capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

WHO: Thomas and The Narrator
WHERE: A bar which will remain nameless, obv
WHEN: Tuesday night.
WARNINGS: UH, HELLA VIOLENCE. LIKE, BUCKETS.
SUMMARY: The Narrator is crazy, needs to get his kicks, Thomas obliges etc etc
FORMAT: Quicklog all night, baby.

[ He really doesn't know why he agreed. Why he agreed multiple times. But Thomas is sitting at a table of a relatively quiet bar and he just doesn't care anymore. It's not the first time he's asked for water at a bar, not being one for other's opinions. He is, admittedly, intimidating.

But there's a certain radio silence echoing in his head. It's not about him, after all. It's a favor. Encouraging self-destruction shouldn't be a moral issue for him.

His eyes are focused intently on the door, his only movement being his leg bouncing in barely hidden anxiety. ]

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[The Narrator arrives with his left hand in a homemade bandage. This is fine, he tells himself, because it doesn't hurt and he punches with his right. His mind is filled with its own kind of static, blurred thoughts, his whole body dissociated from the now. He shuffles his feet the whole way to Thomas' table. He stops like a wind up toy that's run out of friction.]

I hope I didn't keep you waiting.

[ There he is. There really isn't any turning back. Thomas' eyes dart to the bandage for a moment (not that they matter at all) and raise back up, regarding almost solemnly. Standing up to his level, he pushes in his chair. ]

I wasn't here for long. How are we going to do this?

[The Narrator flicks his head to side, a gesture towards the bartender, before raising a finger.]

Wait here.

[And off he goes. When he gets to the bar, he leans way over onto the counter, arms and elbows on the wood, and murmurs to the bartender. There is no exchange of money. No handshake. Just low voices, nodding heads. As he walks back to Thomas, he cracks his neck.]

We get the basement. Forty minutes.

[ He nods. ] After you.

[ And as he follows him into the vague and dusty depths of "generic bar basement," his hands keep twitching. And it genuinely bothers him, for some reason. Whatever. The cellar is dry, warm and empty. It's perfect. Convenient. ]

[Once he reaches the bottom of the steps, he strips his shirt off and kicks off his shoes. The motions are so well-practiced and fluid, they're practically one.]

We do this so no one strangles themselves. ['We.' He doesn't even bother editing.] I promise to give you a warning this time.

[ Thomas copies his actions, albeit less cohesively; there is still a hint of hesitation in his actions, filtering through. He nods again, in response. Grunts in affirmation.

Making his way opposite to him (a few feet away, that is. He knows it won't be goddamn flips or anything,) Thomas assumes a loose posture. Making it clear. He's all focus, all nerves. No talk. ]

You ready?

[He can sense the hesitation, but he's sure it won't matter this time. He won't let it matter. Even if this isn't his own reality, he's made a decision, and that decision is for control. He gets into his own stance.]

I can't feel pain today.

[Maybe Thomas already knows, but it's worth saying.]

Edited 2011-01-21 02:29 (UTC)

I remember. [ Vaguely. He more remembers the vampire-him drooling a little. It shouldn't matter. But it does. Thomas isn't entirely sure how he'll know he should stop.

He doesn't really want to make the first move; he steps forward, fists raised. "You first," in his actions. ]

[The Narrator doesn't know either, when he should stop, and that's the one thing that makes the night bearable. That's the exciting thing.

He takes Thomas' signal. This is okay, he tells himself, as long as he fights back. His first shot is a fake out to his chest, and then an uppercut towards his face. God, it's like his arm is an airplane. A speeding jet. This in itself is worth it.]

[ It catches him under his chin as his hands dart the wrong direction, his head snapping upward. Thomas shakes off the hit, his jaw clenching and unclenching in the process. His mind echoes: Test out the waters before you swim. He's not going to beat himself up for taking the first hit.

