There was so much he wanted to give proper voice to, to say to the man that in front of him, the man that he had shared so much in those past days of fleeting comfort, but while he knew there was not a lack of want for him to express what he knew and what he felt, there was a lack of want for instability and madness. Even if his words had been superficially droll, he was more than bewilderingly mixed in his innermost self, caught between a longing to see whether or not he could come to welcome Achilleas with even the most remote of warm semblances that he had once been so free to shower, and the swallowing rage and pain that had all resurfaced in those earlier hours of the day when he had met his striking, blue eyes again since last. Of course, even if he was conflicted as how to approach the Taengean, Damocles was not going to let his emotions take over again...or at least he tried to convince himself of that.

Upon hearing the other’s faux tone of shocked disbelief, Damocles raised his eyebrows and nodded once at the man with a faint smile on his long, saturnine face. “I rest my case.” he continued to amuse, obviously resorting to sarcasm to try and alleviate the tensions they had. He didn’t really think of much to say to the man once he made that small, mostly innocent joke. They had agreed to mostly settle their past words later on, behind closed doors where none could see or listen to what they would say. At least, that was what Damocles interpreted from their non-verbal exchanges. Yet, as he pondered his situation, he found his grey eyes noticing a smile, thin and small, but evident smile on the other’s square face. To him, for as brief as this instance was, it was a moment of fleeting bliss. And while it was nearly unnoticeable to virtually anyone else, as he returned that small gesture with one of his own, the Colchian temporarily though that perhaps, their words did not need to be pointed, but simply honest.

Deep down, that was what he wanted. He didn't want to hurt or wound this man, ever. Why would he? He had been close to him once and had shared many days and nights of stupid, wonderful, bizarre happiness with him. Had he had his way, and the Gods been truly good, he would’ve tried to have been a better man and not reacted the way he did before, shoving and harassing him with his known Herculean strength and hurtful, thorny words. And yet, he did not know why he wanted to take it back. To try and be genuinely pleasant to the man who had grieved him so in the past, and not just superficially or nominally as he had tried to do now. He wanted to say he was sorry for being such an abrasive, temperamental and wrathful man, and he truly wanted to express his regret for being meanspirited. It was a sour, and bitter flavor, this rare instance of quiet self-reflection. And it showed that he did not mean to be hurtful. His face had saddened and soften, while his grey eyes went blank and distant, showing the uncomfortableness in his being.

Words failed him, but actions did not. In a manner that had not been his usual, bold and energetic one, Damocles raised his head to Achilleas and stared at his eyes soulfully, saying all he wanted to say without ever even uttering a whisper. There was pain and there was loss in his features. Yet, as he began to express a side of him that nearly nobody had ever seen before, or at least he was certain nobody had seen before, Damocles heard a familiar voice announcing his name, denoting him as the selected fighter for the next round of the event. Almost instantaneously, he shifted his demeanor again, showing a brash, if not forced, smirk and proud-shouldered stance he typically adopted. “I guess it’s my turn. Wish me luck, fatty.” he said, once more sarcastically insulting the other man as he stepped into the ring and whipped back to form.

In his stereotypical fashion, Damocles showed his showmanship, brandishing his form by tightening his strong, bulging muscles so as to excite a few spectators, especially those of the fairer gender. Once finished, he confidently made towards the arena and grinned excitedly, feeling a brandished sense of entitlement awash over him titillatingly. He had not been foolish enough to simply make bold and let things go run by his self-perceived greatness, for he was now to face that one man that, even round Achilleas, Damocles had wished to fight most, the crown prince himself, Vangelis of Kotas.

In his eyes, Vangelis had been the same old boy from that same old house that he had offered up as tribute to the Gods of the Inferno since his last days at Midas’s mines. Oh course, it was a sight to behold, how he had grown into an insufferable man. Everything about him repulsed Damocles, from the way his stoic features remained unmoved through the majority of the time, to the shaded color of his blue eyes. It had been years, many and too great to count, since he had the chance to exchange fists with him, a singular pleasure that Damocles had sadly regretted under count of his consecutive promotions and absolute rise into unrivaled stances. He should have known that the Gods would have been kind and merciful in their games, providing the grey-eyed man the chance and opportunity to face that Young Bear once more after the unjustified pass of so many former days.

