collisioninscarlet:

           ”Must be?” Bahorel repeated lazily, waving a hand at the other man. He slid into a seat at the bar, interrupting his conversation to give his order. The man promptly turned in his seat, raised eyebrow and cool expression directed at this golden stranger. 

           ”I might be, more accurately stated,” he allowed, tilting his head after a short pause. “I am,” he answered, tone dull. The man shrugged halfheartedly, turning towards the bartender; a smirk began to dance at his lips. “And what is it you do?” Was the simple question.

           A greeter, an introduction: Such was the phrase. 

           Bahorel never favored greeters, never favored introductions; they seemed far too much like a “bullshitted” persona to the man. 

           There was something interesting about this man. The question that Bahorel voiced was why.

Achille sat at the bar with him, holding onto his belongings, holding them to his chest for the longest while before finally putting them down on his lap–and not the bar, for it was covered in alcohol, it was sticky. He ordered his own drink (red wine) soon after Bahorel ordered his and then a question was posed to him.

     He paused. He did not know how best to answer the other man. What was it that he did? He did many things, many of which did not pay in money but in satisfaction, many things that made him feel better as a person and, well, many things.

     ‘I strive for excellence,’ he said slowly, tongue moving over his lips as he spoke, 'in both personal life and society. I–I spend a lot of time looking at Politics and drafting various ways to eradicate the disparity between rich and poor, ways to achieve peace and so on. In my spare time, I suppose it would be, I fight, Krav Maga, mainly. As I am from Israel.’

      He fell quiet for a moment as his wine arrived, and he took a sip.

      'What do you do?’

collisioninscarlet:

                  “Seems,” Bahorel repeated firmly, though he snorted, tilting his head to the side slightly so that he might watch the other from his peripheral vision. “And I’ll stand by that. Everything is relative, after all. No absolutes.” With no hesitation, the man sidestepped along another alley; he really didn’t think about giving the other man a notice. “I mean- There might have been things about the fight I couldn’t tell by a glance in the dark. For one- How good they were at fighting in general. That and that you did, after all, you less than strategic moves than you did ‘a kick in the balls will do it.’”

      The man shrugged, snickering. “Anxious to have done well?” He inquired politely; he was acting entirely too well-mannered for the meaning of his words. He snickered slightly to himself, pausing to give a bow, and cocked an eyebrow- “I am buying, of course. Your drink of choice?”

Achille did not like seems. He pressed his lips together and shrugged his shoulders, hardly listening to what the other man was saying, he knew full well that he could have taken them and more, plus this man. The bar was looming up ahead of them and when the other man snickered he tutted and stepped into the building in front of him. He could almost have flipped his hair.

     He didn’t dignify the other man with a response to the question. Yes, he was anxious to have done well, or at least for his doing well to not be overlooked.

    ‘Red wine, please, just a small glass,’ he replied, moving to sit himself at the bar, hands rubbing together to warm up.

     'You must be a fighter yourself then?’

collisioninscarlet:

“Just one, wonderful.” Bahorel offered, snorting to himself as he glanced at the other absently. “Why was it necessary you tell me such?” He shrugged, turning slightly and moving back to the exit of the alley, leaning across a lamp post as he waited for the other, having stopped to pick up his belongings, to catch up.

“Define fair. Knifes and guns aren’t fair game when it comes to a fist fight. Street fighting is another thing. Dirty fighting is still another. There can be a fair fight in a dirty fight, though it seems an oxymoron. As I said- And I do say what I mean- It seems you did well for yourself, and that the numbers were impressive,” Bahorel answered vaguely, attentive the lazy drawl in his tone.

Achille paused. He didn’t know why he had told the other man and he didn’t know why Bahorel had questioned it either. He narrowed his eyes a little bit as he followed him out towards the end of the alleyway, he trailed behind, his belongings in folded arms against his chest.

    It seemed Bahorel liked to talk a lot, not that he was complaining particularly, he listened to him. Achille liked to fight so the conversation was not lost on him, and he agreed. One thing stuck out, he thought as they continued on, well, two things. One being that he didn’t know this man and was yet following him towards a currently unknown location, putting his other plans on hold. Secondly,

     ‘What do you mean seems? I either did well in spite of the numbers or I did not. There is no seems. I did well, though it was not hard.’

collisioninscarlet:

“I wouldn’t say ‘no,’” Bahorel answered, not raising his voice as he replied to the other, although he was on the opposite side of the the alley. He leaned against the brick wall bordering the street and crossed his arms. An eyebrow raised. “But I won’t say ‘yes.’ One should allow another his victory before engaging in combat, no? And I am no attacker. Simply a man of combat nowadays.” He smirked slightly pushing himself from the wall and stepping with quiet steps toward this other man, though he did not move close to him. Simply within better sight.

“You give a fair fight,” he murmured lightly, lips quirking- “I held every intention of intervening, but you’ve done well for yourself,” Bahorel complimented lightly, folding his hands behind his back; his figure was dimly illuminated by the dying street lamp several paces back. “I’ll admit, watching the men, I can easily say that they were not, perhaps the most skilled that I’ve seen- But the numbers was certainly impressive." 

The man snorted- “Care for a drink or cigarette?” was the vague offer. Bahorel ran a hand through his hair, watching the other with a hooded interest. “I might take you up on your offer for ‘my turn’ later, if you you’re not opposed,” he continued politely.

Achille was still catching his breath as the other man spoke, but he listened as he sorted himself out, smoothed out his hair and his clothing and so on. He didn’t think he gave a fair fight, not really, many would moan that a kick to the balls wasn’t fair at all, but he didn’t care. Whatever got him out of trouble was good enough for him.

     He sighed a little bit at the other’s offer. He didn’t smoke, not often, and he didn’t drink often either, but one drink couldn’t hurt.

     ‘A drink will be fine, just one. I don’t smoke,’ he replied, swooping down to pick up the bag he’d dropped before moving towards the other man. The way he was acting was peculiar, hanging around in the shadows, trying to be mysterious, funny but peculiar.

     'If you want, I don’t mind. Most people don’t liking my fighting to fair though, kicking people in the dick isn’t what most think is fair in a fight, but I don’t care. Whatever, I suppose it just means that I’ll win.’

The young blonde had not been doing much, his work had irritated him as had his friends and he had left his home to seek comfort in the dying evening of Paris. While he had been here some years he still had not grown used to her streets.

         The attack was unexpected. Three men had come out of an alleyway and had started to follow him. He tried to lose them but only ended up losing himself, wandering into unknown territory and unfamiliar streets. He sighed–he had always been taught to avoid a fight whenever possible but it seemed that today was just not that day.

         They came at him and he fought them off expertly, his eyes forever flickering to another man that stood silhouetted agains the front of a closing shop. Blood soon smeared on his hands, and it was not his own, and the men tried for a few more minutes before scarpering in defeat.

          He had been hit a few times, his jaw red from contact and his stomach a little fragile, but otherwise he was fine. And still that man stood. Achille’s eyes narrowed.

         ‘What are you waiting for? Your turn?’ he called. He didn’t really care, he only wiped his hands on his trousers, but did not move he was filled with adrenaline and, if truth be told, ready for one more fight.