His right hand immediately moves out to the side and repels towards The Narrator's face in a (Christ, what is he doing) open-hand slap. ]

Edited 2011-01-21 04:34 (UTC)

[His recovery is superhuman. No sooner is his head knocked back before he's darting to grab hold of Thomas' wrist with both of his hands, his movements fast and smooth and vicious. Thomas' hit isn't worth a sneeze.

Once the Narrator grabs his arm, he tries to pull it down and twist it, but muscle isn't exactly on his side.]

[ Thomas' right arm does yank down from the force, along with that side of his body; the action is conspicious enough that he tenses up the arm so the twist is more of a burn than a twist. There is, however, the audible hiss of pain as he experiences it. (He's frankly impressed, but he doesn't let it show.)

Using the leverage granted by being pulled down, his left leg kicks upwards and outwards, up towards The Narrator's stomach. ]

[He doesn't even double over. He feels his insides shake and bounce before righting themselves again. There's a hitch in his diaphragm that melts his breath away. The force knocks him two steps back.

It's terrifying and perfect all at once.

He doesn't wait for himself to catch his breath. Wheezing, he grabs at Thomas' shoulders and tries to pull him forward to knee him in the stomach, see how he feels.]

[ Abdominals flex involuntarily as his knee hits true, absorbing the impact; Thomas gasps, breath suddenly forced out of him. The red haze behind his eyes gets a little bit thicker.

Baring teeth, both hands reach towards The Narrator's throat, trying to shakily grasp fingers 'round through his current state of breathlessness. ]

[It's just like his fight with Tyler. With hands around his throat, he can't feel pain, but he can feel his throat desperately working, all the cells in his lungs starting to die, all that fuzziness in his limbs. It's pain without pain, the threat of death without actually being able to die. It's something.

So he does little to stop Thomas' hands. Once he takes hold, though, the Narrator aims a stomp down at his feet.]

[ Expecting retaliation towards hands (or groin, considering the frequency people DO aim there), the pain in his foot is unexpected, to say the least. He's not exactly sure where to go for a person who doesn't seem to mind being choked. Unexplored territory.

He loosens both of his hands, using the strength of his arms to push The Narrator backwards, a few feet away. To gain distance. ]

[He stumbles back, but only for a moment. His entire body is thrumming with recovery-- or rather no recovery at all, because he doesn't need it. Immediately, he's charging at Thomas again, screaming, fists going for his shoulders, chest, face. Anywhere.]

Edited 2011-01-23 03:53 (UTC)

[ Thomas catches his right fist in his respective hand, The Narrator's left hand making its mark to his cheek. Droplets of blood flies outward--his cheek being cut by a tooth, probably--his head moving in the direction of the hit.

His mind is swimming, not sure what to do and not sure what is where. He yanks on the Narrator's fist, trying to send him flying toward himself. There is no strategy in this; only reaction (which is all that matters, in truth). ]

[Skewing balance is just about the only thing that works for a man who can't feel pain, and it does work. With his energy focused on hitting Thomas, the Narrator has nothing to balance himself, and so he stumbles forward. If Thomas weren't holding onto him, he'd fall flat his face.]

[ He catches the Narrator's weight, an arm wrapping around his back in what seems to be a brutish imitation of embrace. There is a brief moment where Thomas realizes that this is the perfect opportunity to bite him, to push teeth into eye or cheek, but dismisses it as, well, fantasy, would be the best word for it. But here is where he pauses, unsure of what to do to an opponent that cannot feel pain, cannot die. Because that's his damned gimmick. ]

[Try harder, Thomas, he hisses inside his head where no one can hear. He decides (in a bastardized, sloppy definition of the word) that he's fine with winning if Thomas lets him. If Thomas can't bring him down like Tyler did, he deserves all those punches, he deserves being pummeled into unconsciousness. He shoots a fist at his stomach. Every ounce of his energy is behind it]

[ Thomas feels the hit, hard, grunting as the fist bruises his stomach. It's clear that the man he's fighting is much, much more personally invested in this than he is-- he might as well put some damned effort in it.

Hand scrabbling to the back of the Narrator's neck, he slams his head forward into the his, in an attempted headbutt. ]

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