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He knew he shouldn't be drinking, but ******** it: he still ached from his scuffle with Peyton, and he had been working all day before that trying to clean up after whatever the hell had a vendetta against unprotected glass, so he deserved a break. His body hurt in more than one way, and for another there was still a dark mood hanging over him like overcast weather. But if one thing had been made clear today, it was that Jack, when void of his usually clear head, made stupid choices.

All he had left of his reservoir was some whiskey, and so he spent the better part of an hour outside (away from his room, away from anyone who might think to look for him there or the infirmary, because somehow he figured no-one would think him capable of venturing outside the buildings, like a giant trapped), sitting against the wall and drinking intermittently, trying to ignore his various limbs throbbing--soon enough it didn't even matter much. Like a dull itch he couldn't scratch but wasn't so bothersome as to be actually addressed. Owain had taken care of his open wounds anyway, and though he could hear the giant's scolding in his head he, like the pain, was dully ignored. Jack's will power always superseded his physical strength anyway.

He tried to think back on what exactly had triggered him--had it really been just that disgusted noise?--and he tried very hard to keep himself above the vortex of dark thoughts that had suddenly and abruptly risen from the depths. But the more he tried to keep himself calm, the more Jack began to find himself imagining violent little fantasies, like how to catch Peyton off guard and really make her pay, or to pay his ex a little visit and see if he had the luck to find her this time. His gaze was unfocused as he stared ahead towards the fields, swept up in visions of sweet vengeance, the almost empty bottle loosely gripped as he thought about how nice Lina's voice was when it quavered with emotion.

There was something preternatural about how he knew a shitstorm was going to come his way. It wasn't on all the time--he attracted trouble but not normally of concerning proportions--yet today it was as if there was a subtle, angry buzz coming off the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. The same warning signs that told people to run because something was wrong were the same ones that had him sitting still. His ears strained to determine what would be coming his way this time, but he didn't hear Gale at all until he spoke.

Owain was on alert, or at least attempting to in spite of the alcohol. (( We are not well, dear one, please, get up and-- ))

"Nope." He popped the "p" into an almost second syllable, forcing his gaze to remain straight ahead rather than on the irksome little midget he had done a good job of ignoring for the past handful of months. Why today? Why now?

(Because all good things came to an end. Because violence always will beget violence, and in spite of the pain he found himself craving it again. He both wanted this and didn't want this.)

"Not yet, anyway," he went on casually, though his shoulders were stiff from Gale's proximity. But Jack wouldn't leave, even though he knew it was the best option; something compelled him to stay and run his mouth off. "Later I've got plans to get laid, a luxury I'm sure you're not enjoying whatsoever with your present choice of company." The drink made him lazier: he didn't even bother giving specifics to his ludicrous lie.

Just let it go for once.

"So what's been going on since Christmas, Gentry? Eh? Problems with your pity date?" He was almost smiling, like they were having a normal conversation.

"I always do," he replied smoothly, the amount of alcohol circulating through him just enough to make him feel toasty and calm, though on the inside there was a rising anger just like with Peyton. "And generously at that. All that matters, really. Well," and he chuckled at himself for forgetting, "that and a half-way decent ********, which I definitely deliver on and more."

(( Get out, Jack, just go back to your room. You have a choice not to-- ))

But Owain sounded so distant. Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little as he did so, his free hand glued to the wall. The runic bottle containing the last dregs of his drink glinted in his hands, and he wondered briefly about just smashing it against the wall and cutting this ******** b*****d's throat; his fingers twitched around the glass. She'd never forgive him for doing so, but at least it'd be acknowledging him in some form, because he was coming to realize that being ignored was one of the biggest insults and aches of his life--he would take being hated or being nothing at all.

"Sorry, what was that about little whelps?" Jack said in an overly loud tone, tilting his head down to give a lazy sneer at Gale. "Couldn't hear you down there. But y'know what, Gentry?" he continued at regular volume, the sarcasm so thick someone less quickwitted wouldn't have grasped it. "If you have such a problem, how 'bout leaving a man to his drink, eh? Or better yet, if you're concerned about my sex life, maybe I should help you with yours--y'know, since you're such a goddamn virgin."

He gestured with the bottle like it was a ruler, grasping the neck in a fist (god he loved wringing necks it seemed, his fingers rubbing against the runes like they were worry stones), waiting still to see if the monster that was possessing him would still bash this guy's ******** brains out at last or not. "Firstly, I feel obliged to inform you that she's very good at sucking d**k. Like, Jesus, she's a midget like you but she's got a good control of her gag reflex, so when you whip out your peashooter, don't be afraid to ******** drill her, alright? Or whatever the 'quivalent is for tiny dicks--needling? tickling? Anyway 'cause secondly, she's got this thing for roughness," Jack said with a low chuckle and an almost nostalgic look. "Swear to ******** all the little innocent ones got 'em, ********>, man. Knock her against the wall or the ******** kitchen counter and I swear the blood gets pumpin'. I used to do this thing where I'd dig my hands into her hair--"

He was actually half pantomiming it when he paused as a thought struck him. He clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Ah, that's right. She went Britney Spears crazy and shaved it all off." He shrugged in a way that said c'est la vie. "Shame. She really looked good with long hair."

Jack gave him points for lasting all the way through that without stopping; in his buzzed state, he knew that personally if someone had given him some random rant like that, he would have walked away without a second glance. That was his favorite way of coping with the inane: just walking away from it. He did not actively pursue trouble even though his personality screamed that he was nothing but, and contrary to popular belief he didn't piss people off for shits and giggles--usually. Maybe if he was extremely bored or irate or knew someone was easily roused, but hardly ever out of malicious intent.

For some reason, today happened to be an exception. Gale was an exception in and of himself, but today especially just seemed to be a day of "Who wants to piss off Jack Hawthorn for no good reason?" The hunter's very existence, if his thoughts strayed, were enough to spark the old, old feelings of betrayal from his ex, and he didn't even have to try. And that's just how Jack imagined it all had started: just with so little trying between those two, because it was some failed clone midget of himself swooping in on a girl with damaged goods like it was meant to be, like it was a ******** $5 romance novel people cooed over--and instead of an evil stepmother, he was the evil ex.

His fingers strangled the bottle's neck, the urge to just break and slash coming over him even stronger. Instead, he saw a flash of white and gold that he took a split second to recognize--

--and then his vision temporarily became nothing but white hot searing pain.

Jack fell like a tree, yowling as he found the ground with a dull thump, and his bottle has been separated somewhere in the midst because he heard it crack on the pavement near him. Blindly he summoned his own weapon to defend against more free strikes, the world spinning too much for it to do any real good: he had been drinking and fighting and neither in combination did him any favors. The bruises Peyton had inflicted on him throbbed with a vengeance, and Jack clenched his teeth against the pain as he forced himself to get off the ground, off his ******** hands and knees in front of this nobody that made him so irrationally angry that he could almost physically feel his blood turn to fire. And Owain, a creature from the forest, couldn't hope to compare or stop it.

He wavered as he stuck his sword past the cement and into the grassy path that led towards the training fields, leaning on it as he pushed himself up. And all the while, staccato, low laughter left him, and he supposed if he had to be evil that at least he got the cackle somewhat down.

"That's the spirit," he said as he stared Gale in the eyes with what almost seemed like delight, feeling his jaw protest and pop. "Just like that. Raw anger'll really get her juices flowin'."

This time he managed a pitiful defense, but a defense it was: weapons clanged together, but Gale's fury beat his lazy arrogance, and he stumbled again with another hiss of pain onto the grass. But this time Jack remained standing (swaying), the arrogance and bitterness inside mixing with indignant rage strong enough to keep up upright. As if Gale could tell him what to do, as if he had any right. The insults to his person he could take just fine, but the very idea that anything, anyone was denied on the meager premise of pride, incited his temper and broke the facade of an otherwise collected man.

Jack wheezed and backed away to catch his breath, his sword dragging as he glared at Gale. he spat, his breath labored. "I can do whatever I damn well please. ******** you, you ********' piece've s**t. S'that what you're gonna do when she leaves? When she dies? Just," he made an incredulous, almost manic bark of a laugh,

He was in no condition to fight and knew it would be a losing battle. It was why Jack put more effort in exacting his revenge through words, just as he had in their last two encounters. There was more power in them for him than what laid in his arms.

"Guess what, ********: she still matters to me." In what capacity he had yet to put a name to, because his feelings fluctuated whenever he tried to settle on just one, and he hated the inconsistency, the inability to just be at peace. It was something that was so integral to Lina, the constant flux, that it was almost like there was a piece of her still wedged somewhere inside of him, and he couldn't tell if it ached to be removed or had grown into his bones like insidious cancer. Maybe it was just his whole body aching. "And you can have your little ********' Disney Princess life together," Jack sneered, forcing himself forward and swinging anyway, because the longer Gale stood there, the longer the self-righteousness made him want to strangle something. "But what I have is mine, and you don't get a ********' say in that just 'cause it pisses you off that she had someone before you crawled in like a ********' five year old."

kuroopu

He tried to go on, as if a waterfall of words were ready to burst, and god the things he wanted to fling made his arms break into goosebumps. And then they were falling again. If Jack had managed another strike with his sword then it didn't matter, because again the giant was the perfect target for any stupid ******** midget, and his body revolted against him for a moment as he gasped in pain. His legs scrabbled to throw Gale off, kick him, crush him like the opportunistic parasite that he was.

And then it was déjà vu as Gale's hands went to his neck and choked off his groans. If he had been capable or of the right mind, he would have laughed and called him a copycat.

Instead Jack bucked again to try and knock him off balance, his arms lashing out to both yank at his long hair and set a death grip to his throat in return. His weapon had been forgotten in the midst of it, a dull thunk in the grass its only evidence of existence in the otherwise volcanic chaos of Jack's mind.

"She already did," he strained to say, spitting blood with a stained grin as he fought for dominance.

Whereas Gale fought to rise above the haze, Jack let himself sink further. This was what he had needed for so long: revenge for losing to Lina on Christmas Eve; revenge for being so resoundly beaten the first time he and Gale had fought; revenge for the years of his life he had spent loving someone who hadn't cared at all, who had preferred faking her death and running to someone else's arms (again) than face him; revenge for the empty hole it had left in his life, for the edges that burned still because he just couldn't let it go and hated himself for. Maybe because hating something sustained him so much easier than love did. It was what he had done long before he had met Lina anyway.

So today, he hated Gale Gentry. He hated how proper he tried to act when Jack knew now that there was just boiling emotion beneath the surface waiting for the right trigger like any other human being; he hated the ego he had, toting around youngest and first of his group to be promoted like a trophy that never dulled; he hated the fact that those hands at his neck had touched her, even if they were just following the old trails he had made, and he hated that his mouth had so much as grazed her skin or whispered in her ear; he hated Gale Gentry from his ******** hair to his ******** toes for having the arrogance to talk to him like he knew anything at all, but most of all he hated the fact that Gale reminded him of himself.

So when Jack felt his opponent's hands start to loosen, it wasn't merely conscious action that made him flip them over but instinct. Because if there was one thing that separated them, it was that Jack would go as far as it took to get what he wanted: and right now that was to make Gale suffer.

He made to wrench Gale's hand off of him and pin them under his legs before reapplying the pressure to his little midget throat, eyes both narrowed and bright. He coughed some more as he sucked in breath, every heartbeat a happy reminder that his body was in no condition to hold this position if Gale fought back.

"M'surprised she hasn't mentioned that," he said. "But she did like secrets." The smile came back, manic and patronizing, and though there were still signs he was buzzed, the clarity in his eyes was frightening. "You should thank me--nobody wantsa virgin in bed, Gentry. And if she could take this," his lurch was lewd and made him cackle darkly, "m'sure you'll be just fine. You'll have t'let her know when you're inside, though."

So close, so close. He could feel the weakness growing under his fingertips, the rapid pulse thrumming like little hands beating against him, begging him to stop. Jack felt the beginnings of euphoria because today he had won for once in his miserable life.

The feeling did not change when Gale decided to fight dirty; in and of itself, that too was a victory.

But the pain he had accumulated up until then was nothing compared to the waves that rolled over him now, and Jack howled and sputtered and crumpled off Gale to the side, curled and shaking. Nausea was starting to build up from the adrenaline and the sheer hate inside mixing with the manic joy. No words came out this time, only the strained sounds and the staccato sharp breaths of a man well-wounded.