the first cut may be the deepest, but that doesn't mean continued digs hurt less. final buzzer, match point, whistle– they all chalk up to one thing: loss. loss of his career, livelihood and a court that used to chant his name in the height of euphoria ( it used to be theirs, but that ship had long sailed ). a combination, two for one package deal that you never saw tethered; cut at the source, broken for however long it'd been now. but anders knew that going in– knew the risks and little reward in seeing the other male again… but, somehow, optimism ran deeper than before. now, it was all based on blind hope. he blames himself, really. whatever had happened, along with the certainty of reconciliation, were all too strong of ideas. especially with how the twinge in his chest is made all too aware the second the other male replies. it's a tone unheard of, spoken once or twice in passing, never to him though. well, not until now. fucking great. perhaps if he could run into the elevator that's closing in record time, he'd avoid some kind of embarrassment. roles reversed seem colder though. it isn't all too nice to hear.    “   well… yeah. i mean, it's a free country, isn't it ?    ”   there's a silent shrug, before he's mentally skipping through his rolodex of conversation. finds nothing, or at least, something worth saying. he's done with the back and forth, a volley on the court now of their tongues– speaking venom that causes injury with every pass.    “   no, luc, i'm trying to be the bigger fucking person and admit i was wrong.    ”   that he is. however, there's a phrase stuck in his throat, only more noticeable through a prolonged hesitation.    “   can we talk… and i mean for real this time ?   ”

“    you do realize that you’re not some, outcast, who’s scorned by mom and dad… right ?    ”    and perhaps that’s the point: farrah clawing so deep into gio’s skin, enough to burrow beneath the surface. siblings are siblings, not blood, but enough where buttons are pushed. however, they started it, with no intention to stop. not a saint, nor a sinner in the grand scheme of things– others may disagree, but that is beyond the point of conversation– where lips will curl, saccharine smile plastered as performance of other dies down. or, gio attempts to mask for a moment longer.    “    ‘dunno, farrah– maybe be a little nicer, 'cause it seems to work a charm. and maybe, cut the theatrics… you know no one's ever liked them.     ”