Oh. Oh, no. The longer Sebastian Beauregard talked, the more Tyb’s burgeoning frustration bubbled up in him, a mix of exasperation and anger and resentment that Sebastian, maybe accurately, knew the way the situation had unfolded was Tyb’s fault. And really, the first remark should have made Tyb listen to it all in clear-headed spite, but after I think you don’t think, Kirke, most of it was admittedly white noise in his head.
There was some flutter of satisfaction at Elsie’s response that he only half-paid attention to in himself, and some measure of guilt that he maybe hadn’t thought of ever approaching Sebastian to make the situation easier – and some kind of painful realisation that Tyb would really rather the two of them be friends, the easy way it had used to be with Sebastian Beauregard when they were just classmates in the Gryffindor common room.
But then Tyb heard the word insulted, as in Sebastian Beauregard thought he was the one who had a right to be insulted, and Tybalt snapped. He pulled back his arm, in some old echo of his beater days – and though he didn’t have a bat in hand, his fist would do for one swing. With all his weight behind it, he aimed for Beauregard’s face – his fist connected, and –
“AH, damn it—” Tyb said, his exclamation devolving into a jumble of curses as he shook his hand out in shock, and then was forced to cradle it at the unexpected spark of pain. Alright, so maybe he didn’t have much experience in fights like this – on the ground, no bludgers in sight, no wands to duel with – but surely he had known how to throw a punch? Was there really that much technique to that? Wasn’t it supposed to be easy; wasn’t the victim of the punch supposed to be one who faced injury?
His gaze snapped up at Beauregard again, eyes widened in horror. “Sorry,” Tyb yelped hastily, suddenly awash with apology, “– sorry.”
There was some flutter of satisfaction at Elsie’s response that he only half-paid attention to in himself, and some measure of guilt that he maybe hadn’t thought of ever approaching Sebastian to make the situation easier – and some kind of painful realisation that Tyb would really rather the two of them be friends, the easy way it had used to be with Sebastian Beauregard when they were just classmates in the Gryffindor common room.
But then Tyb heard the word insulted, as in Sebastian Beauregard thought he was the one who had a right to be insulted, and Tybalt snapped. He pulled back his arm, in some old echo of his beater days – and though he didn’t have a bat in hand, his fist would do for one swing. With all his weight behind it, he aimed for Beauregard’s face – his fist connected, and –
“AH, damn it—” Tyb said, his exclamation devolving into a jumble of curses as he shook his hand out in shock, and then was forced to cradle it at the unexpected spark of pain. Alright, so maybe he didn’t have much experience in fights like this – on the ground, no bludgers in sight, no wands to duel with – but surely he had known how to throw a punch? Was there really that much technique to that? Wasn’t it supposed to be easy; wasn’t the victim of the punch supposed to be one who faced injury?
His gaze snapped up at Beauregard again, eyes widened in horror. “Sorry,” Tyb yelped hastily, suddenly awash with apology, “– sorry.”
