13th Cycle // Continued Thread

[hatesblindjokes]

[Continuation of this thread. They both got drunk and then decided to punch each other for fun.]

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[hatesblindjokes]

[He can only vaguely comprehend the fact that he's going to have his own set of bruised ribs tomorrow, and he doesn't quite register his own involuntary lurching forward as he takes a knee to torso. His awareness is instead filled up with the sharp sound of a snarl and a sudden bright-white flash of blood.

On his face. On his lip, down his chin. He knows exactly where it is.

Of course, Vincent as a person is unsurprisingly heavy and not currently very steady on his feet, so he stumbles back and then keeps falling--but drags Irahl down with him. Absolutely thrilled to be on the ground, he finds himself laughing even though he's barely got the breath for it. His teeth have gotten sharper, if the other guy has enough time to get a look.

He may not--Vincent's going to be quick to try to grab his neck from the side and shove him off that way. Maybe he'll miss. Doesn't matter. He wants to feel this man's blood on his fingers.]

[indigochild]

[The world rocks too far in one direction as Irahl is dragged to the ground, and then goes careening around him in a different direction when a big hand paws across his face and topples him to the side. He hits the ground harder than he should have, but he's moving again before his brain has a chance to catch up.

Up on one knee, spit a mouthful of blood off to the side, and try to lunge back onto his opponent before he has the chance to go anywhere.

If Irahl has noticed any shift in Vincent, it's only on an instinctual level. Everything is functioning there right now. Irahl's limbs are practically moving without him as he tries to grab a shoulder, knock arms aside, hit the other man while he's still down. Gleefully following the momentum built into his bones.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[His own body feels so fucking good when he's like this. His limbs move effortlessly and every motion seems natural and right and it's a pleasure to simply be. So unlike how he usually is, heavy deadweight. He starts to sit up in no particular hurry, which is good because Irahl is right back on him in a heartbeat or two.

There's a curious combination of factors causing this to be one of the more lucid episodes he has ever experienced. He welcomes Irahl back into his embrace as the other man pushes his bloodied hand away from him (a pity) and bodies him back onto the ground. He's not going to let him get away with it without a challenge, wrestling to get his other arm between them and struggling to push him off from underneath.

Vincent can tell he's bleeding, too. Somewhere along his forehead, maybe, a gash. Were he more sober and less of a monster he would be grateful that he can't get blood in his eyes anymore.]

[indigochild]

[Being that Irahl very often thinks about killing his friends, there is unfortunately nothing about this situation that rings the bell in his head that tells him to back off. None of the usual discomforts or consequences are anywhere in sight, he'd drank most of his inhibitions away, and no one is in high distress. Just two monsters wrecking each other.

And the kind of monster that Irahl is, is one created to end other things. So, as long as Vincent is fighting, the creature at the core of Irahl is compelled to make him stop.

He wishes he'd had a weapon. He can't help indulging the images of everything he'd do with a blade right then.

Despite his best efforts to stay close, a powerful arm shoves and wrestles between them, prying them apart. If he'd had a knife, he could bury it and twist down to hang on as if it had been a hook. Without it, he compulsively grabs for Vincent's throat instead.

Vincent can straighten his arm and push him back, but the two of them have almost the same reach. He can certainly feel Irahl's claws now.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[Well, this is interesting. And he'd only just had a moment to breathe, too.

He should really be more worried, feeling a clawed hand around his throat. That's the kind of thing that could kill him if he isn't careful. But even as he works to pry Irahl away from him, he doesn't feel an ounce of hostility from it. He feels like they're still playing. Maybe Irahl just wants to keep him close.

So he changes tactics, forcing in a ragged breath against the other's grip and pulling him in as close as he can get him. He'll crane his neck against those claws so that he can run his tongue over the other's bloodied jaw.]

[indigochild]

[It's easy to drag Irahl close, because he's a little delighted when he feels his weight being pulled forward to lean down more heavily on Vincent's throat. He's eager for it.

It isn't until Vincent suddenly leans up at him that he fights him.

With a blood-wet growl, he turns his head sharply, shoving Vincent's face away with the side of his own. But he doesn't try to pull away. He keeps his weight centered forward over the hand on Vincent's throat, trying to keep him wrestled in place while his free hand pries at Vincent's grip on him.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[Vincent has secretly wanted to learn what his blood tastes like ever since Irahl cut his fingers open ripping apart that wall a week ago. Even with no open injuries, a little part of him has always wondered, and that part of him groans with delight as he's pushed back down against the ground.

Finally. Finally, finally. His hand's going to be hard to untangle from Irahl's front on account of the claws that are there now.

