Yet more Tale of Sotto 4
This was beyond his paintbrush, beyond even the piano, he feared he might break the keys. So he ended up in the gym, borrowing a page from his eldest brother’s book. Hands wrapped, shirt off, he beat the living shit out of Scott’s favourite punching bag.
Of course, it wasn’t canvas that he hit. No, it was faces. The Hood was prominent, quickly followed by Percival F-ing Fischler. Muscles complained, sweat ran down his back and at one point he found himself yelling and cursing.
His knuckles hurt.
Pale blond John, wasting away.
He hit it some more.
And Scott was standing there. Forever worried blue eyes framed by black smudges.
Put there by Virgil Tracy.
He swung again, putting everything into his arm, forcing the anger into motion, burning it before it could burn him.
The canvas wobbled, the shock absorbed, it mocked him.
“We’re ready.” And Scott was beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
Virgil’s chest heaved. Sweat ran into his eyes. “About damn time.”
“Get cleaned up and meet me in the infirmary.”
Eos buzzed in his ears.
Scott squeezed his shoulder.
About damn time.