Arlowe wiped the blood from his lip and wondered if he’d be covered in it, later. Lars’s or his, he didn’t care. He ached for the rush of the fight, the crunch of his knuckles against Lars’s jaw, blow for blow until one of them was on the floor.

…Until Arlowe was on the floor.

Six steps from one wall to the other. Six steps back.

He took a moment to lean, peeling his hand away from his side to see the blood smeared across his palm. It stung, but it wasn’t deep. He could still see the matching smear on the bricks next to the door, still feel the gritted bits of stone digging under his skin.

No sign of Lars, yet.

It would be soon, though. That he’d be back. Soon, and Arlowe could let out the restless energy boiling beneath his skin, stop the feeling that he needed to claw something to pieces.

Where the fuck was Lars? Arlowe walked the six steps to the opposite wall, eyes on the door, and imagined the slick slide of his fist against Lars’s bloodied face.

He needed to hit something. The feeling rose in his throat, bubbling and angry, and he swallowed around it. Dropped his shoulder into the rough of the wall.

A moment passed, then two. Three. More.

How long had it been, now?

Arlowe dragged blood wet fingers through his hair and pulled it back, twisting it up and out of the way. Lars couldn’t grab it as easily if it was up. Gave Arlowe an edge over him - he was ready, itching to finish the fight, down to every aching bone in his body.

Lars never took this long. What was he doing? What was he getting?

He never left things unfinished. All the shit he did to Arlowe and he’d never once stopped before he was satisfied he’d beaten him into the floor.

Footsteps cast shadows over the bottom of the door, so he pushed himself off the wall, but it didn’t open. Lars paused outside, and Arlowe swallowed. Rolled his shoulders back, gritted his teeth.

The shadows disappeared, and Lars walked away.

Eventually, he gave in, crouching down by the wall to give his legs a break. Eyes on the door, though. Always on the door, even as he pressed and prodded the wound at his side to dig out the dirt and stones from the scrapes. He wondered, briefly, when that had started - that unwillingness to put his back to an entrance.

Not that it mattered. He’d been watching his back against Lars since he could remember.

Time kept stretching, and the footsteps never came back again. The light under the door never dipped, or changed. No shadows crossed it.

Arlowe didn’t know how long it had been.