Desmond is trying very hard not to stare at the mountain of a panther hunched over Hafsa's desk.
He'd heard about the new transfer student from Hafsa before, and even shared a few classes with him, but his anxiety levels can't help but skyrocket when seeing a carnivore of his size and… physique. To his own chagrin, he secretly mourns the fact Solomon, the strongest member of the student council, is away on his senior retreat for the next two days.
"Alright, that should settle it!" Hafsa's chipper voice contrasts with his discomfort. "As of today, I am officially your buddy! I'll make sure that our schedules are properly rearranged so that we can go to every class together."
"Thanks." Toma replies in a voice so guttural it resembles a growl. "Sorry for the hassle."
"It's no problem at all," The president waves her hand dismissively. "I'm sorry the school didn't sort this out before classes started."
The taller feline stands from his chair. With a sheepish nod, he heads for the door with Hafsa trailing behind him.
"I should take you back to the dorms now, right?" She asks.
"Nah, I gotta go talk to the principal now, he'll take me back once we're done. He's on the floor above this one, right?"
"Yes, but…" The serval tilts her head. "Can you get there by yourself?"
"It's just one floor. I'm trying to challenge myself. Once my whiskers start growing back, it'll get a little easier."
From his flattened ears, Hafsa surmises he probably feels embarrassed about needing her help so often. She decides to spare his pride and offers a parting smile.
"Just holler if you need anything. The good thing about these ears is that I'll definitely hear."
"Okay. Thanks again. I'll see you around." He gives a nervous smile-grimace, and peeks over to address the sweaty motionless sheep who overhears the entire exchange. "Uh, bye."
"Buh-yuh."
Buh-yuh?
Hafsa shuts the door once Toma is out of sight and goes to sit on Desmond's desk, to his surprise.
"Buh-yuh to you too."
"I tried saying a bunch of stuff at once and that happened." He bleats, facepalming himself.
"No, it was very smooth." She simpers. "He's a nice guy, you know. No need to be so antsy."
"I can't help it. Believe it or not, I have a history with felines."
"I never would've guessed."
Desmond dares to sneak a glance at her. The evening sun lights up the serval's already golden fur, giving her a radiance only heightened by her lovely fanged smile. Her dark spots wrap around her face in the most graceful of ways, like the pattern of a butterfly's wings, caving in at her creased brow and upturned dimples, making her expressions all the more vibrant, the nuances all the more interesting to detect.
He feels he should pay an admission fee to see this kind of view.
Which reminds him. The main reason he returned to Noah's Arc was to spend more time with her, get closer to her… maybe even… But nearly three weeks into the year and they've hardly had any time together. Thanks to the ruckus DAVID is kicking up and the general chaos left over from last year, serval and sheep have had to keep their distance. On the worst days, it feels like nothing had changed from when they first met. Frankly, it's unbearable. Perhaps her smile injected him with the adrenaline he needs, because the ram is suddenly overcome with bravery.
He's going to flirt with her, god damn it. The only way a ram knows how.
"Hey…" He says with not-so-casual casualty. "Wanna go somewhere real quick?"
The vents beneath the gymnasium drone on, making it hard for the serval to think. How Desmond and the other bovids manage to train in this stuffy atmosphere for hours on end is beyond her. The only well-cared for element of the hallway is a new, polished copper plaque by the door, its inscription reading 'BIGHORN PETER HALL'. However, the whirring of the air ducts is not enough to drown out the grunts and boisterous shouting behind the closed door of the ram fighting 'dojo'.
"Why are we here again?"
Desmond sighs. "The guys lost miserably in the exhibition matches so they've been at it for nearly every day trying to whip the greenhorns into shape. With Leslie graduated, me recovering and… well. No wonder it's a mess. Elmer and Marcel have been begging me to drop by and help them out. You don't mind keeping me company, maybe stop me from killing one of them?"
"I can definitely try."
After exchanging final smirks, Desmond gives the copper plaque a gentle stroke before swinging the door open with not so much as a knock. A cluster of confused faces whip towards the intruders, one of them belonging to a familiar yak. It soon grows from surprised to elated.
