Then what is it you're looking for, John, [He sneers, shows him teeth, approaching with a threat. Intimidating, standing his ground. John can do whatever he wants to him, but he won't walk away thinking he left him bruised anywhere inside.] Do tell the world. We're dying to find out if you're finally figured it out.
I wasn't looking for anything. [He's finally, finally grasped onto the one thing from that night that can't be thrown back in his face. The insult that's just as brutal to Petre as it is to him, but it's got no context to be used against him here. And every context against Petre.]
I let my guard down because I pitied you. [He loads and delivers that word the same way he'd spit in Petre's face.]
[And just like Petre told him that night - the very thought makes him sick.
So sick it's his turn to swing a fist across John's face. There isn't much strength backing his arm, but the impact's enough to leave a red mark somewhere between John's jaw and his cheekbone.
There's nothing less than disgust in Petre's face when he suddenly recollects himself and arranges his hair, looking to the sides. That was a breakdown in its purest form, and the thought that anyone might have seen it --
Doesn't matter.]
Wish not granted. Sorry.
[He isn't taking away the order, and instead adding another one.]
[The hit startles him enough that he stumbles back a couple of steps, holds a hand up to his face - but then he's smiling more broadly than ever. Because that just hit a nerve goldmine, and Petre's never made it so obvious before. They're finally on the same level in a way that he can recognise and appreciate rather than resenting. All that perfect control shredded to ribbons until Petre couldn't do anything but lash out like John would.
It's almost childish glee on his face, like he just tricked Petre with a joy buzzer or a whoopie cushion rather than a deep emotional wound. Gotcha.
But then his mind is pleasantly blank again, and rather than gloating, he's just getting up to leave. It'll be rather interesting when they meet back up in their room, if they do - John has used Ryan's fake suspicions of stress exhaustion to sneak into the infirmary for the night more than once, and even gotten a legitimate diagnosis because of the strain this war has taken on him.
Where will it go now? He doesn't know, but that's one battle he knows he won.]
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I let my guard down because I pitied you. [He loads and delivers that word the same way he'd spit in Petre's face.]
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So sick it's his turn to swing a fist across John's face. There isn't much strength backing his arm, but the impact's enough to leave a red mark somewhere between John's jaw and his cheekbone.
There's nothing less than disgust in Petre's face when he suddenly recollects himself and arranges his hair, looking to the sides. That was a breakdown in its purest form, and the thought that anyone might have seen it --
Doesn't matter.]
Wish not granted. Sorry.
[He isn't taking away the order, and instead adding another one.]
Now get out of my fucking sight.
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It's almost childish glee on his face, like he just tricked Petre with a joy buzzer or a whoopie cushion rather than a deep emotional wound. Gotcha.
But then his mind is pleasantly blank again, and rather than gloating, he's just getting up to leave. It'll be rather interesting when they meet back up in their room, if they do - John has used Ryan's fake suspicions of stress exhaustion to sneak into the infirmary for the night more than once, and even gotten a legitimate diagnosis because of the strain this war has taken on him.
Where will it go now? He doesn't know, but that's one battle he knows he won.]