Various Degrees of Asshole


logan_icon.gif sasha2_icon.gif toru_icon.gif

Scene Title Various Degrees of Asshole
Synopsis It takes three people to fight: one to pick it, another to rise to the bait and the third to break it up.
Date September 1, 2010

The Rock Cellar

Toru has definitely seen better days, both on a personal level and on a more objective, regional sort of level. Sitting in a bar and drinking in the early evening to avoid breaking curfew is not exactly on the list of great ways to live one's life, but given his present lifestyle, it's pretty unavoidable. But!! The Rock Cellar, at least, is his sort of hangout. It's a weeknight, so no performers tonight, along with conceniently minimal crowding and such.

Toru has only been here for a few minutes and he is, at present, seated at the bar. There's a brownish sort of drink in front of him, and he's a bit overdressed with an unzipped hoodie on over his t-shirt, and a pair of thin gloves covering his hands and (under the hoodie, natch) his forearms. He's overall pretty unkempt-looking and fairly dissheveled, moreso than usual, and for now he's keeping to himself, given that there isn't currently anyone outside of the restroom that he recognizes~. Maybe that's why he's drinking in the first place.

There's something thrilling about trespassing on enemy territory, and although the man who sidles up to the bar beside Toru and places his order in a brusque accent doesn't necessarily consider the building's owner a threat, he knows that Catherine Chesterfield probably wouldn't appreciate him smearing his hands all over everything and sullying the establishment with his presence and the vodka-reek that accompanies it.

The bartender returns less than a minute later with a pint of dark beer, which the Russian pays for upfront, a rumpled bill slid across the bar's surface beneath the tips of his fingers. Initially, Toru receives a glance but that is all. He doesn't recognize him, either.

There's a bit of a tensing when Sasha slips in next to him, clear violation of restroom rules getting his hackles up momentarily. Granted they aren't in the restroom, but STILL. You don't just sit next to a guy like that, unless this is like, a gay bar. Shit, does that guy think this is a gay bar?

Toru spares a glance over to the other man, accent also getting his hackles up, given his history of bad luck with Russians. Ultimately he decides to just lift his drink, chugging it until it's fairly empty, and sets it back down on the bar with a too-loud thunk. And he slides to the floor, pushing his chair back so that he can sneak out around it, pushing it back in and going to find himself a different place to sit. He doesn't even bother hiding how blatantly rude he's being about the whole business.

You know what Catherine would really hate?

If someone started a fight in her bar. Sasha glances in the restroom's direction, or at least what he assumes to be the restroom's direction — because where else would his companion for the evening have disappeared to? — and then back at Toru as his chair legs are scraping across the floor. His eyes move between the empty glass on the counter and the stranger's back before they eventually settle on his own glass, the liquid contained within, and the vague shapes of his fingers barely visible through it. As a general rule, mental calculations like the ones he's making don't take very long—

— but that's also because they're rarely accurate. If he's lucky, he'll achieve only a fraction of the damage he thinks he can accumulate, and maybe if he was more sober this is something he might realize before he swings out his leg to catch Toru under the knee.

If not for the way he reacted, Toru may not have even fallen to the floor with that hit. But when he gets hit in the calf there he twists a bit, reflexively turning to look at who the fuck thinks he can just pull that shit and in doing so he loses his balance, staggers and lands flat on his ass. At least he doesn't manage to pull any chairs on top of himself in the process.

He is, however, back up on his feet pretty much instantly, scrabbling for a grip on one of those aforementioned chairs to pull himself up and brush a thumb across his nose all thuglike. "What the fuck is your problem?!" He clenches his fists, bringing them up in fightin' stance, and nods his head. "You wanna go, Stalin, you want a piece of this, is that it?!"

…Though after a moment he does realize that this probably is not the best place, given bartenders sort of staring at the two of them with uncertain expressions. "— You wanna take this outside?"

Glass set aside, Sasha rises to his feet while Toru is pulling himself back together with the swiftness of a cat that didn't land the way cats are supposed to. There's nothing to break outside, unless Sasha wants to count Toru— and he doesn't. His response is a left hook aimed to slam into the younger man's chin and bruises his knuckles on contact if it connects. And that's a pretty big if. Unlike with the sweep of his leg, Toru is ready and anticipating.