His heart beat with cruel excitement, causing his bold features to move at the pace of a mocked smirk that betrayed the distaste he felt for the other man. This was a glorious moment, one where he could have welcomed one and all to witness this, his moment of personal triumph. Oh, he was aware that most would come to cheer and applaud for the Crown Prince, but as Damocles stared at his royal opponent with silent, but derisive contempt, he felt himself embolden to strive and prove that Vangelis was nothing more than a mere Prince of Thieves, to beat him at his own game and show that he was overestimation at its finest.

Though he knew it right and proper to properly bow and acknowledge the other man as a fine opponent, as were some of the customary conventions of the understood place and time, Damocles did none of that, abandoning the ridiculous formalities in favor of a sneering jerk of his head that barely resembled the time-honored gesture at all. He was not going to start giving Vangelis whatever sense of respect others had swooningly offered so freely in his presence amongst other venues, it was quite simply a convention that he knew very well he would not do at all. And yet, silence was not his way, even if he focused solely on the broadly-built man in front of him. With noticeable disgust made apparent in his deep voice, Damocles retook his position and stared challengingly at those pale blue eyes he had come to disregard.

“Shall we forfeit the pleasantries, Vangelis?” coldly offered the baritone voiced man as he kept his penetrating stare fixated on Vangelis’s own eyes, reminding himself of the Crown Prince’s talents for battle. Sure, he might have been born to privilege and prestige, but unlike many noble-blooded men he had come to behold, the fighting capabilities of the eldest son of the Kotas was no laughing matter.

Hate-filled as he was, Damocles still had to admit that he was not as skilled as his opponent was when it came to contests of expertise. They stood equal in height, but that was about the only aspect they shared in common. He was fast and precise, a dangerous combination in any fighter, let alone one who had decades of training behind his make. If his memory was still to be trusted too, the Magnemean recalled that his opponent was an aggressive one, pressurizing careful accuracy with offensive, mighty force. Regardless of his personal feelings towards him, these considerations were factual and well-recorded in Damocles’s mind, and if he was going to aspire towards victory, he could not dismiss such aspects. Thus, he remained, silent and unmoving, an uncharacteristic display of his seriousness to all that knew him, resolute in his ambitions and focused on the task at hand: to beat Vangelis of Kotas.

This was alright, in a sense. Mihail would have preferred to be spending his time half-wrestling an opponent until they remembered that this was a province of his family's and awarded him the win but, instead, he was sat on the sidelines like some pathetic spectator. It wasn't even as fun as he had expected. Well, that was perhaps untrue, for the men who had shown up to the competition were handsome and strong, and just the sort that he would have gladly spent a long while ogling. It was a rare occasion that so many attractive men would get together for the purpose of rolling around together in the dirt, and he was planning to savour it for as long as he was able.

Still, he would have preferred it somewhat if one of his sisters had been present. Things were always different with one of them around, since they could always be counted upon to lighten the mood. Nethis might not have enjoyed the show as much - she would likely have seen it as nothing more than an opportunity to determine who were the most valuable assets in some scheme of hers - but Thea, at least, would have loved it. They had spent many a day together wiling the hours away smoking and chatting about on the men in the Colchian streets, and there were some of those same men practically demanding that attention.

Mihail sighed, adjusting his position in his seat to cross one leg over the other so he would have a better vantage point of the contestants now that some of the proper competitions were beginning. The fight between Achilleas and the Pierian lord was of particular interest, if mostly due to the natural looks of the Taengean and the fact that the other was from one of his own provinces, but it was too the impending bout between Prince Vangelis and some unknown soldier that caught his attention. Mihail did not know much about the rules of a fight - and he was quite glad now that he was not caught between these terrifying men or made to strip to almost nothing - but he knew that they seemed a close match, and this was indeed a battle to watch.

Oh, if only Thea was here. She would have adored this.

Vangelis had expected a struggle from the man and was impressed when he kept his cool under the lock that he held his opponent in. Despite Damocles' internal thoughts it wasn't experience or lack thereof that sent a man scrambling to be released from such a hold. The easy arm around the neck and the restraint of the arm in the back was a pressure that naturally sparked fear in the victim. The neck and shoulders were sensitive parts of the body, tied to your mortality. To feel them at risk was to panic. It was a perfectly natural instinct and wasn't something that only those with limited experience tended to fall into. That being said, training and practice could see a man relegate such panics to a simple moment of careful decision. And Damocles had clearly taken the time to learn in this manner. He froze solid at the sudden imprisonment and then relaxed, his body calming and not giving an inch despite his peaceful state.

