I leave, the ripples my presence has created will settle, and the people here will go back to their lives as though I had never disturbed them in the first place.

I gnaw on my lip nervously, but then dismiss the action as hunger and wander to the kitchen. It looks like the rest of the flat, stripped of any sign that we were ever here. The cabinets have been wiped clean of everything except a box of granola bars that will serve as all our breakfasts this morning.

We won't even be making a detour back to the flat on our way to the train station after the tournament today. It's difficult to grasp the idea of leaving now–I'm used to living in London, going to school and doing homework, fencing on the weekends–but I'll have to all the same. We'll go somewhere else for a while, but Count Volger suspects that Austria will soon be stable enough to return and begin peace negotiations. That notion is almost as tough to absorb.

All that fighting–how has any of it been worth it? All those people who've died, lost their homes and their happiness, how could you possibly weigh the price of that against the tantalizing scent of change?

And there it is again; change. We watch for it eagerly, waiting for its wheels to turn so we can revolve around it, but rarely is someone brave enough to start the machine themselves. The fear that all it will do is spill some water is crushing, lingered over by the chance that it will dry up and leave nothing but a sour thirst behind.

With a hard swallow, I peel open the wrapper on the granola bar and lean one elbow on the counter. The apartment is eerily quiet this early in the morning because I am the only one awake. I don't need to be up this early, of course, but I couldn't sleep anyway. It seemed a better use of my time to get up and try to come to terms with the idea of leaving under the influence of a warm bath. But now it's just lonely and dark and still, the way it always is before the sun comes up.

And as the first rays peek through the window over the sink, they catch in dust motes and the truth. In the light, it sparkles too brilliantly to look at directly. So instead I press my palms against the cool countertop and look away, chewing vigorously on the granola bar. When I swallow, I've no choice but to dart a glance toward it, and once I see it I can't manage to tear my eyes away.

Because the truth is that I don't want to leave.

What I want more than anything is to stay here. I want to take my girlfriend on a date at a nice restaurant and not be tormented by the possibility that my food has been poisoned. I want my biggest worries to be passing my next pre-calculus exam and auditioning for the school musical. I want to care about the day-to-day weather more than I do about politics, concerned with avoiding puddles more than assassins.

But I can already feel the water here settling, my drop's ripple of presence worn out and ready to disappear. Soon all that will be left of me in this place is my reflection as I am forced to walk away and let it forget I was ever here.

I crush the wrapper in my fist, fighting to keep my breath steady, and blink as a drop of water explodes silently on the the countertop. The hard surface stands impervious to the impact like nothing has happened to it at all.

I avert my gaze hastily, avoiding the image of the other tears that fall, and force myself to believe that the droplets are only from my hair, which must still be wetter than I thought.

---

"...Alek? Are you listening to me?"

"What?" I ask, startled. Newkirk gives me the darkest look he can muster, which isn't intimidating in the least. "Sorry, but not really."

He huffs out a complaint about how he's trying to be helpful and fidgets in his suit. His hands flutter around the school-colored tie he's put on just for this occasion, as loud and over-dressed as the rest of his outfit. It matches his excitement, though, and manages to tug a smile out of me when I see him.

"So when did you stop listening?"

I shrug. "You should probably just start from the beginning."

With a dramatic sigh, he lifts a hand and begins ticking off facts on his fingers. "You are at the Regional Fencing Tournament. You are a finalist. Your opponent is Aaron Mitchell, known to most as the Behemoth–"

"Okay, skip over all that."

He places a finger over his lips to silence me and continues talking. "–and the winner of this match will be the champion and get a really cool trophy to put in the display case at school." Newkirk pauses for the briefest of moments to flick up the last finger, which happens to be his thumb. "And if you don't win, I will kill you personally."

"I've told you before that you give awful motivational speeches, haven't I?"

