Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  *~*~*

  As they soon discovered, Thrim's back was not broken. It was still badly bruised, however; bad enough that the healer who saw to him threw his hands up in the air and shouted, "This would be too much even if he wasn't the size of a sparrow! Time. That's all I can prescribe. I can't be expected to tend to something I can barely see."

  As the hours wore on, however, Thrim soon found he could move, albeit gingerly. Enough to reassure Arn, who was covered in bandages. It was lucky that Jorin was a glutton for the crowds, otherwise he might have dispatched Arn right away. Of course, now that the excitement was over and the immediate threat was gone, they had bigger concerns.

  Arn, who had been viewed as volatile even in the best of times, had just killed the arena's undefeated champion in front of a full crowd. Jorin was a monster, yes, and he might have done the same to Arn, but dispatching him would earn them no rewards. Worse, still, Thrim had just shown off a tremendous display of magic, something that made him even more dangerous than Arn. If he knew how he'd managed it, Thrim wouldn't hesitate to do it again to get the two of them out of there.

  However, they sat not in a cell or some deep dungeon for gladiators soon to be executed, but in a comfortable antechamber just below Master Tibbus's box. Surely this where he entertained his more noble guests before a show.

  Thrim felt as though he'd entered another world. It had been nearly a year since he'd last seen this sort of luxury. There were padded seats, shining pewter pitchers and goblets, gossamer curtains over open windows, and plush rugs over the earthen floor. He thought his head might spin from the affluence of it all. The Thrim who came from the Academy, accustomed to similar if different comforts, was a stranger. He wouldn't have batted an eye. The Thrim who had lived in the pits wanted to lie down on the ground and just rub his face in the bright carpet, and had his back not pained him, he might have done so. As it was, he leaned back on Arn's waist, his legs stretched out, staring forward dully.

  Arn had one arm—they'd cleaned it by order of Tibbus before they were to be allowed in here—on the room's table, his cheek resting on his knuckles."I know I told you to use sidhe magic," he rumbled, "but I didn't think you actually could. Not like that."

  Something uncomfortable squirmed in Thrim's gut. Could that really be it? No. Surely not. He'd spent his whole life hiding that particular bloodline for good reason. If a part sidhe could just summon sidhe magic on a whim, he would have far less to fear.

  "I don't know what it was, Arn, but I doubt it had anything to do with a wild grandmother I never knew."

  "Do you even know how it's supposed to work? Or is it more comfortable to keep insisting you can never use it?"

  Thrim tilted his chin up and winced slightly at the twinge in his back. Hard to scowl at someone when you were sitting in their lap. "You just want to be right."

  "I was right about you," Arn pointed out, and as much as Thrim wanted to be angry with Arn, he couldn't help melting a little inside.

  "Whatever happens next," he said, "I hope we get to stick together."

  "Well, I wouldn't dream of parting you," a familiar voice called. Thrim started then groaned as his back twinged painfully. Rikkin strode into the room, scarcely recognizable as the dirty, worn gladiator who had left them weeks ago. He wore a rich plum tunic, his red curls were tamed, and he looked too clean to be allowed even into the antechamber. He grinned widely at them and opened his arms.

  "My friends, that was quite the show you put on," he announced. "I'm only sorry I didn't get to chop the bastard's head off myself, but Arn, you truly did us all proud."

  "What are you doing here?" Arn asked, astonishment evident in his voice.

  Rikkin shrugged impishly. "My troupe is headed up north. To the mountains. We thought it might do to take a few extra performers with us. Let's face it, the lightweight class really isn't all that popular, and Tibbus is glad to be rid of a madman in his arena. Though I do wish you'd been a little less bloody. He wanted to kill you so much we had to increase the offer by half. Had to bring you both here before an over-eager guard tried to do his master's bidding. Completely ruined my plan for a surprise, by the way, and it cost me even more to convince him to let me bring two of the gladiatiors in here." He gave Thrim an apologetic smile. "I suppose it's not the worst of deals. He didn't ask much for you, I'm afraid. More's the surprise, though, after that impressive display of sidhe magic in the arena."

  "It wasn't … I couldn't …" Thrim sputtered, but Rikkin leaned forward, arching one red brow.

