This time Isaac doesn't flinch. Instead he's gone, light on his feet, weaving between furniture and knocking it down as he goes, littering the path between the older boy and him. He's smaller than Asch, he can use that to his advantage--
[The juxtaposition of these two against the smooth, soft background Jazz is quite a sight, as Asch hauls a side table up by a leg—then proceeds to break it off, holding the remainder of the table in his left hand, leg in the right.]
What was your plan? What did you plan to accomplish, with that little outburst, brat?
[Decisively, almost casually, he shoves chaises and sofas with his foot as he passes them, the feet dragging across the floor as he closes potential Isaac escape routes.]
[ Jeeeeeesus. It hits Isaac all at once that this guy not only wants to but is actually going to hurt him.
And he hasn't got his powers. King C isn't here.
This might be the first time in two years he has ever missed his spirit.
It also hits him that he doesn't ... know. It was just ... a gesture! Not a ... he doesn't want to fight!
But if he doesn't fight this scary guy is going to beat him black and blue. He better figure it out. He can practically hear Isabelle's grandpa barking orders.
Isaac vaults over a chair directly into a roll, staying low, moving fast. He pops up to slam into a couch, which he crashes into so hard he knocks it over backwards. It makes a good barrier, and cushions and pillows come flying like especially soft frisbees. Not enough to damage, but enough to annoy, to knock someone off balance, perhaps.
This stunt has also briefly hidden him from sight. Where'd he go? ]
[The ducking and rolling is stupid, but fine. The pillows were just... annoying.
He hucks the table away from him, batting away the cushions, dodging more—but occasionally getting hit, each gentle buffet lowering his tolerance for these shenanigans.]
Come out. Are you running from a fight you started?
You talk big, then flee like a coward? Seems like I alreeady know everything about you that I'll need to.
It joins the fray, flying through the air with frightening speed from a completely different angle, since Isaac has by now, darting from chaise to table, made his way halfway across the room, back the way he came.
It doesn't hit Asch. But it gets so close it will disturb his hair, perhaps a quarter inch from his skull. It's an extremely precise throw--clearly not an accident that it missed. It, like the bottle from before, will shatter with an ear-splitting crack, this time against the wall.
Isaac's back by the bottles--he's got two now, one in each hand. He's poised in a defensive stance, but-- ]
Look, I -- I don't -- there's no reason for a fight! We can still put a stop to this.
[The glass sings by his ear, and Asch's expression darkens further. Shifting his grip on the table leg, he advances towards Isaac, towards the drink cabinets.]
Don't you?
[It's... the tone. It's the menace. It's the question that it asks past the base meaning in the words alone.
As he stalks forward, and Isaac holds up his weapons, his right hand snakes out, and attacks—rent table leg shattering both bottles with a sound like a gunshot, rapping his knuckles to make sure they drop the remains. The noise is still reverberating as his other hand grabs a handful of Isaac's shirt and hoists him up, slamming him back against the racks of drinks and bottles. There's a beautiful, ominous tinkling noise of glass and crystal settling back into balance.]
Because I think that's exactly what you wanted, when you threw that bottle and closed that door. You wanted to get it all out, and get away with it, because no one fights a brat of a child.
[It's not a whisper, but more of a growl. A barely controlled anger—and the suggestion that the only thing holding him back from really ripping in was a kind of grim understanding of where it was all coming from.]
But I'm going to tell you exactly what was beaten into me for years, and hope it gets absorbed into that thick skull of yours the first time: being a child won't stop someone from killing you. It just makes you an easier target.
[With enough force to knock the breath out of him and his clip-on tie off (but away from the smashed glass), Asch throws Isaac to the ground, pointing the table leg at his neck.]
Pick your battles a little more carefully, and there won't have to be a next time.
[ It all happens so fast. Were circumstances different perhaps he could do something, but -- no, this isn't the first time he's been outsmarted, outfought, by a normal human.
It is the first time he's realized the true extent of his own weakness, however.
