[Author notes: I figure what with the amount of graphic lemons people keep posting in this section, something more tamer can't hurt. That having been said, if you're averse to a little, somewhat vague bit of violence and small NSFW-ish mentions, I'll tell you to stop reading here and avoid this piece. I know very few people read my work anyways, but I figured that a disclaimer would be good. Title is from Jay and the Americans's song "Come A Little Bit Closer"..Wow, that really shows my age, doesn't it?]
It wasn't exactly a good kind of exhaustion, what he felt after his semi-frequent spars with the DawnClan leader. Then again, exhaustion was rarely a good thing to begin with. He wasn't sure why he was thinking of that right at this moment, considering that they were currently dueling and he really needed to pay more attention-but, he thought that he was doing well enough dodging the ghost tabby's blows anyways. It seemed so, at the very least.
Once again, he struck, abruptly throwing his weight forwards in an effort to unbalance the other tomcat. Of course, this only served to unbalance himself in the end, given the black shorthair's prompt double kick to his injured side; he decided to go down messily if not gracefully, dragging the smaller tom into the dirt with him, both grinding sloppily against each other as they went.
It was some feral instinct by this point, nothing more. Granted, Duncan's curiosity was directed towards nearly everyone on some level (however vague), and he didn't particularly hold any sort of animosity towards Rockstar, but he wouldn't say that he was genuinely, primally interested in DawnClan's head. Not in the way that he was interested in Hawktalon or Bearclaw, or any past fling of his. He thought that this feud was stupid, sure, but if anything, purposefully pushing the other's buttons gave him a workout. It was far from boring, he thought, mentally noting that the tabby was close to release and choosing to step up his game with a wicked, delighted grin.
And this was a game, at least by this point. To Duncan, certainly. A claw, catching an ear. Lightly, not enough to tear or snag, but just right. It was right. Duncan didn't miss Rockstar's barely restrained shiver when one of his good feet (he wasn't mentally cataloguing what went where in the moment) hit a sweet spot as they rolled.
Faster than he could count, though, it was over. On one end, anyway. Duncan sniffed distastefully, and made a show of standing, shoving the leader beneath him (though that took more strength than he was willing to admit, so much willpower was going into keeping his creaky old limbs from shaking with exertion. The lack of food never helped him in any way), and roughly planting his head into the dirt. Rockstar looked up at the tortoiseshell, but did not speak. Duncan would not be dignified with any sort of response, it seemed.
The wheeze of Rockstar's breath and the view of blood dripping down the black cat's face was just about enough to send Duncan over the edge for the who-the-hell-knew-how-many-th time that day, but he held off just long enough to speak, a gravelly rasp present in his tone. "Look, buddy. You wanna die here? We both know that I can't. So unless you want your Clanmates to find your body soaked in more blood than they'll know what to do with, back off. 7 times is too damn many." With a shudder, he too then spent himself, and slumped down over the leanly-muscled tomcat's unmoving form. Neither of them would let the other get too comfortable, but for now it would do. They'd scuttle off back to their Clans later.