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. )
He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to feel the bags under his eyes tingling.
But now it was the weekend. He could sleep. Finally. And that's just what he was going to do.
Reaching out to turn off his alarm-he was going to sleep until he woke, and nothing was going to disturb him earlier-when his gaze fell on his phone. It was just sitting there, not making a sound, no lights blinking.
How odd. A typical Friday found at least one text from Søren, reliable enough that Sindre knew not to bother taking his phone with him any more. And he normally received a call or text within minutes of getting back to the apartment.
Looking back, he hadn't seen or heard much of Søren this week. Not that he minded; after what happened at Chueca...Sindre had welcomed the time to get those memories firmly tucked away where they couldn't torment him. Still, he felt almost guilty. Not that he would have had time for...anything, really, or that he actually did anything-brat hung up on him when all he did was inquire if he was okay-but...he could have at least sent Søren a text.
Well, if there were any hard feelings, he could fix them when he awoke. Right now, sleep. Thank god he got out early.
Sindre had almost drifted off when he heard the screech of furniture protesting sudden movement. Startled awake, he waited for a few moments, and then lay himself back against the pillow when it wasn't repeated.
Only for it to happen again. And again and again and again and goddamn it.
Throwing off the covers, Sindre stormed out of his room and out of the apartment and up a flight of stairs. He hit Søren's door, but apparently he couldn't hear it over acting like an asshole.
Slipping open Søren's door, Sindre quickly moved between Søren and the table he was abusing. "What the hell did your coffee table do to you?"
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He was hardly surprised to see Sindre let himself in. It was nice having the other come running at his beck and call for once, backwards and unorthodox though it may have been.
“Like,” he continued cheerfully, “If this table didn’t exist, I wouldn’t smack my shin against it every fucking day because the floors in this apartment are slanted. But hell, at least it talks back.”
He gave the coffee table a fond look.
“Isn’t that right, table?”
Søren gave it a vicious shove with his braced foot, sending the table sliding over the floor before catching on the edge of the rug and tipping sideways. The momentum kept it rolling with loud rattles until it collided with the wall. The glass topper shattered, scattering shards of all sizes and shapes and sharp edges everywhere.
He stepped around Sindre wordlessly, kicking the rug corner back into place before approaching the table and staring down at it and the debris underfoot apathetically.
Fucking bullshit.
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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.
He was a fucking pet. He was cared for, fed, petted and coddled when he was good, scolded when he wasn't.
Thrown away when he disobeyed.
“I’m not gonna let you do it anymore,” he murmured, “I’m not a goddamned dog. I can do whatever the hell I like, even if it makes no fuckin’ sense to you. If you don’t like it, you can find your way to the door.”
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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 precedent. After all, I had two brothers with me, once." His smirk took on a cruel edge. "And no one's really surprised you're the one who didn't make the cut."
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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.
Søren tossed his head back angrily. Assumptions, assumptions, fucking assumptions, and he was starting to feel jittery, fuck-shouldn’t have thrown the pills, goddamnit-
His voice dropped into a lower pitch, growing husky and rougher, nearly hysterical, but so well-masked it was practically unnoticeable.
“And yeah, we don’t get on so great, Berwald and I. But that’s got less to do with highschool than it has to do with something that’s none of your fucking business.”
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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.
"And will you stop bringing up the psychoanalyzing? I don't know how many times I have to tell that, for the most part, I. Don't. Do it. To you. I just fucking pay attention to what you say. And what do I get? Shit about psychoanalyzing you. I notice that you say something that contradicts something else you said--I'm psychoanalyzing. I notice that you're acting oddly--I'm psychoanalyzing. Get a new word, if you don't want me to give two shit. But stop bitching about something I don't do."
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He took a step back and grinned, holding his arms out in an almost hopeless gesture of bewilderment.
“But yeah, I dunno why the hell you sit there and put up with me pissin’ on the rug, then. ‘Cause, y’know, all this shit you’re sittin’ there sayin’? I still sound like the dog, and you still sound the guy who thinks he’s better than me. All right, fine. Whatever the fuck you want, master. The dog’s misbehavin’. Beat the hell out of him. Animal cruelty would improve your mood, right? It’ll make you feel better.”
His shoulders slumped and his arms fell slowly to rest by his side, almost as if boneless.
He felt better and worse than when he was on the pills; still attached to himself, but it was somewhere far in the back of his head where he could just count the number of times his heart beat and be satisfied that he was alive and not asleep or dead-
He closed the space between them again and loomed over the Norwegian in a way he knew was antagonistic and set the other on edge. His right reached out and gave a deceptively gentle tug on the errant curl floating by Sindre’s face.
“Come on,” he breathed, “hit me.”
And then he pulled.
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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 entertain you when you want it, that you can leave at any moment because you feel like it, that won't ask you any uncomfortable questions or do anything you dislike. Like a doll. Do I need to be just your toy?"
He took an involuntary step backwards at Søren's next words. "I'm not going to hit you," he replied, voice a bit shaky. What were they doing? Yelling...these sorts of things over a table? He took another step back. "You're the one who feels better after hitting someone. You're not a dog, and I am not going to hit you."
He tensed as Søren stepped into his space. He wasn't about to back down when it was Søren who decreased the space, though every instinct was screaming at him to. Just because Sindre wouldn't hit Søren didn't mean the reverse was true. His brain raced, trying to analyze his chances if it came to a fight. There was a reason it had never come to blows in the past, and it wasn't that Sindre never had the desire to hit the Dane. Søren was stronger and had a larger reach. Sindre was faster. Sindre was exhausted, slowing his reflexes and decreasing his stamina. Søren was enraged, likely to make him sloppy and not fight smart.
So long as the fight was brief, Sindre would probably walk away better off.
And then Søren yanked on his curl. Sindre felt his eyes go wide under the new flood of stimuli, momentarily too overwhelmed to act. Hurt and indignation battled with want and Søren being right there warred with freshly recovered cold anger. Fortunately all those feelings were in agreement. Give him what he wants.
Knocking Søren's hand away, Sindre did take that extra step back to gain enough room for a solid hit. He drove his fist straight into the bone under Søren's left eye, not pulling the hit, twisting his fist just on impact to increase the blow.
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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.
--he wondered what the fuck he was doing pondering the plot of Die Another Day when he was laying facedown over the wreckage of what had been some project of Kai’s in the making, lungs heaving under the press of a knee digging in mercilessly between his shoulders, pinning him in place.
He wanted to writhe and howl under that offensive weight, to have a free hand to wipe sweat and cruor out of his eyes. But he couldn’t move and his voice was choked down by the dregs of a dying temper.
His cheek was pressed to the cold floor, just so that he could catch the image of Sindre panting heavily above him and God--God, stop it--
He wrenched his eyes away to stare again at the table (a fucking table) that had started everything or nothing. The glass glimmered back derisively, flickering rainbows where the flagging sunlight kissed it.
And in the grit sat a single blue and red pill, testament to his carelessness.
He wanted to cry.
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