Tatters is taking a break from the Warehouse tonight, and has instead taken refuge amongst the magically inclined night crowd at the Corbies. They're all weird enough that he doesn't stand out. He's holed up in a corner with a whiskey and coke (remarkably restrained for him - it's not luridly green or anything), watching the other customers. There's a sweet looking little girl in the corner that he's got an eye on. And he's pretending not to smoke.

Tonight he's not out to do anything but drink and kill time, though. If he really wanted attention he'd put on a mini-skirt and some heels. But he's being low key tonight. He's slouchy, almost sullen, in a shredded pink shirt, open over a tight white tee-shirt. His jeans are more holes than actual denim, feebly held together with safety pins. Yes, it looks a little gay. Well, maybe a lot. He's got a pins in his ears too, long chains of them. But he doesn't look that strange. Queer maybe but not particularly weird given the other clientele. Except for the cloud of smoke that's hanging around his head, despite of the lack of a cigarette to produce it. Or a joint, given the smell.

He sips his drink and exhales smoke.

It's been a long slow day and the night looks like it might just go on like that. And maybe that would be okay, for once.

Tatters is right, it has been a long day, and James is exhausted.

He slouches into the bar, dragging his feet and hanging his head, the picture of...well...not his normal attitude. The usually vibrant and exuberant persona that is James is dimmed. Maybe it's got to do with his listless walk and heavy lidded eyes, or maybe it's got something to do with the shiner and the bruising up his neck.

In any case, he's not in a great mood.

The black man's got on a winter coat that he shrugs off onto the back of his bar stool. Underneath that he's got on jeans, converse, a hoodie, and a messenger bag. The bag isn't anything special. It looks like it could be made out of leather, soft and organic, but the strap is unusually short and James hardly takes his hand off of it long enough to get his coat off. The hand resting on his bag isn't overly tense, it's not even the kind of hand to catch a person's attention. It's rather relaxed, as tired as the rest of him, but it never moves and he orders and drinks his beer with the left hand instead of his dominant right.

James lets his eyes scan the crowd of the Twa Corbies tonight, getting a feel for the mood and atmosphere. He recognizes a few people, primarily girls, but doesn't make a move to speak with any of them.

But then his eyes catch on Tatters and he remembers today. He remembers his brother. He remembers the fight and the black eye that's still as uncomfortable as it was an hour ago. It's why he and his brother rarely meet in their human forms, but somehow the sanctuary of their skins wasn't enough to keep the dreaded confrontation at bay. But then, their conversations always were more poignant in body language. James was never happy to beat up his twin, but he felt less bad about it when Adam got a strike or two back.

He came to the bar because he wanted to forget, to feel good. Tatters ruined it.

Normally James is good natured and kind and willing to meet a person before passing judgement, but tonight he sneered at Tatters and scowled into his drink. The anger surged back through his limbs and made his bruises pulse anew.

James only made half an attempt to disguise his words into his beer bottle.

"Damn queer."

James is just loud enough to be heard, and Tatters does hear. And he shouldn't really care because g-d knows he's heard it enough times, and since when did he care what anyone thinks?

But it's been a long day, and he's kind of tired of taking shit from people today. His manager is crazy, his room mate is crazy, his mother is crazy, the fucking customers at Klio's are crazy, and he's very suddenly tired of listening to other people's crap.

He drains his glass, in a stereotypical way, and slams it down on the table with equally cliched vigour. The previously non-existent cigarette blinks into existence as he looses concentration on it, and he glares over at James. He's not very good at glaring. He's too delicate for it and his eyes, like grey fog, have no real intensity.

"Clearly you were looking," he snaps at James. "Would you like another shiner to match?"

He might be skinny and faggy looking but that doesn't mean he can't (theoretically) land a punch.

If there's something James hates as much as homosexuals, it's theatricality. At least, that's what he's telling himself now. Anything that he can use to build up his anger, to fuel that fire, he'll make himself believe as quickly as he's able. Because the last thing he wants is for that rage to burn out.

