1. 8 sweeps, maroon, pale

If this olive does not get off your fucking bulge, heads are going to roll.

You don’t generally do parties. The people are fine, the alcohol is definitely fine, but the clothes are what gets you. Your wardrobe is all shorts and scarves and the least possible amount of fabric restricting your movement at any time. Are dresses nice? Sure - but the way they hobble your stride really fucking isn’t.

But Boopis gave her spiel about sponsors and public figures and not having to put in all the work for once and how she’d never, ever pail you, black or red or anything ever again if you didn’t come, and so here you are, in a one armed suit that still feels too tight, and with some algaeblood who won’t stop gushing over your scars.

“Oh, but it looks so painful!”

 

You think she’s a sponsor, but how the fuck are you supposed to tell?

“Uh, yeah,” you drawl, “it was. Like, two sweeps ago, when it fucking happened.”

Normally, that sort of language throws people off. Your hide looks like someone’s been playing a long game of crosses and notches, and your eyes are red as an Imperial culling fork, but given enough time between words, most people tend to forget that you’re rust and that you fucking talk like it. You blame your nubby-ass horns and sharp teeth: it’s either that, or they’re stunned stupid by your raw charisma.

No such luck with this girl: she’s not appalled at all, she just fucking titters, with a hand over her mouth, and flashes you a sympathetic grin. “Fair enough,” she says easily. “I suppose your arm is much worse. Do you need the prosthetic?”

 

Oh, fuck your life.

There’s a gentle pressure at your side as someone slides in next to you, and you don’t even have to look to see who it is: the way your ear gets clipped by an oversized horn says enough. Pheres is back from flirting with the bluebloods, and it’s about fucking time, because you are officially tired of this girl.

“Hello!” He plants a kiss on your cheek, pale as anything, and your eyebrows go way up. PDA isn’t his thing, normally, and the way he’s making a show of slipping his arm through yours definitely isn’t. “What’s going on here?”

“Miss Nzinga and I were just discussing her scars,” the greenblood says, and then she adds, bold as brass: “And I was just telling her about how it’s such a shame, too, that she has so many: she has a lovely face.”

“Uh,” you say. She’s looking at you to see your reaction, and haha, holy shit, that was blatant as fuck.

“Oh,” Pheres says brightly, and presses in closer. “Isn’t that nice.”

“Who’re you?” She gives him a quick up and down with the barest flit of her eyes, taking in the suit with the rust red handkerchief tucked into the pocket, the oversized horns, the blood matched rings he only wears when he’s out with you… and she comes to entirely the wrong conclusion. “Her matesprit?”

Pheres isn’t smiling anymore, and neither are you. The greenblood’s grin falters in response, her eyebrows knitting, and holy shit, she still doesn’t get it.

“I’m Pheres, her moirail,” he says, cold as ice and twice as sharp, and the way the olive blanches is fucking amazing.

2. 8 sweeps, blue, pitch

The referee drapes the belt across your shoulders, metal buckles cold against your skin, and back at the start of the night, you thought thiswas going to be the best feeling in the world. You were such a fucking wriggler.

No, the best feeling is the warmth that’s spreading through your bloodpusher as you watch former champion Anshan Xerxes go all pale and bloodless from rage. You split her eyebrow open with that last blow to the head, so half of her face is painted deep sea blue, and the way it contrasts with the murder red eyes is just amazing.

She’s practically quivering with hate as the announcer turns to ask you for your comment.

“Well,” you chirp, bloody teethed and saccharine sweet, and you smile right past the camera and into her eyes, “it wasn’t much of a fight -”

You’re laughing as she shoves past the referee and snatches hold of you by the front of your shirt. Xerxes’s growling so hard she’s shaking with it, her rattlereeds working overtime, and she’s not even attempting words: her face is inches from yours, but she’s just showing her teeth, and if you give her a minute, she’s going to bite the shit out of you.

You don’t give her a minute. You kiss her, still laughing, and it’s worth the way that her teeth shred your lip for the look on her face.

The referee hauls the two of you apart a moment later, shouting reprimands, and Xerxes’s manager grabs her by the arm and yanks her the rest of the way out of the ring. The announcer just looks like this is some quality fucking entertainment he’s watching, and he grins down at you, patient as anything while you turn your head and spit red-blue blood out onto the stage.

“So what was that?” he asks. The camera’s still rolling, and you smile big for it. That’s streaky purple all on your teeth now, and it better fucking show: Xerxes kisses like a schoolfeed. “A new rivalry?”