On the other side of the Rock Cellar, the crowds gathered around the tables are swiveling heads to get a better look at what's happening over by the bar. Greenwich Village isn't as pristine as it used to be, but in this part of the neighborhood and in this establishment specifically, it isn't very often that fights break out. Especially not with the sudden ferocity that this one is.

Sasha isn't going to take this outside, and judging by the hyena-whoop of laughter from somewhere else in the bar, the other patrons don't share the staff's concerns as long as it stays over there.

Toru— has actually not been in very many fist fights. As much as he may brag about being a badass, he's never really had much opportunity to actually hone any real sort of badassery. Odds are he's about to get pretty humiliated~ But in the meantime, fight fight fight. When Sasha goes in for the punch, Toru's eyes widen and he leans back to get out of the way, glancing the blow off the end of his chin. It surprises him, more than anything, and he opens and closes his mouth a couple times to realign his jaw.

And he steps backwards a few more steps, lowers his center of gravity, hands still held up defensively. He's really just content to remain on the defense for a long few minutes, given that he's at a disadvantage height- and weight-wise. "Come on, Ivan, what's your problem!? Did I fuck your mom or something?" He steps back another few paces, giving himself a moment to tear his hoodie off, throwing it to the side. "Okay, let's do this."

The corner of Sasha's mouth curls up around half of a toothy smile. "Wrong place, wrong time," he says, and what little apology there is in his tone is undercut by the leering challenge with it. He's courteous enough not to tackle Toru to the floor while he's preoccupied with his hoodie, and waits until that hits the ground before he holds up his hand and makes a beckoning gesture with the tips of his fingers. He's landed two blows so far. Toru hasn't been given the opportunity to try for any, and although fairness isn't Sasha's primary concern right now, it does make things more interesting.

Fighting is a spectator sport. If it wasn't, places like the Center Stage beneath Coco's Boxing Gym wouldn't exist. The Pancratium wouldn't have attracted New York City's criminal underworld to Staten Island like honey seduces flies. One of the bar's staff that had been taking orders from a table near the kitchen sends a wild-eyed look their way and hurriedly disappears back inside, the door thundering on its hinges.

She's probably going to call the police.

Toru has seen enough action movies to know that 'the beckon' is not usually something you should fall for. He's also seen enough movies to know that a twenty-something boy probably shouldn't go around wearing elbow-length gloves if he wants to be taken seriously, but it's too late for that now! He clenches his left hand into a fist, smacking it into the right palm a couple of times, and looks over to Sasha and gives him an upward nod. Yes, let's do this.

What with the amount of space that has been created between the two of them, Toru goes for the gusto and just rushes the Russian, leaning in to go for a jab to the gut. There isn't nearly as much physical strength behind it as there is behind any of Sasha's blows, but what he lacks in strength he partially makes up for in the fact that his fist is somewhat more hard and solid than a standard American fist. Like it was made out of bone, somehow~. Doesn't make the blow any stronger, but it's more like being hit with a blunt object than with a tiny Asian hand.

They're making some noise. There's foot steps of fleeing employees, a doorslam, a whoop of appreciation from one of the more carefree patrons. So by the time Logan is shouldering his way out of the restroom, adjusting the sit of his belt buckle, he has some fair warning with an expectantly sharp and hawkish search around to see what on earth Kozlow is doing now. For him, his get up is fairly casual, in black jeans, a navy, pinstriped button down with the sleeves rolled passed his elbows, collar left open too wide, aaand a laziness to his step that implies he's had a fair amount to drink which might explain why his excursion has taken him so long.

Finding the source of conflict is not difficult, whatsoever, and for a second, his mouth hangs open at the spectacle ensuing in the bar room. A glance over his shoulder indicates a desire to disappear back where he came from until it's over, but—

But what fun would that be? "'scuse me," is muttered as Logan goes to push in closer, weighing up the options between cheap entertainment and paying for bail. Maybe two sets of bail. Probably just one.

Sasha goes staggering back into the counter, one arm thrust out in an attempt to keep himself upright. It succeeds, but at the cost of spilled beer and a shattered glass. Leather jacket slick and dripping, he pulls himself upright again around the time Logan is emerging from the restrooms, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, checking for blood. The light in the bar is dim enough that he can't tell the difference between his saliva, darker fluid and the alcohol running fat rivulets down his fingers, and truth be told: it doesn't particularly matter.

He runs his tongue over his front teeth, shoves off of the counter, and takes several scuffing steps forward, building up speed and momentum before he's close enough to hurl himself into Toru's middle. One arm snags around the youth's waist. The other drives a shoulder up into his gut.

