12-02-2024, 02:39 PM
He teeters there, trapped and tipping-point nauseous, the sparse contents of his stomach – coffee, tapwater, not much else – sloshing like whatever fluid the floor became then unbecame. The danger of everything spilling over and out of his throat turns dangerously present as he opens his mouth to shout some blunt invective, probably motherfucker. Bile rises where a syllable should be. Spilling his guts on the kitchen floor wouldn’t reach number one on the chart of shitty things that have happened to him (and/or the floor) today, but hell if he’s about to give Jude the satisfaction of being the cause if he can help it. So he snaps his teeth back together and swallows hard, tries to deep-breathe the vertigo away while Jude, who has managed the unlikely feat of wriggling free of the adrenaline-fueled vice of Near’s fingers, continues to bleed all over shit that isn’t his and then ruin a dish towel for good measure. God forbid he grab a wad of paper towels.
As he goes back for the knife, Near takes another swipe at him. But his heart isn’t in it; he’s not sure if it will make the weird no-motion motion sickness worse, and at the last second his brain decides to play him a cute cartoon of him wobbling off balance while his calves are encased in floor, falling wrong and snapping a bone or two in half – so he fails to make contact and pulls back, scowling.
If Jude decides to come at him now, he will defend himself as best as he’s able, but the truth is doubts that will amount to much. He’ll get a couple of jabs in, at least. He lifts his arms, boxing-defensive style.
But instead of coming at him, Jude asks what Near is doing.
Near is trying not to get stabbed and also trying to get himself out of the goddamn fucking kitchen floor is what he’s doing. Because this should be obvious and because he sure as hell doesn’t owe Jude an answer, he doesn’t say so. He grunts a closed-lip noise that translates into something like fuck your mother, and tries to wrench one of his legs out, pushing off with the other. It does move. Just a bit, like a tooth wiggling in rotten gums. The surrounding floor emits an ugly crunch and continues to disintegrate. He tries again. Makes a little more headway.
As he goes back for the knife, Near takes another swipe at him. But his heart isn’t in it; he’s not sure if it will make the weird no-motion motion sickness worse, and at the last second his brain decides to play him a cute cartoon of him wobbling off balance while his calves are encased in floor, falling wrong and snapping a bone or two in half – so he fails to make contact and pulls back, scowling.
If Jude decides to come at him now, he will defend himself as best as he’s able, but the truth is doubts that will amount to much. He’ll get a couple of jabs in, at least. He lifts his arms, boxing-defensive style.
But instead of coming at him, Jude asks what Near is doing.
Near is trying not to get stabbed and also trying to get himself out of the goddamn fucking kitchen floor is what he’s doing. Because this should be obvious and because he sure as hell doesn’t owe Jude an answer, he doesn’t say so. He grunts a closed-lip noise that translates into something like fuck your mother, and tries to wrench one of his legs out, pushing off with the other. It does move. Just a bit, like a tooth wiggling in rotten gums. The surrounding floor emits an ugly crunch and continues to disintegrate. He tries again. Makes a little more headway.