Participants:
| Scene Title | Cold |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After a FULL LIKE WEEK OR SOMETHING OF WAITING Toru confronts Logan and both arrive at an obvious conclusion: Logan is right. (Log summary by Logan.) After spending some time figuring out restraint, Toru confronts Logan, who is too fucking proud to admit when he's wrong. (Log summary by Toru.) |
| Date | September 7, 2010 |
Burlesque: Manager's Office
Logan isn't the easiest of people to track down when one is avoiding phone calls and obvious hangouts. He wasn't at his apartment, though Toru isn't certain if that means that Logan wasn't home or that he doesn't even live there anymore. Hard to tell, when you can't see inside. But in any case —
— that leaves Burlesque. Which Toru's been avoiding, although essentially for the very reason he's headed there anyway. Unlike the last time he showed up, there is no ceremonial drink ordering or lollygagging before getting down to business. He is nicely dressed — for Toru, at least — in jeans and a button-down, so he at least looks somewhat respectable, and he strolls very confidently throughout the club to make his way to the back offices.
No doubt there is some security back there, but he doesn't very well act like he's packing heat, and there's something to be said for confidence. And a no-nonsense way of curtly explaining that he has business with Mr. Logan. Upon whose door he knocks sharply once he reaches it.
"Come in."
The invitation is polite and distracted, the latter being the cause of the former, most likely. Logan has a facade, worked on and built extensively in the past several years, enough that it's now a default for all that it shatters too easily. So Toru's sharp knocks are permitted entry way, in ignorance, although the other set of ingrained habits has Logan absently turning a pistol already set on the desk so that its muzzle is angled for the door and his finger conforms against the trigger.
The fingernail of his little finger upon other hand is absently getting worried between pearly teeth as he reads the information in front of him, looking very thirties in banker's pinstripe, through the pale pink of his shirt possibly more modern, and his collar is free of a tie, unbuttoned into loose wings that rest delicate against worst wool of his waistcoat. His jacket hangs by the door.
He glances up at the inevitable opening of the door, muted interest in muted eyes.
Always the guns with this guy.
Toru strides into the office with nary a pause, closing it behind himself first and then noticing the gun. Which of course leads into a cry of, "Jesus Christ, what is it with you and fucking guns lately!" There's a bit of panic to his tone and expression, and further progress into the room is slowed, though not halted. He stops next to a chair, does not sit down, instead looks down at Logan and gun with caution. "One goddamn conversation that doesn't have a weapon would be nice. Jesus." One arm is folded across his chest, the other lifted to scratch behind his head, and there is Awkward Silence punctuated by an eventual clearing of the throat.
"Look, whatever, anyway I wasn't even gonna fucking do this again but with that shit with the Russian last week I figure we gotta have a conversation. What the fuck was that all about? Hauling around some Russian timebomb and— fuck, I don't even know. What were you even doing that that shitty bar? I'm all going outta my way to stay outta your way and now you're going and showing up in random-ass fucking places, we really need to get shit straight if this is gonna work out."
Logan's hand peels off the pistol in wordless gesture well I didn't know it was you, dickface, this last sentiment better expressed in a cynical lift of an eyebrow and pull of annoyance at his mouth. Eyes flash when they roll, leaning back in his chair and picking up gun to tuck it into a drawer, making a slight elaborate show of it in that it's a simple sequence of movements, attempting to radiate a maturity he must feel the other man lacks. Or something. His hands then go towards the sheaths of paper he was reading, copied pages of grainy images and information, shuffling them together and out of view.
"I was at a bar," he says, once there's silence enough to talk. His voice is steely, neutral. Glances back up at Toru. "He picked the place. Not my scene, usually, but when in Rome. What the fuck was what about, exactly? You picked a scrap. I was pissing when it started." Loose pages are slid into the drawer, covering the silver gun inside.
