The Well Adjusted

Dorien had hidden himself away in the basement once he had returned home, locking the door behind him as he went. He’d talk again later, after he sorted himself out.

He lost his shirt, his harnesses, twelve of his fifteen knives, and dropped them all on the ground. He grabbed a quarterstaff off of the weapons rack, and moved into position. Everything had been controlled, not a movement out of place.

So why did it feel like he was losing it anyway?

Dorien slipped into the simple pattern easily, high attack, middle attack, low attack, then switched into the blocking. High, middle, low; it was repetitive and easy to follow, muscle memory taking him through the motions as he freed his mind.

Procrastin pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re driving the man slightly more insane, do you not see that? This has gone too far.”

“I admit I do feel guilty.”

“Yes, you should. You’re being kind of a bastard.”

He was – had been. He knew. It had sunk in, slowly, as he had gone home last night. He had crossed the line. You don’t do that to a friend, or even an enemy. He didn’t do it, not without a good reason.

“He said he could stop my heart, worm into my spine and brain.” Dorien placed a hand over his shirt, right where the old binding was still half tattooed. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

But for all his threats, he had never done anything, had he? Oh sure, that one evening, but Dorien had offered himself freely. Even then, he had also stopped when – on the third warning – he had asked, or something. He had been pushing too hard.

Wilhiem leaned in, and pressed his lips, briefly, just at the corner of the man’s mouth. He leans back, exhaling. “I’d like you to leave.”

What the redhead would like to know was why it hurt, why he felt this much guilt. Was it because, despite the threats, the other man was a fairly decent human being? Or perhaps because his actions weren’t justified –

First thing Dorien did, once he stepped inside his room, was grab one of the two fallen chairs. Flipping it back onto its legs, Dorien ran his fingers along its back, frowning. He grabbed it again, gripping it tight, as he spun around to face the bed.

The chair broke in chunks, the bed of a sturdier make.

– as they had been in the past when Dorien had reacted.

He  ignored the fact that his routine with the quarterstaff were becoming more forced, although his hands remained steady. They always did.

The make of the crutch was durable, for something created on the fly, but it still broke before most of her body did. He stopped after some time, clutching the broken crutch in his hands, staring down at her. She had passed out, or died, at some point.

He slammed the quarterstaff down, onto the stones of the floor, and the end cracked. As he brought it up for inspection, as calculating as ever, the redhead decided that half of an end wouldn’t do. He worked it off, listening to the wood snap, and tossed the smaller part over his shoulder.

Dorien stared at the jagged edge quietly, head tilted to the side, before he rounded on the punching bag and stabbed.

And stabbed.

And stabbed.

He had respected him, but hadn’t shown it. That had been his first mistake. Tenacity? Certainly, he had some. He was willing to make it work, whatever it was. Nothing sexual, that was for certain. He respected the other man’s wishes to be left alone. Time to start showing it.

He wasn’t going to even touch compassion. Sympathy, maybe. They seemed a lot alike, but alas he didn’t find out that much. Which was a shame. If he could – no, scratch that thought. No plans. Move with the current, be flexible and bend.

He’d never be broken again.

The other man’s decisions now, maybe it will work, maybe it won’t. Who knows. Don’t think too much on it, which he was doing right now.

Dammit.

Dorien left the broken staff lodged in the punching bag, and settled down on the ground. Now that the extra energy – anger, rage, frustration – was worked out, it was time to get some real work done.

Then he could deal, and... Figure out how to be honest.

Maybe Wil just needed to punch him in the face.