You laugh right in his face.

“No way in hell,” you say, amused, “is anyone in this league my rival. Fuckers are all a bunch of losers.”

“You should feel like a real winner,” you say, laughing. “Like, um, you know I don’t really do flush, right?”

Boopis grins at you, her cheeks dimpling, and you swear your bloodpusher skips a beat. “Aren’t I a lucky one then,” she drawls, stretching out the words with her weirdo accent. “Winner o’ what?”

“Are there herds of girls out there, fighting it out for your red affections?” She’s resting her chin on your stomach, and she leans forward, black hair falling over her face until you can see nothing but her horns, and the amused crinkle of her eyes under them. You push your hand in her face, choking back a laugh: "What, no –“

"No?” she repeats, drawing the word out, her eyebrows going up high. “Oh dear - herds of boys?”

“Stop!” you shriek.

“‘cause iffin that’s the case, I’m afraid I’ll have to bow outta this contest." She sucks in her cheeks, and continues, mock-serious: "I seen the girls you fancy, and, well - maybe I can take them. But some of those boys, mm, no, they’re a little rough -”

She’s still trying to talk when you kiss her.

This is all so strange. Hearts are not your thing, and teal is entirely too blue for your tastes, but then again, you think maybe pity is always strange at first. How long did it take you to start thinking of Pheres as moirail and not friend? Boopis is a lot of things - friend, manager, partner - and matesprit has never been a title you’ve considered until now, but.

 

But maybe you’ll get used to it. And you know when to be grateful: she might be blue, but at least she’s not a clown.

“Oh, my foolish, foolish pupa,” ID hisses, “didn’t I fucking tell you not to play with the clowns?”

He’s got you by an ear, his grip tight enough that it feels like he’s gonna pull it straight off. The last time you tried to wiggle, he twisted it until you yowled, so all you can do is duck your horns and wait.

It’s not fair. Riccin’s auspitice isn’t holding them like that. In fact, she’s barely holding them at all, apart from her hand on their head, and she’s just resting it there.

“He - she -” I.D.’s grip is tightening in warning, but it’s not your fault you can’t remember! Riccin changes genders like your moirail changes clothes. “It’s not fair,” you finally howl, your voice cracking with outrage. “They started it! They said I was too chicken to hit them, just 'cause they’ve got paint -”

“No, dumbfuck,” Riccin says, smug as an especially fat grub, “I said you were too chicken to fight me proper! And wasn’t I fucking right, you big brown baby -”

It’s too much. You hiss and fling yourself forward, ripping your ear free from I.D.’s grip, but he’s ready: you’ve barely taken a step before the air goes white-bright with indigo sparks. His psionics snatch you by the shoulders, firm as a rock, and no matter how much you kick, you can’t get free.

“Sorry about that,” ID says, all smiles and warmth as the acolyte looks at the two of you. She’s not smiling as her eyes flash indigo, and oh god, being brown fucking sucks: she doesn’t need to make eye contact for you to feel the press of her psionics on your pan. Around you, the sparks abruptly go out, and you can’t help the way you fold in against ID as the wave of fear ripples through you, leaving you dry-mouthed and shaking.

At least Riccin doesn’t look much better. They’re clutching the hem of their tunic so hard a claws popped straight through. Even ID’s stiff as a board behind you, and he’s gotta be used to it: he deals with this every time Raphae gets in one of his snits, and they’ve been together since.. well, Raphae was your age, according to Pheres.

“Enough foolishness,” Riccin’s auspitice says, and she sounds bored, bored, bored, like she didn’t just backhand all three of you with her psionics. “Kāyata. Nzinga. Apologise.”

This is highblood frippery, and you hate it, you hate it, you hate it.Lowbloods just say they’re sorry: maybe you’ll have to bleed a little, if you really messed up, but at least that’s honest. Highbloods want you to show it, and somehow they think letting someone put their teeth right next to your ganderbulb and above the fuck-you struts of your throat is the way to do it.

But I.D. says you have to, and he’s your auspitice, and he’s the only reason you’re not being taken out back and bled for paint right now. He and Riccin are both psionics and clowns, and Riccin’s part of that dumb helmtraining program to boot, but you’re just you: boring, baseline, brown, and so you lean in and plant a quick, reluctant kiss to each of Riccin’s cheeks.

It’s horrible: Riccin’s skin tastes like paint and wax and dirt from when you slammed their face into the ground. But you get the last laugh when they lean down to kiss you, miss, and come up spluttering with a mouthful of curls instead.