Chapter Text
"You were amazing."
The words are pressed to the back of his neck. A breath ghosts across his skin like sunshine on a summer afternoon. It leaves goosebumps in it's wake, making Richard shiver. It's not the sound that gets him —a gruff, tired voice, worn out like the other boy had just been running. Or maybe it's because he just woke up. Richard has never been picky.
No. It's the sensation that comes with. The arms wrapped around his waist. The brush of lips somewhere near his shoulder. The comfort of it, the rightness of it. Like it doesn't matter whether he'd won or not —but he had. He still remembers their cheers— it's the effort he put into it. Day in and day out. His hard work finally reaping its reward.
A reward that comes in the form of him. The boy that brushes a hand through his sweat-damp hair and slips his hand underneath his shirt. Just to touch.
The edges of his vision are still blurry, even though it must have been a while since the match. He's not wearing his fencing uniform anymore. And what should have been a gym surrounding them feels more like home. Shapes not matching their meanings.
He's warm. It crawls from the places the other boy is pressed against his back, up to his face. He shouldn't be this warm, not in the middle of the winter. It might be an accelerated heartbeat from the match —or the victory—, though Richard thinks it has more to do with a face he can't quite conjure in his mind.
Raising his arms is like floating in a pool. They glide through the air, only a faint resistance. His muscles ache. He presses a hand to the other's wrist.
His skin erupts in tingles where he's touching him. It repeats like a mantra in his head. His hand, his stomach, the back of his neck. Everywhere he touches feels like the sun. Hot and smouldering and comforting like no other. Richard brushes his thumb over a bony wrist.
"Thank you." The words drift in the space around them, a croak where he'd tried to sound certain. It's different, like this. His voice feels wrong and aching, though there is no reason for it to be that way. Not when he's with the one boy he can tell anything.
A smile. He feels it against his skin. He heard him, no matter how quiet his words. Richard wonders whether he had to say anything at all, or if thinking it would have been enough. Sometimes it feels like the other boy can read his mind.
Something breaks, somewhere in the distance. A bang that makes the room shake.
Richard looks down to see the arms disappeared from his waist. His body goes cold. No soft breaths against his neck, no more sun.
He frowns, trying to make out the words that are so close, yet so far. "No," he breathes. This wasn't supposed to happen. His boy was supposed to stay. He was proud of him, after all. Wasn't he?
If he did leave, he must have done so for a reason. Richard didn't… He didn't win. He must have lost.
The beating of his heart reverberates in the room. His vision goes fuzzy as his breathing speeds up. He wonders if the arms will reappear if he closes his eyes and wishes hard enough. If the boy will cling to him once more. If everything can become right, though it all feels so twisted now.
A voice rumbles above him. God, maybe. Richard doesn't know. All he knows is his boy left and the room is falling apart around them. He's cold, so cold.
Something reaches for him. Long tendrils reaching out and wrapping around his wrist. Tight. They pull and pull and he's floating and he's falling, crashing through the floorboards and gasping as—
"Richard!"
His mouth is dry and his ears are still ringing. He tries blinking his mother into clarity, but she remains fuzzy. Half a face with blood-red lips and black hair. A hand clutched tight around his wrist.
"Mom?" he croaks. There's drool cooling on his cheek and the blankets he had wrapped himself in tight the night before are nowhere to be found. She must have pulled them off of him.
The dream lingers in his consciousness, like it's calling out to him. Like that boy is waiting somewhere, on the other side. The world between worlds.
There had been a time where he'd been obsessed with it. Dreams and their meanings. He'd spent all his lunch breaks at his old school huddled up in the library. Bent over hundreds of books describing brain processes. Symbolism. Everything.
No matter how much he read, he didn't find meaning. The brain is a mystery. Dreams even more so. There's only guessing. Or God, but he doesn't suppose God is very intent on showing him dreams where another boy holds him like he's good enough to be held.
His mother huffs one minty breath before backing away from his face. She only becomes more blurry. Richard reaches for his glasses, sliding them onto his face right in time for the inevitable lecture.
His mother is beautiful. Not in the way every child thinks their mother is beautiful, but in a way that tells him she's paid to be. Smooth skin, flawless makeup. Dyed hair because, well, there was no use in fighting for her job because of her ginger hair when she didn't have ginger hair at all.
Her teeth are straight. Straighter than his. Her freckles are expertly covered.
Sometimes he thinks she looks more like a stranger than a mother.
