( if ortez was here, right now in this parking garage, he'd pull the both of them out with zero hesitation and a dispassionate thank you for your time, we'll be leaving now. plenty of jobs in this fucked up, crime-ridden city. plenty of opportunities to make money for gear upkeep, for rent, for shiny new toys, for adequately sustaining felix's quote-unquote minor [citation needed] substance abuse problem. nothing petty about it on his end; ortez is clear-cut, unfeeling business, full stop. he gets shit done reliably, no matter the scenario or unpleasant circumstance.
but he knows felix, and the absolutely petty lawlessness of his many, many emotions. can't let shit go for The Greater Good. can't leave his blistering rage in a compacted ball deep in the pit of his stomach where it won't ricochet shrapnel and acid all over their fucking prospects. a waspish saboteur, ready and willing to cut off his own legs if it means he derails everyone on this shitty ride along with him.
one might call him, after over a decade of an off again, on again dysfunctional partnership, occasionally difficult to work with.
ortez isn't here, though. still in that club, staring at his reflection in his still-untouched whiskey and pulling out his phone to send felix a single text: ?
so fuck him. )
I get fussy when I'm forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with people prettier than me, ( he says, easy, and matches sam's two steps forward with several of his own. touching distance now, close enough that sam could slice him in two in a single glittering arc from his blade. deep in his pocket, felix's phone vibrates. he ignores it. ) Nasty bitch. Real popular growing up. Don't take it personally.
( he hooks his cigarette in his mouth, idly straightening the seams of sam's shirt along his shoulders. follows that thought down, drifting over his ribs, a svelte hand tucking the front of his shirt into his trousers. again, his eyes shift to his katana, thoughtful.
was it the katana that fucking pulverized an entire floor into sawdust, or sam's rig? both, maybe? can he do that shit out of rig? questions he wants answered, and vehemently doesn't. his brain doesn't need the nightly fodder.
a hum. blunt nails scrape his skin through the fabric of his shirt on his way out of his trousers. back to his cigarette, more flickering ash for the concrete. )
[ ortez wouldn't be incorrect; there are better prospects than samuel rodrigues, a man, for all intents and purposes, not difficult to work with, but still a pain. testimonials from the mercurial past-future of sam's time will vouch for sam's skill, if not his character; the aforementioned "who the fuck knows what he's thinking?" alongside "he never says what he means, that prick."
samuel rodrigues, a rashomon monster of his own making. full of difference, depending on the way the light hits him. a bird of prey, a four-legged feline, lupine teeth.
most importantly: alone. no man is an island, "they" of antiquated proverbs say, but how applicable is that bullshit when you're not talking about men?
still tangible, though. solid under felix's touch, which he accepts with irradiated grace. i am letting you like neon signs in his relaxed posture. ]
For the walk, and everything that comes after.
[ vague. he leaves those windows of opportunities wide open for him to claim later, alongside the luxury of saying that he saw it all coming. brow hiked, he reaches with his own grip-callused hand to pat once at felix's chest (knife under his shirt?), then down to his hip (knife strapped in his belt?), around to his ass (knife in the back pocket?).
he really shouldn't think it's cute, how felix keeps blades like porcupines keep needles, but he does. that's that. first step is acceptance, or however the fuck that saying goes. ]
We've got a man to meet, and you [ his accent trailing up through his lips like felix's cigarette smoke, reedy and melodic ], owe me a drink.
[ bluffing, again. he walks towards the fire exit, whose alarms have been long dismantled. people are so careless, nowadays. ]
( for a moment, as sam turns and walks toward the fire exit, felix considers loosing a blade from his jacket's sleeve and stabbing him right there. ortez wouldn't have to know; our contact never showed up, he'd say when prompted, and it wouldn't be worse than any of the five hundred other lies he's drip-fed him over the years to keep him sated and content. felix studies the deep curve of sam's spine under strobing fluorescent lights and swallows a deeper drag from his cigarette, smoke and nicotine filling his lungs. plenty of places to sink a knife. plenty of ways to kill a man, and that's all this motherfucker is, despite mounting evidence to the contrary.