He can barely blink and his hands are burning, his ears are ringing as he slams whole body into the cabinets, his lungs are stuttering, struggling to suck in air after it's all been forcefully knocked out of him in a huff of pain. He tries to grip the arm Asch is grabbing him with, but his fingers won't bend properly, the burn turning into a spreading numbing heat that keeps his joints from responding like they should.
But the whole time he glares Asch down, never flinching, never looking away, never afraid.
Just ... angry, and regretful, and utterly exhausted. Just so many things.
Hitting the ground hurts more than he expected. His shoulder screams and his head cracks into the cabinet. He groans, curling instinctively, eyes briefly shut--
--and then he makes a noise. A huff, a crackling sound. No, he's...
he's laughing. ]
You got fists like wet bagels.
[ isaac he didn't punch you ]
Please. I've had things way scarier than you could ever hope to be trying to kill me for years. You're not the first. You won't be the last.
[ He's trembling, an automatic response to pain and adrenaline he can't help, pushing himself up on the arm he fell on. It shrieks at him now, and he ignores it. The motion brings Asch's table leg in contact with the skin of his throat, and Isaac
smiles. It's tired and furious and he is not afraid.
He is resigned. ]
You know what the worst part is? You're still talking like you know a single thing about me, when you don't. You don't know a thing, dude. Shut up. Just ... shut up.
not that it particularly matters. He gets the jist of the insult. It's stupid, insipid, uninspired. A kitten backed into a corner, yowling and hissing and scratching with its little claws. Scruffing it is almost too pathetic.
Almost.
Asch presses the splinters of wood on the end of the table leg down, flush against the skin of Isaac's throat.]
You're right. I don't know anything about you. Not a single thing more than you've let on here and now.
[He pushes the leg forward further, forcing Isaac to back down, or skewer himself on its jagged points.]
And I don't care. I don't care about a single detail of your miserable, pathetic life on whatever world you've come here from. I don't think I'll ever know, and I don't care about that, either. The only thing I need to know right now is how to shut you up.
But keep pushing, brat. The last one was a warning. I'll teach you every lesson your betters should have.
Asch presses harder and harder, and Isaac resists, trying to force himself up on an arm that threatens to buckle, and he's stubborn enough that one of those jagged points draws blood.
Only then does he let himself be pushed down, but he does not go quietly. ]
You don't care? Beat me up all you want, but don't lie to me. If you didn't care you would've just opened the door and walked out. But it bothered you. I think your problem is you care too much--
[ because he knows far too well what that feels like--
abruptly his arm gives, and he topples to the floor with a gasp. Isaac lies there, aching, mentally tracking the bead of blood that slides sideways down his throat towards the floor, and stares narrowly at nothing. ]
My betters. Tch. They don't deserve that much credit.
[ It isn't a boast--it's a bitter criticism. A rejection of that "authority." ]
[Incredible. Only a child could be such a poor loser. Only a child could fail to understand what was at stake, when the blood is at their throat, when they're on the ground, lost. It was... infuriatingly, tooth-grindingly familiar.
It was the reason he hadn't beaten him down immediately, when he should have. It was definitely why he'd brought up any kind of lessons learned, given him half a chance to redeem himself after his poor attempts at taking a stand.]
No.
They clearly don't.
[All Mentors Are Bastards
As Isaac falls, the makeshift weapon follows, mere millimetres away from a repeat performance in exactly the same wound it already carved.]
It's your loss, and theirs. Spin it however you want in your wretched little head, but you had your opportunities, and you threw them away, for reasons I'm sure I don't give a damn about.
Do you understand? Is anything I'm saying making it to your afflicted brain? You lost.
Away. He obviously doesn't care in the least about the looming threat of that jagged table leg. Let it pierce him. Whatever.
You know the worst thing about it? The lesson clearly does sink in, because the more Asch talks the more Isaac's expression warps, from stoic anger to sick exhaustion to a raw, horrible loss. ]
No.
I didn't, you idiot. I didn't lose. How are you not getting that you're wrong? I didn't lose.
[ Grief adds to his shaking, there on the floor. ]
I wish I had. Maybe you're right. Maybe I would have learned something before...