She snaps her fingers in front of his face, pulling his attention back to her. He really should have listened. If there's one thing she hates, it's being ignored. By her own son, of all people.
"I said: you were the one that insisted on going to this God-forsaken school. You should be responsible enough to wake up on time." She's holding her phone in the hand she's waving around. She always talks with her hands when she's fed up. Richard used to do the same, all the time, before she told him to stop.
He nods, pushing his glasses farther up his nose, if only so that he doesn't have to look at her anymore. "I know, mom. Thank you," he mutters. Never give her a chance to call him ungrateful, even if the situation calls for it.
"You're nearly eighteen!" Her voice rises to a new octave. Shrill where it pierces his ears. He wishes he still had the guts to cover them, like he did when he was a child. Sing a song so he didn't have to hear it.
He just nods, now.
It had been a surprise she would even let him attend Welton. A great sales pitch, better grades and a lot of begging have gotten him to where he is now. Besides, Welton is closer to home than the posh school he went to before. Which means he could just take the bus after school, if his mother doesn't have time to drive him.
"I'm sorry, mom. I'm up now." He shuffles into a sitting position as to prove his point, folding his hands in his lap.
His mother sighs. "Sorry doesn't cut it in the real world, young man."
All he can do to pretend he doesn't feel like he just got slapped across the face is lower his eyes. The clicking of her heels against their hard wooden floor is the only indication she's left.
Richard takes off his glasses before rubbing a hand over his face. There's no use in arguing with her. Telling her he'd forgotten to set the alarm because he was too excited, something he only realizes now.
He can't get her to accept his apologies, but he can make sure not to be a bother by getting dressed and ready for school within record time. Maybe he'll buy her some flowers on his way home.
Besides, it's not like he wants to be late. This is all he's been dreaming of for months. He needs to make a good impression. Especially because his mother is already anticipating he'll fail and beg to be transferred back before spring.
Not happening.
This is his chance. His one chance. To make it big, to become something.
He knows he's got the brains to be a lawyer, or a politician or something equally as mind-numbing. But he doesn't want any of that. He wants to be on top of the world. And with a little luck and an amazing fencing program at Welton… he might get a shot at that.
Getting dressed is an uneventful affaire. He washes his face, styles his hair with quick, meticulous movements before finally putting on his new uniform. It doesn't look too different from the last, the biggest change is the blue tie being switched out for red, but it still feels different. He looks at himself in the mirror and smiles.
This is what he's meant to be doing. Not studying to become a lawyer. Not sitting behind a desk an extra four hours after school, just to get into the best programs. No. He's supposed to be fencing, training. Working hard to achieve his goals.
His mother rushes him out of the house, tapping away at her phone while she does it. He only manages to grab an apple for lunch, but it'll have to do. They probably have vending machines at Welton, don't they?
The car ride is as much boring as it is exciting. He's never actually driven up to the school before. His mother insisted that it hadn't been necessary. Besides, she's a busy woman. He should be grateful she let him transfer at all.
It's not a long drive. Nothing like the thirty minutes it took for him to get to his old school. Before he knows it, the car is pulling up into an unfamiliar parking lot, the engine left running as his mother pulls her phone from her purse again.
He sits. Waits. She's texting someone, maybe their producer or the manager. He doesn't really know, but it's probably someone from work. She barely talks to anyone outside of work. Unless he'd count the short conversations the two of them have. Grades and stuff like that.
"Mom?" he says, after a few minutes pass.
She hums, not lifting her eyes from her phone. It's quite ironic, actually, how she's always the one glued to that stupid device while he doesn't have a single person to text. Maybe that will change after he meets his new classmates. He hopes it does. It would make family dinners a lot less lonely.
"We should go in before the first bell rings."
His mother looks at him. Eyes that are much too similar to looking in a mirror. It used to comfort him, now it only freaks him out. "You can go in on your own, can't you? You're a big boy and I have to get to work."
Richard swallows, clutching the straps of his backpack in his hands. "You're supposed to meet with the principal."
It's like the air in the car turns stale and sour within that single second. His mother narrows her eyes at him. "There are some things you should be old enough to handle on your own, Richard. I have to get to work."
A sigh strains the walls of his lungs as he suppresses it. He can go in alone. It's fine. His mother has a busy, unpredictable schedule, and the principal should be able to understand that.
"Okay," he says, nodding. "Good luck at work."
