brandingproblem | open post

"If I was an asshole," begins the asshole, "I'd say I kiss your mother with this mouth. But seeing as I'm not an asshole, I'm not gonna say that."

Granted, getting into a down-and-out brawl with a stranger in a public park for reasons now beyond his comprehension is definitely the move of an asshole, and this guy doesn't even sound like a fucking local. He sounds like a tourist, like some townie that happened to stray into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time and got his ass kicked for his troubles — and straight up, he's lucky it's Frank he got into an ass-kicking contest with. There's plenty of neighborhoods around here where a guy's group of friends wouldn't scatter, they'd pull out baseball bats or box cutters or guns and this whole thing wouldn't end until his brains were on the curb.

Speaking of groups of friends--

He peels himself up to look around, and finds the immediate forty or fifty yards around them absolutely deserted, with not a hint of any of the guys he came here with to be found. He groans and slumps back down into the grass, dragging the back of his hand over his upper lip. Hot, wet blood soaks the hem of his long-sleeved baseball tee, as though it needed to be any more scuffed than old grass stains and whatever else already on it.

"Those fucking piece of shit assholes," is a mutter meant entirely for himself; see if he backs them up ever again.

(He will. Inevitably, he will. He hardly needs the excuse for a fight.)

His isolation established, he finally affixes his attention properly on the guy he'd just been keen to pound entirely into the fucking ground. Never mind his nose- "Where the hell'd you learn to fight like that, anyway?"

'Get put in big boy jail and maybe you'll get the chance' is maybe not what he should say, so this time his brain does actually catch up first and doesn't say shit about some punkass with a chip on his shoulder getting smart with his mouth.

He doesn't move much, because it still makes his head spin to do anything but stay in place, but he at least moves his gaze around to follow. Ah yeah, everyone bailed. There'd been a whole pseudo-team of Fellow Teenagers, and when he started fighting back, really fighting, they had scattered to the winds. So: used to boys fighting but not fighting, or not used to anyone fighting back.

Or maybe it's just how Tuesday in the big city goes.

"School of hard knocks," he drawls. Yeah, he sounds out of place, because he's really out of place, shut up. "Jesus, c'mon, you're bleeding all over." Mostly on himself, but they should probably make their way some fucking where. Or at least sit up so he doesn't choke himself on blood. He offers up a hand. They can at least be stupid and hurt and exhausted and dizzy together and upright.

It's also a damned funny thing to say for a guy who's also bleeding, just not from anything broken.

This is the first time he's ever been criticized for bleeding too much, and the look he flashes the other kid is equal parts incredulity and annoyance. Yeah, is he bleeding all over? And whose fault is that, exactly? Maybe the guy that cracked him directly in the fucking nose hard enough to snap cartilage? No? Okay, then.

But even still, despite the comment, despite the look, despite the entire goddamn fight, he hesitates only for a second before reaching out to wrap his hand around the offered wrist. A tentative test, a pull, and then he takes the assisted leverage to haul himself up to his feet. At sixteen, he hasn't had the opportunity to put on the muscle mass he one day will — but he's still broad-shouldered, still taller than his opponent by a good few inches. Crazy how scrappy this wiry kid is against someone not insignificantly larger than him. He'd be impressed, if he weren't too busy doing all this bleeding.

He does need to get cleaned up. So does the guy he was just bleeding all over. Preferably without either of them running into a cop on the way to their respective destinations, lest Townie Kid turn out to be a fucking snitch or something. Frank's already on probation. He can't afford another report.

It's with that in mind that he warily eyes Clint and, after a beat, pitches an offer:

"I'll let you clean up in my bathroom if you promise not to narc on me for kicking your ass."

Feels like a fair deal to him — his parents aren't usually home until evening, this kid can get cleaned up without the risk of catching any heat from his own parents in exchange. It's a win-win.

"Yeah? Is that what happened, you kicked my ass?"