As was a typical response, when you had few openings to use, Damocles threw his head back, intending to strike Vangelis hard upon the nose. A direct hit would see the bone or structure of the nose break, daze him and see his eyes watering, making him vulnerable to other attacks. Luckily, Vangelis was able to avoid the strike, but not completely. The back of Damocles’ head brushed hard against Vang's cheek and would likely leave a bruise but he was at least not dazed. Which meant that he noted the elbow coming back towards him. There was just no real way for him to avoid it in the positions they were in.

Pulling himself in close to Damocles’ back, to make the space between them small enough that the elbow could barely find his target, Vangelis did what he could to endure the sharp jab and hold onto his prey. But, with Damocles’ training on his side and the two of them being almost exactly the same height, it was easy for him to work out exactly how to bash against the weakest spot on the torso.

Seeing stars, Vangelis felt the air leave his lungs and when you couldn't breathe your muscles couldn't tighten. His grip loosened. Anyone of limited strength would have remained contained but Damocles was a large and powerful man who could use his weight and strength against Vang's weakened hold and twist and break free - exactly as he had meant to.

At their parting, Damocles wasted little time in launching a counter attack. His fist sailed towards Vangelis's face but the crown prince shifted just slightly, a forearm raised to deflect the shot over his shoulder. When Damocles’ leg struck out to take his opponent's feet out from under him, Vangelis simply jumped, avoiding the strike and sending Damocles a little off balance.

In order to correct it and regain the upper hand, Damocles struck out with his other leg, this time aiming for Vangelis's knee cap. The crown prince immediately dropped low and reached out to grab Damocles' leg before it could make contact. With a hook of his hand behind Damocles’ remaining foot in the sand, Vangelis pulled on the leg he held captive and forced the man over and onto his back.

Having only tripped him, not pushed him to the sands, the fall would do little to disorientate the man - only knock the breath from his chest - which meant that Vangelis was forced to act quickly. Lifting the leg that he still held and twisting it hard, he forced Damocles to either roll on his front and increase the pressure and pain or remain on his back for more than three seconds; a result that would lose him the bout.

Mihail was never subtle unless he wished to be, and when the sight of his middle sister appeared beside him, the man could not help but grin at the sight of her, rising from his seat to wrap his arms around her and drop a kiss on her cheek as he always did. Her words brought a chuckle out of him, though he bit his lip as he fell back into his seat. "Well, if you listened to your little brother more often, then perhaps you would know that he is, in fact, always right." He glanced up at her jokingly, tongue sticking out in her direction. These were the sorts of moments which had always cemented their close standing as siblings and which, although they were not typically displayed to the outer world, would undoubtedly have adapted their unsavoury reputation.

He took the wine she offered him gladly, sipping it with somewhat less decorum than was usually expected of a noble lord, not that he was particularly bothered at present (or often, given how many conventions he already broke each day). He was thirsty in more ways than one, and the sweet drink was a comfortable distraction. "Oh, were you thinking he was on the losing side? I was rather positive our future king would champion this bout." Mihail let his gaze drift thoughtfully to the fighting pair below, unable to resist a small smile when he noted how their crown prince had managed to shift his opponent into what looked to be a less than comfortable position.

"Maybe we should have a little wager of our own then, sister? I am sure Vangelis will come out on top but, if he does not, then I will gladly offer you anything you ask. Otherwise," he dropped his line of sight back onto her handsome guard, tongue running over his upper lip in satisfaction at the sight of him. He had only recently discovered that his heart beat for both sexes, and the good-looking man guarding his sister had only increased his desire. "I want him for a night. I have recently been of the mind that he would look much finer in my bath or bed than at your side."

Sex had been a recent discovery, and Mihail could not deny that half his thoughts had drifted in its direction lately, especially when he set his eyes on any man or woman which piqued his interest. He might have dwelled longer on the fantasy of what would occur if he was permitted to spend the day with the handsome guard had he not once more caught sight of that Taengean prince and been forced to cross his legs at the way the man dazzled with sweat, just in case something untoward were to happen (it was not as uncommon as he would have liked to claim, as his body clung to the last dredges of puberty). Oh, he would have given plenty to have him, but he supposed his sister would not be all that happy to be abandoned.

Still, he had a thought, and tore his attention from the Taengean to look back at Thea, trying not to smile too noticeably. "The-a," he attempted, elongating the first syllable of her name. "I will be sixteen this next month, and I thought you might wish to gift me something, yes?" He pointed not-so-subtly towards Achilleas, finishing his drink as he spoke. "Someone like that?"

