Kovacs is already taking off his suit, the thin white shirt following swiftly, revealing long panes of scarred muscle. "No shoes either. Kućagoro style."
Ezio unbuttons his doublet, unhurried, and then unbuckles his wrist guards, removing the thin metal sheaths from the underside. He rakes an eye over Kovacs, scoping out what he’s working with. Worse scars than he usually sees; it’s hard to heal from anything like that.
Kovacs takes note of the blades, and squirrels the information away for later. It's clearly some weird fighting style, and he'd like to see it later, but for now?
"Where I am. It means 'around the house'." Translating Serbian or Japanese is hard. Translating the pidgin that comes from only Harlan's world is a pointless task-- it's only there for them, why spread it? "No weapons, no shoes. Won't break the furniture."
He sets his things down and yanks his shirt over his head. Dramatic shoulders and arms and a wide trunk, largely unmarred save for a deep stab wound on his side, and a bullet scar on his left shoulder.
“My mother would have appreciated that,” he replies. The boots go off next, and he sweeps them out of the way with a foot. He grins. “Show me what you do, then.”
His sleeve has the build of an acrobat-- hard muscle, well built and compact. Kovacs, stuck in Ryker's gangly sleeve, feels like some kind of long-legged ghost in comparison.
Of course, he loathes the idea of striking first. He'll be playing right into the man's hand; this Ezio guy clearly has a monstrous strength behind him. He squares up, but he's not as compact as he'd like to be, for this fight.
Fuck it.
A slide to the left, a quick movement to get his leg under a fancy chair, kicking the thing in Ezio's direction. A feint after a feint-- Kovacs is right up there, waiting for a moment of distraction to hit Ezio squarely in the gut.
The face is for chumps. In a real fight, when you're trying to send someone down, the face is purely trophy shit. Knock the wind out of someone, and the move's worth its weight in gold.
It’s been a long minute since he was last in a fight, much less one for a fight’s sake, and he moves into it with a cool head. He barely bothers to take a fighting stance until the chair is skittering his way, and he catches it by the back and twists it aside him.
But here he comes.
Ezio shifts to brace his weight on his back foot and lifts his other hand rising to catch, to redirect Kovacs’s blow off-center and let his own force carry him beyond.
It’ll be hard, against a man that big, but nothing he hasn’t handled before.
Motherfuck, this guy is strong. Just as suspected, it's like being slapped by a brick wall. A brick wall who doesn't think you're shit, nothing personal. The urge rises to go for that fucking nose, but it's anger talking. This is their first fight (he doesn't consider for a second it'll be their last), he needs to show... something.
What?
That he's serious.
So Kovacs is off center in his ridiculous gaijin body, but he still has the momentum. If he's fast-- and he always tries to be-- he can catch one of Ezio's stout legs with one of Ryker's gangly ones, trying to pull them both off course.
Ezio feels his lip curl as they connect, some cheerful mix of thrill and pride. His sixth sense comes to life with a barrage of information, too fast to process mid-fight, but snatches of it come to him: a surprising clumsiness, a flare of anger, a resilience.
He's opening his mouth to bait Kovacs again when his leg gets swept, forcing him to take a hard move forward to stay upright, but it throws him off balance. He seizes upon Kovacs' arm, redoubling his grip; if they go down, they'll go down together.
This won't be the first time Kovacs wrestles without intent to kill. It's almost charming in its familiarity. Envoy instincts have him cushioning his own fall before he's even aware of it, and then he has his hands at Ezio's waist, pulling at his trousers, kicking for leverage.
Something no one ever expects is a dangerous move: Ryker's giant forehead crashing into Ezio's face. There's the nose.
It hurts like a bitch. It always does, and somehow it never hurts less with experience, but at least Kovacs isn't wearing a helmet. Blood pours from his nose and pain blossoms through his face, but damage to his face is what prompts him to move onto the offensive.
He braces himself between Kovacs and the floor, surging forward at the waist, and locks his grip around Kovacs' torso to force them to roll so Ezio is on top.
Envoy training also says, if it happens, put them off guard.
(Quell's voice is, for once, more memory than hallucination. Men are weak, she says. No, not between the legs. Between the ears. Never forget that, especially if more than one man is present. They have an ego. Use it.)
Ezio lands on top of Kovacs. Blood drips on his face. He grins. "Shit, bocchan, this your first time? I'll try'n be gentle."
Which is when he tries to reach up and pull at that long hair.
Kovacs, currently pinned under another man, asks, "is it ladies we're worried about?"
And he moves in, quick to- Ezio may get the sensation that Kovacs is, for a brief moment, sniffing his neck, before slumping back down. He would be forgiven for thinking the night had taken a turn, before- "Fuck it, fine. I can't get it up for ripping out your throat tonight, so you can have this one."
"Do you want me to kill you?" He lies there, wiggling the fingers on his free hand. It's a bit awkward. His voice lowers a register from where it was; his eyes slip away. "'Cause that's how this ends."
Ezio laughs; there's not really any other reaction to be had to that.
"You could beat me until my bones caved, or pull some knife from your trousers and gut me," he agrees, breezily, and he looks down at Kovacs in a way that veers appraising. Measuring him for the ways he isn't Larry, measures him for the things they never got to pick at together. Terrible, this place. Ezio eases off, just enough to let Kovacs get up if he tries. "Perhaps next time. For now... dinner is still salvageable."
"CTAC training," he says, sitting up, taking up every inch he's given, "is about destroying innate nonviolent urges found in humans. I'm being fucking magnanimous; you're welcome."
(Men have egoes- yeah, yeah, he knows, Quell.)
Murmuring again, in that less confident, indirect cadence: "What the fuck was that food anyway..."
