Eobard knows he's losing his mind when he starts thinking that fighting the Flash is not unlike poetry.
(His brain may belong to the sciences, but a good part of his heart is dedicated to the arts, thanks to the classical education his family name had bankrolled. Homer, Dante, Chaucer, Dickenson, Eliot, Angelou, West; he never could pick a favorite.)
Poetry, he'd learned, was the communication of ideas and truths, with special attention devoted to rhythm and style, authored with the ultimate intent to share that which is beautiful and profound.
His poetry professor would probably wilt at the thesis statement alone, but Eobard's pretty sure that he could write a full dissertation on how the indelicate application of the Flash's fist to his face, and vice versa, brings him closer to God.
The Flash is quick, actually demonically fast, usually little more than a crimson after image and ozone scented waves of excess energy that ripple through Eobard, leaving his heart in his throat and his hair standing on end. He's cocky, though, relaxed to a fault, that maddening Cheshire grin printed on Eobard's retinas long after he's gone.
Eobard is getting better at understanding the Flash's quirks, the way he thinks and the tactics he employs. He's come to savor the familiar cadence of their meetings, the meter of the blows and the composition of their strategies; the narrative expounded in each subsequent verse of their bloodletting.
But for all the strides he's made towards living up to the future-memory of what the Reverse Flash will mean (does mean, has meant) to the Flash, the notion that challenges Eobard, puzzles him, gets under his skin is the idea that sometimes the Flash is waiting for … well, to put it bluntly, like he's waiting for Eobard to catch up.
Look at him now, leering at Eobard like a spastic Red Vine (yes, they still make Red Vines in the 22nd century, only with a higher plastic content than the original recipe), leaving an obvious gap in his defenses, daring Eobard to show his teeth. It's a trap because only an idiot would try to capitalize on so transparent a feint, and they both know Eobard's no idiot.
Eobard is, however, certain that he's losing his mind. So he's not surprised when the bloodlust rises in him, like savage Enkidu or philistine Goliath, prepared to deliver this hero unto Hades himself. He strikes.
The only thing he can see is the Flash laughing in his face even as he rushes them both to the ground. They tumble together and Eobard makes sure he ends up on top, fist poised to crush the Flash's skull in. It'd be easy.
The Flash is catching his breath, winded from the merriment or the impact, Eobard can't tell for sure. But he's grinning that insufferable grin and otherwise not fearing for his life.
"Here I thought I was the insane one," Eobard drawls, his glove creaking as he flexes his fist. But he allows his curiosity to get the better of him, and the extended pause in which the Flash remains unbludgeoned is read correctly for the unasked question it is.
"Insane? You wanna hear insane?" Like it or not, there is a manic note to the Flash's voice that Eobard can't ignore. "All I could think about that entire fight was that I would totally go get a drink with you."
If Eobard were a cartoon, his eyebrows would have rocketed right off his face. As it is, they make a valiant dash for his hairline. "I'm sorry, did I wear the wrong suit today? Could you have mistaken me for someone else? For literally anyone else?"
The Flash just puts his head back against the concrete and laughs.
In the next heartbeat, Eobard's laid out flat on his back, with that demonchild smirking down at him like he's the king of the goddamn world. "When the time is right, I'll be there. You know the place."
"What the f-FLASH!" Eobard blusters, needles of electricity running through him in the wake of the Flash's abrupt retreat. His heart's left racing in his chest and he knows full well it has nothing to do with the stolen victory or the shame of yet another defeat.
Eobard lets his head fall back onto the pavement with a crack, hoping it might knock some sense back into him. For man is a giddy thing, indeed.
