Re: log: blake and graham, thorne house
Blake had been prepared to take a punch. As prepared as he could be, anyway. It would have been a surprise, and odds were good that he would have hit the floor, but he had taken a few sluggish moments to think through how this was all going to end, to picture it, so he knew what was coming,
Getting yanked up by the collar wasn't part of it. It was a lucky thing he'd put the glass down, because he almost lost his balance entirely when Graham grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. If he'd known the evening was going to go this way, he would have drunk a little less. His bare heels slid across the carpet. He stared up and Graham, and missed the first five words because he was still expecting the punch with each one.
When it didn't come he tuned in again. Graham shook him, and he leaned forward slightly to stay on his feet. Entirely dignified. Break your nose, give you a black eye. Blake grinned like he'd already been hit. He could see his own head snap back, see himself chipping a tooth as his jaw clacked together. He grinned, and felt a combination of sickness and fear and strange anticipation.
The hard shove very nearly sent him sprawling. He caught the edge of the leather chair, tipping it up onto two legs before throwing his weight forward. It settled down on four feet as he got back on two, one hand on the chair back to steady himself as he straightened out.
His stomach was upside down, and he was too drunk or not drunk enough, and as soon as he stood up straight again, unharmed except for a little shake, like a baby or a bad dog, he started laughing to himself.
The bar cart was just in reach, and he managed to lean across the gap without moving from the support of the chair, grabbing the bottle of scotch. Forget what you saw. "Fuck me!" he said. He was laughing, still grinning, still imagining blood on his teeth. He unscrewed the cap with shaking fingers. "You know what?" he said, tongue still thick in his mouth. "I just had a fucking epiphany."
The sight of him wasn't pretty, loose limbed and clutching the bottle close as he opened it. It took him an excruciating moment of laughing and staring down at the top of the bottle to try to figure out what the issue with the cap was. Then he looked up at Graham through a mess of long black hair. "I just put it together," he said. All teeth. "Why that asshole dresses up in a fucking leotard and fights crime."
The cap was off! Success. He flicked it under the bar cart, but didn't drink from the bottle. He laughed, again. It had never really stopped, just kept rolling, like the hiccups. He really ought to drink something for it.
When Graham had grabbed him by the collar, all he had really been able to think about was what it would feel like to get hit. Underneath that, though, he'd been deciding what to reach for if it all went south. His eyes had seemed like a good, safe place to start. Blake happened to know that he had long enough thumbs, with that extra half inch that really made a difference in moments like those.
The laughter began to taper off, shortening and trailing away. He felt hot in the cold house, and he was glad he'd decided not to turn on all the lights. Maybe he'd just sleep here - locking the door to the outside world, shutting the shades. That sounded good.
"You must be all tired out now. Ready for bed, I bet." He gave a half wave. The audience was over. He had just decided. At least he'd accomplished everything he set out to do, right? "Sweet dreams."