"Yes. Now, I've done my research on this kid. He attends Ealing Independent College as a twelfth year, and has won the regional tournament two out of the three years he's competed. The lad's been fencing since the wee age of nine and likes to eat spaghetti with Alfredo, not red sauce. A vegetarian, he is."

My eyes widen. "What?"

"He has a blog," Newkirk explains. "It's an interesting read, really. He also–Alek, stopping going daft on me, this is important!"

I blink and tear my gaze away from a jittery American reporter long enough to reply, "I don't think the boy's eating habits are an entirely pressing matter."

Newkirk takes in a breath to argue, but then bites his lip and shrugs. "Fair enough."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him gesture wildly in an explanation of some fencing technique, but I can't seem to focus on him. I know I should, but my eyes are glued to the image of Edward Malone, scurrying around and doing his reporting like he isn't about to ruin someone's life.

Anger wells inside my chest, sending fire down my arms and clenching my hands into fists. He's the reason I have to leave. If he wasn't such a slimy, loudmouthed–

I take a deep breath, because even if the man is a deplorable human being, this is not his fault. He may be ready to announce my presence here to the entirety of London, but I'd have been fooling myself if I ever thought I could stay hidden indefinitely.

If Volger had, under any other circumstance, allowed me to stay and compete this long, we would still be leaving. Tricky reporter or not, the televised nature of the Regional Fencing Tournament would have ensured that.

The cameras buzz around like giant flies, tethered to the gym floor by their operators. I avoid them as much as I can, although I'm certain they've spotted me numerous time, fencing and not.

I have to wonder if anyone behind a television set has noticed me yet. I've been more that lucky so far, in a small private school with limited public exposure, but now an unimaginable number of people will have seen my face. I can't stay here after this.

"You got that?" comes Newkirk's voice, slightly out of breath.

I blink, nodding. "Yeah, sure. Um–could you go get me some water?"

With a suspicious frown, he darts off like a spring-loaded businessman, tie flapping over one shoulder. I sigh with relief and slump down onto one of the benches scattered around the perimeter of the gym, rubbing a hand over my face.

"Do you want me to rub your shoulders or something?"

I look up instantly, a smile pulling at my mouth. Just her voice is enough to scatter the darkness, and seeing her is almost too dazzling to stand. "Don't mock me," I chide with a small laugh, knowing she's reminding me of her first fencing meet, when I awkwardly offered to do the same for her. "Come sit next to me for a while."

Deryn quirks a grin and lowers herself onto the bench, and her hand fits as comfortably around my shoulder as mine does around her waist. I take a sideways glance at her, ponytail and t-shirt and faded sweatpants as beautiful as anything I've seen, and suddenly my throat dries up and I can't form words. They aren't enough to describe this feeling.

"I brought you some water," she says, producing a bottle from the pocket of her sweatpants and offering it to me.

I accept the bottle and twist off the cap with one hand, taking a long drink. "I just sent Newkirk after some, actually. He doesn't know what to do with himself today, what with the team doing so well. Coach Wrathbone, too. It's actually kind of funny to watch."

Deryn's eyes follow my hand as I try to screw the cap back on with one arm still wrapped around her waist. Finally she takes pity on me and serves as my other hand, muttering an obscure quote regarding teamwork as we settle the cap into place.

"Are you nervous, Alek?" asks Deryn quietly after a breath of silence.

I study the bleachers and the floor, teeming with spectators that seem to cover up all the familiarity of the gym. It's impossible to believe that just yesterday I had practice here, cleaned out my locker, and mulled over what will happen to the team when I leave, entirely without warning. The season will be finished after today, so my loss won't hurt them. And next year, Matt will resume his position as the sole team captain gladly, I'm sure, ready to strike my fake name from any record.

He's kept quite a distance from me since Wrathbone added me as co-captain two weeks ago, which I'm certainly fine with. I haven't seen him at all today aside from watching him fence out of the corner of my eye. But I like that better–I want to remember today with a smile, not with a sour taste in my mouth.