"Captain!" He exclaims, rushing to the piebald ram to grab, squeeze, shove, and otherwise bother him.
"Alright, alright, lay off." Desmond huffs, pushing his teammate aside roughly. "Daddy's here."
"Leslie was Daddy." Elmer corrects, lowering his head to rattle Desmond's horns with his own. "You can be step-Daddy."
"I'm already your step-Daddy, ask your mom." The shorter bovid snarks. "So, I appointed you as temporary captain, what's the plan?"
Elmer brushes a sweaty lock of fur from his eyes. "Well, like you suggested, we've been training more. Every day of the week, in fact. More focus on practice matches than training drills. We've definitely improved from the exhibition matches but…" The yak crouches down to whisper into Desmond's ear. "Some of these guys… It's like they grew their horns yesterday. It's bad enough Marcel is on the senior retreat for the next couple of days. Not that he was much help anyways."
"Freshmen always think they're hot stuff." The sheep nods understandingly. "Alright, gimme a minute to gear up and I'll see what I can do. Also…."
He extends an arm pointing behind him, to the timid serval who remains at the room's entrance. "Hafsa's sitting in. Maybe having a female around will motivate you to not suck so much."
"Hi, guys." She waves sheepishly.
"Hi, Hafsa." They wave back.
Trotting to the changing room in the far end of the room, Desmond mentally pats himself on the back. In reality, he brought Hafsa along for one carefully calculated reason:
To show off for her.
He can't imagine there are many things a lowly sheep can do to impress a serval. In most categories, she's got him beat by a long shot. But if there's one thing he's always been good at, it's ram fighting. Even with an injured arm, he's confident that he can show the rookies who's boss. Hafsa had been impressed by him once before, so why not? It may not be very romantic, but he's a red blooded ram! Showboating for a female is his species' signature move.
Now donning his singlet in the academy's signature color (and his less than flattering horn guards), he returns to the floor where the other horned athletes await. Hafsa follows him with very amused eyes from a bench.
"Alright, who's up first?" He prompts in his manliest voice.
One of the rookies, a shaggy Arapawa goat, raises his hand.
"You'll do."
The others clear out, making room for the ensuing match. Sheep and goat head to the center of the mat before backing up some paces. From the sidelines, Elmer moves to the front of the herd, whistle in hand.
"Neutral positions!"
The fighters plant their feet firmly on the ground. Desmond positions his left arm behind his back.
A trill of a whistle. The match begins.
Predictably, the younger Arapawa goat makes the first move. Head ducked, he charges towards the Jacob sheep's unguarded gut. Desmond dodges the incoming horns, grabbing one of them and yanking it downwards. His opponent's balance is thrown, and as the goat stumbles for footing, he wastes no time in using that momentum to topple his foe with a well placed shove. Within seconds, Desmond holds the goat down, legs wrapped around his torso and his one good arm pressing down against his neck.
Elmer gives two rapid chips of the whistle, signifying two points. For the purpose of demonstration, the match is over.
Desmond relaxes, releasing his opponent and standing up. He offers a hand to the Arapawa, who accepts. Pulling him up with a grunt, the sheep gives his hand a final shake, taking extra care to put a little force before letting go, ensuring Hafsa could appreciate his flexed muscles.
"What's your name?" He asks the goat.
"J-Jordie."
"Work on that tackle, Jordie."
"Yessir!" Jordie bleats.
"Who's next?"
Five matches later, the room is now a good five degrees hotter, and a whole lot stinkier. Of the five matches, Desmond won three, only losing to a surprisingly skilled sable antelope and Elmer in the final bout. Throughout, he made sure to give thorough explanations and pointers, less for his peers and more to flaunt his expertise for the feline in the back. Once everyone had a go, the herd of bovids decide to catch their breath after the nonstop fighting.
"Th-that'll do for today." Elmer announces. "Good work, gang. Time to hit the lockers and regroup tomorrow. Let's all thank the captain for stopping by and showing us a thing or two. And the president, too!"
Scattered murmurs of agreement. The flock of males tromp to the depths of the changing room but Desmond slips past them to trot up to the still seated serval.
