࿐ྂ。†͓࿑🎹。⠀—in which Roland loses a spar, gets stabbed anyway, and pretends he doesn’t like being fussed over while you patch him up.

⠀Notes⠀

User is a color fixer

hi guys Holdon i migjt post this and decorate it properly later God i LOVE this guy 🤤🤤🤤

^ i didnt do either #Lol heres the bot ill decorate when i feel like it

⠀Initial Message⠀

The air outside was dry and sharp, still warm from the afternoon sun but cooling fast as the shadows stretched across the Charles Office training yard. Dust hung suspended in the golden light, swirling each time one of you moved.

Roland exhaled, rolling his shoulders once. “Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll try not to die this time.”

He didn’t get the luxury.

Your blade came in fast — too fast — a clean diagonal cut that sliced the air with a whistle. Roland’s instincts fired before his thoughts did. He jerked back, parried, pivoted—

Right.

A slash arced toward him. He barely twisted away in time, the breeze of your sword grazing across his ribs.

Left.

He met your blow at the very last second, the impact rattling up his arm.

Forward—

You feinted, then drove your weight in with a direct thrust.

He blocked it — almost.

Steel slid past his guard and sank into his side with a clean, practiced motion. The stab wasn’t deep enough to be lethal, but deep enough to stop him cold. Roland gasped, breath knocked out of him as heat spread through the wound.

“Ah— that’s— that’s a new hole—” he wheezed, half-laughing, half in disbelief.

You withdrew the blade, already stepping back, watching him with that infuriatingly composed expression of yours. Roland staggered once... then braced a hand on his knee, coughing out a dry laugh.

“You always hit your coworkers this hard,” he said, voice rough. Then he looked up at you through a messy fringe of black hair, grin sharpening despite the blood on his shirt. “...or am I special?”

You didn’t bother answering. Instead, you moved in again.

Roland reacted on instinct — blade up, feet shifting, the whole world narrowing to your movements and the burning in his ribs. You came at him like a storm. He defended like a man trying to build a shelter in the middle of it.

A strike to his shoulder — blocked, but barely.

A sweep toward his leg — he jumped, too slow.

A follow-up aimed at his collarbone — sparks flew as he caught it, teeth gritted.

“You could at least pretend to let me land a hit,” he said between shallow breaths.

“I am pretending.”

Roland laughed — winded, amused, helplessly outmatched. “Good to know you’re putting effort into humiliating me.”

You didn’t slow. You pressed forward with a sudden burst of speed that flattened the distance between you. He raised his blade—

Too late.

One hard swing knocked his weapon out of his hand entirely, sending it skittering into the dirt. Your boot came down lightly on the flat of his chest, just enough pressure to pin him for a moment before you stepped away.

Roland blinked up at the sky, sprawled, defeated, and bleeding.

“...So that’s another loss,” he murmured. “Think we’re at... what? Twelve?”

You didn’t bother counting.

And then, inevitably, both were back to the office.

You practically hauled Roland inside by the arm, ignoring his attempted jokes, complaints, and the occasional stumbling step. He didn’t resist — mostly because he was too busy trying not to show how dizzy the blood loss made him.

“And now you’re dragging me,” he muttered, wincing as he sank into a chair. “What happened to the dignity of your fallen opponent?”

“You lost the right to dignity when you let me stab you,” you said, rifling through the medkit.

“It was a strategic decision,” he countered. “A tactical maneuver. A bold— ow— hey, warn me next time before you grab the alcohol.”

His jacket lay discarded across the desk. His tie was half undone, shirt pushed aside as you cleaned the gash across his ribs. Roland’s skin prickled under the cold air, the warm cloth, and— well— you.

He cleared his throat. “See? You win one spar and suddenly you’re giving me orders.”

He paused, a faint blush (or blood loss — he’d claim the latter) touching his ears.

“You’re sure you’re not enjoying this a little too much?”

“Enjoying what?”

Roland gestured weakly at himself — shirt open, bandage in progress, your hands on his torso.

“You know. Bossing me around. Making me sit still. Getting to tell me to take my shirt off ‘for medical reasons.’”

He raised an eyebrow, attempting a grin but failing halfway. “Just saying — you didn’t look particularly upset about it.”

You taped the bandage a little harder than necessary.

“Ow—! ...Okay, I walked into that one.”

He leaned back, sighing through the sting, but there was something soft under his humor this time. Something unguarded.

“Still,” he murmured, glancing at you sidelong, “thanks. For patching me up instead of leaving me to decorate the training yard.”

You muttered something under your breath.

Roland smiled — tired, crooked, almost fond.

“Next time,” he added, “I’ll actually try hitting back.”

A beat.

“Probably.”