( counter-evidence: the hot throb of his pulse beneath felix's tongue. his cock in his hand. the damning fact that he can bleed, and has bled. that he didn't fucking kill him in that gaudy ass high-rise when he had felix pinned beneath his sword. )
his fingers twitch around his cigarette, a barely perceptible tell. he flicks it to the concrete and grinds the glowing butt to ash beneath his boot, then deftly pulls out his phone to send ortez a quick text: omw, eta 15 mins. back into his pocket, and he's widening his stride, catching up with sam just short of a jog. smug asshole's got obnoxiously long legs.
he thinks he might regret this later, when shit goes sideways at the worst time. or maybe not. curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction . . . still killed it, actually. that shit is super dead. )
Do I owe you a drink? ( a belated reply to sam's quip, as felix eases a few paces ahead of him and shoves his ( good ) shoulder into the fire exit door, springing it open. not falling for that blinking neon sign of bait. he takes a large step back, stalling at a set of concrete stairs leading down to the ground floor, and braces both hands on either railing, momentarily blocking sam's path. ) I think you owe me a drink for being a fucking dick.
( the blockade only lasts a few seconds; long enough for felix to eye him again, head-to-toe, a shameless and vindictive once-over. verdict: still insufferable, still a visual feast. he swiftly pivots on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, light on his feet.
over his shoulder, casual: )
Are you even in it for the money, or do you just enjoy fucking with people?
[ the happy misfortune of all of their lives: that nothing simply comes to an end, or returns to equilibrium. some ship of Theseus shit. sure, you've put the pieces of your own fucked-up puzzle together so many times that you can do it blindfolded and handcuffed and with your teeth, but it's still not going to align the way it did before violent hands scattered it apart.
now, what sam's contemplating: are the hands in this scenario his, or felix's? the searchlight of those pretty eyes distract from his knowledge of what's under the neat cuts and creases of felix's outerwear. an ugly wound that must still be hot to the touch, made in the pattern of sam's beloved Murasama.
did sam fuck felix up, or is it collateral damage? this universe, a perpetual comedy of errors. with felix's footsteps and question echoing in the narrow space leading them into the belly of the proverbial beast, their debauched Monstro, sam hums from the back of his throat. ]
You want to talk ideals with me, now?
[ in the future, he'll say: "war is the payoff." here, with his booted heels soft on concrete, he takes a longer breath to consider. ]
I do what I do because I choose to. [ even now, even still. cradling all his bad decisions and wearing them on his face, in his teeth, in his affability. no one can fucking tell him that everything on him isn't his. ] I fight because it's what I want. I'm bothering you because it's what I want. Simple.
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but he knows felix, and the absolutely petty lawlessness of his many, many emotions. can't let shit go for The Greater Good. can't leave his blistering rage in a compacted ball deep in the pit of his stomach where it won't ricochet shrapnel and acid all over their fucking prospects. a waspish saboteur, ready and willing to cut off his own legs if it means he derails everyone on this shitty ride along with him.
one might call him, after over a decade of an off again, on again dysfunctional partnership, occasionally difficult to work with.
ortez isn't here, though. still in that club, staring at his reflection in his still-untouched whiskey and pulling out his phone to send felix a single text: ?
so fuck him. )
I get fussy when I'm forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with people prettier than me, ( he says, easy, and matches sam's two steps forward with several of his own. touching distance now, close enough that sam could slice him in two in a single glittering arc from his blade. deep in his pocket, felix's phone vibrates. he ignores it. ) Nasty bitch. Real popular growing up. Don't take it personally.