He climbs out of the car, pausing for a moment before closing the door. When he turns to give his mother one last wave, she's already pulling away from the parking spot, phone still in hand.
Sometimes he's afraid of growing up like her. Uncaring of the world around him as he buries himself in work, because it's all he'll have. It's one of the reasons he's pursuing this path, to make sure that doesn't happen.
Letting out the sigh feels like heaven. He massages his temple, a headache building deep within his brain, somewhere he can't reach with his fingers. It could be from waking up so abruptly or having to get ready without a minute to spare, or a breakfast to eat.
The air is cold and it bites at his skin, goosebumps appearing on his arms as he wind blows through his thick coat. It feels fresh, in a way nothing truly has these days. He's never minded the cold before and he's not about to start.
Another sigh flows past his lips as he turns to Welton. The building is relatively modern, much more than the private school he attended was. It has clean, sharp edges and about a thousand windows that make sure the natural light flows easily. Green peeks over the roof, plants and foliage glowing from the top of the building.
On the front steps, as well as dotted all around the grass surrounding the school, are students. Talking, laughing, being one with the school and with each other. It feels more… free than his last school did. Less stuffy. Like people are actually excited to come here, to see their friends, instead of being frightened into disciplinary silence.
He straightens his coat, stepping up to the building. This is his future. This is where he'll be able to thrive, he can feel it. Without the strict rules, maybe he'll make some friends. And even if not, there is always fencing. The one reason he chose this place. His one goal.
The hallways are still relatively empty, only a couple students dotted around. He must have had some time to save after all. It's nice, actually, being able to look around without the crowd. It feels cozy, in a way.
He follows the signs pointing towards the principals office, walking at a glacial pace to take everything in. The smell of an early winter's morning, the feeling of it all. His favorite part are the lockers, decorated with Polaroids and stickers. It's all personalized in a way he wouldn't dare imagine at his previous school.
The principals office looms in the distance. Big doors with blurred glass windows. A nameplate he can't quite make out at this distance, even while wearing his contacts. It screams authority.
Which means he should stop dawdling around and speed his step. He's about to do just that when a stern voice draws his attention. Loud and masculine with an undertone of something else. Concern, maybe?
It pulls him in, makes him walk up to the classroom it's coming from and peek through the crack in the door. He doesn't know what kind of punishments this school enforces, but he would rather find out early on than be confronted with it in a couple weeks.
Not that he's planning on getting into trouble, or anything. But he knows better than to expect himself to be an exception if there's a bully among the teachers.
Inside the classroom is a man, back turned towards the door. His button down is rolled up his forearms. Arms with which he gestures as he says— "You need fuel. Athletes need to eat and do not think I don't see you losing weight. Your body will become as weak as limp noodles by the time the championships roll around."
There's another voice, quieter, as a boy his age steps in view. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, like he'd been running his hands through it. He's wearing the same uniform, except he's switched out the blazer for a sweater with the school's logo. Richard wonders, briefly, where he'd gotten it from. It looks to be very warm, which could be useful for cold days.
Just as Richard is about to place a name to the somewhat familiar face, the other man continues. "Charlie, I'm serious. I will not hesitate to bench you."
The realization drops like a penny in an especially deep well. His heart falling with it.
Charlie Dalton.
Richard's breath stutters in his chest as the other boy meekly nods. It's a sight. Not a pleasant one, but one nonetheless. Charlie Dalton, who is most often seen donning a big grin on posters, medals slung around his neck or perched between pearly white teeth, with his head tilted down like there is nothing to smile about at all.
There aren't any medals around his neck, but his shoulders still curve as though he's barely holding the weight of it all. A second realization comes. He shouldn't be looking at this. This private moment between Charlie and the teacher.
Richard silently rushes past the classroom. His heart is hammering against his ribcage. They hadn't seen him, had they? He doesn't think they had, they'd have said something if they did. He's all good, except for the guilt he now has to carry around. The guilt of knowing something so private, without being told in confidence.
The door to the principals office slams against the wall as it slips from his fingers. Richard flinches at the sound it makes, a harsh bang that alerts Mr. Nolan —it says so on his nameplate— to his presence. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles, rushing to close the door behind him.
He places his hands behind his back, stepping towards the desk. There aren't any chairs to sit on, other than the one Mr. Nolan has claimed for himself. The whole room screams superiority. From the plaques on the wall to the countless bookshelves, filled to the brim. He really must be as impressive as they say he is, then.