He says it with such a lopsided grin, only made more lopsided by the puff of a cheek and of lips. At least the big guy actually took his hand. And now they're upright, and still bleeding, sure, but on their feet. Maybe if he remembered what the fight was about, he'd still be steaming about it, but the kid seems willing to let bygones be for not being called a pussy.

And that's fine by him if he doesn't have to endure another beatdown.

"Nobody to narc to and nothing to narc about." Promise. A little knuckleduster between guys isn't anything to get too worked up about so long as nobody's about to sue. "Your nose need set or anything?"

See, this kid means for that to be reassuring, but all it does is put a furrow in Frank's already less than pristine-looking brow. Yeah, maybe he needs his nose set, but first-

"What'a you mean, nobody to narc to? You gotta have someone to narc to. What, you don't have-" He starts, then stops himself, because while his mouth may have run away from him by just a few seconds, his mind catches up enough to know what a fucked up question that would be to just outright ask someone. He pivots at the last second to , "-anybody lookin' out for you? You realize you're in goddamn New York City, right?"

You can't just run around here on your own without having somebody. Especially not as a teenager. Parent, guardian, older sibling, group home director, foster parent, something. Backup, at least — someone better than whoever had been cheering Clint on up until they split with the rest of Frank's pals. Especially if he's gonna go around getting into fucking fights and shit.

Oh. There's a pivot here that he didn't see coming. And maybe that's stupid of him (wow what a shocker). Suddenly there's, what, fucking concern? What's with the scrutiny? Hadn't been there when they started scuffling, that's for sure.

"I know I'm in goddamn New York City," he says sullenly, withdrawing his supportive hand. "I'm here on purpose."

On a stupid purpose, but it beat trying to hitchhike to LA, he figures. He doesn't owe anyone any answers. Definitely not the guy that tried to turn his face into ground beef. "Just meant I'm not gonna tell anyone. Cuz nothing happened, see?" Their faces tell different stories, but that's not the point. The point is, no narcing. Snitches get stitches and whatnot. "You got a fastball to the face. I'm the dumb bastard that ran right into a pole not looking where he was going. Whatever stories you wanna go with."

One long, heavy moment is spent with Frank — upper lip and shirt collar coated in blood, nose throbbing — staring at Clint skeptically, a knit in his brow and a thoughtful frown on his lips. There's a clear debate going on upstairs, though how much of his brains are left functional after that solid elbow to the goddamn cartilage is anybody's guess.

Enough, evidently, for him to declare decisively, "C'mon."

And start walking.

He'll make it all of ten steps if Clint doesn't follow before he stops, turns, and stares expectantly, impatient. "Come on, man. I'm gonna clean my stupid face and your stupid face and then I'm gonna tell you where in the hell you're not gonna go picking fights in a ten-mile radius from now on. Then you're gonna tell me what your deal is. Also, I'm fucking starving."

Amazing what kind of appetite you work up, beating the shit out of a guy and playing baseball. Mostly the baseball thing. Fight didn't last that long.

"Hey- what's your name, anyway?"

He's got half a mind to just leave. Go back where he's staying and fix himself up and get some grub and hole up for the night and--

--get hounded by the fighty guy, apparently. Clint rolls his eyes and plays catchup to walk more or less alongside. "Maybe you're the one that picked a fight, man." Or maybe he's not. Maybe Clint picked it. Hard to say at this point. But he hadn't run away from it, which in hindsight would've been smarter. But then he'd have pent up energy and not a little bit of anger bubbling up and nowhere to put all that except, inevitably, somewhere stupid. "But thanks." For apparently needed information about fighting or not fighting in the city. And offering to clean his stupid fuck face. There's an implication of food there, too. Though he's not looking to get greedy or make assumptions about strangers.

He actually puts out his hand to shake like they're really getting introduced properly for the first time, like a couple fists and elbows weren't enough. "'m Clint."

open post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject