[RL with Zechs | Backdated to 22nd]

[bare_my_fangs]

Michael was royally pissed. It had just been one thing after another for the past week - "Oh, by the way? We decided not to chip you." - and then to top it all off, this goddamn virus had to happen. He was in a bad mood already when some idiot thought they could pretend to be his brother, so this whole thing with Zechs was the last fucking straw that broke the camel's back.

The journey there had been made in silence - and he still couldn't believe he was stuck using that rat bastard for a worldhop - as he was fuming over the fact that he had to have a chaperone, because he wasn't trustworthy and-- Michael cut that thought off before he destroyed something else.

He was extremely grateful when Nena offered to wait outside Zechs' apartment, happy that, when it came to her, he really didn't need to explain himself.

Scowling to himself - Zechs had better be in his apartment - he picked the locks (fuck, Zechs was one paranoid bastard) and let himself inside.

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[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

The apartment was quiet, at least in the entrance hall. When Michael first walked in, maybe it would seem as if the place was empty all together. The place was enveloped in darkness; there weren't lights appearing under the doorways off the hall, nor was there a light on in the living room at the end. The only source of illumination was some scant early afternoon light from the picture window in the living room, peeking through the closed, large venetian blinds.

Then, there was a sudden crash from the bedroom.

Zechs was furious. Unfortunately for him, after being told repeatedly of his 'idiocy' and how 'suicidal' finding his husband was, he also was halfway to becoming completely drunk off his ass. In the far corner of the bedroom was a broken computer chair, and nearby were the remains of a glass. Now he had sent a lamp careening after it. He stood, shoulders heaving with breath as his mind raced. Tyki. Helpless. The Earl. Exorcists. Tyki. Helpless. Useless.

Useless.

The bottle of bourbon was in one hand. His suit jacket was slung on his bed, but he still wore the rest of the uniform, gun holster included. Zechs ran a hand through his hair, tearing away strands. On one level, he knew they were right about one thing - IF he did die, IF Tyki killed him, then Tyki would never forgive himself for it.

It was the only thing preventing him from leaving - but it didn't douse his anger. On the contrary. Knowing there was nothing he could do at all? Zechs took another pull from the bottle, and took a hold of a spare coffee mug, filled with Tyki's cigarettes. It made him wrinkle his nose and feel full of that irrational anger again.

Helpless.

He prepared to throw the mug.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Well. That made things easier for him.

Michael was down the hallway before the sounds of the crash had even faded. He shoved the bedroom door open, any remaining control over his temper long gone, and stepped into the room, ignoring the way it bounced violently off the wall. He walked in just in time to see Zechs draw back to throw what looked like a mug and he couldn't help but snort in disgust.

"Wow. It's even more pathetic than I first thought."

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

The mug was dropped on the ground, spilling ash and cigarette butts everywhere, when the door crashed open. Zechs reached into his holster and pulled out his gun, whipping it around and pointing it on Michael by the time the boy made his mocking observation. His bottle sloshed in his other hand, but did not spill.

Just as quickly as he had drawn the firearm, Zechs lowered the gun when his eyes saw who his intruder was. Safety still on, he threw the weapon onto the bed, on top of his jacket. Perhaps he wasn't really thinking clearly. Perhaps he really was drunk. But, intentional or not, disarming himself in front of Michael wasn't something he'd thought he'd do even a month ago.

"What in the hells are you doing here, boy?" Zechs growled, speech at least clear at the moment.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Michael watched with interest as Zechs threw his gun to the side. If he were any less angry, he probably would have seen that move for what it was, seeing as Zechs had never willingly disarmed himself around Michael before. As it was, Michael only noted the movement as an automatic reaction to any potential danger to himself.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't ask duch fucking stupid questions, Zechs. I'm here to make sure you don't do anything stupid." He glanced around the room pointedly. "Well. Anything else stupid and I swear if you call me 'boy' one more time I will fucking deck your sorry ass."

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

Zechs' fingers tightened around his bottle. His ire was raised due to three points: one, that the apartment had been probably broken into by Michael; two, that his display of temper was revealed to the younger pilot; and three, that his actions were judged for what they were- as foolish. The look of frustration and anguish which had likely been on his face before Michael entered was gone. Now was merely a strained look of anger.

"Just what would you believe I would do?" Zechs sneered, face wrinkling in obvious distaste at the very idea. Then, he added with a spiteful tone, "I would like to see you attempt such an idiotic action, boy."

He wasn't making the best decisions at the moment.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Michael saw red. He could see the provocation for what it was - after all, it was something he himself did regularly - but he had a week's worth of stress built up inside that he hadn't found an outlet for.