What might have been a giddy laugh is caught and choked out as he does actually start to suffocate. Monsterous or not, Vincent still has to breathe, and that's only gotten harder with the other man's pressing his entire weight down on him. Clearly, Irahl still wants to play, so Vincent just swings his free arm up to deck him hard in the side of the face.

With a sudden burst of strength and whatever momentum he can take advantage of, he pushes them both over and rolls on top of Irahl, trying to wedge a knee between them so he can actually lever himself out of the man's vice grip.]

[indigochild]

[A fist slams into the side of Irahl's face and his visions swims farther and longer than it should. The whole world spins giddily around him until he finds the ground at his back and an incredible weight crushing into the center of his chest.

His claws leaves scratches as Vincent finally wrests himself free.

When Irahl's vision finally steadies, there he is, pinned down with a monster looming over him. This is where he would go for a weapon. Stab for arteries and tendons in the thigh. Put a bullet between his eyes. This is where he would power forward and scramble for control.

Instead, he just looks at him. The fight isn't gone--not by far--but there is a pause where instead of raging forward from where he's trapped, he just waits there and braces for whatever comes next.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[And in that pause, Vincent kneels over him, breathing hard now that he's got any room to do so. He can't see the other man, but he doesn't need to. He knows what he wants.

Sometimes dogs will fight, not because they want to come out on top, but because they want to be told what their place is. In this single moment, they've entered an agreement that Vincent will lead and Irahl will have the blessed reprieve of not needing to do anything more than follow him. Vincent is happy to reassure him that he doesn't need to think about a thing.

He licks his lip where Irahl's blood had been smeared mere seconds ago, before lunging forward to beat the absolute shit out of him. Nothing mean, nothing cruel, but he's going to leave nasty bruises and fight hard to keep him pinned, and take as much control away from him as he can.]

[indigochild]

[Irahl pitches his weight to the side, throws his arms to deflect the blows raining down on him and strike back, but-- yeah, he's not in this to win. He's in this to fight until he can't anymore. And with Vincent, he might actually reach that point.

With the shocking amount of power he's being hit with, it quickly becomes harder for Irahl to keep himself anchored and oriented to his place in reality. The universe careens around him. It isn't long before his defenses begin to noticeably weaken and become more aimless.

He continues to battle this onslaught that he invited, until finally something in his brain notices that he's maybe in trouble.

When it seems like Irahl's strength might be flagging as the sense is being beaten out of him, he suddenly puts up a more focused fight. A gear shifts. This time, when he knocks aside one of Vincent's arms, he continues the sweep until he can lock that arm up with his, and his other arm reaches out to grab instead of hit back. Claws fist up in Vincent's shirt so Irahl can haul him closer--too close to continue beating him.

Panting for breath, his bones ringing with pain, Irahl tries to grapple him still. Finally giving a signal that Vincent wins.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[Vincent actually likes being strong, though he doesn't want to admit it. From a young age, he's seen normal people get nervous when big guys like him start throwing their weight around, so there are very few places where his pride doesn't also carry some amount of guilt with it.

Other people wouldn't understand that he's happy to get to brutalize his friend and not hold back. Later, he'll probably try to blame it on the monster in him, but the fact of the matter is that this thought is wholly and solely human.

Around the time the other man starts tiring, he realizes his hands have been stinging pretty badly for a while now, between split knuckles and his inadvertently stabbing himself with his own claws. He isn't sure how long they've been going, but his body is finally beginning to protest--and it's so rare for him to be in a fight where the other guy's lasted long enough to exhaust him.

When something finally shifts and Irahl drags him closer, Vincent still has some momentum to work out. He twists with a growl of meaningless protest, fails to break loose. He can't hit him with his free hand, so he just presses down hard against Irahl's shoulder as if pinning him more to the ground would do anything. And then at his shoulder, soaked in all that blood, the heady smell muddles his last urges to keep fighting and he thoughtlessly bites down into the crook of his neck.]

[indigochild]

[If Vincent secretly likes being strong, some part of Irahl loves being an entirely inhuman, carnivorous monster, and that part is never allowed to take control without carrying hatred along with it--either for himself or the creature he's fighting. That bitterness has been so quiet here, though, and what might have remained has been satisfyingly bashed into submission.

The loathing might catch him later, but for now, it's all liberated instinct, and exhaustion, and terrible want.

Sharp teeth dig into his neck and scrape against scales--normally cold, but now like pieces of warm glass--and he twists against them. It's automatic; his shoulder is pressed down and he presses back. It doesn't matter how much everything hurts. Force against force. Vincent bites directly into instinct.

