You Hit Me Once, I Hit You Back. You Gave A Kick, I Gave A Slap.
Listen to me while reading.
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. )
"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.
Reply
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.
Reply
Sindre took stock of himself as he waited to be sure Søren was down. Bruised skin and muscles, minor cuts and scrapes, a quickly growing knot on the back of his head, and what felt to be too much blood flowing down his left arm. Shit. Chancing a quick look, he saw a too-steady stream extending from his fast-reddening sleeve to his wrist where it split, some dripping to the floor and some continuing on to soak into Søren's shirt. He had no idea what he had cut it on, but he had best take care of it before Valdi returned. Which was likely to be any time now.
When Søren failed to try to break free for several minutes, Sindre cautiously reduced pressure. When Søren didn't do much more than groan, he stood all the way up, ready to dive back down if it looked like Søren was going to lash out again. Skirting the debris, Sindre was able to keep an eye on Søren while making his way across the room. Pausing in the doorway, Sindre stared at the slumped pile on the floor. "The next time you feel the need to work out your masochistic tendencies," he said flatly, "don't come to me."
He sagged against the door to the stairwell almost immediately upon exiting. What...what the hell was that? He hadn't seen Søren like that since...since...well, since back in high school. And even then, he'd never had it focused on him. Or, to be specific, not out of nowhere.
And his own reaction. Yes, he was tired. Yes, he was caught off-guard and what Søren had hurled had cut, deep, but that didn't excuse what he said. Didn't make hitting Søren acceptable.
Sindre had almost brought his hands up to rub at his face before he remembered their state. It would probably be best to not wander the halls with the world's creepiest facepaint. Pulling away from the door, he made his way back to his apartment. He could handle the guilt and soul-searching later.
His arm was going to need stitches.
Reply
Leave a comment