"Yes," I admit. "But not of this." I gesture helplessly at the piste in the center of the gym, the only one left after they've cleared off the rest in preparation for the final bout. "This is easy. I can see this, feel this. I can control it because I know what it is. But after this–I don't know if winning is even a possibility."

Deryn squeezes my shoulder, shaking me just a little. "Hey, focus on this, right now. This is something you can win. I know it."

I nod, shutting my eyes tight. "You're right." My resolve hardens into stone. I won't let myself lose this bout.

I have to win this because I'm losing everything else.

The judge's voice calls the competitors to the piste, and I stand up stiffly with Deryn by my side. She reaches for both of my hands and wraps her own around them. Hers are several shades darker with fingernails bitten to stubs, and I can feel the callouses that have formed on her palms through her own fencing practice. They match mine now.

We hold our hands together tensely and the silence of understanding passes between us. Our eyes meet, and with a mutual nod I turn away, ready as I'll ever be for this bout.

I stride to the edge of the piste and the behemoth joins me shortly. Without a word, we walk to the center of the long strip, and Edward Malone's voice announces us. We shake hands and retreat to our respective sides to be attached to the electronic scoring system.

Newkirk has reappeared, a water bottle left forgotten in the pocket of his slacks, and he hands me my fencing gloves. I slip them on as a volunteer worker attaches the wires in my suit to the connecting reel, and then clip the foil into the system once it's been handed to me. I let the grip settle into my palm, by now so used to it's weight that it could be a part of me.

At the moderator's command, Mitchell and I salute each other. He's a good bit taller than I am, with bowl-cut dark hair that looks like a shell and olive skin. His features are all just slightly exaggerated–broad nose, thick ears that stick out from his head, and a wide mouth. I would expect his eyes to be cold, because he is supposed to be my enemy, at least until we've finished this bout, but his grin extends to them and gives them a warm, brown light.

After testing our foils' sensors, we pull on our face masks, and suddenly the boy disappears, replaced by any other faceless opponent. I settle into the en garde position.

"Prêts?" the referee calls. "Allez!"

And so we begin.

The behemoth wastes no time with an advance. He uses a balestra, a short, sharp jump forward, to gain ground, and then lunges. I parry the strike with a flick of my wrist and move into a riposte–a counter-attack–that misses the target zone.

My side of the piste lights up white, and the referee calls us to a halt. The whole conversation took seconds at best, and neither of us are out of breath in the slightest.

But that doesn't continue for long as each of us realizes just how skilled the other is. I'm panting a minute and a half into the first period, and as his side of the piste lights up red with a touché and he's scored a fourth point to my one, the thought crosses my mind that he might be better than I am.

The idea closes off my throat, and I take just enough extra time in sinking into en garde that I can catch my breath and force out the feeling before it has a chance to spread. No matter how good this boy is, I have to be better. I am stronger for all I've endured; I've never had a choice not to be.

I refuse to let him win, or to let anything else I've been through defeat me.

We finish the first period tied at six to six, and I tear off my face mask and stumble off the piste gratefully, holding my hand out for water. Only one of my hands is free because the other is still attached to the foil, so I let Newkirk take the cap off and put it back on once I've finished.

"Thank you," I mutter, sitting down on the bench. The tip of my foil rests on the ground now, released from my grip and hanging from the connecting wire. I'm glad for the informal perimeter that's set up around the sides of the piste, because even though the crowd starts only a few meters away I can pretend that they aren't there at all. Having so many people so close is unnerving.

"Aye," Newkirk replies and hands me a towel to wipe off my face with. It scratches a little, and the salt in my sweat stings just enough to be bothersome. "You're barking fantastic, Alek, gaining all that ground back from him. Keep it up," he adds with an awkward pat to my back.

