phenomena of youth.

"Again."

His lungs are on fire, but at the other's command, he adjusts the lance in his grip. It slips out of his grasp once in a while, hands clammy with a thin layer of sweat. The downpour of rain upon the training grounds does not help matters either. There is a grimace on his face as he looks up at Miklan, unmarked, untouched. Not a hair out of place.

He repeats the steps of the drill once more. Knees bent, but not too bent. Lance held loose, but not too loose. He lunges forward and Miklan counts each thrust in time with his dodges. One, two, ten... Then he parries to the left suddenly, and the lance is flung out of Ithric's grasp.

"Too loose," Miklan grumbles just as the tip of his lance brushes against Ithric's neck.

Ithric swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing against the tip. Miklan never pulled punches while sparring and was not afraid to mark up House Gautier's "honored guest." It wouldn't be above him to let the tip of his spear cut through ivory skin, watch intently as ichor stained his weapon. But he pulls away suddenly, gaze canting towards the sky as the gods continued to weep over them.

"We should find shelter," Ithric suggests after a slight hesitation. He doesn't feel any more safe in spite of the other's lance no longer being poised to hurt him anymore. Not that he didn't appreciate Miklan's aid in his training. He admired the man for his strengths, but feared him for his many, many flaws.

One such flaw was his gruff manner of speaking, his lack of tact. His knack for teasing him. "What, can't stand a little bit of rain?"

Ithric sighs and turns on his heel. "I'm soaked through. I don't want to catch something."

In hindsight, it was a mistake to turn his back on the other. When Miklan collides with him, the wind is knocked right out of him and he hits the ground hard. He curses and rolls around in the mud with the larger boy, trying in vain to overpower him. Miklan barks out a laugh, having come out victorious—"naturally," he sneers—with Ithric wrists pinned above his head. Although he wasn't a gracious winner, the other's laughter is contagious, and soon Ithric is giggling, the small dose of adrenaline wearing off.

"Alright you oaf, you won, now get off."

"What, I don't get to claim the spoils of war?"

Ithric rolls his eyes, but he cannot conceal his amusement. Too many days spent with Miklan and he still couldn't help but enable him. "What is it you'd like Sir Gautier, our finest ale or our treasures?"

Miklan appears to have a cheeky reply on the tip of his tongue, but as he peers down at Ithric, something changes. His boorish grin dissipates and his eyes narrow. Beads of moisture slide down his cheeks, caressing his sharp cheekbones and jawline. An image of masculinity that Ithric had always regarded as a blessing for a boy still so young. He rarely got the chance to have such a good look at the Gautier's firstborn, but now, his face was mere inches from his own. In spite of all the hard edges and lines, he somehow looked.... soft.

Still, the loss of his boastful demeanor is a cause for concern. Always unpredictable. That fear from earlier slowly leaks back into Ithric and it has him frozen in place. "Miklan?"

As though a spell were broken, Miklan snaps upright, finally releasing him. He picks up his lance once more and stands up with haste, brushing some mud off his knees. "I'm going to train a bit longer. Go inside."

Ithric wishes to contest this, wants to insist that Miklan should follow him, but he always obeys Miklan when he gives an order. Nothing is ever really up for debate with him. So Ithric nods and tries desperately to collect his thoughts as he leaves the other behind in the cold wetness, fingers ghosting over where Miklan's grip held him mere moments ago. His skin was already starting to darken, an imprint of the other's fingers forming.