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This is how Oskar dulls the pain.
A split lip, a cracked knuckle, a throbbing in his right eye that would no doubt bruise in the morning. Between the ringing in his ears and the fists covering his vision, it’s almost enough to make him forget.
Oskar throws a punch, not to defend himself, but to convince himself that he’s still a man. That he’s in a fight, not a beating. That the world hasn’t chewed him up and spat him out yet. It never works, of course. Oskar always picks a fight with the biggest, toughest, and meanest motherfucker he can find, and despite it all he’s not exactly the most fit of pros.
A punch to the cheek and knee to the chin and he’s down. The man begins stomping on him, kicking him in the ribs like Oskar had insulted his mother. If there is one thing he is good at, it’s pissing people off. Hell, it’s just about the only thing he could do right these days.
The man eventually stops though. They all do, and Oskar almost wishes that they didn’t. So here he is, lying in an alley behind some godforsaken Berlin bar, blood and drool dripping down his lips. Not long after, the darkness sets in and Oskar feels his head getting lighter. He prefers going to sleep in his own bed, but this will do.
Just before the darkness takes him though, he sees a pair of feet standing before him, followed by a pair of warm, soft hands cradling his head. It’s nice, too nice. He can’t see who it is, but Oskar only knows one person who could make him feel like this.
“Neme…” he manages to croak out before losing consciousness.
He dreams. He always does when he goes out like this. They’re never concrete, never clear, but in his heart of hearts he knows them for what they are. Long nights spent in front of a computer screen, bumping chairs with one another as they both try to stay awake. Comforting one another after the deafening silence of a loss. Promises made under blankets as they huddled for warmth.
When he wakes, he tries to reach out and hold on to those fleeting memories, but they elude his grasp and slips through his fingers, brushing the edge of his reach as if taunting him to go after them. Much like the man himself, Oskar thinks, somewhat amused.
There’s a bed on his back and ceiling above his head, which set Oskar on edge. A cursory glance around the room reveals that he had zero fucking clue where he is, and yet somehow this place feels familiar. He turns his head to the side (sending jolts of pain to his face and neck and everywhere) and finds his worst fears confirmed.
“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Adam says from his chair, not even looking up from his phone.
Oskar shoots up on the bed, and immediately regrets it. Pain sears through his back and chest, making him jam his eyes shut and grit his teeth to avoid the moan struggling to escape his lips.
“Stop that, I just finished patching you up.” His new midlaner put his phone away to glare disapprovingly at him. “The least you could do is not ruin my hard work.”
“Fuck off. Never become a nurse, by the way. Your bedside manner is terrible.” Despite it all, Oskar still finds it in him to snap back. He has to. It did not do wonders for his aches however, and he suppresses another groan. “How did you even find me?”
“I followed you.” At Oskar’s surprised look, Adam rolls his eyes. “What you think I wouldn’t get curious where my jungler disappears off too every week and comes back looking like he got the shit kicked out of him? Oh wait, you did get the shit kicked out of you!”
Oskar flinches. “Not so loud, the others will—”
“They’re all out of the house for breakfast. You’re welcome by the way. If it weren’t for me Crownie would have seen the state you were in.”
A part of Oskar told him that he probably should thank Adam. The other, louder part of him is too annoyed and pissed off to consider that a possibility.
“I don’t need your help,” Oskar snapped. “I can take care of myself just fine.”
“You were lying in a puddle of your own blood when I found you. A baby could have taken better care of themselves.”
“The bouncers would have found me and sent me to an emergency room. Someone getting beaten up in their premises is bad business.” A beat of silence passes. Oskar watches as Adam’s expression morphs into a mix of horror, surprise, anger, and confusion. He continues, “And it’s not like I saw you helping me out when I was fighting that guy. I thought you were following me?”
“Dude,” Adam begins, suddenly very grave. “If you said to me half the things you said to that guy back there, I would have killed you on the spot. Hell, I had half a mind to leave you back there.”
Suddenly, Oskar feels very uncomfortable. He never really remembers the stuff he says to piss people off, other than he’s certain that it would piss people off. “That bad?”
“That bad.”
Oskar scratches the back of his neck. “Then why didn’t you? Leave me to die, I mean?”
Adam considers it for a moment. He crosses his arms and looks away. “We still have a split to play. I need you to actually be able to play it until the end of summer at least.”
The midlaner’s answer is weak and lacks conviction, and they both know it. Still, Oskar doesn’t care enough to delve too deeply into Adam’s words. He spots his shirt on the nightstand, already washed and pressed and folded. Adam must have taken it off of him to apply bandages and salves to his injuries and even went so far as to clean off the blood. There is even an ibuprofen tablet and glass of water ready. He takes the shirt and pulls it over his head, trying (and failing) to avoid agitating his wounds.
“Well thank you for this, but you don’t need to go to the trouble next time. Like I said, I can take care of myself.” Oskar takes the tablet and downs it without water.
As he makes to leave the room, Adam speaks once more. “I don’t suppose I can stop you from going out again, can I?”
“Not really. No.”
“Then I’m coming with you the next time you go out. Somebody needs to make sure you come home alive.”
Oskar really wants to tell his midlaner off, but he isn’t in the mood to argue. “Do whatever you want. Just don’t get in my way.” He opens the door and had one foot out before Adam called to him again.
“Oskar,” Adam says, softer and gentler than he had been since this conversation began. “None of this is going to bring him back.”
“…I know,” Oskar answers, his hold on the doorknob growing limp. “But it sure as hell makes me feel better.”
And with that, he slams the door shut behind him.