"Excuse the fuck out of me, Jojo, but he picked the scrap." Quotemarks around the word evident in tone, natch. Toru looks around, glances down at that chair, thiiinks about sitting down, but ultimately remains standing. He does keep that respectful distance, however. "Which I was winning but anyway I don't go around picking fights with dudes eighty years older than me and whatevermuch bigger than me. I know we all agree I'm a dumbass but I'm not that stupid."
A hand is lifted all dainty-like to pinch the bridge of his nose, expressing such ~frustration~ with this part of the discussion, and he subsequently waves that hand dismissively. "He sat down all up in my grille, so I went to walk away even and he goes and kicks my leg and anyway that's not the point my point is that I'm sick of dancing around trying to keep you from having to deal with me. I'm tryin'a be all sensitive or what the fuck ever, but— "
He shrugs. "I had a talkover with my roomie and I figured I'm goin' at this all wrong and maybe I oughtta start dealin' with things different. 'Cause way things are now ain't workin' for me."
The height thing isn't working out for Logan, evidently, because he's standing somewhere around the second to last mouthy sentence — no threatening movements made, just a limber unfolding of posture. Drifts to the side of the large oak desk, setting a hip against the graven edge and giving Toru his best 'bug in a petri dish' narrow stare — which is an artifact from when things were working out for Toru, so perhaps not evidence of backslide.
Necessarily. "Sasha picks fights with strangers and is not my responsibility. I can write a formal letter of apology but I'm more inclined to stick it down your throat than mail it in a return envelope. If you know what I mean.
"And what exactly," and finally the cracks form through glassy mature neutrality and British aloofness, sharpness entering his tone and a wrinkle between his eyebrows, "would work for you?"
Toru is nervous, and the less he tries to show it the more it kind of — shows. His posture doesn't change at all, but the expression is a very Toru 'oh shit what do I do now'. Still, he presses on bravely~, clenching his fists for a moment before forcing them to relax at his sides. Not a threat of violence there, just, tension.
"Well you were acting like you were in charge and I don't even know what was going on so I kinda figured you were babysitting or somethin'." And this is the part where palms start threatening to sweat. Left hand slides up to rest on his hip all akimbo, the other hand has fingers scratching at each other momentarily. And he takes a step or two forward — closing the distance somewhat, though he's not even quite at armsreach yet.
"What would work for me is some kinda resolution. I don't even care what we work out, I just wanna know where we stand." Another step forward, there, and now he could reach if he held out a hand. Which he doesn't, but he's trying so hard to be confident. "I'm not so dumb I think everything's roses but I don't see as how it's all gotta be buried, neither."
There is danger in the way eyes don't so much bleed into vibrant green, so much as expression creates the illusion of blankness, as flat and impassive as the surface of pennies, the way sharks tend to look out at the world. They'll burn brightly in just a second, but not before, favouring speed over strength, an arm goes out, folds in the same movement of coiling snake, before a tight knot of a fist flies out in a trajectory that Toru's face happens~ to interrupt.
The only skill in a thrown punch is more experience and learned practice as opposed to refined art, but—
Does the job well enough. "How's that for some fucking resolution, you mouthy little brat!" is snarled, voice bouncing its volume off the walls of confined office. "How in the world do you rationalise getting angry? At me? Fuck!"
So, Toru was really not expecting that reaction. Somewhere, a tiny piece of the back of his mind makes a note to tell Amadeus that his advice sucked, but outwardly the first thing that happens is that his upper torso is shoved off to the side, almost pushing him into a stumble, before he straightens himself up again and lifts a hand to rub his cheek. "J— Jesus!!" He certainly is taking that name in vain a lot today~
He digs through his pockets for something, finally coming up with a probably used kleenex, holding it over his mouth and not-very-discreetly spits blood into it. Crumpling it further, it's shoved back into pocket, and the boy stands there for a moment, reeling and mostly ignoring Logan for the moment. He works his jaw from side to side a few times, swallows a bit more blood with a cringe, then turns attention back to older man.