Irahl is caught but the monster groans, writhes, and tries to bite back. A throat, a mouth--whatever he can get.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[They haven't really stopped fighting. His bite is met with struggling of a different kind, but it is still a struggle. That's why it doesn't strike him as strange; these are just different notes in the same song. His state of mind hasn't changed at all.

He'll remember the scales later, probably. One more thing that should probably strike him as strange, but he's not quite in a place to register anything as "unusual".

The bite's over quick, once Irahl starts writhing around and trying to get him. He wants to shove his face aside like the other had done to him earlier--but he misses a little, exhausted as he is, and feels sharp pain as the other bites at his mouth. So he bites back. Tastes a lot of blood. Starts laughing again.

He's having fun.]

[indigochild]

[Everything up until when Irahl had finally been able to drag himself into the shower is a head-pounding, body-aching, light-sensitive blur. Gathering up the wreckage of themselves and their belongings and limping back to the ship had been one of the most laborious efforts he'd had to endure in recent memory. He had no idea how many questions from Vincent he had or had not answered, but he's sure that he hadn't used any real words to do so. A single-minded slog that finally ends with him closing himself away and retreating under some ice-cold water for a while.

He stays in there until his body doesn't hurt quite so badly anymore, everything in his head quiets down, and he feels clean again.

It takes a while.

Afterward, he slaps gauze on the bare minimum of wounds he can get away with attending to, wads up his dirty clothes to be abandoned on the washing machine, and drags himself to the bunk. Normally, he makes a habit of hanging around in more clothing, but between the fact that the vast majority of his clothes are now out of commission, and the assortment of injuries currently covering his body, Irahl is in his Atroma-brand tank top and boxers when he collapses--very carefully--into bed.

And there he intends to stay, sprawled out in whatever way hurts the least, maybe for the rest of his life.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[He is, likewise, beat-to-shit and painfully hungover. But while Irahl's journey back to the ship is a blurry slog, Vincent's has been more of a rollercoaster--and not just because he's been fighting off constant nausea ever since becoming conscious.

His initial scare came shortly after waking up. As he tried to remember any of what got him into this sorry state, the first things to come to mind were them playing pool, and then moving out to the lawn, and then starting to fight. Out of the blurry memories came a sudden panic that he may have lost control and murdered his only friend, followed by waves of relief when Irahl showed signs of life and responded to his questions, however minimally. He didn't push, since he wasn't exactly in state where he could help--and for once, he couldn't smell much to really confirm how bad it was. The front of his face was generally a bit of a horror show, he was pretty sure he'd broken his nose.

As fucked up as he was, he made sure that Irahl got into his shuttle first before he finally hauled his own sorry ass into his. Sitting in that little pod was almost worse than standing had been, because there was nothing to do on the journey back to their ship than think about how fucking awful he felt. His head was pounding, it hurt to breathe, his face was swollen, his hands were mangled... And when he tried not to think about his body, his mind would just start re-playing what it could remember of the night before. He said a bunch of embarrassing things. And then he beat the shit out of his friend in some kind of a drunken bloodlust, and then they...

Oh, he was mortified when he realized that they did more than just fight. He spent the rest of the shuttle ride trying desperately not to remember the details.

By the time he made it back onto the Eclipse, the other man was already heading for the showers. Vincent didn't have the heart to interrupt him, torn between wanting to know if he was okay and not wanting to admit that anything happened in the first place, lest it become more true. He tried to busy around a little bit, but he was in too much pain to keep at it for long, and wound up slumped against a wall in the hallway, head down against his knees, waiting for Irahl to come back out so that he could have a turn.

When the other guy finally remerged, Vincent picked his head up enough to try and ask if he was doing okay--but the response he got in return was short, and he felt immediately sickened by the thought of trying to pursue it further. Defeated, he finally slunk into the shower room to clean himself off.

The shower helped calm him down a little, at least. It helped to know he was getting all the blood off of him. He stood in the icy water until everything had gone numb, and then stood in it for a while longer. But in that quiet space, zoning out under the spray until his body didn't sting as badly, he kept remembering. Each new detail felt worse than the last. What must Irahl think of him now? Why did he do that? Why did he do any of it? He can remember what it felt like, and he didn't feel in control, but he also didn't feel not in control, and...

As Vincent finally leaves the shower, a towel over his head and a number of bandages over the things that wouldn't stop bleeding, he feels pretty guilty. He doesn't know if Irahl is okay. He's afraid that he'd violated their relationship in some way. And he's still incredibly confused about how much he didn't hate it. However, he is also extremely tired, and his entire body is screaming for him to stop moving and start being horizontal as soon as possible.