"So…" He clears his throat expectantly. "What did you think?"
"Hmm…" Hafsa cocks her head to the side in feigned reflection. "It looks a lot better than it smells, for starters."
"Ah. Yes. Sorry about that."
"Besides that, it's nice you helped them out even with your arm. Is it hurting?"
"A little, but I didn't use it all that much. Besides, I gotta strengthen it up again." He realizes the conversation is derailing. "But, so, did you like it? The greenhorns have a long way to go, but I think we'll be fine come nationals."
"I'm sure you will be. Elmer looks like he's doing a good job carrying on your legacy in your absence."
"You say that like I'm deceased."
Hafsa brushes a hand dramatically across her forehead. "Alas, poor Desmond… taken from us in his prime…! At least these strapping young jocks groping each other for sport are honoring his memory…"
"You're officially banned from my funeral."
The sheep can't help but pout. It seems all of his seduction methods have fallen flat. He should've expected as much, what with her being a carnivore, but he hoped that Hafsa, being the weirdo she is, would've been impressed anyways. If only she shared Priya's obsession with ram fighting.
Steadily, a stream of rams begins trickling from the locker rooms, now changed into regular clothes and reeking of the ever-iconic body odor and body spray blend that most high school jocks are known for.
"We're gonna get dinner now, Des!" Elmer calls. "Wanna come with?"
Before the sheep can answer, Hafsa does it for him. "Actually, I just need to discuss some things with him. Maybe we'll catch up later?"
"Sure thing. See you around!"
With that, the rams exit the training room, save for Desmond. Confused by this move, he snags the collar of his singlet down to fan his chest.
"Hafsa?"
Wordlessly, the serval gets up from the bench and ambles her way on top of a mat, shifting her weight on it to test the new padded surface with her arms leisurely entwined behind her. She cranes her neck to look at the befuddled ram behind her with a mischievous smirk.
"My turn."
"…Huh?"
Hafsa spins to face him, arching to rest her hands on her knees playfully. "Come on, big shot. Let's have a go."
To this, Desmond is speechless. He glances all around him, as if she is somehow speaking to someone else, before clasping his hands together and wringing them together awkwardly.
"Y-you mean… y-you and me?"
"Who else?" She giggles. "Since you're so good and all. Don't tell me you won't fight a female."
"Th-that's not the issue…" He mumbles. "A-are you sure?"
"Super sure. You made it look so fun!"
Okay. This is not where he anticipated tonight going. But he can work with this.
"If you're sure, then…" Desmond readies himself into neutral position, praying he can pass off his burning red face as a result from exercising. "Since you don't have any horns, I'll teach you how to do some easy moves."
His opponent imitates his stance. "Hey, don't go easy on me!"
"If you insist." He crouches down and begins scuttling towards her in a zigzag motion. Startled, Hafsa ducks down too and tries copying his winding footwork, but simply can't keep up. Using this to his advantage, he manages to sneak up to her, snake his arms below hers and lock them in place, gripping her shoulders to clasp the formation tight.
"Th-this is a type of armlock. S-sorry if I smell." He explains in a quiet voice, all too aware of how close their faces are. "See how you can't move your arms as well now? Normally, I'd try to push you down like this."
Hafsa answers with a goofy smile, far too entertained at the situation to listen to his words. She wriggles her arms around, and finds her mobility is indeed far more limited. Suddenly, a lightbulb flashes behind her eyes.
"What if I do this?" With startling strength, she ducks down and swipes at his legs, trying to trip him up.
The sheep manages to tip toe around the manic arms and with a single 'hup', hoist Hafsa on his shoulders and lift her clean off the ground. She yelps, caught off guard, and with a chuckle, Desmond wraps his arms around her hips and flips her all the way around, gently tossing her on the mat.
"Ta-dah." He announces with a flair.
Hafsa erupts into peal of laughter, raucous and contagious. After rolling around on the mat gleefully, she springs back up with an even more determined expression.
"Oh, you're gonna get it now."
"Bring it on, Whiskers."
