Markiplier and JackSepticEye Imagines

Fight In Us (Septiplier)

(Word Count: 1314)

"Clear your head." My fist collided with the punching bag, my bare knuckles stinging as it swung away from me. My coach looked at me with cold eyes, disappointment evident in his expression. I hit the punching bags again, squeezing my eyes shut in pain as the skin on my knuckles broke. I huffed as I opened my eyes, pretending the pain didn't bother me.

"If you think that's not what I'm trying to do then you're an asshole," I stated breathlessly, taking another painful swing at the punching bag. He looked at the concrete ground and shook his head, stopping the swinging bag. He held the bag firmly, looking up at me expectantly. I let out a frustrated sigh, taking a few swings at the bag, the added resistance causing my knuckles to split even more. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, noticing spots of red all over the fabric of the bag. I looked down at my bloodied hands and grunted, turning away from the infuriating bag of sand.

"Fuck it," I breathed out, sitting down on one of the many wooden benches in the empty locker room. I pressed a cold, wet towel to the back of my neck and sighed at the wonderful feeling as it temporarily distracted me from the pain in my hands.

"I told you to wrap your hands," he said condescendingly, tossing my water bottle to me. I caught it gratefully, a look of annoyance plastered across my pale face. I drank half the bottle as he unhooked the punching bag and dragged it to the equipment closet, shutting and locking it up for the night.

"I know," I stated monotonously. He came back with his keys swinging around this index finger, his lips pulled back in a small smile. He picked up my duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he looked down at my fatigued figure.

"You know, being pissed at me all the time isn't going to help anybody," he stated quietly, his smile fading slightly. I ignored his burning gaze, chugging the other half of my water and standing up.

"It wasn't my idea to have you assigned to me." He immediately got defensive, something that, after the week and a half I'd know him, he did often.

"Seán, it was-"

"My name is Jack," I stated loudly, cutting him off without a moment's hesitation.

"Jack...It was your choice to do this. It was either this, or just sit in your hospital bed and wait for the inevitable. Staying healthy is a much better option and you know it."

"I know that." He rolled his eyes, something that he did whenever he was trying not to yelling at me. He was treating me like a child rather than a diseased man who wasn't even a year younger than him. It was humiliating, but he didn't seem to notice. Even if he did, he probably wouldn't care.

"You'll see that you made the right choice sooner or later." It was my turn to roll my eyes.

"Uh huh. Hopefully sooner rather than later." If he heard my mumbled comment, he chose ignored it, taking a few steps towards the door.

"Let's head home, okay? You can take your meds and I'll make us some dinner." I sighed, standing up and stretching my sore, aching muscles.

"Alright, Mark."

***

I was haunted by nightmares as soon as I was asleep. I was being chased. I don't remember what was chasing me or why, but I know that it was terrifying. I woke up in a sweaty heap underneath my blankets, my green hair plastered to my forehead by sweat. The alarm clock on my bedside table displayed the time in bright greenish-yellow, nearly the exact same shade as my hair. 5:23...ugh. Too early.

I was incapable of falling back to sleep, a ping of fear going off behind my eyes when I thought about going back to bed. I sighed, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of my bed. I peeled off my sweat soaked shirt, taking a moment to look at the flat, pale scar on the right side of his stomach. Tears rose to my eyes but I quickly looked away and wiped them off of my face. I don't know why I was inclined to look away when I did it. Maybe I was ashamed to let that scar - that reminder - see what it's done to me, both physically and mentally.

I stood up and left my room, walking as quietly as I could down the hallway as to not wake up Mark. As much as the guy got on my nerves, I knew that taking care of me only to know that I would die was a little bit difficult for him. Yeah, it seems kind of selfish to think about, especially when I am the one dying, but I understand what he's going through. That's one of the reasons I've been so distant towards the poor man: he's done this so many times, and every single one of his patients have had their lives taken by their cancer.

I read up on the guy the first day I met him. Kind of creepy, I know, but I needed to know what I was dealing with. I got a little bit more information than I needed, and this is what has caused me, a normally talkative and kind person, to be so rude. You see, he is no stranger to this sort of thing. His father passed away to cancer when he was still a teenager, and it inspired him to help others with the same issue. So he worked extremely hard and graduated from high school when he was sixteen. He holds a bachelor's in biology and medical science, an incredible feat for a twenty-seven year old man who still cries when he watches Titanic.

I nearly tripped on the baggie pant leg of my sweatpants, catching myself before falling down the hard steps. I huffed, walking down the cold wooden steps cautiously to avoid stepping on the three creaky steps. Fifth step down, left side, seventh step down, left side, second step up, right side. Not a single sound was made as I avoided those spots.

I entered the kitchen and closed the glass door, sighing in relief that I didn't have to avoid making noise. Obviously I couldn't be as loud as I want, but I can at least walk around and use the microwave without fear of waking Mark up. I placed two Hot Pockets on a plate and put them in the microwave for their three mintues and thirty seconds, looking out the window above the sink.

The moon was full, illuminating both the sky and the world beneath it in a soft, white glow. Its delicate cream white surface was covered in craters and marks, all shining a brilliant silver in the dark night sky. It was my first moment of peace in a long time, the corners of my lips turning up at the realization. For the past year and a half I've been in and out of the hospital for everything from my diagnosis to my surgery to my relapse. And then a couple months ago with the incident...it was nice to feel good about something. There was just something pleasant about the moon resting so high in the sky, undisturbed by the passing clouds. It made me feeling inspired - hopeful, even. But alas, the clouds blew in front of the natural nightlight and the sky went dark, my hopeful feeling fading.

With a sigh, I grabbed my Hot Pockets and retreated back to my room where I would sit awake for hours on end playing Shadow of the Colossus until Mark forced me to go on my morning run.

******
Alright, part one finished! This and the next part of two after are all based off of a oneshot by TheWriter456 who gave me permission to make something out of her idea. If you haven't read any of her stories, I totally suggest you do. I'd recommend "Hacked" or "Rebels" as the two to read first (only because that's what I did). They're both extremely good, and "Hacked" isn't finished yet, so the cliffhanger it leaves you on if you read it now will leave you just as frustrated and excited as me.

Let's talk a bit of business for a few. I'm aware of how much Septiplier I've been posting recently, and I promise it'll change after this. I've got an order to my next ten or so imagines, and I think only one or two of them are actually Septiplier, so get excited for that. I've got part two of "Mr. McLoughlin", "Extreme Spin The Bottle", and "Subnautica" as well as some new ideas that I'm sure you'll all love.

Speaking of all, how many people are actually reading this collections of imagines? If any of you have ever written a story on the app, the system for the amount of reads a chapter or story part gets can be pretty shady. Sometimes it'll say 0 reads when it really has 5, or it'll say 800 reads when it really has 1,000. So leave a comment if you're actually reading this. It's good to know who my audience is.

Happy reading, and have a good day,

Allie B.