Next to the desk stands a boy, his head bowed and a small smile playing on his lips. He looks up through his lashes, curious and child-like. Richard snaps his head back to the principal, cheeks heating.
"Mr. Cameron. Quite the entrance." His voice is low and scratchy, like he'd smoked too much during his teen years and is still paying the price. But other than that, Mr. Nolan looks pristine. His suit perfectly ironed, his shoulders squared and a permanent scowl etched on his face.
Richard takes the example of the other boy and lowers his head. Submission. A weird power play adults seem to appreciate. "My apologies sir."
No excuses. Another rule his mother had set for him early on in his life. Nobody wants to hear some weak justification of why Richard managed to mess something up. They just want an apology and—
"It won't happen again, sir," he adds on.
Mr. Nolan hums, tapping his fountain pen on the desk before him. Richard thinks that if he was stroking a cat on his lap instead, he would make the perfect comic book villain. "Will your mother be joining us?"
He raises an eyebrow, pinning Richard to the spot he stands, mouth opening, closing, opening again. "No, sir. She had to go to work early."
The words spur on a deafening silence. Mr. Nolan keeps his pen still, Richard doesn't breathe. It feels like hours pass before Mr. Nolan speaks. "Well, then. I had expected as much."
Richard swallows, half-formed defenses dying on his tongue. "My apologies," he says, again.
"Mr. Perry." Mr. Nolan tilts his head to the side, the boy standing next to his desk snaps into action. He steps forward with a dazzling smile and holds out his hand for Richard to shake. His eyes sparkle beneath the artificial light in the room.
"Hi, I'm Neil," he says, winking once before stepping back in place.
"Richard," Richard mumbles.
Mr. Nolan pulls open one of his desk drawers to retrieve a piece of paper, sliding it forward for Richard to take. "Mr. Perry will be your guide for the day. Your books are to be collected at the front office, your schedule is on the back of this list. You will be excused for your first period only, so make sure you get to class on time."
Nodding, Richard takes the list. "Thank you, sir."
Within that second and the next, he's being rushed outside by Neil. A hand around his arm, pulled through the door and into the hallway. The first thing Richard notices is how the school is now filled to the brim with students, chatter deafening from where they stand. That will take a while to get used to.
"Alright, the bell is going to ring within—" It fills the hallway, a shrill sound that hoards people towards their appointed classes. Richard sees students wave at each other as they trickle into the classrooms.
It's only after the last door slams closed that he can hear his own thoughts again.
"Huh." Neil smiles that same smile that seems like it should be reserved for the camera's or something. "Well then, we've got the whole place to ourselves."
He takes the paper from Richard's hands, eyes gliding over the text like he's done this a million times before. "Sorry about Mr. Nolan, by the way. You shouldn't have to go to his office much, or at all, really, but he's kind of a grump all of the time. There's theories going around... A-ha!"
Before he knows it, Neil is walking off again. Making Richard rush to keep up with his brisk pace. If this is what the whole first period is going to be like, he really should have eaten breakfast.
Neil stops in front of a locker, holding out his hand. "Ta-da! You should try your code, just to make sure it all works." He presses the paper in Richard's hand, pointing towards the neat numeric code at the top. "I'm just going to do something else really quickly."
And then Neil is darting towards the other side of the hallway, a few lockers over. Richard turns to his own locker with a sigh and looks down at the code. The lock ticks when he twists it just so. It's different than his last school, where he had to press the numbers into a key pad —the most modern thing about the entire school— but the lock clicks open without much resistance and he shoves his coat inside before locking it once more.
He turns back to Neil, brows furrowing as he watches him slip a pink envelope into one of the lockers, a secretive smile on his face. When he catches Richard looking, he merely raises a finger to his lips.
It's sweet, Richard thinks. If it's truly a love letter —which Richard can only assume from the whole pink envelope thing— and Neil put in the effort of writing it, it's really romantic. Richard has always favored the written word. Writing poetry is the only thing he's got to keep his head on straight.
Neil takes him on a tour through the entire school. From the library to the classrooms, from the roof to the gym. It's a good tour. Neil seems to know a lot about the history of the school and manages to tell it in a way that doesn't make Richard want to tear his ears off.
It's kind of like having a friend, he thinks. Though, logically, he knows Neil is only doing this because he's been assigned to. He's still nice in a way that seems too authentic to be anything but real.