Casting his eyes over the room, its scooted furniture, strewn cushions, and broken tables, Asch flicks the table leg off into the middle of it. Its job here was clearly done.]
I don't know what counts as a "loss" in your addled world's view, but I'm starting to think that killing you would be something they'd twist into the ultimate "win". [He scoffs in disgust.] Pathetic.
[ The table leg gets flung away, and the sound of that makes Isaac start, makes him look up. He seems horribly confused to be let go. Startled, even.
.... slowly, he gathers himself up. Starts to rise. ]
... maybe, [ he says, real quiet. Killing him? ... who knows. They all want him gone, after all, so wouldn't it be...? He feels sick.
After a minute he's on his feet, sniffling just like he was when this all began, rubbing at his face. But: ]
You're wrong about one other thing. I didn't lose this fight, either. Not that you'd get why or anything, but Doorman'd... he'd... he'd be proud of me, so...
whatever. They stand in stoic silence, one in front of the other. The tear stains are still wet on Isaac's cheeks, flush from the adrenalin and emotion still coloring them. The hard-headed stubborn determination, grief, rage. It's hard not to see the similarities, this close up—enough to make him want to leave, now. Forget this ever happened.
Then the damn stupid brat apologizes. He crosses his arms, fingers digging into his forearm. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Continued defiance at least would have been more familiar territory.]
[ like dude what the fuck is your damage? you don't need isaac's permission get outta here
he's just gonna... nurse his wounds. like. rubbing at his throat and accidentally smearing the blood. nice. he doesn't look like he got the shit kicked out of him or anything. ]
Isaac probably won't be expecting to get picked up by the back of his fancy suit jacket like a naughty puppy, but that sure is what's happening right now.
Asch stalks to the door out, wrenches it open, and hucks Isaac out into the main hall area.]
[ he's squawking to high hell what the FUCK is happening right now
isaac gets tossed into the hall like a sack of potatoes and he's in PAIN because he's HURT and DOESN'T LAND ELEGANTLY actually he just kind of falls on his ass
and stares back at the door with such bald incredulity the poor thing should probably burst into flames. ]
Who's the brat here?!
[ ...............................................
eventually he and his bruised ego (and his bruised everything else) finally get up and meander off in the probable direction of seeking medical attention ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
This time Isaac doesn't flinch. Instead he's gone, light on his feet, weaving between furniture and knocking it down as he goes, littering the path between the older boy and him. He's smaller than Asch, he can use that to his advantage--
He'll snatch his lost glass from the floor. ]
no subject
What was your plan? What did you plan to accomplish, with that little outburst, brat?
[Decisively, almost casually, he shoves chaises and sofas with his foot as he passes them, the feet dragging across the floor as he closes potential Isaac escape routes.]
no subject
And he hasn't got his powers. King C isn't here.
This might be the first time in two years he has ever missed his spirit.
It also hits him that he doesn't ... know. It was just ... a gesture! Not a ... he doesn't want to fight!
But if he doesn't fight this scary guy is going to beat him black and blue. He better figure it out. He can practically hear Isabelle's grandpa barking orders.
Isaac vaults over a chair directly into a roll, staying low, moving fast. He pops up to slam into a couch, which he crashes into so hard he knocks it over backwards. It makes a good barrier, and cushions and pillows come flying like especially soft frisbees. Not enough to damage, but enough to annoy, to knock someone off balance, perhaps.
This stunt has also briefly hidden him from sight. Where'd he go? ]
no subject
He hucks the table away from him, batting away the cushions, dodging more—but occasionally getting hit, each gentle buffet lowering his tolerance for these shenanigans.]
Come out. Are you running from a fight you started?
You talk big, then flee like a coward? Seems like I alreeady know everything about you that I'll need to.
no subject
[ Remember that glass Isaac picked up?
It joins the fray, flying through the air with frightening speed from a completely different angle, since Isaac has by now, darting from chaise to table, made his way halfway across the room, back the way he came.
It doesn't hit Asch. But it gets so close it will disturb his hair, perhaps a quarter inch from his skull. It's an extremely precise throw--clearly not an accident that it missed. It, like the bottle from before, will shatter with an ear-splitting crack, this time against the wall.
