Kavinsky falls down shrieking. Let's be real, though; he's strong enough to flip a car these days, and has to drink through multiple bottles of hard liquor. He could walk a tightrope with thirty mile per hour winds, scale a wall with his bare fingers and toes. Or his bare fingers and rubber socks that don't have grips. He's a lot of Olympians rolled into one.

And he wouldn't have fallen if some part of him didn't maybe sort of kind of -- didn't want him to.

As it is, he ends up hitting dirt with his knee, and it's wet dirt, soaking through the fabric of his jeans, cold. Vex reeks of alcohol and misery. He shoves him toward the ground. And then he slaps him. Just a small stinging one, across the left side of his face. Then another one across the right side of his face. And then two more left. "You," he says, "are a lying." Slap. "Sack." Slap. "Of. Shit. And kind of a spineless yellow-belly, motherfuck--" slap! "—er. The fuck is wrong with you? You should--" slap. "Hate." Slap. "Me."