( he hooks his cigarette in his mouth, idly straightening the seams of sam's shirt along his shoulders. follows that thought down, drifting over his ribs, a svelte hand tucking the front of his shirt into his trousers. again, his eyes shift to his katana, thoughtful.
was it the katana that fucking pulverized an entire floor into sawdust, or sam's rig? both, maybe? can he do that shit out of rig? questions he wants answered, and vehemently doesn't. his brain doesn't need the nightly fodder.
a hum. blunt nails scrape his skin through the fabric of his shirt on his way out of his trousers. back to his cigarette, more flickering ash for the concrete. )
Up for a brisk walk?
no subject
samuel rodrigues, a rashomon monster of his own making. full of difference, depending on the way the light hits him. a bird of prey, a four-legged feline, lupine teeth.
most importantly: alone. no man is an island, "they" of antiquated proverbs say, but how applicable is that bullshit when you're not talking about men?
still tangible, though. solid under felix's touch, which he accepts with irradiated grace. i am letting you like neon signs in his relaxed posture. ]
For the walk, and everything that comes after.
[ vague. he leaves those windows of opportunities wide open for him to claim later, alongside the luxury of saying that he saw it all coming. brow hiked, he reaches with his own grip-callused hand to pat once at felix's chest (knife under his shirt?), then down to his hip (knife strapped in his belt?), around to his ass (knife in the back pocket?).
he really shouldn't think it's cute, how felix keeps blades like porcupines keep needles, but he does. that's that. first step is acceptance, or however the fuck that saying goes. ]
We've got a man to meet, and you [ his accent trailing up through his lips like felix's cigarette smoke, reedy and melodic ], owe me a drink.
[ bluffing, again. he walks towards the fire exit, whose alarms have been long dismantled. people are so careless, nowadays. ]
12 years later i'm so sorry
( counter-evidence: the hot throb of his pulse beneath felix's tongue. his cock in his hand. the damning fact that he can bleed, and has bled. that he didn't fucking kill him in that gaudy ass high-rise when he had felix pinned beneath his sword. )
his fingers twitch around his cigarette, a barely perceptible tell. he flicks it to the concrete and grinds the glowing butt to ash beneath his boot, then deftly pulls out his phone to send ortez a quick text: omw, eta 15 mins. back into his pocket, and he's widening his stride, catching up with sam just short of a jog. smug asshole's got obnoxiously long legs.
he thinks he might regret this later, when shit goes sideways at the worst time. or maybe not. curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction . . . still killed it, actually. that shit is super dead. )
Do I owe you a drink? ( a belated reply to sam's quip, as felix eases a few paces ahead of him and shoves his ( good ) shoulder into the fire exit door, springing it open. not falling for that blinking neon sign of bait. he takes a large step back, stalling at a set of concrete stairs leading down to the ground floor, and braces both hands on either railing, momentarily blocking sam's path. ) I think you owe me a drink for being a fucking dick.
( the blockade only lasts a few seconds; long enough for felix to eye him again, head-to-toe, a shameless and vindictive once-over. verdict: still insufferable, still a visual feast. he swiftly pivots on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time, light on his feet.
over his shoulder, casual: )
Are you even in it for the money, or do you just enjoy fucking with people?
yoooo no sweat!!!
now, what sam's contemplating: are the hands in this scenario his, or felix's? the searchlight of those pretty eyes distract from his knowledge of what's under the neat cuts and creases of felix's outerwear. an ugly wound that must still be hot to the touch, made in the pattern of sam's beloved Murasama.
did sam fuck felix up, or is it collateral damage? this universe, a perpetual comedy of errors. with felix's footsteps and question echoing in the narrow space leading them into the belly of the proverbial beast, their debauched Monstro, sam hums from the back of his throat. ]
You want to talk ideals with me, now?
[ in the future, he'll say: "war is the payoff." here, with his booted heels soft on concrete, he takes a longer breath to consider. ]
I do what I do because I choose to. [ even now, even still. cradling all his bad decisions and wearing them on his face, in his teeth, in his affability. no one can fucking tell him that everything on him isn't his. ] I fight because it's what I want. I'm bothering you because it's what I want. Simple.