  "How do you think sidhe magic works, my dear little Gillespie? They draw their energy from the world around them. The sun. The stage." His eyes flicked briefly up to Arn. "Their companions."

  "How would you know this?" Arn asked, and Rikkin positively beamed.

  "What, you think Gillespies are the only folk who've got ancestors running off into the wild for a quick dalliance with the nature spirits? Your people travel, Arn. I bet you a full bag of silver at least a few of them's got sidhe blood in their veins. It's just the perils of those mountains."

  Arn's face softened at the mention of them. "Do you have news of them?"

  Some of the mischief slipped from Rikkin's face, replaced by a sincere joy. "The Rou Dourea flourish. And they will be happy to learn their king lives. Just as I'm sure the Academy will be happy to learn their wayward student lives."

  Thrim's heart thudded unexpectedly. He was happy, thrilled, even, to learn that he would soon be going home. But Arn would return to the Rou Dourea. As he should. They were his people, after all. Thrim couldn't just abandon his hope of going back to the Academy any more than Arn could abandon them.

  Luckily, Arn was quick on his feet. "Did you try haggling for Thrim's book, too?" he pressed.

  Rikkin deflated a little. "No," he admitted. "Is it really all that important?"

  "I'll see to it you're compensated for any expense," Arn insisted. "But that book needs to come with us."

  Thrim could have kissed him. Which, to be fair, wasn't saying much. He more or less lived in a perpetual state of wanting to kiss Arn.

  "Oh, very well," Rikkin said with a shrug. "But don't think I won't double your chores on the journey home. I'm off to haggle some more with that tight fisted featherhead. You two stay put."

  Rikkin turned to leave the antechamber. The door closed behind him with a loud thud, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then Arn wrapped his hand around Thrim, not quite touching as he always did.

  "We're going home," he breathed in wonder.

  "But to which one?" Thrim didn't mean for his words to sound so sullen. It just slipped out. But he felt Arn's eyes on him immediately.

  "What do you mean by that?" Arn asked gently. "Surely you don't think these are to be our final days together."

  "No, I …" Thrim sighed. "We came together because we were lonely. I reminded you of a place your people visited. You protected me. But soon we'll be safe on a caravan with loads of other people who aren't forced to fight us. I'll go to the Academy and you'll go to the Rou …"

  "When you finish there, you could join us. The Rou could use someone with your talents, and you could use your sidhe magic to ensure your affection for me will never wane."

  "I can't …" Thrim's words trailed off. Well, maybe he could. He'd just used sidhe magic, hadn't he? Why couldn't he use it to strengthen the bond they already had. He considered for a moment just what he might need to do, but all it took was a glance up at Arn's glittering eyes, and he knew that wasn't the answer. Thrim couldn't help smiling and leaning into Arn's hand. "No. I don't think I'll need to resort to that."

  *~*~*

  "Says here the spell was supposed to wear off after a couple of days," Arn mused, staring down at Thrim's book. Thrim groaned and rolled his eyes.

  "Arn, enough."

  "I'm just curious. Clearly something had to keep you small. Was it perhaps your sidhe magic that gave the spell more strength? Rikkin says it feeds off strong relationships." He leaned for
ward, his eyes glittering in the sunlight. Open air and free sky had done him a world of good. He'd healed quickly, ate well, laughed more. He was hardly recognizable as the madman in the arena, and Thrim found himself falling helplessly in love. Even when he teased. "Perhaps you enjoyed my company so much you wanted it to continue without even knowing."

  "Would you just read the counter spell?" Thrim begged. Half a week he'd been like this, hobbling along as his back healed, still dressed in his wretched clothing from the pit because even a doll's clothes were too big for him. Oh, it had been a great source of amusement at first, with the juggler offering to juggle Thrim and the cook taking great care to give him different slivers of food, enough to make a proper meal. But the novelty had worn off as Thrim remained too small and Arn refused to let anyone else touch his book. He insisted that, after all the trouble it had caused, they would wait until Thrim's back no longer pained him, and then nobody but Thrim would touch it.

  Unfortunately, he seemed unwilling to make good on that plan without a few parting shots.

  "I just think I'm going to miss having my 'little' Gillespie," he mused. "Why, how will you get about when I can't carry you?"

