The Choice to Walk - Prompt 01 Beginnings
Title: Momentous
’Verse/characters: The Choice To Walk, Ian's pov
Prompt: 01 Beginnings
Word Count: 1,385
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Notes: The Choice to Walk 'verse and characters are ones I share with mogigraphia. Some of what we've written can be found at thechoicetowalk. In this particular ficlet, Ian is 15. Thanks to mogigraphia for the Brit picking beta. :)
Ian let out a grunt as he made much more intimate and painful acquaintance with the wall than he had planned.
When he'd followed the Pattern threads in here, he'd been all but holding his breath, expecting something momentous to happen, although he had no idea what. If the Pattern's idea of momentous was encountering a bunch of narrow-minded, small brained bastards whose idea of rational debate involved exorbitant use of fists, he was going to be very disappointed.
Pushing away from the wall, Ian gingerly felt his nose which had taken the brunt of the impact. It hurt, but he didn't think it was broken, thankfully. He could hear the sniggering behind him, and with one last touch of his nose and a quick breath, he drew himself to his full height and turned to face his opponents.
"You make a most forceful argument, I admit," Ian said in a tone of appraisal. "Although it would probably be more convincing if you tried using the occasional word of the Queen's English, or indeed any word at-"
Ian's own words were cut off by a fist to the gut, causing every bit of breath he had to leave his body in a rush. He found himself doubling over, folding in half around the fist, then falling to his hands and knees as another blow to the back of his neck overbalanced him and forced him down.
He just had enough time to think This isn't good, before the first kick to his ribs landed. The first, but not unfortunately the last. Ian struggled to get away and regain his feet, and then, when that didn't work, just to get away; then finally just to remain conscious and survive.
As the attack continued, he drew himself up into a ball, pulling his legs up to his chest and covering his head with his hands in an effort to protect his more essential bits and pieces from damage, all the while thinking very dark thoughts about the Pattern and the threads that had led him into this mess in the first place. While being beaten to death would certainly qualify as a momentous event in his life, it was generally the sort of thing that reading the Patterns was supposed to help him avoid, not lead him down the garden path directly to disaster.
A boot made it partially through Ian's attempts at defence, and he took a glancing blow to the side of his head, causing him to see stars and for the world to grey out for a timeless instant. When everything came back it was different; Ian felt a new tension in the Pattern, like when one had dropped a firecracker and was waiting for it to go off. It was very much like what had drawn him to this place originally, but this was much stronger, almost smothering.
It was so strong that it took Ian an extra few seconds to realise he was no longer being pummelled and the sound of his attackers laughing and egging each other on had been replaced by the sound of arguing. Ian cautiously uncurled from his defensive position and raised his head to see what was going on.
A new boy had joined the group; he was standing between Ian and the others, berating them with the same rough words and accent that they had used. One of their pack then, Ian thought, as his eyes took in the short brown hair and fit form, or at least what he could see of it from the rear, but one that seemed to have evolved slightly past his Neanderthal cohorts. He at least seemed able to string together words of more than one syllable coherently and indeed was showing a positive flair for creative swearing that had Ian raising his eyebrows in appreciation. More than a little rough around the edges, but definitely the first really interesting person that Ian had run across since he came in. Which, granted, wasn't saying very much considering the rest.
Judging that he probably wasn't in danger of getting knocked down again, Ian gingerly pushed himself up into a sitting a position and when nothing protested more strongly than a dull ache, he shifted his weight to get his feet back under him and stand. Perhaps drawn by the movement, Ian's rescuer turned around and offered him a hand up with a, "You okay, mate?"
Ian reached out to take his hand, a glib reply on his lips as he looked up and met the other boy's gaze.
Oh.
Of all the things that could make Ian's world spin off its axis he never imagined it would be a pair of warm brown eyes that would do it. But looking up into this boy's face, that was exactly what it felt like, leaving him dizzy and breathless as his reality spun and settled into a new -- better -- orbit.
Half remembered dreams and yearnings that hadn't been conscious enough to be wishes seemed to surge through him and Ian could have sworn he head an audible click like a missing piece sliding into place.
This was why he had come here, this was what the Pattern had drawn him here for -- to meet this boy and to fall into brown eyes as deep as any ocean. It was as simple and as complicated as that, and momentous enough to take his breath away.
