vodka nightmares
POSTED ON Aug 7, 2022 22:54:37 GMT -5
Post by Dane Wayland on Aug 7, 2022 22:54:37 GMT -5
"Okay!" Dane conceded loudly, as the big burly man shoved him out the back door and shut it firmly behind; not waiting for the look of curt disdain Dane tossed over his shoulder as he smoothed at his wrenched shoulder and pulled his coat more tightly around himself. "Don't have..." Dane winced as he took a step forward and his world spun on itself in one, fluid sweep. Pain splintered from within his head and behind his eyes, and he swallowed a mouthful of bile before laughing around the pain.
"Don't have to be a bitch!" He finished, yelling to no one, as he stumbled out of the alleyway and into the street; leaning against the building to keep himself propped upright as he shuffled forward.
He hadn't been to that particular club since his twenty-first birthday, over six years ago. And six years ago, it had ended much the same and yet entirely different. He and Dino had been given the night off to celebrate Dane's birthday — to their mother's verbally-expressed and overly-stressed caution — and Dino had shown him the place. It wasn't the cleanest or most respectable establishment, but it had done its quick duty in getting Dane (legally) plastered for the first time. The night had still been young when he threw the first punch of many that got both Waylands tossed from the place.
He'd been in the corner of the establishment, groaning with his forehead pressed to the cool glass of the table, surrounded by a flock of empty bottles, when he heard Dino stammer out an apology to some man he'd knocked against and spilled his drink on. The man was sizing up to him, but before Dino could even try and placate his way out of an altercation, Dane had slipped from his seat and called out an obscenity to get the guy's attention. Thrown all his weight into one punch across the man's face as he turned, then been too drunk to fight back as the guy retaliated. Dino had to wrench him off before he could cut Dane's face to ribbons with the rings on his fingers.
That had been a good fight. A good night.
They'd ambled home together then, laughing as they swayed and stumbled, but always in turns; able to manage, for when one was falling, the other was wrenching them back up, only for their own knees to give out in turn. It had been a ridiculous ebb and tide of strength and failing strength, and a night Dane was hardly able to remember now. But he still remembered that fitting, unspoken pull and push between him and Dino, because it had been in everything they'd ever done their entire life. They'd always been like that — covering the holes in one another's strengths, without a word.
Dane pulled the figurative (and sometimes literal) trigger when Dino couldn't. When they were seven, and their mama asked Dino to kill the chickens, and he took ages in the barn, fidgeting with the axe in his hand as he looked remorsefully over the breakfast stock, it was Dane who peeked in to see what was taking so long. And it was Dane, in the several years that followed, who would "swing the axe" in various different ways, when Dino found his hands too heavy or weak. Dane, who completed the more brutish missions that Dino would have failed on his own. And in turn, Dino had always kept the pair from hot water when all Dane wanted to do was make a mess. He placated the mob of angry individuals always after his younger brother's head — be it a wronged girlfriend or fellow guild member — and smoothed all the sharp, cutting corners Dane was apt to create.
If Dane had been Dino's axe, then Dino had been Dane's ground.
But now, as the younger Wayland stumbled forward, it was the concrete that caught him instead of his brother's foresight. His fingertips found no purchase on the brick he clawed at on his way down, but only tore open to bleed against the rough surface. His knees knocked painfully against the ground, but he managed to throw an arm beneath him before he could fall forward and bust his face more on the cement. His palms, fingers, and knuckles stung, all at once; itching pain indistinguishable from one another. The man he'd fought with tonight at the club, he'd been wearing rings, too. Just like six years ago. And they'd cut deep and gruesome into Dane's face. His knees protested with a fresh ache as he moved to fall back on his ass and lean against the building's wall. Pain blossomed hot across his face and below his eyes as he threw back his head.
But Dane just laughed; a low, throaty chuckle at first. But as he counted the pains and drew his hands into his lap to run bloody fingertips over the broken skin of his knuckles, the laugh grew in volume until it was happy and loud, deep from his chest and clear, except for the faintest gurgle of blood gathered in the corners of his mouth. He could only open one eye completely, and his vision swam with tears — from laughing, from physical distress, or from nostalgia, he wasn't quite able to tell — but as he looked at the sky above, his shoulders heaved in a small sigh and then another chuckle; quieter and more fond than the last. Downtown was too disgusting and huge for the stars to be visible, but something about the patch of sky (almost orange in color, as the smog trapped and reflected the streetlights) was incredibly relieving and pretty in that moment.
