brandingproblem | open post

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."

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