It would be a good idea, Toru figures, to go for a glass and use that as a weapon. Maybe just like sort of dive and grab for something. IN FACT he starts to do just that!!, though with more of a sideways motion than a dive, scrabbling around for an empty beer bottle or SOMETHING but he's largely unsuccessful until such a time as large Russianski comes barreling towards him at what is probably an unpleasant trajectory. "Mother— !!"

Aand he's hit, with little time to react beyond getting the wind knocked out of him and being generally dazed and confused. Shaking his head quickly, he adds a grunt of, "Cocksucker!!" and proceeds to wrap himself forward, gripping Sasha's back and bringing his legs up to drive knees into the larger man's chest, scrabbling for purchase with his feet in an apparent attempt to just— latch on. Bizarrely.

Most fights have a certain mathematical quality, or maybe that's physics, which is kind of like practical math anyway — cause effect, and Logan's seen enough bar brawls to maybe just how Sasha's going to react to a latching Satoru. There is a pragmatic quality, then, in the way Logan is quite abruptly there, a hand sealing over the back of Toru's knuckles with his fingers hooking amongst the younger man's. Tendons and bones both strain in discouregement as fingers are peeled back at the same time as Logan's other hand grabs Toru's collar, and yanks.

Logan's grip maintains for as long as it might take to peel Toru off Ruskie, maybe shove him aside when done, but it's all strength and he, personally, does not match the heightened adrenaline levels he can feel running through Toru's system, can peripherally sense it in Sasha's.

Sasha shakes himself off like a wet dog. And he is wet. The blood seeping from his lips and dribbling down his chin is more visible to Logan than it was to him when he first checked for it, and when he inhales sharply through his nose the sound has a reedy quality to it. He's still standing, at least. Does not require assistance to continue doing it, either, when Logan scrapes Toru off of him.

He skips back a few steps, rocking his weight once from front to back, and gives the younger men a quizzical look from beneath his lowered brows. That Logan is responsible for breaking up the fight doesn't come as a horrific surprise — he did, after all, start it when he was still in the restroom for a reason — and although he doesn't relax, not even fractionally, he doesn't move to pick back up again the next instant that an opportunity presents itself.

He has restraint. Sometimes.

Really, it's probably a good thing that Logan stepped in at this juncture. Toru didn't really exactly have much of a plan for what he was going to do if he managed to scale Mt. Sasha, not that he'd admit it, but that doesn't make him any less irritated at being interrupted. When Logan's hand clamps down on his, Toru does resist for juuust a moment, but that is, unfortunately, one spot where that kind of thing really hurts.

It's probably a very good thing for all parties involved that Toru has decided to wear gloves right now, or Logan could find himself with slightly bonier fingers and Toru would— not enjoy the results, most likely.

This, naturally, all happens just slightly before Toru realizes that oh hey that hand looks kind of familiar and just when he's grudgingly relenting to have his hand torn away, he's grabbed by the collar and makes a hurking noise. Possibly shoved aside, he staggers either way!!, and shoots Logan a tiny, threatening kitten glare. "What the fuck, boss?!" Hands come up to fuss with his hair, but glare doesn't subside. "I think I can fuckin' handle myself without you havin' to get all up in my shit!" You're embarassing me in front of the guys!!

Green eyes go bright with both irritation and poweruse, although in this case it's nothing but blanketing negation smothering Toru's ability, stemming the tide that makes it go with a thought and post-production eyeball filters. "And you're so fucking welcome," Logan says, more sharp and slithery than loud, "for the fact that I stopped you from looking completely stupid."

Familiarity is natural and manifests in the form of aggravation as opposed to the way Logan usually handles unwanted strangers, which is with a shrug or a smile. That Sasha is there and ignorant doesn't chip its way into his attention span before he's glancing at him sidelong, a once over to see if he's bleeding from anywhere, which. He is.

"Boss?" Sasha asks, perhaps for clarification, because he couldn't have heard Toru correctly. This is one of those moments where he's not sure what he's meant to be feeling and, under most circumstances, when he doesn't know what he's supposed to be feeling, his emotional state defaults to angry. There must be something special about this situation, however, that raises it about the definition of most circumstances.

Instead: amusement twitches at the corners of his mouth, and both his reddish-brown brows lift into an expression of incredulity. New York City is supposed to be one of the largest cities in the world.