Then there's another thing. He keeps calling Richard Cameron. Something about it rolling off the tongue better, and Richard can't deny it feels more personal than his first name. Less sharp.
Richard is the man that left him because he couldn't be bothered to actually raise him when he was six. Cameron is just… He doesn't know how to explain it, but the way Neil lets it roll off his tongue feels warmer, somehow. Like it was meant to be said by someone that cares for him.
There's always the possibility he's reading too much into it. Though he knows he has no choice but to do so, he's never had real friends before. There's no way of knowing what they would call him if he did.
After the tour there is still some time to spare. Enough for him to collect his books and go to his locker for the second time.
The rest of the day passes quickly. Quicker than he would have expected it to.
The people at Welton are nice. There's this girl in his English class that sat down next to him the moment she realized there's a new kid in class. Spent the whole hour talking to him about Shakespeare and why he's not as boring as most people think he is.
After class she gave him directions towards the library, where he intended to spend his free period. Not to stick his nose in books about dreams and the processes in the brain, this time, but to catch up on some missed work. He didn't know about the homework everyone did over Christmas break, so he really should get on top of that.
It had been his mother's one condition. He was allowed to go to Welton, but only as long as he continued getting good grades and stayed out of trouble. Not that he ever had been in trouble at his previous school, but she thinks the whole fencing thing means he's going to start slacking, or something.
He likes studying, is the thing. Math and the way it's like a puzzle for him to work his way through or English with its endless hidden meanings in pieces of writing. It's interesting, is all. As long as he remains interested, his grades will be fine. He always was a smart kid, that won't change now that he's switched schools.
The library is big and he finds a quiet spot sharing a table with a boy who is wearing gigantic headphones and nearly chewing a hole through his lip. The scent of books surrounds him, comforts him with their presence. It's the perfect atmosphere to work in.
He takes a break about halfway through his first assignment, stretching his neck and pulling his earphones from his ears. The world slowly starts existing around him again, his focus shifting.
The boy he shares his table with isn't working on his laptop anymore. His headphones are pushed to the side as he stares at a familiar pink envelope laying in front of him.
Richard smiles. "Are you planning to open that or burn it with your gaze?" he asks, voice flowing across the table. It snaps the boy from his staring contest, bottom lip popping from his mouth.
"I don't know," he mumbles. "It's probably just a joke, right?"
His voice is soft. It reminds Richard of the way tall grass dances in the wind. "Something tells me it's not," he says, after a while. "Aren't you curious?"
The boy shrugs, but he reaches out and takes the letter in his hands. His eyes slide back towards the pink as he starts to open it.
Despite his curiosity, Richard puts his earphones back in and shifts his focus back to his homework. It's hard, but after a while he finds the rhythm coming back to him. That state he falls into when the exercises are engaging and fun.
He only looks back up when the bell rings, packing his stuff into his bag and stepping away from the table. "Hey," the boy calls out, voice louder, but still as gentle as before. Richard turns. "Thank you."
There's a soft blush on his cheeks, hands clenched on the table in front of him. His headphones hang around his neck, connected to his laptop. "Of course." Richard smiles.
Even though the day passes like a blur, there is one thing he can't keep his mind off. And it's not the kind girl in his English class. Nor is it pink letters being exchanged like early wedding vows.
No.
The one thing he can't stop thinking about is Charlie Dalton. Of all people, it's Charlie that has made a little nest in his brain. Or, more likely, the fact that he hasn't been eating properly. If Richard should believe the other person in the classroom that morning.
It's not like Richard hasn't heard of Charlie before. Everyone who is half-interested in fencing knows his name. A rising star, that's what they call him when they put his face on a poster or the cover of a magazine, his fencing uniform clinging tight to his body. Richard wonders if it's looser now.
He's watched a few interviews, is all. That, and a lot of his games. Just because he's one of the best fencers his age. Richard needs to know what he'll be up against once he makes it that far.
And apparently, he hasn't been eating enough.
It shouldn't bother Richard as much as it does. It shouldn't make him want to claw at his arms. But he sees him, in the hallways. Sees him pause in front of the vending machine and pull his lip between his teeth before he continues walking. Sees him sway on his feet before Neil wraps an arm around his shoulders with a grin.
He has to notice. Neil is the person that notices these types of things. Richard is almost sure of it. His whole aura exudes the "gentle care"-type of friend. Like he'd hear one sniffle and he's already hurrying to the nurses office.
