A/N: A newer, better version of the old story I had up. Written primarily for beekwhy on Tumblr because she's a pretty rad friend to have, I have to say.
'You're much too slow Artie!'
Laughter erupts from Oliver's throat as he takes a step backward, narrowly avoiding the fist aimed straight for his jawbone. His mouth is ticked by a smirk — he can practically taste his counterpart's fury. Every attempt Arthur has made to wound him thus far has been parried or avoided. Even in this world, Oliver is strong. Stronger than even the Incarnations.
But Arthur's no simple fellow either and Oliver is making a huge mistake by underestimating him; taunting him. He's pushing buttons that shouldn't even be looked at and the Briton is devising a plan.
Left left right left right left right right left. They dance together with the grace and skill of two highly trained individuals. Oliver's cocky — Arthur's feigning proclivity and it leaves Oliver unsuspecting. Arthur pauses. Oliver notices and stumbles to a halt, just as Arthur has hoped. He takes the initiative and lurches forward, catching Oliver by the ankles with a swipe of his leg and sends him staggering.
Just before Oliver hits the ground, Arthur's hands are around his neck and holding him, putting the brightly coloured Briton on his knees before him. Arthur's expression is hidden by his fringe as it dangles over his eyes but Oliver knows what this signifies.
Still, he gallantly wears his smile as the passage of his airway is squeezed closed, cutting off his oxygen supply. He won't make a sound — or very much movement at that. Were this any other person, he would have fought back. He would have broken their wrist and slit their throat without so much as a moment's hesitation.
But this is Arthur who holds him. Arthur whom, no matter how he's bullied and pushed him verbally, will never actually lay a hurtful finger on his body. Not a single one. The great Oliver Kirkland is practically paralyzed by his worst vice — and that vice will be what brings about his end.
His heart is pounding frantically in his ears, throwing itself against his rib cage in a futile attempt to pump oxygen. Something. Anything into his bloodstream to keep his body functioning. The colour has drained from his face; he wraps his hands around Arthur's wrists and forces out a gargled laugh. The world is becoming hazy and disoriented. His vision is blurring, not only by death's magic but by the tears threatening his throttled expression.
Two sickening teeters drop and descend. They roll down his cheeks and collect on the back of Arthur's palms. He hardly seems phased. Oliver is dying, dying, dying and the world is garbled like a T.V signal being jammed. Just before his life can leap from his body, he feels himself being jerked to his feet and pressed against a wall, adding to the world's giddy waltz.
Arthur's grip relaxes only a fraction on his throat and Oliver tries to take a breath, but the attempt dies before it's even born. Arthur's lips cover his own. Bruising, chaffing, sharp edges raze his bottom lip and draw blood. A feeble groan bubbles from his throat and is swallowed by Arthur.
He tastes of jasmine and cigarettes, a violently addictive combination, and Oliver can hardly handle it all. He's close to fainting, but Arthur breaks their contact with brutality and pins him against the wall.
'Don't you ever make a bloody fool of me again, you hear me? You want to play a game with me? Well, I can assure you that you've met your match no matter what world you're in.'
A shot rings out, cutting off the words Oliver had meant to whisper in responce. When had Arthur procured a gun? It didn't matter. Pain envelopes him and he closes his eyes as he tenses and wobbles. His side aches where the bullet has pierced through. Arthur takes strides to exit the room without so much as offering a backwards glance as he abandons Oliver and it isn't until the door slams shut that Oliver crumples to the ground, unconscious.