  "On my own two feet, Arn! Read the counter spell, or so help me when I am back to normal I will—"

  "All right, all right," Arn chuckled, and he turned back to the book. As strange as the Old Tongue had sounded coming from Jorin's tongue, it was absolutely beautiful coming from Arn's. He had such a deep timbre, an inherent familiarity with the language from his travels that Thrim felt instantly at home. He was lulled into such comfort he almost didn't notice as the spell began to ebb away.

  The grass around him began to fall from his waist to his hip, hip to knee, knee to ankle. Arn, such a familiar giant of a figure, seemed to shrink before his very eyes, but he grinned wildly as Thrim grew, little by little, the perfect mirror of the initial shrinking. By the time it stopped, Thrim was almost dizzy with relief. He glanced down, patting his ragged pit clothing just to make sure that it really was his body, proper sized at last, then frowned.

  "I think I'm still a bit on the short si—"

  He never did manage to spit the last of the words out. Arn lunged forward, swept Thrim up into his strong arms, and without a second of hesitation, kissed him like the madman he was. Thrim whimpered softly, startled, but his knees turned to goo and he sank into Arn's arms, returning the kiss.

  "Good enough for me," Arn gasped as he pulled away, eyes wide as they raked over Thrim's face. Thrim grinned and dragged him down for another kiss.

  ROUND NINE

  A GOOD MAN

  CAITLIN RICCI

  Emory walked into the tiny one-bedroom apartment on the upper west side of Denver that he shared with his longtime boyfriend at just after six o'clock that evening. His footsteps were slow and heavy, which was perfectly reflective of the train of thought his mind had taken. Just an hour before coming home, he'd been sitting at his desk at the downtown law firm where he clerked, which was when he'd been quietly told to pack his things and go home. It was the first time in his twenty-five years that Emory had been fired, and the shock of it all hadn't worn off. He was still reeling even as he sat his messenger bag down by the couch and went to see what Jonah was making them for dinner before he had to leave for his job at the strip club.

  "Hey," Emory said, taking off his suit jacket and placing it over the nearest chair as the sirens from the police station down the street started up. "The night is starting early."

  Jonah smirked and spooned some pasta sauce over the spaghetti squash he'd prepared. "It's usually noisy about this time. How was work?"

  Emory tried for a smile and hoped it was convincing. "Decent. Missed you."

  "You could come watch me work. You know the bouncers wouldn't mind. You're not like those crazy, jealous asses the other guys are dating." Jonah handed him a bowl full of food, and he took it to the small dining table they'd found at an antique store the summer before. Dinner was simple, just the way Emory wanted. After being fired, he hadn't wanted anything elaborate. Now he just had to find a way to tell Jonah what had happened. He'd tell him soon. Just not tonight.

  "Yeah, but just because I don't want to hit them all doesn't mean I'm not capable of it," Emory reminded him.

  Jonah blew him a raspberry. "Yeah. I know. My big, sexy boxer."

  "Ex-boxer," Emory was quick to remind him. He hadn't been in the ring since before he was twenty. And it was just for a few months back then anyway. He'd never even been paid for it.

  Jonah gave him a critical once-over. "True … but it's also not as if you've lost any shape since then. If anything, you've actually filled out more. I look tiny next to you. But I'm not complaining. Far from it, actually."

  Emory snickered, shook his head, and went back to enjoying his dinner. Spaghetti squash was a usual thing for them, and though Emory sometimes missed real pasta, Jonah was good about putting enough cheese on the vegetable that he didn't mind it. Besides, living with someone who had a gluten intolerance meant that he wasn't tempted to bring sweets home all the time, which was a big reason he'd been able to stay in such good shape these past few years.

  He cleared the table and started the dishwasher while Jonah got ready for work. It was their usual routine since he had taken the job at the firm. Before that, he'd worked nights at the local hospital. The pay hadn't been as much, but at least they'd had the same schedule back then. It had made missing Jonah easier, knowing that they would have the afternoons when they both got up to be together. He'd give them a call tomorrow morning. Maybe they'd have an opening for him; telling Jonah about getting fired would be a lot easier if he already had a new job lined up to replace his old one.