"How do I rationalize it?! How about, I didn't do anything fucking wrong and you're being a prima donna like you always fucking do when you're being pissy! You're such a fucking martyr," nice three-dollar-word there, "everyone is wrong but you! If you didn't always do your goddamn cold badass shit all the time none of this wouldn't have happened in the first place!"
Right hand flexes, curls again, knuckles throbbing and unwilling to be pummelled again into bony face or even the softer areas over guts and kidneys, for all that a surge of anger seems to rush blood up to pound drums in his ears. There are no easier weapons than his own two hands available, though his eyes have also gone violently brightly green though the output is useless, instinctively negating Toru for five seconds before he can manage to rein himself back in, irises going grey green, slushy ice in city gutters.
"Cold would've been shooting you on the roof the other night," is low and quick, a stark contrast to echoey volume. So he had thought about it. Tremors of rage do rattle through his tone, unchecked. "Or leaving you for dead instead of poisoning myself to get you back again. Or letting Sasha throw you around the pub. Cold," a shove follows, just as vicious if less outwardly damaging, a bullying move with wiry strength from shoulders to wrists, "is not what got us here.
"You left and you're fucked off because I didn't roll over for you. That's the long and short of it, innit."
Toru's almost glad that they're actually fighting now, it sort of helps with getting somewhere. Now if only it were raining. Indoors. But seeing as how he's taken enough hits of his own, the shove is followed by Toru moving to grab Logan's arms just above the elbows, gripping firmly, but he doesn't throw his ability in there anywhere. That'd be ~unfair~ after all. "Cold, Logan," the name sounds a bit weird coming from him, he hardly ever actually uses it, "is leadin' me to figure all I am is just a little fuck you keep around 'cause I'll do whatever you tell me.
"Cold is me figuring I don't mean shit other'n bein' useful from time to time and then going and getting me killed, then bringing me back and leavin' me wondering why you would do that. I'm sayin' you're cold 'cause you put me in a place to be freaked out that I mattered that much, that's why I ran, 'cause I couldn't deal, and that's why I'm sayin' you're cold. I told you all that, I gave you some time to figure out what to do about it and I ain't gonna go hiding in a van down by the river just so you don't gotta deal with it. I'm sick of tryin' to stay outta sight, I wanna get back to my routine, and I'd prefer if you were part of it but I would appreciate some kinda answer on that point either way."
Concluded, he shoves British torso away, not strong enough to send him into the desk but enough to push him a few feet away, at least. "Drop the macho badass shit, you wouldn't be lettin' me walk around with my legs unbroke if there wasn't somethin' stoppin' you."
Fingers crook a little as if they could claw at younger man when Logan is forced back those few feet, his posture and composure reclaimed with a sharp jolt of a step back. "I'd sooner erase you," is slithered out between barely parted white teeth that show in a scowl. "I was getting good at acting like you never happened. Then you just come back." The nerve!
Restless hands find his waist to plant palms on. Cigarettes, knives, guns, these things Logan might prefer to fidget with are in different pockets, drawers, compartments that are not readily accessible, and he feels weirdly unarmed — never mind the sparks of violence and the ones that could still be. Less about needing a weapon, more about lacking proper defense mechanism, and with his jacket hanging a few feet away, Logan isn't even completely dressed in the armor garb of a three piece suit. There is a flare of something impassioned in pale eyes, jaw tensing as he casts his attention away and towards the cracked open door, wondering who can hear without particularly caring about the response.
Breathing through his nose, mouth gone small and tense as he considers. It's a problem, not being articulate in this discourse. "What's it to you," he utters, quietly, snidely resentful, "if there's something stopping me? Maybe I don't want to act like some vengeful fucking ex-bitch from hell because that would be about as telling as swooning back into your arms, now wouldn't it. Maybe not wanting to hurt you doesn't actually equate to— wanting—
"You know what? Fuck you. You were always scared or jittery whenever I showed you anything more than the usual, or weakness. Don't ask for it now. You've no right to it."