He stops briefly in the the galley before heading back to the bunk room. Once he's through the doorway, he's faced by a couple more challenging thoughts--firstly being, now that he has some sense of smell back, he knows that Irahl is still bleeding, and he doesn't feel particularly compelled by the scent. He'd braced himself for the usual reaction, but nothing came.

Secondly, as he walks closer to Irahl's bunk, he realizes that he can pinpoint a couple of the other's injuries near his neck, which cause Vincent to suddenly remember that he fucking bit him. Who does that? What the fuck is wrong with him?

He tries to keep this off of his face, not manifesting more than a slight frown as he completes his task. He sets a tall glass of ice water on the floor next to Irahl's bunk, within arm's reach should the guy want it.]

Here.

[He has one for himself as well, which he takes back with him to begin the painful process of lowering his own broken body down into his own bunk.]

[indigochild]

[To Irahl's great misfortune, though his entire body and soul felt more exhausted than he'd been in months, sleep did not feel even remotely attainable right now. Between the vaguely-nauseating way the room rotated slowly around him (was he somehow still drunk??) and the jolts of memory that would hit him whenever his brain relaxed, he'd quickly given up hope of retreating to unconsciousness. So, Irahl had been in the process of chasing the next best thing by zoning out as far from his body as he could get, when the sound of Vincent's voice yanks him back to the present.

It's a little disorienting to suddenly find the other man that close. Vincent isn't looming over him by any means, but being caught without having been wary of his approach first, lying down here with injuries and without so much as sleeves on, let alone armor and cloak, still hits Irahl with a pang of vulnerability.

He spends a couple seconds being very glad that Vincent can't see him--looking a little startled, a mural of bruises and injuries, with almost every scale he has on display--before he catches up to what the other man has left on the floor for him.

Vincent doesn't get a word or a sound of response, but Irahl does carefully lean over to take a drink. And damn does that ice feel good on his mouth, despite the shock of pain that it sends through his battered nerves first.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[Vincent finally settles down into his bunk with a sound that lands somewhere between a groan and a pained sigh. He's leaves the water cup balanced on his chest for a long time before he finally works up to taking a sip.

In the meantime, he tries to think of what to say. How to ask. Where to even begin. Maybe it would be better if he just didn't say anything. His mind wanders to how it had all started--thinks of making some joke about this being a weirdly high price for a few bags of chips. It doesn't land well in his head, but it does remind him of something that suddenly does make him laugh.

The laugh is quiet and pretty quickly replaced by a tight cough (he thinks one of his ribs is... bruised or out-of-place or something), but he'll say aloud:]

So, that's how you play pool...

[indigochild]

[If Vincent had gotten over his worry of maybe nearly killing Irahl before, he should maybe worry again, as Irahl fully chokes on his ice water.

Well, most of his mouthful of water gets cough-laughed back into his glass. The rest goes lung-ward. There's no time to tell his brain that he technically can't drown.

The glass rattles against the metal floor as he fumbles to put it back down without spilling it, while rolling over to cough into his arm at the same time. He needs a minute.

When he's finally able to drag air into his lungs again, he needs another few moments to ride out the jagged spasms running through his ribs (yeah, he remembers now, something bad had happened in there), before he can speak. His voice has a pathetic rasp to it when he finally does.]

...Who won?

[hatesblindjokes]

[Vincent immediately covers his mouth with his hand, concealing some of his surprise, dismay, and a little bit of delight that he at least got Irahl to laugh. He apologizes several quiet times behind his fingers, having genuinely not meant for anyone to nearly choke to death.

But hey, he got a response. That's also good. Vincent moves from holding his mouth to holding his head, fighting the headache that's starting to return.]

Funny thing, think it's technically a tie. Guess we'll have to have a tiebreaker sometime.

[He says it in good humor, and then immediately regrets that it left his mouth. It sounds stupid. Irahl's not going to want to play with him again right after this game ended in both of them getting clobbered.]

[indigochild]

[Part of Irahl's mind can't help but interpret Vincent's comment a certain way, (especially with how things tended to go in his previous imprisonment,) and wonders exactly where one would say the "pool game" had actually ended. And the rest of Irahl's brain works on bludgeoning all of that back into whatever mental corner he can find with a pointed and mortified fervor.

Even thinking about Vincent's comment in a way that doesn't make his entire being recoil is a lot right now. It's funny for a couple of seconds, but then it continues to exist as something that has been said out loud. They've officially addressed that anything from the pool game onward had happened at all, and there's no going back from that.