James' face twists into a terrible snarl at Tatters' antics, and he contains a dark laugh within his mind. The alcohol will only make his opponent less responsive, and the man already looks halfway to stoned as it is. Not only is James likely to be the more experienced fighter, but he's only had a few swigs of his drink. It doesn't occur to him, nor would the selkie ever admit, that his arrogance is likely to handicap him in a brawl, blind him in the briefest second of victory.

"Bring it, man," he says, arms spread in an invitation. He leaves the beer on the bartop and steps down from his stool, ready for confrontation, "I've already put one fag down on the count now let's make it two. Come on!"

They're making a scene, and while the other patrons of the Twa Corbies may be keen on watching, the employees have no interest in having to charge for damages. A girl behind the counter starts taking the more expensive bottles of liquor off the shelves, and the man who served James steps up as close as the counter will let him.

"Hey," he barks to get their attention, "You guys wanna fight you're gonna have to do it outside, off our property, you got that?"

James looks at the barkeep and considers. But that glint in his eye as he looks back at Tatters is nothing short of a challenge.

Tatters is bored already, but he rallies some concentration and resists rolling his eyes at James. Because Tatters might be gay and theatrical but it's not like James can really complain about dramatics. And homophobia makes Tatters sick so if he can break this man's nose he probably won't feel too bad about it. Although... It would be a pity. It's a fairly handsome nose.

"Fine," he says, "Come on. Outside."

Of course, because he's Tatters he actually stops to hold the for James on the way out. He's not even thinking about it, it's just his ingrained I-live-in-Canada politeness.

And of course he is a bit stoned and a bit inebriated but it's not above his baseline. This is how he lives. He's figures he's learned to compensate.

But it looks like he's about to find out.

I wouldn't really call James "homophobic." There's an underlying frustration, a tiredness of not understanding. He's tired of not knowing how he and his brother, identical in nearly every physical way, could be such complete opposites of each other. After twelve years of expressing yourself in almost purely physical communication, he still has a tough time getting past the natural urge to fight.

To tell the truth, though, the unexpected halt by the bartender is giving his adrenaline time to ebb away, and he's not OK with that. And he's really not OK with Tatters opening the door for him. The mess of expression is etched on his face, a visual growl, and he pushes away from the bar roughly, quickly. His movements are in angry spurts because of the chemicals burning through his body. And when he passes Tatters, James hitches up the messenger bag on his shoulder. His coat's still back by the bar. He's sure he'll be back for it.

Outside it's a cold dusky Bayfield evening. Even though it's March, the thermometer hadn't hauled its ass over the zero mark all day and now, in the failing light, the temperature is dropping. Tatters really isn't dressed for the weather, and like James he'd left his jacket in the bar. They're both cocky bastards, evidently.

Out on the pavement, Tatters faces James. He bows sardonically, because after all theatrics does come with the territory. Anyway chances are it'll goad his opponent, and angry people are so much easier to dodge. Dodging is good when you're as fucking skinny as Tatters. Not that he'd mind being hit. There's always that self-destructive edge of pleasure he gets from being on the wrong end of a punch. James looks happy to indulge him in it.

And Tatters would lay money that James wouldn't feel so bad about a little pain either.

On some level, they will be gratifying each other. Satisfying each other. It's gay sex for straight men.

This is probably not an analogy James enjoys but Tatters likes it.

The cold air hits James like a slap in the face. Damn he hates seeing his breath. He's warmed slightly by the knowledge that his blood's going to be pumping enough to keep him, well, at least marginally warm.

As much as he would love to, James doesn't rush at Tatters head on during that ridiculous bow. He's trying to decide what to do with his bag. If he keeps it on, he'll be hindered in the fight. If he puts it down, he can't keep an eye on it...well, self-confidence won out. He just makes sure that the flap is securely buckled before lunging at Tatters.

