Raining Kitty Cats and Puppy Dogs (Calley)

The subway: Calley really wasn't used to it, but it really beat walking. Really, how did normal people navigate the city day to day, without wings? A hawk--a pigeon, even--could navigate this city faster and more efficiently than a car. So why were there so many of them in the streets? Pro tip: there were no traffic jams in the sky.

Silly mortals.

Still, turns out that birds aren't so hot at carrying swords. A bipedal on the subway had no such problems. Especially when said sword was neatly screwed inside of the black poster carrier slung over his shoulder, where nice officers of the law wouldn't bug him about it. Not that it was illegal to carry: not when he was on his way from a sword lesson with a certain unicorn instructor. The shifter stifled a yawn into his red coat sleeve--a present from Sebastian--and let the push of the crowd carry him out onto the station platform and up towards the stairs. It wasn't until he hit the street that he realized he was still several stops shy of the Mansion. Eh. It was a sign, clearly: he was sleeping at his own apartment tonight. He'd just... have to get up early enough to make it in time for classes tomorrow, or Sam would kill him. That was the problem with Conditioning bright and early every morning: the potential for Death By Fifty Laps was high.

With another yawn, and a cracking of back, the shifter shuffled out onto the streets. The sky was nice and ominous; the wind was brisk enough that he was glad of the gifted coat, and not at all inclined to scowl about unicorn shifters treating him like a charity case. Not that Sebastian had intended that; the elder immortal just wanted his pupil looking good. Not at all like a certain Mansion guidance counselor, who wanted him to look... like a student that could dress himself. Yeah. Yeah, Mama T could keep her pity clothes. But he'd keep the red coat.

Overhead, a street light flickered. Heh. Nice ambiance. He was well out of Order territory, but the streets around here were just as dodgy; they were just under different management. It was okay; he didn't exactly fear getting hurt, these days. He was just a guy with a poster carrier, passing through. If he happened to walk like he owned the place, well... yeah.

Calley turned a corner, bumping head on into a guy coming the other way. He would have apologized, if he wasn't so busy yawning again. Meh.

Calley looked down at the hand on his shoulder, then back at the guy's face. They were about the same age, but that's where the similarities ended.

The guy had wishy-washy eyes that had never bothered to get themselves a real color; 'hazel,' as some might call it. Green hair in wittle bitty badass spikes. Tall enough to give his ego some room to stretch. And what was that? A little southern comfort in his accent?

The average Italian cocked his head to the side, and hitched his poster tube up a little more comfortably.

"Gee Mister, I'm so sorry," he said. "Oh please, let me pass."

Nice smirk. *&%^ of a right hook.

Calley doubled over with a surprised wheeze. The wheeze turned to coughing; the coughing turned to surprised laughter. The poster tube slid down his shoulder, its strap catching on his hand before it could hit the ground. Under shirt and skin, a blue-white coolness eased away the bruise long before it even had a chance to form.

Was it fair to hit back? For someone 6'3", this guy looked so... breakable. What would Sebastian say?

Heh. He'd said sorry and please. If SoCo here still wanted a duel, then the young immortal would reluctantly oblige.

He straightened up in a fluid surge, the momentum carrying through his arm to the poster carrier. It swung in a wide, whistling arc towards the side of Astroturf's head.

Was he grinning?

Yeah. Yeah, he kind of was.

The second kick missed, what with the first taking Calley down. He hit the ground with a short whoop! and a roll over his shoulder, the poster tube clasped to his chest like a babe. One hand to the ground and a spritely kick off later, and he was back up. He was doing all sorts of things today: riding the subway like a real boy, getting into fisticuffs...

Seriously. Public transportation, he could almost understand. But how did real people fight? Last time, Calley had just dropped a whale on his opponent. Actually, that was the time before last: last last time, he'd tried trampling the guy with an elephant.

"Playing footsie already, Big Man? And here we are, on our first date. You're gonna make me blush."

He tried something with a little less overkill: with poster carrier held in hands like a sword, he went in for a low side swing. Inside the plastic tube, something heavy and metallic clunked around with the motion.

Hey, he had balance. He had balance up the wazoo. He had spritely, tumbling, rolling balance that took way more effort to pull off than that hum-drum stay on your feet business. He just made it look too easy: that's why it was... so underappreciated.

Alternately, he'd been spending too much time balancing on four legs lately. It happened.

"Hey hey hey!" The shorter man protested, dangling from the end of his poster carrier as it went that-a-way somewhat further than he'd intended, and with a bit more outside help. One hand scrabbled at the end of the thing. Unscrewing: not meant to be done as an extreme sport. Initiate stalling procedures. "I do not think we're at the sharing stage of our relationship. What is mine is not your—whoop!"

Calley ducked that lovely knuckle kiss with all the grace of someone desperately clinging to a poster tube. Right. Still fighting. The banter and the fighting, they were not mutually exclusive.

The end of the poster tube finally came loose; the cap hit the pavement with a plastic click. A rose-pommel hilt slid out into Calley's waiting hand. And with that, there was skittering backwards. Well-balanced bipedal skittering, with sword in hand. It was obviously a real sword: it was rather too heavy, too metal, and too pointy to be anything else. Though the guy would have to take his word on the pointy point—the sheath was still on it.

"Just so you know," the Italian said lightly, "I'm not gay. Common mistake, really. My boyfriend made it, too."

And with that, he launched a somewhat less encumbered sword strike towards the guy's side.

The Green Man was so deep into his entirely unrequited little flirting that he didn't even dodge the blow. Score one for the homophobe.

"The closet's great. Very roomy. Really, you should try going back in."

Either that, or the guy was just a little taken aback by the sword. Yeah: Calley could appreciate that. It was pretty nice. And still, very pointedly, sheathed.

The Italian smirked. "Don't worry, Shamrock Shake. I promise not to kill you. But twenty bucks says you end up with more bruises than me in the morning."

The laughter. The laughter really helped put things in context. Here he was, on a deserted city street on a dark and stormy night, getting assaulted by a random thug.

A random thug who was laughing like a howler monkey.

A random thug who, for a fleeting moment... felt right. Like someone Calley could let his guard down with; someone he could actually trust. Yeah: that wasn't going to happen.

A random thug who had a black Celtic design styling itself in a ring around his neck, knot by knot. It met its own tail, its stylized teeth settling into place in an eternal loop. An Oroboros. Of all things, Calley would recognize that one.

A smile twitched at the corners of Calley's mouth as he adjusted his grip on the sword.

"Mutant, huh? You're not going to go all soul mate power on me, are you? 'Cause buddy, you have no idea what you'd be getting yourself into."

He rushed the guy again: another simple mid-level swing. Nothing fancy: that was his poster carrier the guy was holding hostage.