So, now that his glass has been safety returned to the floor and he can breathe again, Irahl retreats to the shelter of his bunk. He groans uncomfortably as he tries to find a settled place that doesn't hurt too badly. He wants to fall back on his usual defense mechanism of draping his arm over his eyes, but everything is far too banged-up for that.

He considers not answering Vincent at all, but leaving an awkward silence feels like a much worse option.]

Dunno. Don't think pool is my thing.

[hatesblindjokes]

[The funny thing is that Vincent really had just meant his comment to be about the pool game; it ended in a tie because neither of them actually won. But part of his berating himself is in realizing that of course no one in their positions would take it that way. It's hard not to think of everything weighted that happened after.

So, Irahl's comment makes sense. It makes him sad, but it makes sense. The ice in Vincent's cup rattles a little as he brings the thing up to his forehead, using the base of it as a makeshift icepack.]

If it helps, most pool don't end with the players clobberin' each other...

[He meant that to be a humorous comment as well, but the last of his smile fades as he fails to find it particularly funny himself. He mostly just feels bad for that and what came after (though he's likewise trying not to think about it). He wants to try to explain himself, but he can't think of an explanation that doesn't sound awful in one way or another. After another awkward silence, he tries to at least say something.]

Hey man, I don't really... I dunno how to apologize, but... I think I got kind of out-of-control down there, and m'sorry if it's... If I...

[He kind of trails off there for a long moment, because he's not sure whether to say that he's sorry if he freaked him out, or sorry if he made him uncomfortable, or if he ruined their friendship, because he's mostly sure that at least one of those is true, but he doesn't know which one and he doesn't really want to imply any of them.]

[indigochild]

[Lying there on his back, (because lying on his side would hurt, with a brutal bruise on one shoulder and claw-marks on his opposite hip,) staring at the underside of the bunk above him and unable to get away as Vincent begins to gradually unspool an apology, a sick, weird weight begins to settle in the center of his chest. Unable to even cover his face to hide from it, the feeling gradually crushes him until his lungs feel flat and lifeless. It's a familiar feeling, but too old to put a name to.

He sounds like some of the life has drained from him by the time he answers, once he's sure that Vincent has rambled to a stop. His voice is just as flat and lifeless as he feels.]

It happens.

[hatesblindjokes]

[His heart sinks a little, hearing that flat answer. He's immediately sure that he's just making everything worse. He wants to respond immediately, say that it shouldn't happen if he doesn't want it, or even just... Admitting he had a nice time, to try to look on the bright side, but... He holds his tongue and lays there in his bunk with his eyes closed, with a broken nose and a headache and stupid glass of water on his head.

There's just... Too much to handle. And he still doesn't know how Irahl feels. He finally gives up, realizing he probably just needs to shut up and figure out how he feels about everything himself before trying to make amends.]

Okay. I'll shut up an' let you rest.

[He moves his cup back down to the ground. Maybe he'll try to get some rest himself, not that he really feels like sleeping right now either.]

[indigochild]

[It's for the best.

They should both rest and deal with this after the dust has settled. That has always been the way to go, for Irahl, if leaving before the dust has settled isn't an option.

The relief of them both being allowed to rest begins to change fairly quickly, however. While he lays there wondering if Vincent will be able to sleep, the feeling shifts toward quietly and desperately hoping that he does, because that sunken feeling in Irahl's chest gets worse almost as soon as the silence settles.

A few minutes in, and the feeling of internal collapse becomes the feeling of compression. It's like he's slowly caving in until there isn't enough room for his heart and lungs to fit and fill properly. He doesn't need a lot of air, but there in the stillness of the room, he feels like he's running out of it anyway.

Whether or not Vincent has miraculously fallen asleep by that point, Irahl eventually levers himself up as unobtrusively as he can until he's sitting on the edge of the bed.

He should go somewhere. He wants to go somewhere. But his head is pounding and his chest is tight and he's basically in his underwear and there's nowhere to go anyway.

So, he props whatever part of his face hurts the least down on the heel of his hand, sits there, and just breathes for a minute.]

[hatesblindjokes]

[Of course Vincent hasn't fallen asleep. Breathing feels like a chore. His head is still swimming with half-remembered sounds and sensations, and he's trying, with very little success, to pick apart any of it without getting emotional. He shouldn't be thinking about it at all, but his frazzled mind is trying to overcompensate for how devastatingly uncertain everything feels.

When he hears Irahl getting up, he doesn't really move... But he's immediately alert, listening intently. His guilt and unease are momentarily silenced as he tries to hear if something is wrong. Or if whatever's happening is starting to get worse.]