He retreats to one side as Coach Wrathbone edges around the piste to where I'm sitting. I only have to look up at him for a moment before he kneels by the bench so that our eyes are level. He begins talking quickly and passionately, alternating between giving me excited reassurances and suggestions, which sounds odd in his barrel-chested voice. I nod at his words, finally able to absorb what's being said to me now that I'm focused on fencing.

A volunteer notifies me that I have twenty seconds left, and I thank her before closing my palm around the foil and pushing to my feet. Wrathbone studies me for a moment, but I don't have time to wonder what he's thinking as I cross back to the piste. I walk to the center just as Aaron Mitchell does, and we test the tips of our foils on the other's plastron to ensure that they still function correctly.

When the high-pitched beep of the system fills the gym, we step back to our starting lines and don our masks. The sweat inside mine has chilled enough that when it touches my bare skin, it sends a chill up my spine. I shake it away and sink into a shallow squat, raising my foil.

"Allez!"

The only sounds in all of the gym are that of our shoes shuffling and scraping across the surface of the piste, echoing off the walls and punctuated by the engagements of our blades. I can't se anything but the behemoth, eyes trained to catch any twitch of his arm or change in his stance to anticipate a strike.

I lunge, the tip of my foil aimed at his chest, and his arm jerks up to parry the attack a split second too late. The piste flares with green light, accompanied by a short buzz.

"Halt!" the referee commands. "Attack, touché."

Now I lead, seven to six. It's an insignificant margin, and he could easily overtake me, but nonetheless I feel a swell of confidence. Maybe I can do this.

When we're back on the starting lines, I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders, absently thinking I should have accepted the neck rub from Deryn.

With a smile that only I know I'm wearing, we begin again.

Our foils whip around each other, a blinding sequence of attack, parry, riposte, counter-riposte that I follow with my instincts because my mind can't possibly keep up.

I shuffle backwards, our blades detaching. My foible, the weaker half of the blade farther from the hilt, is bent, I notice with a frown. It's is an easy fix once we come to a halt but out of my control for now.

He lets me put nearly two meters of space between us before he follows me with a flèche–a crossover step that will take him forward for a strike and carry him past me. It's a risky move, because he'll earn a yellow card if he doesn't make a touché.

I was expecting him to do a move of this sort, and as his arm extends I parry quickly, relying on the tip of my foil to flick over his blade and hit his plastron. But in a adjusting for the bend in my foible, I haven't raised my forearm enough.

My vision fills with red and white light, and I know I've been stupid. Even if my touché had been valid, the point would be his because he had right-of-way. I should have gone for a simple, more reliable parry. I'd have had no chance at a point, but at least Mitchell wouldn't have one either.

I let out a low growl of frustration and clench my fist around the grip of my foil. "Attack, touché," announces the referee, and we take our places back on the starting lines. The behemoth calls out for time as I lower myself to one knee, tucking the escaped shoelaces back into my dirty white shoes.

Before I stand, I glance at the behemoth's shoes, which are the most obnoxious neon orange imaginable, and I can see where the scuff marks have been rubbed off of them to keep the color bright. A pang of jealously hits me in the chest before I can squash it down; he's never had to stay hidden. He can announce his identity just as loudly as he likes, and never be afraid to be noticed.

I scratch angrily at a black mark on my shoe with a gloved thumb and lift myself off the ground. The volunteer that stated the time left in this period–just under two minutes–steps away from the edge of the piste, leaving us to take our en garde positions. I line up my feet and bend the tip of my foil back into a straight line.

The command to begin has barely left the referee's lips, and suddenly the pair of us are caught in a blur of movement. Again, I feel more than see what's happening between us.

Steadily, each of our points climb until I have twelve to his ten.

Breathing hard and sweating profusely with only a handful of seconds left in the second period, an avoidance in the form of a hasty duck saves Mitchell from the tip of my foil. He hops ungracefully backward, foil still raised. I press forward with a series of strikes, but his recovery time is impressive and he's parrying them all. He makes a quick riposte and I decide it's time to retreat a few steps.