Ezio sits back, an elbow rested on his knee. He absently brushes at his nose, then tests the bridge of it with his fingertips. Not irreparably smashed, at least, but it'll swell for sure.
"Crespelle alla Fiorentina," he replies. "Spinach and ricotta wrapped in a crespelle, and a white sauce –– salsa colla. Do you think CTAC was successful?"
He doesn't imagine so, if there's any magnanimity to be had.
He's vaguely aware spinach is a plant. No clue what ricotta is, but something on that plate looked like mashed osetinsky, so probably cheese. Vegetables and cheese, he can live with that.
Absent-mindedly, he shrugs at Ezio's question. "For a while. Most of my life. Exciting stuff. Where'd you learn to fight, rose tribe?"
“My brother taught me brawling and some swordplay when I was a boy,” he replies. “My uncle and his mercenaries sharpened those skills. I lived in a brothel for many years as bodyguard, and with a thieves’ guild before that. Thirty or so years of trying new things add up to a great deal of skill… you must have started young too.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"You implied you eagerly killed civilians for money you scorn," he replies. "It should test me. But do your worst! You will find me hard to break."
He gets up to fetch dinner from the other room.
no subject
no subject
“You can pick out all the words you would like,” he replies. “Rip them from their arguments. Would you rather fight? You are spoiling for one.”
no subject
Sometimes, the best way to disarm a trap is to walk into it.
"You're on."
no subject
"To the foyer, then," he replies, taking a step backwards, beckoning Kovacs to come with. A little wry: "Unarmed? At least to start."
no subject
no subject
“Unusual, but fine. Where is that from?”
no subject
"Where I am. It means 'around the house'." Translating Serbian or Japanese is hard. Translating the pidgin that comes from only Harlan's world is a pointless task-- it's only there for them, why spread it? "No weapons, no shoes. Won't break the furniture."
no subject
“My mother would have appreciated that,” he replies. The boots go off next, and he sweeps them out of the way with a foot. He grins. “Show me what you do, then.”
no subject
Of course, he loathes the idea of striking first. He'll be playing right into the man's hand; this Ezio guy clearly has a monstrous strength behind him. He squares up, but he's not as compact as he'd like to be, for this fight.
Fuck it.
A slide to the left, a quick movement to get his leg under a fancy chair, kicking the thing in Ezio's direction. A feint after a feint-- Kovacs is right up there, waiting for a moment of distraction to hit Ezio squarely in the gut.
The face is for chumps. In a real fight, when you're trying to send someone down, the face is purely trophy shit. Knock the wind out of someone, and the move's worth its weight in gold.
no subject
But here he comes.
Ezio shifts to brace his weight on his back foot and lifts his other hand rising to catch, to redirect Kovacs’s blow off-center and let his own force carry him beyond.
It’ll be hard, against a man that big, but nothing he hasn’t handled before.
no subject
What?
That he's serious.
So Kovacs is off center in his ridiculous gaijin body, but he still has the momentum. If he's fast-- and he always tries to be-- he can catch one of Ezio's stout legs with one of Ryker's gangly ones, trying to pull them both off course.
no subject
He's opening his mouth to bait Kovacs again when his leg gets swept, forcing him to take a hard move forward to stay upright, but it throws him off balance. He seizes upon Kovacs' arm, redoubling his grip; if they go down, they'll go down together.
no subject
This won't be the first time Kovacs wrestles without intent to kill. It's almost charming in its familiarity. Envoy instincts have him cushioning his own fall before he's even aware of it, and then he has his hands at Ezio's waist, pulling at his trousers, kicking for leverage.
Something no one ever expects is a dangerous move: Ryker's giant forehead crashing into Ezio's face. There's the nose.
no subject
He braces himself between Kovacs and the floor, surging forward at the waist, and locks his grip around Kovacs' torso to force them to roll so Ezio is on top.
no subject
Envoy training also says, if it happens, put them off guard.
(Quell's voice is, for once, more memory than hallucination. Men are weak, she says. No, not between the legs. Between the ears. Never forget that, especially if more than one man is present. They have an ego. Use it.)
Ezio lands on top of Kovacs. Blood drips on his face. He grins. "Shit, bocchan, this your first time? I'll try'n be gentle."
Which is when he tries to reach up and pull at that long hair.
no subject
He jerks his head back, just out of reach, and grabs at Kovacs' wrist to snare it and pin it above his head.
no subject
And he moves in, quick to- Ezio may get the sensation that Kovacs is, for a brief moment, sniffing his neck, before slumping back down. He would be forgiven for thinking the night had taken a turn, before- "Fuck it, fine. I can't get it up for ripping out your throat tonight, so you can have this one."
no subject
"You tire quickly," he remarks. "I thought you would have more in you than that, the way you carried on."
no subject
no subject
"You could beat me until my bones caved, or pull some knife from your trousers and gut me," he agrees, breezily, and he looks down at Kovacs in a way that veers appraising. Measuring him for the ways he isn't Larry, measures him for the things they never got to pick at together. Terrible, this place. Ezio eases off, just enough to let Kovacs get up if he tries. "Perhaps next time. For now... dinner is still salvageable."
no subject
(Men have egoes- yeah, yeah, he knows, Quell.)
Murmuring again, in that less confident, indirect cadence: "What the fuck was that food anyway..."
no subject
"Crespelle alla Fiorentina," he replies. "Spinach and ricotta wrapped in a crespelle, and a white sauce –– salsa colla. Do you think CTAC was successful?"
He doesn't imagine so, if there's any magnanimity to be had.
no subject
Absent-mindedly, he shrugs at Ezio's question. "For a while. Most of my life. Exciting stuff. Where'd you learn to fight, rose tribe?"
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)