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Martyn has always felt at peace underground.
When the city started getting bigger and people were talking about having under-the-earth locations for houses or important buildings, many people thought it was stupid because of how claustrophobic the idea seemed.
For Martyn, having worked in the mines when the worst part of the revolution hit, the idea never sounded so bad. It was comforting, the prospect of having so much soil between him and the rich people running the city. More space to run and make himself scarce, if need be.
The first time he met with Joel the man laughed at that statement, bringing the cigarrette Martyn gave to him to his lips saying something about how well they were going to get along.
And getting along well they do, except for moments like these.
There's a bell ringing vaguely in the direction of the door when Joel enters, the theme music of one of the other fighters playing in full blast. The crowd roars, going crazy, and it occurs to Martyn that Scott must be the one walking the plank for his big finale, the fight of the night against his husband.
It's absurd. Martyn was supossed to win, take both Ren and Scott out in the first stages of the ranks, but now he's sitting here trying to fight back a brain contusion.
"Look, Martyn" Joel begins, pulling his sunglasses up into his hair. The blond focuses his eyes on him the best he can, since verbally fighting him doesn't sound like a very pleasant option. "I don't care that you lost to Ren. Tango did too, and he'll live"
Martyn coughs, then draws a breath. His back against the cold wall is doing wonders in keeping him from dozzing off of planet earth, so he nods. There's no need to tell Joel anything about his favoritism with Tango, because he's not among the judges anyway. He just runs the ring frustratingly well.
"But Scott?" the man goes on, throwing hands like he's currently deciding whether he wants to be angry or laugh about it. "You were the one capable of finish that idiot, and you blew it."
Martyn wants to respond, protest that the ring is at full capacity because he lost and Scott won. The word spread quickly upstairs, in the bar that covers all of this, and half of the people there had come to see the final fight for tickets at half price. Money well earned, at the expense of Martyn's scrambled brain inside his skull and Pearl's apparently broken wrist.
People don't even know the final two are married, they're just some of the best fighters in the club. Before he can say anything of the sort, the door swings again, letting in the sound of people counting at the top of their lungs. Someone is winning, and he secretly hopes it's Ren.
The door also lets Mumbo in, making Martyn smile foolishly. Joel looks from where he was cleaning his glasses with his shirt a moment ago, and he seems genuinely surprised to see the other there.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you were going to be here" Mumbo laughs, nerves or perhaps embarrassment rolling around his words towards Joel. All his demeanor screams of how trapped he feels, and Martyn thinks with the uninhibited manner of someone delirious that he looks perfect like that.
"I was on my way out, don't worry" Joel mumbles, pausing a second. First his gaze fixes on Martyn, then on Mumbo. He frowns in the direction of the later, eyes that seem to find what they were looking for with raised eyebrows. Seeing this play out would be funny if Martyn's vision wasn't too blurry for his won liking. "You can't be serious, Mumbo" Joel finishes in a big sigh, leaving the small room without saying anything else to either of them.
"Were you planning on defending yourself?" Mumbo asks ignoring the scolding, low and sticky voice after sitting in front of him, on the floor but still quite close for comfort. His good hand (the one he didn't break in his own fight with Scar, weeks ago) is tap, tap, tapping against Martyn's knee, in the same grounding motion he always does.
Yes. No. Maybe.
There are a million good answers and at the same time none, but they're all lies. How could he explain to Mumbo that of course he wanted to win, but losing didn't feel as bad as it should have? How is he supposed to condense into a few words that the red marks of Scott's signature rings are going to remind him of this stupid loss for weeks to come?
He can't. Breathing through his badly healed rib from a few weeks ago, Martyn ponders lying to his boyfriend.
He recognizes something that wants to read as the morse code for please against his skin, stopping on his tracks to look at Mumbo.
He can't lie to him, who does he want to fool? The words are still difficult, and he tries to think them through for what feels like an eternity, but judging by the sound of the bell outside it's only a couple minutes.
"Don't know. I think I tried to win at first, but then it lost its meaning" he settles on that, taking Mumbo's bad hand and tapping the equivalent of truth.
The other perks up, smile curving his lips that Martyn feels tattooed on the soul. No, it is a definite thing to not be able to lie to him. There's a chance Joel was onto something when he reprimanded Mumbo, what were his exact words?
You can't be serious?
Martyn is struck by reality like lightning, green eyes meeting Mumbo's brown ones halfway through: he wants them to be serious. He really, really does.
"You're thinking too loud" Mumbo mutters as the bell rings again, effectively causing the two to stop and listen. There's no winner yet, but there should be one in the next four to six minutes. "Don't hurt yourself" he adds as a joke, taunting, but it falls flat.
You're one to talk, Martyn wants to say to him. Broken hand bones, partially torn eye? He thinks about his newest head injury added to the pile of the broken rib and the twisted ankle, (in addition to the furious bruises from Tango when the judge called a tie on their fight last week) and recognizes that it's best for him to shut the hell up.
Mumbo catches his wrist, eyes sparkling when Martyn doesn't let go. You're an idiot, he wants to tell him. Don't you see that you already have my heart in the palm of your hand, broken or not? Don't you realize that this isn't magic like everyone says it should be, but that I would give my life for you without even bliking? You have to see it, there's no way I don't have it painted on my face or embedded in my eyes.
It's stuck in the center of my soul, in case you mind.
"Be more careful next time, will you?" Martyn shakes his head yes to Mumbo's words, licking his own lips, feeling just a tad bit like he's falling.
"I will, if you are too" he offers like an olive branch, not exactly a promise. How curious that the situation feels a whole lot like disarming your first bomb, when he disarmed many in his time on the caves. Feelings are a strange thing that he may never fully understand, but for having this perhaps he can try.
The bell rings one last time outside, the music on the speakers barely drowning out the frenzied sounds of the crowd. Martyn knows deep down who won, but also feels— well, as if he couldn't care less.
"Want a kiss?" he is here, in the present, and that is what should concern him, isn't it? Mumbo's desperate hand cradling his face like he's something precious, something that atleast to him does matter. Martyn knows, completely ruined, that that's more than he needs.
"Thought you never ask" he whispers, abandoning his spot on the bench in favor of leaning down and kiss him.
His lips combined taste like iron, surely blood from one of the two. But it also tastes like kindness, and trust, a twisted hydra thing mixed with hunger and fascination.
It takes too much, and at the same time too little. It's not the first time they kiss, but it could well be when he tugs at Mumbo's lower lip and breathes against his open mouth. He laughs, gasps; taken aback with how hard his heart thumps on his chest when Mumbo slides his hand on his chin then to the back of his neck, pulling to get him closer.
The adrenaline doesn't go away completely, but they let go. Martyn plants one last kiss against the curve of his boyfriend's dumb smile, smiling in return.
The sounds of the crowd outside slowly die away. There is no more bell, no more music playing.
"Sounds like we have to leave sooner or later, as much as I hate to be the bringer of bad news" Mumbo nods, letting go of his neck too. His broken hand is still holding Martyn's, and he tries very bravely to pretend that it doesn't make him feel more dizzy than the possible injury in his head.
So what if it kills him? He's sure that it would be a worthy death.