His fighting style's kind of a blend. He's learned how to use his arms effectively in a fight, and is starting to learn about incorporating his legs to land blows. But sometimes he forgets that he's not on the beach and uses his thick head to strike. It's a good thing his thick skull stays with him throughout his transformation.

Sure, he's angry, sure that's probably going to cloud his judgment, but as I said, James is an experienced fighter. A skinny little jerk who knows how to dodge isn't likely to get a one up on him. His eyes are about as quick as his limbs, and the rest of his senses do their best to keep on par. But let's be realistic, just because he's good doesn't mean he's the best. James is likely to land as many punches as he is to receive.

No, he wouldn't like Tatters' analogy, but he'll probably go home happy if he's completely exhausted.

Oh, and he throws the first punch.

Ducking is good for Tatters but that doesn't mean it's all he can do. In this case, he blocks, solidly and at an angle so that James' blow goes a bit side ways. And then he moves a bit to one side and aims a blow at the other man's head.

Really they should be ashamed of them, grown men (physically at least) having it out in the street like this. It's the 21st century after all, and aren't people supposed to be civilised by now? But clearly these two forgot about that. They could at least get some pistols and duel like gentlemen, couldn't they?

But no. They're just brawling, in the street, in front of some sleazy bar.

And really we should just be grateful that neither of them is a pyro.

Pistols probably couldn't ever satisfy the over-saturation of testosterone that's got James going. A brawl is much more primal, and James is very much tuned-in to his instincts.

If he wasn't doing his best to avoid concussion, he would probably be laughing his ass off. Fighting just feels good sometimes. It turns off his thoughts and focuses everything into the surest thing of his existence: the truth that can only come from one's own strength.

A few people from the bar followed them outside and are watching. Some are cheering for a winner, others are just drunk and laughing.

Let's hope nobody calls the cops. They would at least get thrown in the clink for a bit and, according to the government, James doesn't exactly exist.

Honestly, in front of the Twa Corbies... Chances of anyone calling the Mounties are pretty slim. Which is good for Tatters cause while his existence is verifiable, his prescence in this beautiful country is not. The magical community of Bayfield are not as a general rule a fan of the police, and anyway... This fight looks like it might be exciting. People are calling out encouragements and taunts, even making bets.

Tatters grins. He likes an audience. His cigarette is still hanging between his pretty lips, burning to ash.

He balances out his weight and drags in on the cigarette. He figures it's James' turn to strike now. After all, he wouldn't want to hog the game. That wouldn't be night.

What James lacks in energy, tonight he makes up for in sheer force of will. He might feel dead on his feet but damned if he'll let anyone else know that. He's been weaving and hitting and dodging, not always successfully. The added weight of his bag is throwing off his balance, it's not light in the least and it swings like a pendulum, despite its short strap. But despite its hindrance, he holds his own.

The trail of their dance is marked in shining drops of blood. One of those hits split the skin on James' already injured eye and if they weren't moving so quickly around each other, he's sure he got a hit on the other guy's face.

And if he hadn't before, he has so now. James sees an opening and takes it, not questioning his good fortune or his opponent's lack of block. Propelled by a fierce lunge in his legs, James rams his elbow into Tatters' nose.

His ear is ringing and it feels like his sweat freezes as soon as it leaves his pores, but there's an energy that exudes from a magical crowd and hell if he's not reveling in it.

Tatters head is thrown back a bit by the blow, with action movie effect. If only it was slow-mo. He thinks he hears a distinct crack that is most probably his nose, and thinks something a long the lines of "Oh, fuck, not again." This thought is rapidly followed by another, which goes something like "Damn, if I keep this up I'm not gonna be pretty anymore."

He is also kind of annoyed because he's lost track of his cigarette in all of this, but nonetheless he shakes head like a wet dog. Blonde hair goes everywhere, already a bit tangled with blood from his face. He should really get a bauble but he can't exactly stop now and tie back his hair.

