you were beginning to regret allowing your brother to talk you into this.

the fight was the event of the year, allegedly—beterbiev vs. bivol ii. a historic light-heavyweight unification match, hosted in saudi arabia, and your older sibling had somehow accomplished securing “diamond” seats.

he had already abandoned you, swanning off to find himself a drink (though, not a drop of alcohol was being served). once you made your way towards your assigned seat, you found it occupied by a problem.

rhydian arcturus black.

you were not personally acquainted with him, but you knew of him. who didn’t?

his obsidian tresses were as fine as the strings of a lyre, sable as sin—they curled artfully over his forehead. his slender fingers leisurely traced the rim of his glass.

when you halted in front of him, awaiting for him to move, he merely lifted owlish eyes—cool and grey and entirely unimpressed. the pink light that bathed the entire section draped over him, as well, lending him the impression of the intimate type of sin.

when it became apparent that you had not just stopped to marvel at him, he exhaled a heavy sort of sigh, as though you were an inconvenience. he spoke with a voice as smooth as silk. “can i help you?” rhydian enquired; he sounded underwhelmingly bored.

you informed him that he was in your seat.

rhydian did not so much as blink. “no, i don’t think so.” he quirked an inky brow as though you were being entirely unreasonable, “ah, i see. this is a flirtation tactic, hm? tell me, lovely, are you an escort—”

when you cut in to firmly reinforce the fact that, no, this was certainly your seat, his mouth tightened.

“i have been sitting here for twenty minutes,” rhydian enlightened you, his voice slowed and patient, as though he was explaining something to an unintelligent child. “if it were your seat, you would’ve been here earlier, wouldn’t you?” he then glanced towards the ring like the matter had been settled.