Blameworthy. (DenNor)

4. Danish vs. the Swedish

  Sweat and blood dripped from Matthias's matted hair. His knuckles were white from tightly gripping the axe's handle. The atmosphere was elevated with excitement and greed, rough hands passed wads of cash here and there, biding on the best, they craved for these fights. Matthias studied Berwald's stance. His eyes were fiercely blazed, the bleak light blanched his stone cold features,  fists up at shoulder level, he wore his usual metal gloves, the knuckle braces scintillating. The match was already sixty minutes in, and he was exhausted.

Adrenaline accelerated in Matthias's veins as he lunged towards the Swede's large frame. Berwald automatically blocked the hit, the clanging of metal rung, resonancing in the air. Matthias intensely pressured the blade against his brass knuckles. Beads of sweat creased above Berwald's forehead as he positioned his right foot back, keeping himself steady.

   Heels skidding, Berwald thrust his fists, the force causing Matthias to stumble back. Catching his ragged breath, Matthias smirked, twirling the hilt of his axe, the blade flashed a silvery ray as he swung the weapon. Dodging, Berwald attempted to strike his stomach, but Matthias with a swift pivot, blocked it. 

    Firmly holding the grip, he jolted the wedge of the axe towards Berwald's chest, as he did, Berwald grabbed his wrist then the nape of his neck, kneeing him in the stomach, he pinned  him to the floor. Axe clattering on the ground, a winded Matthias was trapped for a moment in his hold, until struggling, he finally escaped the Swedish man's grapple.

   Ruffles of money shuffled throughout the crowd. Standing, Matthias realized how much his muscles ached ,his tank top was soaked with blood and glued onto his skin, his throat raw. Spitting the bitter taste of blood he reached in his pockets pulling out his own set of brass knuckles, unlike Berwald's, they were glossed gold. Placing them on, he prepared himself for another round.

     ———————————-

    Tino watched the fight in distress, he wanted it to end already. But by the looks of it, Matthias was only just getting started.  He was watching like everyone else, behind the wired barrier that divided the fight between the audience and opponents, they were like caged dogs. 

   The air was suffocating, stenching of blood and metal, followed by the usual whiff of cigars.

   Each blow Berwald took made him jump. His palms were clammy and he was trembling. 

  Just end. He urgently pleaded.

He didn't care who the winner was, he just wanted it to end, it was cruel watching this, it made him sick.

    "Dude, this is brutal." 

He heard a voice say. He turned seeing a familiar blonde slurping a milkshake.

    "You mean awesome. "

  Another voice said, it was the Prussian albino. He was settled next to the American cuddling a tray of french fries.

    "Mr. Jones, Mr. Beilschmidt, you're here early, the meeting isn't until two more hours." Tino informed, sniffing away the tears that glinted in his eyes.

     "Tino, we're all friends here please call me Mr. Alfred, and Gil quit hogging the damn french fires man!"

Alfred protested, reaching for the greasy fries. Gilbert threw the stack of napkins at him.

    "Get away fatso!"

     "Hey I lost weight!"

   "Yeah, a pound."

  Alfred crossed his arms, pouting his lips like a child. Tino smiled softly, he was funny, and full of confidence, and at times annoying, but he admired that of him. His eyes wandered back at the fight. Berwald was bloody, his face was pale, he could tell his body was straining.