I see him hesitate just long enough to take a breath before he follows me. Our foils engage for a moment with a click and the hiss of metal on metal as he presses his blade down to my hilt. Just as he's about to push my blade away and strike at my chest, I cut over his and lunge straight for him.

The gym lights up red and green; his and my colors respectively for valid points. Mitchell and I both turn to the judge, who will decide who had the right-of-way and thus will receive the point. Normally it's straightforward; the person who initiated the attack has right-of-way, unless the other person took the offensive from them with a riposte.

But we have fallen into a bit of a gray area. I was originally on the offensive, but when I stepped back, I surrendered it to him, and if I regained the right-of-way with my lunge, even though the behemoth attacked also, is entirely up to the judge's interpretation.

I use the referee's few seconds of deliberation to catch my breath and return to the starting line.

The judge clears his throat and delivers his decision; the point belongs to Aaron Mitchell.

I grit my teeth and the behemoth bounces in place with happiness. But there isn't much more time for him to celebrate because we're called into en garde.

Mostly, we mark time for the rest of the second period. The few seconds that are left aren't enough to do much of anything, and so when the buzzer goes off and we're dismissed for another one minute rest, we drop our arms and turn away without incident.

Newkirk greets me with a towel and another lip-cracking grin. "That's it! Alek, you're going to–" he stops speaking abruptly. "No, I'll curse it. I'll go and get your water."

He takes the face mask from me and scurries away, all together too excited–but I don't suppose it's anything to be upset about. As far as he's concerned this is nothing more and nothing less than a fencing tournament, albeit an important one. It is just that, of course, but to me it's also the dividing line between what's real and what's coming.

When I've had enough water to keep my throat from drying but not near enough to quench my thirst, I reclaim my face mask and step back up to the piste. My mind is four steps ahead of that, stretching its way through the possible paths to four more points. In individual fencing, the first competitor to fifteen points–or the one with the most after nine minutes–wins. Going in to the third period, I have a one point advantage, but I know that means nothing–favor can turn on the head of a pin, and luck is just as fickle.

A fact that the universe proves to me when, though I fight it with everything I have, the behemoth scores one point and then another. So we stand at twelve to thirteen, and it's more than apparent that time will not determine the winner. This is a race to fifteen points.

I kick one leg up at the knee, then the other, holding the top of my foot with one hand to stretch out my hamstrings. They, like the rest of my body, are tense with anticipation, and I have to shake it all away if I'm to have any hope of fencing properly.

Aaron Mitchell seems to be doing the same, rolling his shoulders and neck, bending over to stretch his legs. He finishes as soon as I do, and then fall into en garde like pieces in a puzzle.

At the bark of "Allez!" any noise that may have been floating around the gym drops away, all eyes focused on the pair of us. We shuffle back and forth, lunging and parrying and all-out battling. A sudden lunge lands a point for me, and then Mitchell steals the advantage again with a feint and a cut that dances around my guard.

I drop my arm like a brick and fight off the approaching desperation. One more point–that's all he needs, and then he's won. I'll have to face whatever comes next without a single victory of my own.

The behemoth can barely contain his excitement, and I'm sure he can taste the victory now, like the sweet rolls so nearly ready to be pulled from the oven. The spring in his step is too much for me to watch, so instead I look into the crowd, dimmed by the mesh of my face mask.

Count Volger is there, as are the rest of my men, standing close enough to the piste that they can snatch me away if danger so much as blinks in our direction. Instead of the four of them together, there are two on each side, a small distance apart from each other. They alternate between watching me with worry and watching the crowd with distrust.

I blink the sight of them away and notice, from the corner of my eye, something astounding.

My friends.