And still this keeps happening. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "He works for you?"

"I don't remember thanking you," Toru notes to Logan, with a haughty sort of handwave. "I don't recall ever caring about looking stupid, and you can turn your eyes off 'cause I can't do shit with the gloves on, anyway, and I ain't taken' 'em off yet, have I?" Hands are held up, fingers wiggled to show that they are indeed still cozy and glovewrapped, and he takes a few steps forward. Starts to bend over in search of hoodie, but stops again when Sasha starts.. Russianing.

The questioning, though technically directed at Logan, actually sends a bright blush up along Toru's features. Fists clenched at his sides, this is the point at which he lets fury take over and, provided Logan doesn't step between the two of them, he storms forward to lunge at Sasha, fist drawn back, growling, "I can call who I want, what I want, you fucking Commie shitsack!" as he goes in for a completely wild and unaimed punch.

Logan would dearly regret it if he got broken in the process of interfering, probably more so than Sasha or Toru getting broken, especially as they're both being various degrees of asshole right now. Despite this, he moves with sneaky swiftness, sharp shoulder ramming against Toru's in turn and a hand going out to clutch the front of his shirt, and push back. "No," is roughly delivered over the other shoulder, intended for Sasha. "He does nothing of the kind.

"He's an evil Russian assassin ex-soldier mercenary bastard," he hisses at Toru in warning, with another shove for the sake of distance. His eyes are still switched on, as it were. "And you're a punk. 'm not telling you again — next time, it'll be front row tickets for me and a good laugh."

"You know each other," sounds like an accusation. Coming from Sasha, despite the grin that's split his face apart, it probably is. He's not drunk enough to take evil Russian assassin ex-soldier mercenary bastard as a compliment, but he isn't sober enough to take offense either — his reaction is a short snort, a whuff of air blown out through his nostrils.

A glance back at the kitchen doors and the face peeking through the gap between them, cell phone cradled to her ear, has him moving to 'collect' Logan. One of his hands goes to the other man's shoulder and he squeezes it hard enough to hurt, though whether or not this is intentional is a matter that's up for debate. Men of his size sometimes don't realize their own strength, especially when inebriated — and he is. "We should go," he suggests in one of those tones that isn't actually a suggestion at all. "Police soon."

Shoulderslam elicits a yelp mostly of surprise from Toru, who stumbles and turns to glare at Logan. "He's a fuckin' cunt is what he is and— " wait, what? He does at least pause a moment once the words have actually sunk in, looking from Sasha to Logan to Sasha and back. "He fuckin' started it. Just 'cause I'm whatever you think I am doesn't mean I go around starting fucking bar fights." At the very least, he's calmed down again, and even if he is putting on a show, it really is a matter of realizing that o, hai, yeah he isn't going to do well if he persists. If not tact it is, at the very least, self-preservation.

Sasha's remark about them ~knowing each other~ gets somewhat of a frown and he grumbles, "Yeah, well so do you," bending over once again to actually retrieve his hoodie, pulling it on and digging through his pockets for a few bills to put on the bar counter. To pay for the drink he'd had earlier. "Don't even see what the hell you'd be doing here anyway, this place isn't exactly high class. I'm friggin' outta here, the ambience ain't workin' for me anymore."

The look cast over his clasped shoulder could well imply that Logan might start aiming hands at Sasha's mouth himself — not for the order to vacate or even the painful grip currently crumpling his expensive shirt, but for that first part. "Maybe I grew a fondness for low class bars over the past few months. You wouldn't know!!" That Logan's manifestation of having had enough to drink tonight is a little girlier and incomprehensible and petty should surprise exactly no one.

"I'll explain later," is either a lie or a promise, directed to Sasha, as Logan shrugs off the Russian's hand in favour of sidling on by for out before Toru can get there, or so goes the aim.

Sasha tips his imaginary hat to Toru on his way out, dogging Logan's heels. Nice to meet you.

Unlike his opponent, he neglects to leave any money on the counter to cover his drink, but maybe that's because he paid upfront rather than rack up a tab. In the morning, he's going to regret it and realize that a better way to hurt Catherine would have been to rack up a ridiculous bill and slip out the back while the bartender was distracted.

There's always next time. There's always later, which is an acceptable response and not one that Sasha is about to argue. "Do you know you sound like my mother when you are upset—?" he asks on the way out, the last syllable of his question clipped short by the clatter of the front door.

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