From the sidelines, the Athenian slave watched silently, entirely focused. For the most part, he escaped the notice of everyone around him; barefoot and in a plain undyed tunica standing beside a much better-dressed man, his status was obvious and his silence easily mistaken for deference. Given how eagerly everyone else was watching the fighting, and that at least nine out of ten men in the crowd were in prime fighting trim, the intensity in his gaze and the way his weight balanced lightly on the balls of his feet were not striking enough to draw the eye to one so obviously beneath notice.

He was going to fight at least one man today whom he had never fought before - hopefully more, hopefully he wouldn't get himself broken in his first match - and while there was no guarantee he would face someone who'd already fought, there was no guarantee it wouldn't be, and he'd be a fool to disregard any clue he could get as to his opponents' abilities. Even if he went up against someone he hadn't seen before, watching still taught him a lot about what the local conventions were, what was considered acceptable, what would get the crowd excited.

It was more than just wrestling, that was good, the temptation to do real damage to escape a hold was too strong to resist most of the time, and winning a fight only to taste the whip after seemed a hollow victory at best. This current fight was the least 'polite' so far, but the crowd seemed to love it; that boded well. Vangelis was aggressive and strong, Lesley could tell he'd be a hard man to beat. Damocles was tough, too, willing to play dirty, and stubborn. Lesley would always respect a man who simply refused to stay down, regardless of skill, and the Prince's opponent was a good fighter, too.

He ignored the man beside him, but when he repeated his name he growled under his breath. Taking that as acknowledgement, his keeper for the week informed him quietly, "I'm going to check who you'll be up against. Stay out of trouble."

Les just grunted. That wasn't the sort of promise he made, and he wouldn't likely be believed if he professed an intention to behave himself. "Grab me some water," he muttered, eyes never leaving the fight.

Hyperfocus didn't leave spare thought for social niceties, and his thoughtless tone earned him a hissed breath and a sharp glare, neither of which he acknowledged.

"Lesley, you are aware you are a slave, are you not?"

Yes, he was, and at one point he hadn't cared, but he was very unhappy about it these days. The sharp glare he turned on his minder revealed clearly exactly how desperately he wanted to kill somebody, and you're as good a pick as anyone else, really. Like a pet cobra, the gladiator was captive, but he was certainly not tame..

"Do you want me to lose?" The lack of immediate answer assured Les that if he was safe from punishment at least until after the competition was over, which was far enough in the future to effectively not exist right now. He turned back to see Damocles swing a particularly serious punch at Vangelis. "Then shut up and let me focus."

He didn't even notice the man give up and stalk off.

When Lesley was called to the ring for his first fight, it was with someone he had seen fight already. About his own size, good reflexes, difficult to goad into something reckless. Knew how to get someone into a lock efficiently, but didn't fight dirty - or at least, hadn't needed to against his first opponent. Maleos's first fight hadn't lasted long enough that Lesley would have an advantage by being fresher - not like the knock down drag out brawl between Damocles and Vangelis, which was truth be told more Lesley's kind of fight. Well, they'd see.

His gaze never left his opponent as he stepped forward, untying the cord around his tunica with a deft tug, reading the man, analyzing, rather than trying to meet his eyes in prepatory challenge. He wasn't bothering trying to intimidate him; he was the stranger here, it would be too easily taken as a bluff. He was not, however, going to pass up the opportunity to play up to the crowd. And so he didn't appear at his match already shirtless, but stripped as he was walking out into the open space, loose fabric sliding to reveal scars and ink in full view of his audience. Celtic knotwork wound up his forearms, while more greek-style art was scattered across his shoulders and chest. Rougher doodles dotted his thighs, faded grey rather than the darker black of the more recent (or more recently touched-up) tattoos. He had more than his share of scars, too, from the puckered freshly-healed pink of a near-death experience to to the faded off-white of early childhood foolishness.

The gladiator rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to pop his neck, muscles rippling impressively without relying on too-obviously flexing to show off. Lesley was built like a man who used his muscles, and he moved like it too. This wasn't a man who worked out to look good, no trim waist and bulging biceps here, just solid, packed strength where it mattered, legs, trunk, shoulders, forearms... He half-circled his opponent, flexing his fingers into fists then uncurling them again, and again. No wrist wraps here; when he was sure his hands were used to how they felt and the difference wasn't going to distract him, he settled loosely into a balanced stance from which he could easily move in any direction. His world narrowed to nothing except himself an his opponent, the cheers of the crowd fading into white noise that invigorated him without distracting him, and an eager smile blossomed slowly across his face.

Finally.