All semblance of decorum and regulations abandoned, the giggling duo run circles around each other. Every time Hafsa reaches for him, Desmond counters, chucking her back on the floor without fail. He's overcome by an intoxicating feeling. The pain in his sides from laughing too much, the endorphins, the dampness of his wool, the sound of her laughter, the feeling of holding her without fear, digging his fingers in her fur, touching her bare skin with his own…
He feels a sudden weight on his abdomen. Somehow, without his noticing, the carnivore had toppled him. He lies supine, hands pinned above him in between his horns by a strong grip, and his waist immobilized by two thighs straddled around it.
The feline's face that hovers mere inches from his smirks. "Gotcha."
Desmond's smile fades. A wave of all the unpleasant feelings that he had drowned out crashes into him. The manic beating of his heart, pounding against his ribcage like a beast begging to be freed. The sound of his ragged breaths, becoming shallower and more frenzied by the second. The breeze against his exposed, vulnerable chest. The swishing of her tail against his legs. The cold sting of her claws scratching against his wrists. Her beautiful face, tainted with hunger and peeking fangs and slashed pupils. The memory of faces much like hers, of stripes and dots, of rainy days and blood in a garden shed.
The feeling he is going to die.
"Des?"
The voice is unrecognizable.
"GET OFF OF ME!"
A dull thud echoes throughout the empty room as he bashes her forehead with his own, launching the predator away.
Hafsa clutches at her throbbing head, too stunned to even howl in pain. Desmond kicks her aside and blindly scrambles on all fours until colliding with a wall. He wheezes, gags, writhes around, until finally curling up in a trembling ball.
It's unknown how long he stays like that. All that is known is that enough time passes for the sheep to slowly regain his breath and steady his heartbeats.
"Desmond?"
That voice. How could he not recognize it before?
He uncurls from his fetal position, propping himself sitting upright against the wall.
"Hafsa…"
She's seated a few feet away, crosslegged. Below the freshly formed lump on her reddened forehead, her eyes stare at him, filled with concern.
"A-are you okay?" She asks.
"Hafsa, I'm…" His throat catches on a lump of his own. "I'm so sorry… I-I have no idea what came over me…"
"N-no, I'm sorry!" She cries. "What I did, it was completely inappropriate!"
"It's not your fault." He retorts firmly. "You did nothing wrong. I just… freaked out for no reason."
"Not for no reason."
A silence overtakes them. Unsure of what else to do, Hafsa reaches for a bright yellow ball just within the reach of her fingertips. One of Desmond's horn guards, thrown off in the chaos. She sends it in its owner's direction, clunky rolling along the linoleum floor until it putters to a stop next to him. He picks up the ball absentmindedly, inspecting it. With a final graze of his thumb, he rolls it back to Hafsa.
The low stakes game of catch continues for a while, not a word shared between the herbie and the carnie throughout. Eventually, when Hafsa catches the ball for what must be the thousandth time, she doesn't let go. Clutching it in her fist, she scoots the tiniest bit closer to her friend.
"Can I come closer?"
He nods.
She gradually slides nearer and nearer until they touch knees. For a moment, they only have the strength to stare at each other. It's a silent conversation. But both of them understand what they're trying to say:
What are we gonna do?
With a still slightly shaking hand, Desmond reaches out and grazes the bump on Hafsa's forehead. She winces initially at the contact, causing the ram's hand to jolt back in turn, but once accustomed to the aching, she leans forward, inviting his touch.
"Does it hurt a lot?" He asks, brushing a thumb over the bruise.
"Yeah. Does your arm hurt a lot?"
"…Yeah."
AN: Thanks for reading! I meant to post this much sooner, but hilariously, I fell very ill shortly after posting the previous chapter and was in no condition to use my brain. I'm fine now, though. Writing this chapter was very fun, I missed the drama! I also had to watch a lot of wrestling videos for reference, so that is also a plus.
New ram fighting members (all freshmen) are:
Jordie the Arapawa goat: 60kg division
Bucky the sable antelope: 69kg division
Derek the Gerenuk: 52kg division
Barry the Cachena bull: 350kg+ division
Next chapter will be about the senior retreat! Take it easy and stay safe.