"Oh man," Dane whispered, as he tried to pinpoint every individual muscle of his body needed to push himself back to his feet. He laughed, and didn't even try. He could just stay here for a little while. He'd summon a dog to drag him home eventually. Once he rested a little.... and didn't close his eyes... he could summon Snowcone. She'd help him home, for sure. But for just another moment, Dane would content himself to bleed a little and watch the sky; imagining the small, dazzling pinpricks of white just beyond, smothered from view.
Tag: Open
"Don't have to be a bitch!" He finished, yelling to no one, as he stumbled out of the alleyway and into the street; leaning against the building to keep himself propped upright as he shuffled forward.
He hadn't been to that particular club since his twenty-first birthday, over six years ago. And six years ago, it had ended much the same and yet entirely different. He and Dino had been given the night off to celebrate Dane's birthday — to their mother's verbally-expressed and overly-stressed caution — and Dino had shown him the place. It wasn't the cleanest or most respectable establishment, but it had done its quick duty in getting Dane (legally) plastered for the first time. The night had still been young when he threw the first punch of many that got both Waylands tossed from the place.
He'd been in the corner of the establishment, groaning with his forehead pressed to the cool glass of the table, surrounded by a flock of empty bottles, when he heard Dino stammer out an apology to some man he'd knocked against and spilled his drink on. The man was sizing up to him, but before Dino could even try and placate his way out of an altercation, Dane had slipped from his seat and called out an obscenity to get the guy's attention. Thrown all his weight into one punch across the man's face as he turned, then been too drunk to fight back as the guy retaliated. Dino had to wrench him off before he could cut Dane's face to ribbons with the rings on his fingers.
That had been a good fight. A good night.
They'd ambled home together then, laughing as they swayed and stumbled, but always in turns; able to manage, for when one was falling, the other was wrenching them back up, only for their own knees to give out in turn. It had been a ridiculous ebb and tide of strength and failing strength, and a night Dane was hardly able to remember now. But he still remembered that fitting, unspoken pull and push between him and Dino, because it had been in everything they'd ever done their entire life. They'd always been like that — covering the holes in one another's strengths, without a word.
Dane pulled the figurative (and sometimes literal) trigger when Dino couldn't. When they were seven, and their mama asked Dino to kill the chickens, and he took ages in the barn, fidgeting with the axe in his hand as he looked remorsefully over the breakfast stock, it was Dane who peeked in to see what was taking so long. And it was Dane, in the several years that followed, who would "swing the axe" in various different ways, when Dino found his hands too heavy or weak. Dane, who completed the more brutish missions that Dino would have failed on his own. And in turn, Dino had always kept the pair from hot water when all Dane wanted to do was make a mess. He placated the mob of angry individuals always after his younger brother's head — be it a wronged girlfriend or fellow guild member — and smoothed all the sharp, cutting corners Dane was apt to create.
If Dane had been Dino's axe, then Dino had been Dane's ground.
But now, as the younger Wayland stumbled forward, it was the concrete that caught him instead of his brother's foresight. His fingertips found no purchase on the brick he clawed at on his way down, but only tore open to bleed against the rough surface. His knees knocked painfully against the ground, but he managed to throw an arm beneath him before he could fall forward and bust his face more on the cement. His palms, fingers, and knuckles stung, all at once; itching pain indistinguishable from one another. The man he'd fought with tonight at the club, he'd been wearing rings, too. Just like six years ago. And they'd cut deep and gruesome into Dane's face. His knees protested with a fresh ache as he moved to fall back on his ass and lean against the building's wall. Pain blossomed hot across his face and below his eyes as he threw back his head.
But Dane just laughed; a low, throaty chuckle at first. But as he counted the pains and drew his hands into his lap to run bloody fingertips over the broken skin of his knuckles, the laugh grew in volume until it was happy and loud, deep from his chest and clear, except for the faintest gurgle of blood gathered in the corners of his mouth. He could only open one eye completely, and his vision swam with tears — from laughing, from physical distress, or from nostalgia, he wasn't quite able to tell — but as he looked at the sky above, his shoulders heaved in a small sigh and then another chuckle; quieter and more fond than the last. Downtown was too disgusting and huge for the stars to be visible, but something about the patch of sky (almost orange in color, as the smog trapped and reflected the streetlights) was incredibly relieving and pretty in that moment.
"Oh man," Dane whispered, as he tried to pinpoint every individual muscle of his body needed to push himself back to his feet. He laughed, and didn't even try. He could just stay here for a little while. He'd summon a dog to drag him home eventually. Once he rested a little.... and didn't close his eyes... he could summon Snowcone. She'd help him home, for sure. But for just another moment, Dane would content himself to bleed a little and watch the sky; imagining the small, dazzling pinpricks of white just beyond, smothered from view.
Tag: Open