I’m so in love with this. I can’t even. Ah. My favourite feeling in the world is putting your head beneath the water and entering an entirely different place, So peaceful, so quiet. What I miss more than anything when I’m living away from the ocean is being able to duck under and leave all my worries on the surface.
For a mime to have the upper-hand was a gift from the universe. Almost an apology, really. We’re sorry that you bit out your tongue. We’re sorry that you’ve shut yourself up when you used to talk enough to rival even Kankri Vantas. We’re sorry you’re a fucked up piece of shit. Here’s a metaphor to make your existence less ridiculous; here’s a joke to fit your life around. A mime’s hands were his only weapon of words: communication. And his fingertips felt the victory as he understood Cronus Ampora’s body language all too well. He was disgusted. But afraid? Not enough to turn tail and run.
Kurloz could tell there was a thread cast out looking for some sort of line to say, something to break the silence and maybe snap through whatever wall of dried-up slime tensioned between them. Ya a lightweight? Probably. He merely shrugged and flicked his glass. Had his glove been removed from his hand, his nail may have made it ting. But none of that mattered, not when the greaser was beginning to talk like that. Same old, same old, and it brought his eyes to a squint. If he had any desire to cause a scene, he would have simply taken his drink and threw it out on Cronus, but all he really wanted to do was press his palm to that face and push him back and away from him. Or maybe slam his face against the bar. He was about ready to brush it off, but that last little comment… that one brought back too much.
If you’re not a blood suckin’ wvampire. Sodapop. The theatre. They were supposed to have seen Hamlet with no problems, no tension, and no desire to act on what the mime felt. It was like every version of him knew it, and they were all mocking him. His fangs bit down slowly behind those stitches as he felt the rage coming to a quickening build. That smirk. Those fins. He wanted to get rid of them. Kurloz wanted to get rid of him.
Without a gesture, a shift in expression, or any sort of indication, he lost that wavering control of logic where he, under sober conditions, would have simply kept his calm. Destroyed his rage. But what was warm inside him from the alcohol had boiled. He gripped Cronus’s shirt, stood, balled his other hand into a fist, and he punched downward into that smug expression with all but a few strands of his strength. He didn’t care about being thrown out, he didn’t care if that strong blooded troll would be spared, and he didn’t care about his “cover” being blown. For a split second, he saw someone else. He saw the troll that deserved it most of all, but that vision faded just as quickly as it came. None of it mattered.
It felt like sand that had been slowly trickling down the hourglass finally reached its point of turning over. It felt good. Staring down at Cronus Ampora and stealing that smirk for himself felt right, and it only pissed him off further.
You did Cronus.
You did good.
He could feel that sliver of coolness slide down his spine as the other moved. Overall, Cronus wasn’t a violent troll—no, he rarely got into fights. He rarely got hurt and he rarely got damaged. He was one to know when to stop, to pause, or to back away when something went too far. The male knew when to confide or to apologize when it got to be too much. Cronus wasn’t just the sea dweller most had grown to know, but at that same exact thought he was the perfect shade like all the rest.
It was just—-fighting, he avoided.
Fighting had no use for what he did now. He danced and was paid to look good while doing it. He was paid to flaunt all those fancy features of his and to make it obvious to others that they couldn’t have it. He was actually paid not to get into fights like this, but then against he couldn’t have realized that he had stepped out of line until the Makara actually moved. The hand clutching the collar of his shirt caused his brow to arch, a noise from surprise, but the impact to his face was more than enough to send him sprawling out of his seat and onto the floor.
He really was pitiful.
But he wasn’t a baby.
Cronus felt the cool tile beneath his cheek. The arch of his nose felt heavy, splintering with nerves and numbness in all recollection. He could feel the dribble of snot and blood begin to drip down to his lower lip but as he sat up, as his hand pulled him from the ground and pushed him from eating the harsh floors, he couldn’t help but bring his other hand to his own features to turn around. His ukulele wasn’t damaged, just tossed off to the side as Cronus moved to sit on his ass properly. That smug look was long gone. Oh he knew it’d bruise. It’d be harsh, and disgusting within his features all around.
He looked up with confusion. Of course there was that pinch of hurt, the blatant, emotion for when the male ever got turned down, but quickly that expression dropped into a more forced one.
One that was a domino following on another domino.
Cronus was a sea dweller. It came to highbloods naturally, to be so spiteful, so horrible, so bitter. He was used to succumbing the emotions and forgetting about them in his weakest points. He was used to pushing them down to the pits of his stomach and reveling in the task beyond, he was used to not acting upon the mistakes he did before his life ended, until now. Cronus began to stand. At first it appeared to be normal, getting up, ready to dust himself off. Smaller trolls began to move into, to politely ask them to leave.
Cronus was at mid height with the male’s stomach before his hands reached out. His body moved in a full gesture, moving just like he did on stage. His body came close in one full sweep of the motion, and his hands were filtering through the other’s locks, that dark hair, untangling matted strands with beautiful glides of his fingers. His body came close and a soft expression moved across the sea dweller’s features. Was he going to ask why? no.
Hands fisted the base of Kurloz’s horns, before the mime’s head was ripped downward. His knee came up midway to meet the male’s face, and to abruptly slam into it, Cronus watching the peaks of the other’s horns so he wouldn’t stab himself idiotically.
An eye for an eye.
A nose for a nose.
Cronus felt nothing.