Of course, he hadn't actually met the boy yet, technically speaking, and he wouldn't if he kept up with the open-mouthed staring like some brain-damaged twit.
Giving himself a mental shake, Ian finished reaching for the boy's outstretched hand, his heartbeat speeding up as the boy's fingers closed around his own and he was pulled to his feet with an easy strength. Oh my, he is magnificent, isn't he?
Aloud, Ian answered the magnificent boy's question with an engaging smile. "Bruised, but not broken," he said lightly, and even those formidable bruises were fading into insignificance when compared with what they had brought to his attention. He let his touch linger as long as he dared before taking his hand back. "For which I seem to have you to thank."
The boy dismissed that with a rough shrug. "Weren't a fair fight," he said gruffly by way of explanation. He seemed discomfited, and Ian wondered if he was sensing the same... connection... that Ian was.
He hoped so as that would make things so much easier.
"All the more reason for me to be grateful," Ian said, upping up the wattage in his smile, a task that took no effort when faced with this boy. "Let me buy you a drink to show my appreciation."
Behind them, Ian's former tormentors snickered and made rude comments that weren't quite under their breath. The boy tensed up and hesitated for so long that Ian began to think he would refuse, but then he relaxed all at once, letting his breath out in a sigh. "Sure, why not?" he said then glared menacingly around them, as if challenging the others to make something out of it.
In response to that glare, the rude comments and snickers faded away and didn't come back for the rest of the time Ian was there.
By the time Ian left he had discovered that the boy's name was Derek Durant, that he lived at home with his parents and an older sister, and that he played goal for the local comp footie team where he was working towards his O-levels, and that they were the same age.
He'd also discovered that Derek was straight -- or so he told Ian. Over and over actually, and the sheer number of times he managed to work that into the conversation did make Ian wonder just which of them he was trying to convince.
Still, Ian was glad to come away with an idea of where Derek's boundaries lay; it would make it that much easier to plan his attack. He'd try for just a friendship first and wait until they'd established that much before testing Derek's assertion, and even then he'd have to move subtly and with all the finesse he could muster.
Ian grinned at the thought. It promised to be an interesting challenge.
’Verse/characters: The Choice To Walk, Ian's pov
Prompt: 01 Beginnings
Word Count: 1,385
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Notes: The Choice to Walk 'verse and characters are ones I share with mogigraphia. Some of what we've written can be found at thechoicetowalk. In this particular ficlet, Ian is 15. Thanks to mogigraphia for the Brit picking beta. :)
Ian let out a grunt as he made much more intimate and painful acquaintance with the wall than he had planned.
When he'd followed the Pattern threads in here, he'd been all but holding his breath, expecting something momentous to happen, although he had no idea what. If the Pattern's idea of momentous was encountering a bunch of narrow-minded, small brained bastards whose idea of rational debate involved exorbitant use of fists, he was going to be very disappointed.
Pushing away from the wall, Ian gingerly felt his nose which had taken the brunt of the impact. It hurt, but he didn't think it was broken, thankfully. He could hear the sniggering behind him, and with one last touch of his nose and a quick breath, he drew himself to his full height and turned to face his opponents.
"You make a most forceful argument, I admit," Ian said in a tone of appraisal. "Although it would probably be more convincing if you tried using the occasional word of the Queen's English, or indeed any word at-"
Ian's own words were cut off by a fist to the gut, causing every bit of breath he had to leave his body in a rush. He found himself doubling over, folding in half around the fist, then falling to his hands and knees as another blow to the back of his neck overbalanced him and forced him down.
He just had enough time to think This isn't good, before the first kick to his ribs landed. The first, but not unfortunately the last. Ian struggled to get away and regain his feet, and then, when that didn't work, just to get away; then finally just to remain conscious and survive.
As the attack continued, he drew himself up into a ball, pulling his legs up to his chest and covering his head with his hands in an effort to protect his more essential bits and pieces from damage, all the while thinking very dark thoughts about the Pattern and the threads that had led him into this mess in the first place. While being beaten to death would certainly qualify as a momentous event in his life, it was generally the sort of thing that reading the Patterns was supposed to help him avoid, not lead him down the garden path directly to disaster.