I've known them for so little time, and yet I can think of them as that. They've gathered just off to one side, and I can't help but remember when I first met them. Deryn, the new employee at Rigby's coffee shop, was the first person I talked to in London. Though I didn't know it at the time, she was fighting to work up the courage to go back to school after the car wreck that killed her boyfriend almost six months earlier. She's told me, in the last two weeks, that her first day back in school brought back so many memories that she could barely make the walk home without collapsing into a panic attack.

Newkirk blistered with mistrust and betrayal, though he took great pains to hide it. His best friend had become his worst enemy, leading to fights and suspension, and when I met him he was picking up the pieces. He was so surprised at how easily I forgave him for knocking me over. And Fitzroy–he was hiding. He held such fear of getting hurt that he wouldn't let even himself believe who he was.

And it's then that I realize something: they've changed.

We've changed.

Deryn's scars are healing, and every day she can trust herself more around other people. She's lighter now, it seems, and each smile lifts a little more weight off her shoulders. When one of those smiles is meant for me, I could simply float in the moment for eternity.

Newkirk has found his forgiveness, and in the process learned who he is. I think... I think that he's happy now. Fitzroy, too: his hand is held securely in his Nathan's. He and his boyfriend stand close, shoulders brushing every so often.

And as for myself–I wouldn't even recognize the boy I used to be.

Not one of us is the same person we were the day I arrived, and when I leave we will stay just as changed as we are now. They aren't puddles and I'm not just a raindrop. We are the kind of water that runs in a constant stream, cutting a path in the ground around us that forms into a river, and then a canyon.

We are permanent.

The thought comforts me more than I would expect, and its weight settles onto my shoulders with a confidence that, whatever happens next, I won't have regretted any of it.

I release a sigh and mirror Mitchell's stance, foil raised. With a renewed vigor, I press him almost off the back of the piste, and a feint followed by a quick lunge locks us in a tie.

Fourteen to fourteen.

The anticipation in the gym stifles any sound, and even the ring of silence that follows us back to the starting lines seems muted. The voice of the referee bounces off the walls and back, unimpeded. He calls us to en garde, and then to begin.

As much as either of us wants to win, we are too smart to rush into a foolish offensive attack. The seconds of empty space are agony.

An eternity later, I've lunged, sword arm extended. Mitchell's parry is fast, and knocks the tip of my foil just off target while coming close enough to my chest that–

The gym lights up in white and red.

After the buzz of the system, I can't hear anything at all.

The behemoth rips his mask off and glues his eyes on the judge, slavering for confirmation.

Because he's won, hasn't he?

My mind runs through our motions like I've rewound and hit play. My leg bending in a lunge, his arm jerking up, each of us hitting the other. No, something doesn't seem correct.

He didn't have the right-of-way. I did.

The judge steps closer to the piste, immune to the weight of so many eyes. He takes in a deep breath and speaks, but I still can't process any sounds. My eyes, though, register the movements of his arms, straight out with his hands at waist level and moving in and out from the elbow. It translates to "nothing".

We haven't finished yet.

My hearing returns, and the mixed reactions of the crowd assault my ears until it all becomes mush. It falls away to a respectful if dissatisfied nothing as Mitchell replaces his face mask and we take our positions on the starting lines again. His only reaction is in how still he stands.

The now-familiar voice of the referee rattles off the commands, and we fence as though are lives are at stake. In a way, they are.

We halt and resume three times, just long enough for the weariness to catch up to us but not long enough to let it take over. It feels like the gym in its entirety is holding a collective breath, even as Mitchell and I swallow in as much air as our lungs will allow. Our chests heave but we don't dare let it slow us down, not through a chain of dizzying movements in such rapid succession they are nearly on top of each other.

A buzz fills the deadly silence, and my sword arm drops. My eyes squeeze shut before I can see the glaring lights that accompany the sound, and I scrabble desperately to get my face mask off; it's suffocating me, and despair presses in on my sweat-soaked chest so hard I can't possibly breathe. Stars eclipse the darkness of my eyelids.

I sink to the ground like I could catch the blood as it drains from my face.

It's over.