"And this kind of shit is exactly why I always assumed I didn't mean anything to you." Toru's voice goes flat and cold, teeth clenched, jaw squared, musculature overall going tense. "I don't even —" voice cracks at the end there, he lowers his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. Stops a second, takes in a deep breath. "Okay. Okay. This is what you want, fine." Gradually he lifts his head again, looking conspicuously at any part of Logan that doesn't involve eye-contact.
"I'm being pathetic enough as it is, I won't come crawling back to you again but I ain't gonna go avoiding you neither. If you don't wanna see me anymore then I guess you're the one who has to go turning into a recluse. Or whatever. I don't care." Another deep breath, he forces himself into better posture, lets the breath out. "Thanks to you I don't even know what's real anymore.
"But I guess you musta been right about everything prob'ly bein' your Ability, 'cause the more we talk the more I wonder why I'm even fuckin' bothering wasting my time on your ass." With the most biting remark he can muster delivered, he turns to head for the door, stopping once he actually gets to it; one hand on the handle, the other rested gently against it. "Am I going to have to watch my back for bullets, now, or are we through with this stupid game?"
There is something disproportionate here— in Logan's opinion— that strikes him as similar as the disproportion of rescue and abandonment. There's a second where pale irises are shown all the way around as Toru tosses that line on his way out, before Logan's jaw tightens as if to grind molars together, expression bloodless. Tension coils up his lithe frame like he might storm after Toru, lack of knives or guns be damned, but the wind is out of his sails long before he can start with follow through when the last few words land. That that kind of hurt was exactly what he was avoiding doesn't— actually— do much to affirm that whatever choice he's made to drive Toru towards the door is actually correct.
But hey. See a thing through. He doesn't respond to that final question— doesn't respond at all, at first, his arms folded defensively over his stomach and studying the far wall. Probably not for a lack of anything to say. You're so stupid, is number one contender for the tip of Logan's tongue, but it's trapped behind gritted teeth. His vision's gone watery and he's not hiding it, exactly. What's the use? He's cried in front of Toru before.
His arms hold tighter around him. The rusty joints of jaw finally come free. "I do hate when I'm right," he concedes, with a rough chuckle, already dismissing Toru as gone as he turns his back to drift back around the desk, a hand dropping to play fingers along the edge of antique oak.
There is a quiet, dull thud against the door in response to that final comment; Toru's forehead falling forward a few inches to rest against it. You're so stupid, directed inwardly, with a deep breath released in silent sigh. He swallows down a hiccup, that sound nearly audible, and fingers tighten around the doorknob. Frustrated gestures that take barely a few seconds but seem to last an eternity.
He's certainly cried in front of Logan more times than he'd care to admit, but in this particular instance it wouldn't do very well to show that weakness. Logan doesn't need to know he's gotten to Toru, after all, then he'd know he's won!!1. Nevermind that he was just shouting at Logan for doing the same thing.
After what seems, to him at least, like forever, he blinks away watery eyes, eyelashes moistening as tears fall to the floor, and he turns to look to Logan for a lingering moment. "And you always are, aren't you?" It's quiet, and not so much accusatory as it is disappointed. "I— " he starts to add something else, voice cracks a bit, but instead he just abruptly and awkwardly turns away again, fighting with the handle a bit to open the door and slip out, shutting it firmly behind himself.
Logan's seated by the time Toru is wrestling with doorhandle, not really responding save for a dismissive, princely flutter of fingers to dismiss the younger man, unnecessary though it may be. It bids him more to not make it worse than to leave, but Toru already sliced off that second statement, whatever it may be, and leaves Logan alone with a similar stammer of the open/close of the door.
Promises of bullets or games being over hang more or less heavy and unanswered in the air. There are strippers pretending not to notice Toru's presence and subsequential exit out the building after that particularly loud argument has transpired, and doing a better job of faking it than the man left alone.