His opponent is totally unbalancing himself by holding onto his bag. Tatters spends half his life trying to get people to look at what isn't important, but James has clearly not learned that trick. Tatters wonders what he's got in the bag, and if it can be sold for enough money to pay the heating bill. The man would probably deserve it anyway.

Tatters is fairly quick to judge if he stands to gain from it.

He makes a fairly quick comeback from James blow, and they're back to circling. Tatters is more guarded now, less open to getting smashed in the face. His nose is throbbing, not unpleasantly.

James constantly scans his counterpart for signs of feinting or an incoming blow. Tired as he is, the boy finds renewed strength at the sight of Tatters' nose. He chuckles darkly and wipes part of his face free of sweat and blood, shifting from foot to foot in adrenaline fueled satisfaction.

The going price for a Selkie pelt is a fair amount of money, but they're just trophy pieces. As far as James knows, no one has yet figured out how to make a pelt operational for anyone but the body it was born with. If or when that technique does become known, they're sure to exponentially increase in value. But the day when thieves become poachers won't be a pretty one, and you won't be likely to see any seals walking on two legs after it.

But it's not the monetary value that has James clutching at the strap of the bag as he scrambles back into a wary crouch. As far as priorities go, he has his perfectly aligned. If the contents of his bag were to be stolen or lost, James could kiss almost half of his life goodbye and say hello to a dreadfully boring existence. And with the kind of crowd that's standing behind them, James isn't willing to take any chances. It's too bad that the fight is getting to him, clouding out thoughts that involve anything other than the next punch, because he's becoming better at ignoring the messenger bag. As such, he's getting worse at keeping it close.

He moves in again, ready to attack with a leg ready to lie and an arm ready to strike true to Tatters' diaphram. James can only hope that Tatters will be distracted enough for him to land the blow.

Tatters doesn't look like he can see particularly well through his hair, but this might be misleading. He has had rather a lot of practice. So he's still got one eye on the bag - a little theft, and then running away, might salvage the situation... Although his coat is still in bar.

He blocks the kick and ducks the blow, retaliating in the general direction of the other man's solar plexus. It goes a bit wide. Perhaps his hair is getting in the way of his vision. Or maybe it's just the fact that he's pretty stoned, which could definitely hurt a guy's reaction time.

They are back to circling, feinting one way or another. It's almost dancing, to go back to Tatter's earlier analogy. A vertical expression of a horizontal desire? Perhaps.

He is thinking about the bag, but he doesn't see a clear way of grabbing it because it's across James' shoulder.

Unless of course the strap were to break.

James is getting over-confident. That last jab to his side was way too easy to avoid. His estimation that Tatters is too stoned to fight properly seems to be right, so now he's going to get creative.

It's a pretty near bet that his opponent can't see clearly, and James is ready to take full advantage. He's a good circle-fighter. The whole, retreat-back-to-our-own-sides kind of circle-fighter. It gives him time enough to think, and then the visual confusion that comes with a break in pattern.

He grins as he lunges again, happy because he feels like he's winning. While he takes a great step towards Tatters, he loosens the strap on his bag, lengthening it. James is banking on the move being disguised by his dart forward, and when he gets nearer he'll swing the bag outward from his shoulder. He'll have a firm grasp on the strap, but the distraction might be just enough to put Tatters in a headlock.

It might have been a good distraction if Tatters hadn't already had his eye on the bag. That wrecks it a bit. He sees the arc of the bag as it swings towards him, and he grabs onto the strap and yanks, probably hard enough to throw James off balance, just as Tatters steps in and kicks sideways at James' left knee. It's probably not enough to topple James, who's a big guy and also sober.

But it might be enough for Tatters to grab the bag, especially now that James has conveniently lengthened the strap on it.

James doesn't topple over, but his balance was put under severe questioning. It would take a couple steps to properly right himself, and he has a vested interest in keeping firm hold on the strap of his satchel. He sacrifices sure footing in order to maintain a solid grip on a moving object, which might not work out for him in the end.

