Vincent

02. Paris At Last

As it turned out, Vincent's gift for dancing translated well to grappling. Upon an invitation from one of his acquaintances, he joined a wrestling club, not because fighting for sport sounded enjoyable to him, but because the others seemed eager to have him. It was so rare for anyone to want him around that badly that Vincent could not resist and so, despite his better judgment, he went, and he did it, and he surprised himself by rather enjoying the sport. It was comparable to dancing, though less elegant, and he missed the music, but otherwise, it was quite similar, and he found it easier to engage in wrestling for he was not obliged to make conversation, and there were seldom any women around to confuse things.

Shirtless, muscular, and barefoot, Vincent Lautrec crouched, facing one of his classmates. They slowly circled one another as several dozen other young men whooped and hollered in a ring around them. This match was better attended than most; in fact, all of Vincent's fights were among the best-attended events in the history of the Sorbonne, even the informal ones such as this, because Vincent's fights were a guaranteed spectacle.

As a fighter, Lautrec was no prodigy. He fought competently and could give most any man of comparable size a lively competition, but was by no means undefeated. The fights were entertaining enough in that respect, but it wasn't the sportsmanship which drew the spectators.

It was Vincent's body.

White as marble, lean and corded with muscle, he was like some perverse Grecian statue brought to life; his hair was white, too, each strand like filaments of spider silk riffling in the breeze and shining in the mid-morning sun; even his eyes were strange, a deep grayish color, with very little iris, and unsettling in their depth, or lack thereof.

The audacity of this young man, to strip down to nothing but his breeches (as they all did when wrestling), and bare his freakishly white skin without shame, was irresistible. These fights offered the chance to gawk at the freak, when gawking was otherwise strictly considered rude (although it still happened plenty, Lautrec could assure you). It was the thrill of waiting for the pale man to sustain a blow, because even though he was athletic and skilled, he had a propensity for bleeding copiously and bruising easily. Whether they lasted thirty seconds or ten minutes, Vincent's matches were never boring.

That they came mostly to ogle, their eyes devouring over his well-muscled shoulders and tapered waist and chalk-white skin, was no secret to Vincent. Sometimes it was unnerving and irritating; sometimes it was flattering and exciting. Generally, he was able to affect indifference no matter how he truly felt, and there was nothing more tantalizing than a confident freak who seemed not to care what anyone thought. He did care, in his way, but mostly he wished he did not, because there was no use in caring. Caring would not change how they felt or make them stop staring or make him any less of an outsider, so he embraced what he was, or tried to, and made peace with it. He enjoyed wrestling, and he usually enjoyed showing off, and today he was very much in the mood to receive the attention.

"You cannot circle me forever, Charlie Bamford," Vincent taunted, turning in circles as his classmate did a boxer's dance around him.

"No, but I can circle until you're distracted!" With that, Charlie charged at him and tackled him around the waist, bringing them both to the ground. They locked arms and tousled for a moment, before Vincent broke free and rolled over, and he pinned Charlie to the ground. The referee started counting down, but before he finished, Charlie used his legs to leverage his body and jerk upward, unbalancing his opponent just long enough to shove him aside. Vincent scrambled on the ground, trying to get to his feet. Charlie dropped on top of him, using his elbow to jab Vincent in the side.

The pigmentless wonder collapsed in the grass as Charlie sat on him square between the shoulders, squeezing all the air from his lungs. The spectators began to laugh and Charlie sat on top of Vincent like a cushion, grinning. The referee counted down as Vincent started gasping for air, stars bursting before his eyes, before Charlie finally got off of him. He rolled over, breathing hard, and another classmate came to help him up as the crowd noisily dispersed, clustering around Charlie and assiduously avoiding the freak. Gawking was well and good, socializing less so, especially when the freak lost the match.