  By the time Jonah came out of their bedroom, looking comfortable in a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt, Emory had found a horror movie to get into. He looked up and smiled at Jonah as the usual twinges of jealousy started up. They'd been bad when Jonah had first brought up dancing shortly after his twenty-first birthday. Back then, Emory couldn't understand why such a shy person would want to subject himself to being ogled and treated like an object nearly every night.

  But it was because Jonah was shy that dancing worked for him. Emory hadn't understood until he'd seen it for himself. Up there on stage, with loud music and flashing lights all around him, Jonah became someone else. Someone confident and completely unattainable to everyone in the room. Everyone except Emory. He knew the man behind the teasing smile and assless leather chaps.

  Jonah lay down next to him and put his legs over Emory's lap. He started rubbing Jonah's feet in the few minutes he had before leaving for work.

  "If you get bored all alone here, you're welcome to come to the club, you know," Jonah reminded him as Emory lay back over the arm of the couch and closed his eyes.

  "Yep. I know. You just want to show me off to your friends."

  Jonah snorted, but they both knew it was true, at least partially. "Maybe I just miss you."

  "You know I miss you too. And if I get ready bored and desperate for overpriced alcohol and bad music, I'll stop by."

  Jonah stuck his tongue out at him.

  "But I think I'm just going to watch this movie and then head down to the gym for a while before bed."

  Jonah looked interested. "Shirtless?"

  "Probably. I get pretty hot there after a good workout." He honestly didn't think much about what he wore to the gym as long as he was comfortable.

  Jonah licked his lips. "Mmmm. Shirtless Emory all tattooed up and sweaty. If people knew they could see you for free, strip clubs all over the country would be out of business."

  Emory highly doubted that. "You'd hate that, though."

  Jonah opened his eyes and stretched his arms over his head. His sweatshirt pulled up over his belly, exposing his stomach and the one tattoo he had—a small sun circling his navel. "Yeah, I would. I'm kind of jealous."

  "That's a bit of an understatement. You snapped at a lady at the grocery store in fron
t of her kids just last week."

  "She was looking at your ass right in front of me. As if I wasn't even there," Jonah replied with a deep scowl.

  "Maybe she thought we were just friends. Until you put your hands on my butt and practically growled at her like some miniature bear. And then told her that I was yours and looks were not allowed." Emory had to laugh about it, just as he had then.

  Jonah's face pinched. "I might have overreacted just that one time."

  It wasn't just once, but Emory didn't mind. He'd had a hard time not laughing in that moment and during each one before that when Jonah decided to get a bit possessive. "I thought it was hilarious, actually. I didn't even notice her looking until you said something."

  "I have no idea how you didn't realize she was staring at you. She was practically drooling. I was just protecting what's mine," Jonah said in mock defense.

  Emory grinned down at him. "My heart?"

  "Your ass at the very least," Jonah quipped.

  Chuckling, Emory leaned over to kiss him. They were still kissing when Jonah's alarm on his phone went off, letting them both know he had to get going. It sucked, but Emory still let him go, waving to him as Jonah got on his sneakers. "Want to take the car?" Emory asked him.

  Jonah smiled and shook his head. "Naw. It's a three block walk. Easy stuff."

  "Be safe." Emory got to his feet and kissed Jonah again before he had a chance to open the door.

  "Will do," Jonah promised before letting himself out.

  Emory watched him walk down the sidewalk and around the brick side of their apartment building until he could no longer see Jonah's bright red hair in the pale yellow glow of the overhead street lamps.

  He tried watching the movie after that, but it wasn't all that interesting. Thirty minutes after Jonah had gone to work, Emory was stepping into the neighborhood gym. For someone who had lived his entire life within the same five block radius, the gym was a welcome breath of familiarity. Living downtown meant that he never had to go far for anything. He'd always worked nearby. The grocery store was the same although it had changed names a few times, and even though his parents had moved to different apartments around the area, they'd stayed in the same neighborhood. This was home for him and he'd grown up idolizing the guys here and spending his afternoons sitting on a weight bench doing homework while his dad trained them. As soon as he was big enough to put on his own pair of gloves, he'd been in the ring too, though never against another person. The punching bags were more than enough trouble for him.