Neon Rush {M/M} ❀

Ch. 10.1 Light but Full of Gravity

Zef doesn't get a lot of time to respond to Gray's suggestion. Behind them, the screw shouts something unintelligible. "VELCRO FUCKER FITWIT," is what Zef hears, but that can't be right.

Gray, meanwhile, chugs his entire beer in an impressive two seconds, stomps across the bar and smashes the now empty bottle over the screw's head.

No word of a lie, his skull makes a noise like a goddamn church bell.

The bartender, released from the screw's grip, backpedals away. The screw whirls on Gray, winds up, and clocks him across the jaw with a fist amplified with metal. It should dislocate and break Gray's face, but the tattoos, now completely visible across Gray's back, glow violently red. He only reels back a couple steps, a little blood seeping from his lip, which he wipes with the back of his hand.

Looking over his shoulder at Zef, he says, "Care to join me?"

Like they're at high school prom and he's asking Zef to dance.

Whatever muted horror had fixed Zef to the spot evaporates. Most of the logical, thinking side of his mind flees the premises alongside a good portion of the bar's patrons. Once upon a fairytale time, Zef wouldn't even entertain the notion of whaling on a total stranger. He once thought he didn't have a violent bone in his body. Maybe it's the booze. Maybe it's the dizzy high of falling ass over tits onto the mat after riding a mechanical bull. Or maybe it's just years and years of repressed rage and frustration at the futility of trying to make it in a world designed for people richer, straighter and more cisgender than him.

Rule number one: stay out of trouble.

But he'd broken that one so many times already.

He charges at the screw.

The screw's back gives a chiropractic pop as it connects with the edge of the pool table. Zef opens fire with a punch to the gut, doubling him over into his waiting knee. The screw shoves him back, and Zef nearly trips, except Gray's there. Catches Zef and steadies him.

He says in a tone of genuine pride, "Nice one, darling."

Through the furor cloudling Zef's vision, he registers the electric touch of just a tiny bit of Gray's pinky brushing his upper arm.

Someone screams, "Bar fight!" in tones of vicious delight. It's followed by enthusiastic roars from more patrons. The bartender says, "Oh, Christ, not again."

It turns the three-person fray into a mosh pit. A riot. Before Zef knows it, his head is ringing. A cracking pain goes through his skull like a bolt of lightning. His vision swirls with the muddy figures jumping over pool tables and seizing whatever weapons come to hand. Chairs. Pool cues. Memorably, a dildo. Zef isn't sure where that came from, but he now knows what it feels like to be slapped by twelve inches of heavy silicone. His own fists find doughy places or clasp in clothing for purchase while he delivers a kick. He would have lost track of Gray if not for the lit tattoos. He looks like a neon avenger marching towards the guy who punched Zef in the ear. He says, "Goodnight," and the man's implant lights up briefly while his eyes roll back and close in sleep. He crumples onto the pool table, snoring.

Zef can't say he remembers everything as it happens. Events become a wash. Physical pain fades away, something primal replacing it. Adrenaline, probably. Zef doesn't question it. He just knows that it feels good. Beating the snot out of a guy twice his size and getting knocked around hurts, but it also feels good.

Flashing blue and red replaces the amber lights of the bar. Someone screams, "COPS." They came without sirens. Uniformed bodies block the doors.

Gray seizes Zef by the sleeve. "That's our cue to go."