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This isn't a parkour battle.
No, this is something much more personal. More painful. Dirt and dust are kicked up into Seawatt’s eyes as another sharp pain spreads across the left side of his face. There's barely any time between the point where he feels his balance shift and when he goes skidding across the sandy ground.
He’s coughing and spitting at the stray sediment in his mouth, arms and hands desperately blocking his face as a weight lands on top of him; punching. Seawatt tries kicking, wriggling, and dragging himself away–out from under the body above–but to no avail. All he ends up with are fingertips bloody from being ground against the gritty stone. Silica and other sediment that would've been otherwise undisturbed for another lifetime at least; reddened and muddy.
With parkour battles there were rules. There was order of a higher magnitude that everyone had to follow because that's simply how it worked. And if you knew how it worked better than your opponent, you were the lucky one.
There were no rules here. Somewhere in the back of his clouded mind that was exciting to him. No rules meant there was no moral 'wrong', right? Seawatt would've thought so, but that would've meant he had no leverage. As it stood, he didn't have any; struggling between the ground and the weight across his middle.
There was no order here, either. Hair falls into his mouth repeatedly as Seawatt reckons with what the consequences of orderless-ness are. Maybe, his mind frantically rationalizes, trying to find a use-case for this type of fighting, order could be imposed. Next time he could try-
Pain shooting through his nose ends that thought sharply. Ends all other thoughts, really, as the sting of a very broken nose pushes him to be as outwardly frantic as his mind was.
There was no luck here, at least not for Seawatt. He's uninformed; unprepared. At least during Parkour Battles he can compensate with legal-but-ill-known tricks. Although, maybe that wasn't luck to begin with. Maybe he's truly been unlucky all this time, only clever enough to bridge the gap. The gap here feels like a chasm even as Seawatt twists blindly and barely manages to buck the weight off. He didn't feel lucky coughing on his own breaths and spit; dirt and sand. Hair and sweat and fucking tears because whatever this is…
… it’s dirty. Messy. Personal.
He hasn't opened his eyes in a number of minutes you can't count with two hands, blindly trying to fight back something truly terrifying. Now, that 'something terrifying' is a force of nature much more skilled in non-parkour fighting than it should be and all of a sudden parkour is at the end of a long list of relevant skills to have. Seawatt feels like he didn't know terror before; the rules of your life ripped from beneath you and thrown into the cold void.
Even now he continues to pull himself away. Cracked fingertips finally gaining traction against the sedimentary floor as eyes irritated from something salty creak open. He coughs, hard and pained, glaring across the sandstone floor at the figure struggling to its feet. It looks more like a thing than a person through the clouds of dust; silhouette agitated and hunched, radiating snapped anger and a pained sort of raw emotion.
Seawatt bites his lip open while struggling to drag himself upright against the sandy wall. The taste of iron in his mouth distracts from the pain inflicted wherever else. Although, the blooming sensation is almost… nice. That's the cope talking, he understands distantly. With parkour being so far removed, pain is one of the few constants he's left with.
He shouts something at Evbo, the other constant. Something sharp and antagonizing, along the lines of ‘kill me now, I dare you’. It's dirty, sure, but that's par for the course. Nothing about this fight is left untouched by it. Dirt that was probably undisturbed for decades has already relearned flight and found new homes–their hair and skin; mouth and lungs. Seawatt coughs on it after he speaks, spitting red and brown and fine glinting micha to the side. If Evbo couldn't take fighting dirty then he shouldn't have started it. Seawatt shouts something more bitter between the lung-fulls of dirt. It's harder the second time, world tilting slightly askew. Vision beginning to spin independently of his focus.
He loses time between blinks. During the span of one Evbo had changed from some animalistic thing shrouded in dust to hands reached out, tight around Seawatt's neck. He coughs; he swallows; he sputters. ‘But you need me,’ spit mockingly through broken breaths. ‘How else are you going to leave?’ Evbo knows he couldn't find the compasses himself. Seawatt knows he doesn't quite mean what he's saying; wishes it to be true. If he says it enough maybe he will eventually be needed.
This fact is what Seawatt revels in, even if he has to blink stars from his eyes; for now, Evbo tangibly needs him. Even if the hands around his neck and hot, angry breaths against his face are suffocating. Even as emerald eyes so betrayed and so, so livid bore into his own. It’s funny. He could laugh. He should. He can't though, and instead one of his bloody hands shakily rub at one of Evbo’s wrists.
It tracks blood across the other’s skin and adds another layer to that complicated expression Seawatt is met with; he smirks. Though it's a strained smirk and likely looks very pathetic. He doesn't care. Evbo won't kill him.
The irony of it all is not lost on Seawatt. This is supposed to be Parkour Civilization, not…
Ah… he doesn't remember the point he was going to make.
Eventually, he feels his smirk relax. He feels his everything relax. Slipping into the darkness that pools and dances at the edges of his vision; ever slowly ever encroaching until there's only green eyes heavy with a strange look surrounded by darkness.