You Hit Me Once, I Hit You Back. You Gave A Kick, I Gave A Slap.
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WHO: Sindre and Søren
WHEN: The late afternoon of October 29th
WHERE: Søren's apartment
WHAT: You smashed a plate over my head.
( Then I set fire to our bed. )
WHO: Sindre and Søren
WHEN: The late afternoon of October 29th
WHERE: Søren's apartment
WHAT: You smashed a plate over my head.
( Then I set fire to our bed. )
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Darting forward, Sindre caught a hold of Søren's arm and pulled him away from the broken glass. A bit unsure where to even start on the scene before him, he decided to start with the obvious.
"Søren..." he paused,taking another second to make sure what was before his eyes was actually happening. "It's a table. It can't speak. It can't move. It can't do anything at all. You don't want to run into it? Don't try to walk through it. You have a problem with it existing, well, you shouldn't have bought it in the first place."
Setting himself between Søren and the table again, Sindre demanded, "Now why are you trying to kill your table."
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It came as an unmistakable order, low and monotone. Søren stared down at the Norwegian emotionlessly, eyes cold.
He’d said it, already knowing it wouldn’t be heeded. He pulled his arm away, hand balling into a fist by his side.
“Move.”
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Lifting his chin the barest minimum to stare Søren down, Sindre let his voice go completely flat.
"I have not one damn reason to. Makes me a bit disinclined to do what you want." Catching the balled fists at Søren's side, Sindre smirked. "Gonna hit me over a piece of furniture? Really? A bit below even you, don't you think?"
He took a half step forward, into Søren's space. "If you want me to move, make me."
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“Gonna start tryin’ to tell me what to do in my own goddamned place?” he shot back sharply as his eyes narrowed angrily, “Because, hell…you’ve got no fuckin’ problem orderin’ me around any other damned place or time. But I guess you get a real kick out of it. It’s almost like havin’ your own pet-”
He turned his head and smiled grimly off to the side, staring out past the balcony to the sun beginning its downward descent. He vaguely wondered if the broken remains of the pill bottle resembled the fragments of glass littering the floor. Goddamn, everything always seemed to mirror something else.
He wondered if it was the remnants of the pills in his system talking.
“-just like a fuckin’ pet.”
His eyes wandered back to look down at Sindre, the face upturned to him challengingly.
What the hell had he been thinking? What the fucking hell had he been thinking?God, it was so painfully obvious now ( ... )
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Alright. Now he was angry.
"No, you're not my pet," Sindre spat. "Not a pet, not a dog, and definitely not mine."
He lifted his hand to tick off fingers. "A pet of mine would behave." Tick. "A pet of mine would keep out of trouble." Tick. "A pet of mine would improve my life." Tick. "A pet of mine wouldn't piss on the carpet.
"You on the other hand," Sindre couldn't help but let out a short, mocking laugh. "You go out of your way to do dumb, stupid shit. I have to fight with you to get you to even consider doing the slightest thing that would actually help you. You go out of your way to harass me, stalk me, and be as generally annoying as you possibly can. And quite honestly, I'm not convinced you've even managed that last trick."
Sindre shook his head. "So no, I wouldn't put up with your shit if you were merely my pet."
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He resisted the urge to knock that hand away, grasp the wrist he’d held in his hand so many times before and just--squeeze it firmly until Sindre fucking understood he was in the wrong.
“But if you could be bothered to actually listen to the shit that you say once in a while…” Søren laughed mockingly, “God, listen to you. It’s not a list of pet traits, it’s your brother.”
He tilted his chin upwards, staring down at Sindre through lowered eyelashes.
“Though I wonder if you can actually call him your brother and not just something you keep.”
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He fought to keep his face blank, not to show that the blow struck home. Because it did. Not in the way Søren intended, but...Valdi wasn't his pet. He wasn't. They didn't even have enough of a relationship for that. They were two strangers living together, no matter what Sindre might want, and how dare Søren toss his brother in his face.
Sindre felt himself go cold, and he had barely a moment to try and pull back, knowing how he acted when this enraged, before he was beyond the capability for regret.
"Funny how you say that like you know what you're talking about." Sindre almost purred. "Let's say what you claim is even remotely true. Let's say Valdi is my pet. It's still a hell of a lot better than what you have with the closest thing you have to one. What is Kai, hmm? A glorified punching bag? Where is he now? Flee from you already? And no wonder. You beat on the kid so much he happily reports how you think what he loves to do is utter trash"But I suppose there's ( ... )
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“Funny how you think you know a fuckin’ thing about how Kai and I work. But, y’know, there it is again. You tearing shit apart until you think you know everything about it. Kai’s been my little brother for a long time. Twenty years. You’ve had yours, what…a few months? Does he still have the new car smell?”
He began inhaling, and then Sindre's words cut it short like a knife’s edge.
“-fuck you, that’s rich,” he snarled, “You make me jump through fuckin’ hoops of fire to prove that I’m over all this high school bullshit and here you are still clingin’ to it like a safety net. Oh, fuck, sure. It’s all fuckin’ fine as long as you have somethin’ to blame me for. ‘Yeah, Søren. How dare you be a typical teenager. God fuckin’ damn, let’s hold it against you for the rest of your life. God forbid we ever get over it like actual adults!’ Fuck you. I’m over it. I’ve been over. You two are the ones who fuckin’ refuse to let it go. You don’t get to use that as an excuse for anything!”
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Again, Sindre laughed. "Touchy, are we? I was just stating facts. There's a difference between being over and remembering, pus. We remember high school, sure. 'S how we managed to stay brothers. Funny thing is, yeah, we're also gonna remember the shit you pulled; sorta a major event. And I don't have to remember a damn thing to know you're not my brother now.
"No, the one who can't move past high school is you. Berwald and I made up. I can call you friend again. Berwald wants to try. You're the one so tied up in past hurts and ancient slights that you can't bring yourself to forgive him."
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He glared, feeling his temper start to fray and his desperate grasp on it start to slip loose.
“And in all honesty, Berwald is a lot more fucking stuck on highschool than you think. But you were too dense to notice then, and you’re just catchin’ the clues backwards now.”
He didn’t know.
Sindre didn’t fucking know.Well, if he was happy in his ignorance…let him fucking drown in it ( ... )
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Søren's comments on Berwald were almost, almost enough to knock him out of anger and to confusion. What did Søren...he shook that thought away. Probably just trying to do just that, throw Sindre off. He was just going to ignore it.
"Then stop involving me," Sindre growled back. "Nothing's ever my business, according to you, but if you're still gonna get snippy or mope or be a dick based on it, I think I have the right to at least know why I'm being treated strangely ( ... )
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He took a step back and grinned, holding his arms out in an almost hopeless gesture of bewilderment ( ... )
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"Unless we're just working off different definitions. To me, a friend is someone who gives a fuck. But you apparently don't like that. No, what you want is someone who will ( ... )
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They were always so disappointing, so choreographed. So inorganic and stiff, nothing like a real fight. Fights weren’t this neat, bloodless, equal exchange of force up the sides of unfinished buildings or atop speeding trains. He had to inwardly laugh as he stared at the oversized movie screen. Writers were a funny lot. They tried overly hard to be engaging and appealing with their assumed edginess.
He’d bet a full paycheck that most of them were Ivy Leaguers that hadn’t even been in the mildest of bar fights.
A real fight began as an unorchestrated shouting match, stinging barbs of vitriol that became a haze of frenzied blows, sluggish and sloppy attempts at blocks, the occasional true and solid strike ( ... )
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