Matt & Namor | Saturday Evening

[x-submariner.livejournal.com]

Matt and Namor meet at a West Pace party, and their personalities clash almost instantly.

The Official "Welcome Back, West Pace!" party scene had begun. Like most events on the West Chester campus, it had started with casual events hosted by campus organizations at various White Plains bars and clubs. These were all dry, of course, but more meant as a "preview" of the incoming frosh — where one went largely determined what greek houses would be thinking of you. It also determined where you got invited after.

This was how Namor found himself, beer cup in hand, at a large but barely furnished townhouse. The lights were low, multicolored, and pulsing. Skrillex was pounding over the speakers. Booze was flowing. This was the event of some Sigma Kappa Whatever, but he only had (slightly blurry) eyes set on the blonde currently removing his tie.

"How're you liking the party?" she giggled.

He grinned stupidly at her, "Betty, I could care less where we go as long as you're the one leading."

She giggled again, playfully dragging him away from the main hustle of bodies and into the housing complex's hallway. His tie was undone, and now she was working on his shirt. "I'll hold you to that," she winked.

Normally, Matt wasn't a huge party fan and he could care less about Greek parties, but one of his friends that he'd made last semester had wanted to go and begged him to go and he had decided that getting out of the mansion was a good idea. Therefore, party. He was feeling sort of social anyways. Which was why he was standing there holding a wall up with a cup in his hand. It was an empty cup, but better to hold that and look like he had alcohol than to actually have it.

Hearing the mansion's newest resident Namor, Matt reached out as he passed with some girl, a condom in his hand. "You'll want this," he stated flatly. Keeping a condom in his wallet was something he had done for years, not that he had ever needed it. His father had always said it was a good idea. 'Cause you don't want what she's got."

It was the girl who turned first, her eyes focusing a little too clearly on the boy who had pressed something into her date's hand. Betty Dean, a fairly accomplished sophomore, was about to say something scathing when her "date," who she noted amusedly looked somewhat ridiculous with his open shirt and glazed expression, steamrolled in to provide defense over her own objections.

"She's got me," he growled. Namor narrowed his eyes combatively at the kid across from him. Matt was a little taller, but Namor's confidence was only enhanced when tipsy. "How dare you question her dignity when that's the case."

"Yep," Matt agreed, drolly. He had heard about what happened between Namor and Hope already from her, so he was doubly unimpressed with the guy, "I'm not questioning her dignity. I don't care if she gets it on with sheep. That's her business. I was just trying to help. Forget it then."

Namor firmly placed a hand on the wall in an effort block Matt's potential escape. He was hotheaded under normal circumstances, but add alcohol and things got much worse much more quickly. "I believe you need some help with your manners."

Was he supposed to care what Namor thought? "Move your hand," Matt stated. He had his cane out in front of him and his sunglasses on to mark him as blind, but that did not mean he could not or would not defend himself. And he was sober. "I don't give a shit who you are or what your bloodline is. You will move your hand and let me pass or I will move it for you." He was usually fairly level headed and slow to anger, but Namor rubbed him the wrong way. He hadn't gone to juvie for assault for no reason either.

His assailant paused at those words. A brief look of recognition dawned over him like tomorrow's potential hangover, but Namor did not move his hand. He shook his head, "You are one of Clint's friends. From Xavier's. Unacceptable." With his free hand he motioned toward Betty, who was edging back slowly making "I'm fine not being part of where this is going" or potentially "Look at the time, I left my cat in the oven" gestures. Namor's gaze never left Matt's sunglasses. "You will apologize to Miss Dean here, or so help me."

"For giving you a condom for safe sex?" Matt removed his sunglasses and slipped them in his pocket, "No. That's called 'being polite.' You question my manners, but you don't think about maybe I had a reason for doing it beyond trying to piss you off?" He kept his voice low, "Shockingly, I was trying to be helpful. I won't make that mistake again," he had never actually said she slept with sheep, nor was that any sort of insult people would think was true.

Namor pulled back from him, disgust evident. "The only thing that has pissed me off is your lack of respect for a lady. Is this fun for you? Sitting around making assumptions?" He sighed and turned back to Betty. "You aren't worth my time or her's."
Did Namor not know anything about basic sex ed and always using protection? "I'm not!" he spat back. Frigging moron! "I'm trying to be polite out of respect to you both so I don't have to tell you and whoever else is listening that she has an STD! But you keep pushing the matter! I gave you a fucking condom so you could enjoy your time together and not share what you don't want!" He could smell it on her. "But keep pushing. See what else you can do to fuck up everyone's night!"

They were drawing stares now. Namor paused, briefly considering if this man had had a mental lapse. Betty had graduated from exceedingly disinterested to embarrassed to offended. Namor watched the transition of her expression in awe. She was magnificent. And, being as such, she walked over, slapped Matt, and then graced Namor with a withering stare before stomping out of the party.

Namor took note of the people trying not to be caught eavesdropping and leaned in closer to Matt. His eyes were still hard, but his tone was muted, "Are you always such an impolite asshole?"

"Only when I'm being falsely accused by a ignorant, self-righteous bastard," Matt turned, heading out of the party. He was done. Done with the night, done with party and most of all, done with Namor. All the idiot had had to do was take the condom on his way wherever to enjoy whatever her face was. No problem. But nope. He had to make a scene. Matt would not apologize for giving him the condom either. He would absolutely do it again, too.

