Impact rocks the breath from him, then again: Sends Ellis' fist glancing off his jaw. There's blood in his ears, in his teeth, but nothing's cracked loose —
A friend of mine, The yard is quiet. It fucking hurt,
Somewhere above, the first soppy flakes of snow drift down to cap the walls, the grounds; their discarded sleeves. Vance's foot slips. It drives him forward again, lower now, stomping for an instep. Pivoted, an elbow for a hip. Trying to turn him, to tear some of that weight down. Like pulling at a tower stone.
(Pointless. The great grey shadow of her, the damp earth.)
Pain jolts up his leg, staggering him. The second blow swings wide.
There's no satisfaction in this, Ellis knows. Not for him. But that's not the point of the exercise, just as it doesn't matter if being caught off balance leaves him at a disadvantage.
He swings again. It's not calculated. Ellis fights in one manner: straight-forward, dogged, and unbothered by what the approach nets him in return.
For a time. Not a long one, not so long as you'd think. Longer still than anything real. Maybe that's what finally stalls him, fingers dug into Ellis' side and gripping for air. Comes a time you can't pretend what's holding you up.
He starts to make a noise. Maybe it sounds a little like sorry, but it sounds a lot more like a cough. Wet, ugly. Look it in the mouth and you'd call it a sob,
To his credit, Ellis doesn't flinch back from that sound.
But he doesn't know what to do for it either, hands fluttering indecisively before one catches at Vance's shoulder. Light, then fingers dug in, pressure meant to steady without fumbling over any kind of vocal assurances.
It's alright is a lie, so Ellis doesn't bother. Just waits for Vance to gather his composure, decide how they'll part ways this time.
Maybe there's more to say. Maybe. But it's not worth saying: I don't know what to do with a future where I'm dead, well. That's all of them. You don't know what to do with one where you aren't,
His hand straightens, flattens; becomes a palm to thump once across Ellis' chest. He's good. They're done here.
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A friend of mine, The yard is quiet. It fucking hurt,
Somewhere above, the first soppy flakes of snow drift down to cap the walls, the grounds; their discarded sleeves. Vance's foot slips. It drives him forward again, lower now, stomping for an instep. Pivoted, an elbow for a hip. Trying to turn him, to tear some of that weight down. Like pulling at a tower stone.
(Pointless. The great grey shadow of her, the damp earth.)
no subject
There's no satisfaction in this, Ellis knows. Not for him. But that's not the point of the exercise, just as it doesn't matter if being caught off balance leaves him at a disadvantage.
He swings again. It's not calculated. Ellis fights in one manner: straight-forward, dogged, and unbothered by what the approach nets him in return.
no subject
For a time. Not a long one, not so long as you'd think. Longer still than anything real. Maybe that's what finally stalls him, fingers dug into Ellis' side and gripping for air. Comes a time you can't pretend what's holding you up.
He starts to make a noise. Maybe it sounds a little like sorry, but it sounds a lot more like a cough. Wet, ugly. Look it in the mouth and you'd call it a sob,
So he shuts it. Quick enough to be true.
no subject
But he doesn't know what to do for it either, hands fluttering indecisively before one catches at Vance's shoulder. Light, then fingers dug in, pressure meant to steady without fumbling over any kind of vocal assurances.
It's alright is a lie, so Ellis doesn't bother. Just waits for Vance to gather his composure, decide how they'll part ways this time.
no subject
His hand straightens, flattens; becomes a palm to thump once across Ellis' chest. He's good. They're done here.