Nonetheless, James is not happy. He wasn't happy before, but was regaining good spirits through the time honored male ritual of beating the shit out of each other, and now he's downright pissed. Tatters hit way below the belt in James' opinion. It was snide, it was underhanded, and James should have known better. Damn pride.

"Let. Go."

He's not afraid that Tatters'll actually take his skin, not yet anyway, but now his adrenaline and anger are all focused. They're no longer blanket emotions because of a bad day. Now things have the potential to get really fucking personal.

James should be happy. Tatters has been known to land blows below the belt in a much more literal sense. He also scratches and bites. He's a bit of a girl like that.

But now he's got a dilemma. He's got a hold of the bag, and so does James. If it comes to outright tug of war chances are James will win, because he's actually got the bag. But Tatters let's got that's a possible advantage gone.

James seems to want to negotiate, or at least make demands. Tats has other ideas. He kicks straight out, with flexablity that's downright unreasonable, aiming to catch the man in the stomach. If he can just get James down, this will be so much easier.

Well James sure didn't see that one coming. Rather, he did, but was no where near fast enough to avoid the strike. How the hell did Tatters bend like that, anyway?

So the seal-man does go down, but puts his weight on the strap of the bag as he goes, trying to wrap it around his back in the process of falling. That maneuver failed royally, though, the strap slipped up his shirt.

He does keep his hold. James' arm is taught, bent, and still pulling. He knows he'll lose the bag at this rate. That's fine, Tatters can have it, but only after James has pulled his pelt out of the pouch. At the moment, his hand is working furiously to unbuckle the flap and pull his skin to safety.

Tatters bends in all kinds of interesting ways. James could have found that out the fun way, if only he'd been a little more polite. But no, he had to start a fight about it.

The result is pretty much the same, though. Someone stretched out on their back, someone on top. Whether you're fighting or fucking, someone has to dominate. Bet ya didn't think it would be Tatters. He's sort of stepping on James' stomach with one leather booted foot. He's trying to yank the bag free from James before James can get whatever-it-is-he's-trying-to-get-out out.

Would Tatters feel different if he knew what James had in the bag? Maybe. Maybe not. Sure, he likes wildlife as much as the next person, but just because you're a seal doesn't mean you have any right to be rude.

James doesn't like to be pinned. He damn well hates it. Normally, he's acquiescent enough if he knows that he's out-matched, but any amount of uncertainty in the dominance relationship and he'll fight to the end. Which is why he's having such a hard time on the ground, stomach exposed, with his most precious possession nearly yanked from his grasp. He knows he can beat Tatters and also knows that it's his own fault he's on the ground with a boot in his gut.

And now it's not just his pride on the line, but half of his life. Half of his life that he was only able to get halfway out of the pack before his fingers lost grip and left it dangling precariously in the open. In front of all those prying eyes and one set of prying fingers. James just hopes no one can identify the heavy swatch of fur.

His faulty grip and bad position mean he's fighting a losing battle. Is it possible that this fact has escaped Tatters's notice? Probably not...

Tatters would tell James that he's mistaken. He might think he doesn't like to be pinned, but deep down inside he'd enjoy being on the bottom. If only he'd been a little nicer Tatters might have shown him that. And maybe James can beat Tatters but right now he's not doing such a good job of it.

"Nice pelt," Tatters drawls, sounding all wide-eyed and innocent. "Better watch PETA doesn't catch up with you, I bet they're not at nice as me." He's got a less than pretty smirk on his face though and it suggests there's a little more knowledge then his words are showing.

But he's not really here to make anyone's life hell. It was just an innocent bar fight, over a matter of pride. And it's not like Tats was really insulted. The fight seemingly comes down to stress and testosterone. Now that he's got the chance Tatters doesn't really feel like breaking any bones.

"Say you're sorry," he demands, like a petulant child.

James isn't the type to jut out his jaw and declare "Never!" in a cocky, courageous sort of way. But he's considering it. Really considering it. There's no way in hell that he's offering an apology...well...he might, actually.