"... What?" Namor blinked, taking of the sudden lack of people in the room. He paused for a few minutes, but then begrudgingly trailed behind Matt. Namor grabbed him by the shoulder before he could exit. The Attilani may not like this kid, but something was clearly wrong. Namor had a duty. "Is there something wrong with you? How much did you have to drink? Do you need help?"

Feeling the hand, Matt whirled and had Namor on the ground, cane aimed at his throat before he realized he had even reacted. It had been instinctual. Pausing, Matt stepped aside to let Namor up. "I'm sober," he replied flatly, "And I'm blind. Not helpless. I can get home just fine without you helping me to cross the damn street!" Yeah, he was pissed. "Go find someone else to get your rocks off with."

Namor pulled himself to his feet, eyes blazing with rage. All of his noble concern had evaporated. "You. Me. Outside." This wasn't a request: Namor grabbed Matt by the lapel once more; this time applying enough super strength to send him reeling into the hallway.

Matt didn't have super strength, though he was pretty sure if he had the leverage that could even things out. Regardless, not making even more of a scene than before. Especially since he had tried to walk away once and it hadn't worked so well. Fine then. Let Namor make a bigger ass of himself then. That was fine.
Once in the hall — most of the onlookers who could be scared away by Namor's venomous glare were gone already, but a few without better judgement lingered — Namor cornered Matt. He may not have size, but he had bulk. "Your behavior in there was unacceptable. I'm an asshole? That's great. I know. Give me one reason why I shouldn't beat the sense into you that you lack."

Bulk did not intimidate Matt. He was used to bravado from both sides. Besides, you never showed fear. Ever. Not that Matt was a afraid of much... and he certainly wasn't afraid of Namor. "Why?" he asked calmly, as if Namor was not invading his personal space, "You made up your mind about me and what happened and you twist everything, determined to make me the bad guy. I'm not going to argue that."

The other boy sighed. Anger was giving way to confusion, and what was left of Namor's sobriety was raising tiny, quivering red flags: first off, he knew nothing about this kid's powers; secondly, Matt was far too calm. Hell, the flags were dancing a semaphore foxtrot. "This is for Betty," Namor growled, and settled for punching the blind kid experimentally in the gut without any real power behind it.

Blocking the punch, Matt moved instinctively, minute muscle movements and the rustling of Namor's clothing giving him enough clues about what attack was coming next. The punch was a glancing blow at best and Matt was already shifting and moving, holding his cane a weapon instead of as a guide. Namor was apparently dumber than a bag of rocks. Pardon the insult to rocks.

Namor tracked the other boy's movements carefully. That punch, although dodged, had revealed at lot. Training from AB-SAE was also kicking in. He backed away to assume a defensive stance — his shoulders loose, head straight, and hands palms up — and moved in counter to Matt's shifting footwork. ""That should have been your face. That's the least you deserve," he taunted.

Growing up a blind kid in Hell's Kitchen made Matt immune to taunts. He'd been a geek and a nerd before that and kids in the foster system and schools and juvie and whatnot were cruel. The words flowed off like water on a duck. He didn't even reply. Instead, his brain took automatic stock of what he was facing, Namely, a drunk mutant with no common sense and at least some knowledge of martial arts. Well, Matt could work with that. Shifting and twisting, Matt feigned an attack at Namor's head, his cane colliding solidly with Namor's stomach instead.

There was a grunt of surprise on Namor's part. He had moved to block the feint, but was able to catch the cane before Matt could withdraw. Namor would not fail to trade. He twisted closer to Matt, placing his other hand to improve his grip on the weapon, and flipped the weapon up and over his own head in an effort to disarm his combatant with the follow-through.

Normally, something like that would have been very effective, but Matt simply let go of the cane, using Namor's momentum and his drunken balance against him. His opponent flailed forward dangerously fast. Matt didn't stop there though, ducking slightly and kicking to sweep the other man's feet out from under him. Namor had been able to anticipate this, however, and hopped the sweep into a hover. His feet weren't there anymore.

"The fuck?" Matt muttered half to himself, body already moving automatically, grabbing his cane back and twisting, tossing Namor into the wall. No one mentioned he could fly!

Namor didn't have enough time to get an anchor — a stupid mistake — and he went face first into the outer brick wall of the hallway. It stung like hell. He vaguely registered that his lip and nose were bleeding, but the pain was an afterthought. Namor did not release the staff, but instead yanked it into the wall, bringing Matt closer. Namor braced his feet against the brick for purchase, and slammed his head back and up.

Head jerking backwards as Namor hit, Matt knew that would hurt later when he felt a trickle of blood from his nose. Damn this guy would not give up! Stupid, pigheaded, stubborn idiot! Grabbing him in a sleeper hold, Matt held it until Namor stopped moving. His opponent's inferior position made it hard to for the Attilani to resist. Namor struggled to twist out of the hold, but things soon faded to black.

When Namor's consciousness returned, he had to blink a few times. Was he underwater? His head was swimming like he had dived too quickly, and his vision was fuzzy. Things resolved quickly, though, and the memories of what had only been about a minute ago came back with new pain and the scraps of his previous rage. However, the redhead was no longer in the hallway.

Namor swore creatively in Portuguese while getting to his feet. There were a number of insults to catalog here, but he had been beaten and his shirt was speckled with blood from his nose and lip. He slammed a fist into the brick wall, making a palm-size dent. There was little to do about it now. Girl gone and embarrassed, he left the townhouse with a larger dent in his pride.