Isaac's back by the bottles--he's got two now, one in each hand. He's poised in a defensive stance, but-- ]
Look, I -- I don't -- there's no reason for a fight! We can still put a stop to this.
no subject
Don't you?
[It's... the tone. It's the menace. It's the question that it asks past the base meaning in the words alone.
As he stalks forward, and Isaac holds up his weapons, his right hand snakes out, and attacks—rent table leg shattering both bottles with a sound like a gunshot, rapping his knuckles to make sure they drop the remains. The noise is still reverberating as his other hand grabs a handful of Isaac's shirt and hoists him up, slamming him back against the racks of drinks and bottles. There's a beautiful, ominous tinkling noise of glass and crystal settling back into balance.]
Because I think that's exactly what you wanted, when you threw that bottle and closed that door. You wanted to get it all out, and get away with it, because no one fights a brat of a child.
[It's not a whisper, but more of a growl. A barely controlled anger—and the suggestion that the only thing holding him back from really ripping in was a kind of grim understanding of where it was all coming from.]
But I'm going to tell you exactly what was beaten into me for years, and hope it gets absorbed into that thick skull of yours the first time: being a child won't stop someone from killing you. It just makes you an easier target.
[With enough force to knock the breath out of him and his clip-on tie off (but away from the smashed glass), Asch throws Isaac to the ground, pointing the table leg at his neck.]
Pick your battles a little more carefully, and there won't have to be a next time.
no subject
It is the first time he's realized the true extent of his own weakness, however.
He can barely blink and his hands are burning, his ears are ringing as he slams whole body into the cabinets, his lungs are stuttering, struggling to suck in air after it's all been forcefully knocked out of him in a huff of pain. He tries to grip the arm Asch is grabbing him with, but his fingers won't bend properly, the burn turning into a spreading numbing heat that keeps his joints from responding like they should.
But the whole time he glares Asch down, never flinching, never looking away, never afraid.
Just ... angry, and regretful, and utterly exhausted. Just so many things.
Hitting the ground hurts more than he expected. His shoulder screams and his head cracks into the cabinet. He groans, curling instinctively, eyes briefly shut--
--and then he makes a noise. A huff, a crackling sound. No, he's...
he's laughing. ]
You got fists like wet bagels.
[ isaac he didn't punch you ]
Please. I've had things way scarier than you could ever hope to be trying to kill me for years. You're not the first. You won't be the last.
[ He's trembling, an automatic response to pain and adrenaline he can't help, pushing himself up on the arm he fell on. It shrieks at him now, and he ignores it. The motion brings Asch's table leg in contact with the skin of his throat, and Isaac
smiles. It's tired and furious and he is not afraid.
He is resigned. ]
You know what the worst part is? You're still talking like you know a single thing about me, when you don't. You don't know a thing, dude. Shut up. Just ... shut up.
no subject
not that it particularly matters. He gets the jist of the insult. It's stupid, insipid, uninspired. A kitten backed into a corner, yowling and hissing and scratching with its little claws. Scruffing it is almost too pathetic.
Almost.
Asch presses the splinters of wood on the end of the table leg down, flush against the skin of Isaac's throat.]
You're right. I don't know anything about you. Not a single thing more than you've let on here and now.
[He pushes the leg forward further, forcing Isaac to back down, or skewer himself on its jagged points.]
And I don't care. I don't care about a single detail of your miserable, pathetic life on whatever world you've come here from. I don't think I'll ever know, and I don't care about that, either. The only thing I need to know right now is how to shut you up.
But keep pushing, brat. The last one was a warning. I'll teach you every lesson your betters should have.
no subject
Asch presses harder and harder, and Isaac resists, trying to force himself up on an arm that threatens to buckle, and he's stubborn enough that one of those jagged points draws blood.