It sort of depends on how good his chances are of being able to grab his skin.

But come on. The crowd's drunk, not blind, and most of them are of the initiate persuasion (maybe some of them haven't decided yet).

And at least one or two of them are enterprising.

"I'll give you 500 for that fur!"
"600!"
"Hey, I bet first..."

Fear may or may not have started to seep in behind James' eyes. Whatever that strained expression on his face was, it didn't change at all when he offered a quick, quiet, clipped apology. His eyes never strayed from the pelt as it hung from the bag.

Tatters' smirk splits open into a full blown grin. It's not particularly friendly. It has teeth. But he removes his foot from James' stomach and kicks the bag at him. His eyes flick over the selkie's body, somewhat regretfully. He wouldn't mind a piece of that. Well damn those homophobes, they just aren't any fun at all.

He looks across at the two men in the crowd instead, and his smile gets moderately nicer. "Nah, you don't want that old thing," he tells them. "Next thing you know you'll have those seal rights activists on you, trying to club you to death." He grimaces. "And that would be a pity, pretty face like yours..."

Just because the selkie was no fun doesn't mean he can't persuade someone to come home with him.

James clutches the bag to his chest like a mother who's recovered her lost child. Broken skin and bleeding pride was a small price to pay, but at the end he hardly even thought about what he was apologizing for. He might've wanted to fight Tatters until unconsciousness took one of them, but the stakes rose too high too quickly.

The enterprising members of their audience are taken aback by Tatters. On the one hand they are extremely uncomfortable. On the other, both of them know they have no chance of taking him in a fight. James is pretty sure he heard a stuttered, unsure, "thanks," and he shakes his head in disgust.

Oh he aches. There's no question that his legs can support him, but he doesn't feel like postponing his trip to dreamland, either. Damn, that was fun. None of his cousins or brothers could fight like shit in their human forms. The satchel slings over his shoulder, but he keeps a firm hand on it while he shoulders through the crowd.

He waits until he's all the way through before addressing Tatters again, "Hey, Mr. Homosexual, do you work out at all?"

Tatters gives him a long incredulous look. The poor guy looks beat. Well, no real surprise there. Tatters isn't feeling all that shiny himself after that little episode. James throws a bitchy punch.

"Work? Out?" He sounds more or less like he's saying 'dead rat' or 'Lauren Conrad'. "No, why?"

He'd buy the kid a drink, except he suspects the selkie would take it the wrong way. Tatters knows when his attentions aren't wanted.

"I'm called Tatters, by the way," he adds. "Although, feel free to call me Mr Homosexual if you want, I guess." It's inaccurate but that's not really his problem.

"Ok then, 'Tatters.'"

James is on the verge of asking Tatters if he knows of any gyms around--maybe they could spar, occasionally. He gets a surge of pride, though, looking at his opponent. A grin as worked its way onto his face. Gay sex for straight men, indeed.

As far as asking Tatters straight out, though, James isn't sure. He waves it off, Nevermind, it was stupid, his hand says.

"Nevermind, I guess. I'll see you around."

He goes back inside, picking up his coat and checking the pockets. The bartender's glaring at him. Oh yeah. Payment. James pulls out a twenty and hands it to the man. "His too," he tells him, pointing to Tatters' seat, "Keep the change."

Yeah, he'd been an ass. Oh well.

The idea of sparring for amusement is perhaps not one that will have crossed Tatters' mind. After all, he doesn't need a substitute for gay sex, now does he?

"See you round," he says, grinning. It's a proper grin this time, with warmth. Although he's kind of sad he didn't get a name from the guy. The see you round could mean anything. It's the kind of thing people say when they never want to see you every again, but at the same time... Bayfield's a small small world.

He'd forgotten about paying, but that's okay. Someone will remind him next time he's in there, no doubt. And gods know he's in there enough. For the moment, however, he's lost interest in drinking.

He gives James' retreating back a last regretful glance (the boy's got a nice ass, too) and then turns and heads on down the street.