Maybe he did notice. Maybe Charlie told him not to mention it, or Neil is too afraid to point it out. Something like this… It isn't as straight forward as a stuffy nose.
Except no matter how much Richard tries, no matter how many classes pass or how many people he talks to, he can't un-notice this.
Which is why he can't stop himself from going to the vending machines before fencing practice and buying three granola bars. One in each flavor, because he isn't sure what Charlie's favorite is.
He sneaks into the locker room before the bell rings, carefully opening the locker with 'C. Dalton' on it and placing the bars inside. There. Now he won't have to think about Charlie's hunger again, he's done as much as he could.
Before he can make his way out of the locker room, the door to the gym slams open. He turns, ready to start explaining why he's in here at all, only to be faced with his English teacher. And, now that he truly connects the dots, the same man that had been talking to Charlie earlier. The fencing Coach.
"Ah!" Mr. Keating says. "You're early. Cameron, is it? Come with me, we've got to get some things sorted."
Richard silently follows Mr. Keating into his office, sitting down on the chair in front of his desk when he asks. His heart is pounding still. What if Keating saw him earlier that day? What if that's what this is about.
He is positively surprised when all Keating wants to talk about is fencing. Logistics, like his size and experience and stuff like that.
Mr. Keating talks to him with a gentle voice, stringing together words like he's writing poetry no matter what he's saying. Richard feels more comfortable here than he did back in Mr. Nolan's office. He's glad to know not every staff member is the same as that old grump.
By the time they're walking out the door the locker room is bustling with people. A few of them stop, already half undressed as they look him up and down before going on with their day. Mr. Keating introduces him as the newest addition to their team. And that is that.
He takes a free spot on the bench and starts untying his shoes. Most students are chattering, but the one boy he's got his eye on is quiet. Contemplative, as he looks down at the bars in his hand. It's only after Richard has already changed into his work out clothes, that Charlie peels off the wrapper of one of the bars and stuffs it in his mouth, one bite after the other.
The three bars disappear in front of his eyes and he can't help a small smile.
Practice goes by much as the day had. A haze. Time speeding and spiraling until Mr. Keating calls out they'll be spending the remaining fifteen minutes doing practice matches.
Richard is heaving, sweating beneath his mask. Practice is run like it's military training, and he loves it. It's much more stimulating than whatever half-assed crap they were doing at his old school. All pretense for boys that don't want to get their hands dirty. That don't want to work up a sweat.
He wins a few matches, loses some.
A few minutes before practice is supposed to end somebody calls out that Mr. Keating should pair up "Dalton and the new kid". Richard doesn't argue. It'll be a nice challenge, after all. One round. A 50/50 shot at victory.
He knows Charlie is good, but so is he. Richard has been practicing for years, watching every match he could. An advantage, of sorts. Because he knows the fencing style Charlie clings to like a child to an old fairytale.
Winning is a different task. Charlie attacks, Richard pulls back just in time for the blade to miss him. His heart thunders against his chest. He pushes forward, their blades clashing and half a second passes—
"Ha!" Charlie calls, pulling off his mask with a confident smirk. He lost. Charlie had been too quick, or Richard had been too slow. It makes him ball his hands into fists.
"Rematch," Richard breathes. There is no way he'll go down like this. It's embarrassing. "Again." He knows he can do it. He was so close, if he'd have only stepped forward earlier, been bolder.
Charlie is smiling now, brows raised and head tilted. It's deadly silent in the gym. A bad omen. The hair on Richard's arms stands on end, despite all the sweat.
"I don't do rematches. If you want a challenge, you should try Arthur." His voice is mocking and Richard's head whips around to look at the boy that has been on the bench the entire hour, glasses crooked and a tissue pressed to his nose. Even his eyes widen at Charlie's words, like he's not used to being acknowledged.
Shaking his head, Richard takes his starting position, blade raised. "Again. Unless you're scared."
Someone gasps. He doesn't pay them any mind. His eyes are on Charlie only. Charlie, as he stands with his mask tucked underneath his arm. Charlie, with his blade pointed to the ground like he sees Richard as an annoyance, instead of a threat.
Charlie, who steps forward, unafraid and close enough for Richard to feel his breath through the mask he's still wearing. There is no humor left in Charlie's voice when he speaks next. A pure hole of nothingness. "You don't make the calls around here. And let's face it. You suck."