A boot made it partially through Ian's attempts at defence, and he took a glancing blow to the side of his head, causing him to see stars and for the world to grey out for a timeless instant. When everything came back it was different; Ian felt a new tension in the Pattern, like when one had dropped a firecracker and was waiting for it to go off. It was very much like what had drawn him to this place originally, but this was much stronger, almost smothering.
It was so strong that it took Ian an extra few seconds to realise he was no longer being pummelled and the sound of his attackers laughing and egging each other on had been replaced by the sound of arguing. Ian cautiously uncurled from his defensive position and raised his head to see what was going on.
A new boy had joined the group; he was standing between Ian and the others, berating them with the same rough words and accent that they had used. One of their pack then, Ian thought, as his eyes took in the short brown hair and fit form, or at least what he could see of it from the rear, but one that seemed to have evolved slightly past his Neanderthal cohorts. He at least seemed able to string together words of more than one syllable coherently and indeed was showing a positive flair for creative swearing that had Ian raising his eyebrows in appreciation. More than a little rough around the edges, but definitely the first really interesting person that Ian had run across since he came in. Which, granted, wasn't saying very much considering the rest.
Judging that he probably wasn't in danger of getting knocked down again, Ian gingerly pushed himself up into a sitting a position and when nothing protested more strongly than a dull ache, he shifted his weight to get his feet back under him and stand. Perhaps drawn by the movement, Ian's rescuer turned around and offered him a hand up with a, "You okay, mate?"
Ian reached out to take his hand, a glib reply on his lips as he looked up and met the other boy's gaze.
Oh.
Of all the things that could make Ian's world spin off its axis he never imagined it would be a pair of warm brown eyes that would do it. But looking up into this boy's face, that was exactly what it felt like, leaving him dizzy and breathless as his reality spun and settled into a new -- better -- orbit.
Half remembered dreams and yearnings that hadn't been conscious enough to be wishes seemed to surge through him and Ian could have sworn he head an audible click like a missing piece sliding into place.
This was why he had come here, this was what the Pattern had drawn him here for -- to meet this boy and to fall into brown eyes as deep as any ocean. It was as simple and as complicated as that, and momentous enough to take his breath away.
Of course, he hadn't actually met the boy yet, technically speaking, and he wouldn't if he kept up with the open-mouthed staring like some brain-damaged twit.
Giving himself a mental shake, Ian finished reaching for the boy's outstretched hand, his heartbeat speeding up as the boy's fingers closed around his own and he was pulled to his feet with an easy strength. Oh my, he is magnificent, isn't he?
Aloud, Ian answered the magnificent boy's question with an engaging smile. "Bruised, but not broken," he said lightly, and even those formidable bruises were fading into insignificance when compared with what they had brought to his attention. He let his touch linger as long as he dared before taking his hand back. "For which I seem to have you to thank."
The boy dismissed that with a rough shrug. "Weren't a fair fight," he said gruffly by way of explanation. He seemed discomfited, and Ian wondered if he was sensing the same... connection... that Ian was.
He hoped so as that would make things so much easier.
"All the more reason for me to be grateful," Ian said, upping up the wattage in his smile, a task that took no effort when faced with this boy. "Let me buy you a drink to show my appreciation."
Behind them, Ian's former tormentors snickered and made rude comments that weren't quite under their breath. The boy tensed up and hesitated for so long that Ian began to think he would refuse, but then he relaxed all at once, letting his breath out in a sigh. "Sure, why not?" he said then glared menacingly around them, as if challenging the others to make something out of it.
In response to that glare, the rude comments and snickers faded away and didn't come back for the rest of the time Ian was there.
By the time Ian left he had discovered that the boy's name was Derek Durant, that he lived at home with his parents and an older sister, and that he played goal for the local comp footie team where he was working towards his O-levels, and that they were the same age.
He'd also discovered that Derek was straight -- or so he told Ian. Over and over actually, and the sheer number of times he managed to work that into the conversation did make Ian wonder just which of them he was trying to convince.
Still, Ian was glad to come away with an idea of where Derek's boundaries lay; it would make it that much easier to plan his attack. He'd try for just a friendship first and wait until they'd established that much before testing Derek's assertion, and even then he'd have to move subtly and with all the finesse he could muster.
Ian grinned at the thought. It promised to be an interesting challenge.