Only then does he let himself be pushed down, but he does not go quietly. ]
You don't care? Beat me up all you want, but don't lie to me. If you didn't care you would've just opened the door and walked out. But it bothered you. I think your problem is you care too much--
[ because he knows far too well what that feels like--
abruptly his arm gives, and he topples to the floor with a gasp. Isaac lies there, aching, mentally tracking the bead of blood that slides sideways down his throat towards the floor, and stares narrowly at nothing. ]
My betters. Tch. They don't deserve that much credit.
[ It isn't a boast--it's a bitter criticism. A rejection of that "authority." ]
no subject
It was the reason he hadn't beaten him down immediately, when he should have. It was definitely why he'd brought up any kind of lessons learned, given him half a chance to redeem himself after his poor attempts at taking a stand.]
No.
They clearly don't.
[All Mentors Are Bastards
As Isaac falls, the makeshift weapon follows, mere millimetres away from a repeat performance in exactly the same wound it already carved.]
It's your loss, and theirs. Spin it however you want in your wretched little head, but you had your opportunities, and you threw them away, for reasons I'm sure I don't give a damn about.
Do you understand? Is anything I'm saying making it to your afflicted brain? You lost.
no subject
Away. He obviously doesn't care in the least about the looming threat of that jagged table leg. Let it pierce him. Whatever.
You know the worst thing about it? The lesson clearly does sink in, because the more Asch talks the more Isaac's expression warps, from stoic anger to sick exhaustion to a raw, horrible loss. ]
No.
I didn't, you idiot. I didn't lose. How are you not getting that you're wrong? I didn't lose.
[ Grief adds to his shaking, there on the floor. ]
I wish I had. Maybe you're right. Maybe I would have learned something before...
[ ... he trails off.
He doesn't care;
he shuts his eyes. ]
no subject
Casting his eyes over the room, its scooted furniture, strewn cushions, and broken tables, Asch flicks the table leg off into the middle of it. Its job here was clearly done.]
I don't know what counts as a "loss" in your addled world's view, but I'm starting to think that killing you would be something they'd twist into the ultimate "win". [He scoffs in disgust.] Pathetic.
Get up. We're done here, you naive little fool.
no subject
.... slowly, he gathers himself up. Starts to rise. ]
... maybe, [ he says, real quiet. Killing him? ... who knows. They all want him gone, after all, so wouldn't it be...? He feels sick.
After a minute he's on his feet, sniffling just like he was when this all began, rubbing at his face. But: ]
You're wrong about one other thing. I didn't lose this fight, either. Not that you'd get why or anything, but Doorman'd... he'd... he'd be proud of me, so...
[ there's a long silence. then: ]
'm sorry.
no subject
whatever. They stand in stoic silence, one in front of the other. The tear stains are still wet on Isaac's cheeks, flush from the adrenalin and emotion still coloring them. The hard-headed stubborn determination, grief, rage. It's hard not to see the similarities, this close up—enough to make him want to leave, now. Forget this ever happened.
Then the damn stupid brat apologizes. He crosses his arms, fingers digging into his forearm. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Continued defiance at least would have been more familiar territory.]
Tch.
It doesn't matter. I'm done in here, anyway.
[It's completely fucked??????? But okay???????]
no subject
[ like dude what the fuck is your damage? you don't need isaac's permission get outta here
he's just gonna... nurse his wounds. like. rubbing at his throat and accidentally smearing the blood. nice. he doesn't look like he got the shit kicked out of him or anything. ]
no subject
welp
Isaac probably won't be expecting to get picked up by the back of his fancy suit jacket like a naughty puppy, but that sure is what's happening right now.
Asch stalks to the door out, wrenches it open, and hucks Isaac out into the main hall area.]
Go to your room, brat!
[The door slams shut behind him.]
no subject
[ he's squawking to high hell what the FUCK is happening right now
isaac gets tossed into the hall like a sack of potatoes and he's in PAIN because he's HURT and DOESN'T LAND ELEGANTLY actually he just kind of falls on his ass
and stares back at the door with such bald incredulity the poor thing should probably burst into flames. ]
Who's the brat here?!
[ ...............................................
eventually he and his bruised ego (and his bruised everything else) finally get up and meander off in the probable direction of seeking medical attention ]