Until now.

He didn't say anything more. Instead, he darted forward, one arm reaching out to block Zechs' hand holding the bottle as the other drew back, ready to make good on his promise. He was sick and tired of holding back; he put the full force of his strength behind that punch, as though Zechs represented every single frustration he had faced. Every single object of his ire.

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

The bottle was, in fact, dropped to the ground, thankfully not shattering against the carpet. Zechs was infuriated beyond reason and rationale, and probably too drunk to drive or pilot, but he was also still a soldier foremost. He made a direct challenge. Michael's response wasn't unexpected.

Zechs quickly ducked down, hoping to miss the punch. His timing was right and his reflexes were still fast - however, he was inebriated. Moving down like that made him wobble slightly, and the room spun, reminding him he was disoriented. With his bare hands, he swung out, hoping to catch Michael in the gut.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Michael wasn't quite expecting that, but Zechs was drunk enough that he was able to recover easily.

He didn't bother to dodge the punch to the gut and gritted his teeth against the pain, instead using that oppotunity to grab hold of Zechs' shoulders and knee him viciously in the face.

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

At least, Zechs reflected somewhere in the back of his mind, the alcohol also helped numb the blow. His head flew backwards, nose bleeding, face beginning to bruise from the blow. But there was no cry of pain, no gasp. His lips were curled in a vicious snarl through the stream of blood.

He didn't bother to try to stop the bleeding. Instead, Zechs kicked outward, hoping to catch the remaining leg on the ground, so Michael would go crashing to the floor. His other hands flew up to grab the ones which held his shoulders.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Michael went down hard, but at least Zechs was there to break his fall somewhat. Wrestling one hand free, he drew back his fist once more, grinning maliciously at the blood already coating Zechs' features.

He wasn't even sure why he was fighting anymore. Strangely enough, this wasn't what he had in mind when he first decided to pay Zechs a visit (and to be perfectly honest, he still wasn't too clear on the details), but he was never one to back down or turn away from a fight, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start now.

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

Ordinarily a good fight would have probably brought at least a smirk to Zechs' face. But he was fighting for all the wrong reasons, and was still gripped by his despair and anger - emotions mostly directed at himself and his own uselessness. Michael was likely used to seeing a cocky smirk on Zechs' face during hostile Turk missions. There was none such thing here.

This time, he managed to stop Michael's fist in his hand, pressing back on it. Both of them were on the ground now, more or less, and Zechs tried to use his superior height and weight to wrestle his way on top of the boy, to pin him down. Blood flew as his head whipped forward in the motion. But his brain seemed to be swimming, far too dizzy. Alcohol and the blow, no matter what it might seem otherwise, were making him very disoriented.

His eyes were glassy, and his gaze distant. Zechs was paying attention to his opponent - but his opponent wasn't Michael. Through the bourbon and his own emotions, Zechs was trying to take the frustrations out on himself.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Zechs' struggling amounted to nothing. While under ordinary circumstances, they might have been evenly matched, here, with Zechs completely and utterly shitfaced, it was inevitable that Michael would come out on top.

He stared down at him in contempt, still grinning madly. With his fist still gripped tightly by Zechs' hand, he fought to free his other one. He was determined to make good on his promise to knock him out, and besides, nothing was more satisfying than feeling a punch connect.

[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

Zechs wasn't used to being so easily bested, either. Yet these last two - well, the word 'fight' wasn't worth these hastily-planned brawls - Michael had come out on top. It didn't matter that he was mentally wiped from his brain's memories of a three-year ZERO addiction last time. Or that he was pretty damned inebriated this time. The pride within Zechs still raged like a wounded cougar.

Someone far less dignified than he would have spit at his opponent. Instead, he kept firm, vice-like grip on Michael's arms. It meant he couldn't really concentrate on squirming out from under the boy - but he didn't very much fancy getting punched in he face again. However ...

Well, with his grip on Michael's hands but the boy sitting on top of him, they were kind of at a stalemate. Zechs thought of it that way, of course, rather than perhaps that Michael had more or less won, since it was himself who was bleeding and pinned to the ground.

"Well," Zechs stated, licking blood away from his lips.

[bare-my-fangs.livejournal.com]

Michael struggled a bit more to get his hands free, his rage having not yet run itself dry. Realising that, despite being him being completely drunk, Zechs had a damn good grip on his hands, Michael stopped.

Then, without warning, he leaned forward and headbutted Zechs, taking advantage of the confusion to free his hands and use them to pin Zechs' own to the floor.

"'Well' indeed," he said, still grinning. "You wanna go again? Or are you ready to stop being stupid?" He laughed. "Please say you wanna go again."