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[the paper lowers in a crinkle, and worick facades (everything) the surprise on his face as well as a gambler who just got caught with an ace in his sleeve]
Well hey there ho there, look who it is.
[wrists cross over the folded faces like a dog's ready, playful paws and he leans forward curiously]
Ah, sorry, Suoh's carpet matches the drapes an' mine's natural. Ya sure you got the right place?
Well hey there ho there, look who it is.
[wrists cross over the folded faces like a dog's ready, playful paws and he leans forward curiously]
Ah, sorry, Suoh's carpet matches the drapes an' mine's natural. Ya sure you got the right place?
Wish I didn't.
[of course, Badou knows he's being fucked around; the scowl sets deeper, but he stands his ground, ignoring the playful paws (he's outmatched, and he knows it; it doesn't mean he'll turn belly-up, and that's the real tragedy, here)]
M'lookin' for Hiruma. M'supposed ta start workin' here today, an' he fed me a bunch'a shit about a hunnerd and twenty percent! so I wanna find out what the hell that even is an' if 12 bucks a hour is really worth it.
[his time's not the hot commodity, but he's still got other offers to see to]
[of course, Badou knows he's being fucked around; the scowl sets deeper, but he stands his ground, ignoring the playful paws (he's outmatched, and he knows it; it doesn't mean he'll turn belly-up, and that's the real tragedy, here)]
M'lookin' for Hiruma. M'supposed ta start workin' here today, an' he fed me a bunch'a shit about a hunnerd and twenty percent! so I wanna find out what the hell that even is an' if 12 bucks a hour is really worth it.
[his time's not the hot commodity, but he's still got other offers to see to]
12 bucks an hour, huh?
[worick imagines -- badou's hands bleach-stained from the bathrooms, badou's bruised face covered in wet gunpowder soot, badou's sun-starved body on a too-hot roof with bubbling tar (did they even do that here? it's The Future, after all)]
Must be a shitty-ass job. Whatcha need money fer so bad anyhow?
[yer in my back pocket, kid, and that ain't no good place ta be]
[worick imagines -- badou's hands bleach-stained from the bathrooms, badou's bruised face covered in wet gunpowder soot, badou's sun-starved body on a too-hot roof with bubbling tar (did they even do that here? it's The Future, after all)]
Must be a shitty-ass job. Whatcha need money fer so bad anyhow?
[yer in my back pocket, kid, and that ain't no good place ta be]
[the boy's face flattens]
Drugs, booze. Fuckin' rock concerts. Why else would I need money so bad?
[the bitterness that should be there at a lost youth just isn't; he's only annoyed Worick is making him jump through a hoop of his own devising]
-- Wait, what're you gettin' paid?
Drugs, booze. Fuckin' rock concerts. Why else would I need money so bad?
[the bitterness that should be there at a lost youth just isn't; he's only annoyed Worick is making him jump through a hoop of his own devising]
-- Wait, what're you gettin' paid?
I hear you.
[ despite himself, despite everything he knows about feral dogs and ticking time bombs, he edges a little closer, holds his arm around badou a little more firmly. smiles to the sky like he dares it to fall, to drop more of life's weight on bird's bones and a back too small and young to take the burden. ]
I hear you.
[ he fought the soldiers, the ranks and lines that fell from the stars once before, fought it all for an ideal and a dream, for country and comrade.
he wonders if he can do it again, stand up against fate herself, the fickle cruel wench, for a bright and angular bag of bones and thorns and roiling adolescent anguish. ]
[ despite himself, despite everything he knows about feral dogs and ticking time bombs, he edges a little closer, holds his arm around badou a little more firmly. smiles to the sky like he dares it to fall, to drop more of life's weight on bird's bones and a back too small and young to take the burden. ]
I hear you.
[ he fought the soldiers, the ranks and lines that fell from the stars once before, fought it all for an ideal and a dream, for country and comrade.
he wonders if he can do it again, stand up against fate herself, the fickle cruel wench, for a bright and angular bag of bones and thorns and roiling adolescent anguish. ]
Less'n 12, that's fer sure.
[it'd be hard to call him on whether or not this was the truth unless you were Hiruma or Nicolas; plenty of reasons to lie, plenty of reason to tell the truth]
[make a dog feel fed and feel special, he'll keep coming back; he can play that shitty captain's game too, passing the kid back and forth like a fucking ping-pong ball]
I think he's droppin' off a deposit at the bank, should be back soon. I can give ya some busy work 'til then if ya want.
[it'd be hard to call him on whether or not this was the truth unless you were Hiruma or Nicolas; plenty of reasons to lie, plenty of reason to tell the truth]
[make a dog feel fed and feel special, he'll keep coming back; he can play that shitty captain's game too, passing the kid back and forth like a fucking ping-pong ball]
I think he's droppin' off a deposit at the bank, should be back soon. I can give ya some busy work 'til then if ya want.
[the harsh flinch at the increased touch is probably expected, but that he jitters himself beneath it until he's settled again, like a child rocking themselves back to sleep from a nightmare, probably isn't. he's starved for it, for contact that doesn't hurt but still stings, for affection that's sought after, not freely offered; Sakamoto is keeping that bag of bones from clattering right apart]
[what should have sounded like platitudes hits hard; back home, their problems didn't get fixed (rarely even got understood), but they were always listened to, if someone chose to speak (and they did)]
[I fuckin' hate school, Badou would yell and mean a hundred other things, about isolation and fear and anger]
[Ah, cigarettes are gettin' too expensive, Dave would mutter and mean a hundred more, about desperation and practicality and truth]
[listening mattered then and it matters now, with a man who isn't his brother, but is someone Badou -- falteringly, with such stupid blindness -- trusts]
[those knocking bones slowly settle more, but his shallow, ragged breathing does not, and he fumbles a hand down, pulling out a pack of cigarettes (Hijikata's) and a lighter (his own) from that stupid coat]
[Sakamoto had assumed he doesn't smoke; he doesn't. he just wants to pull heat back into himself, put something in his lungs that isn't loss (which coincides with the oxygen he keeps choking on)]
[what should have sounded like platitudes hits hard; back home, their problems didn't get fixed (rarely even got understood), but they were always listened to, if someone chose to speak (and they did)]
[I fuckin' hate school, Badou would yell and mean a hundred other things, about isolation and fear and anger]
[Ah, cigarettes are gettin' too expensive, Dave would mutter and mean a hundred more, about desperation and practicality and truth]
[listening mattered then and it matters now, with a man who isn't his brother, but is someone Badou -- falteringly, with such stupid blindness -- trusts]
[those knocking bones slowly settle more, but his shallow, ragged breathing does not, and he fumbles a hand down, pulling out a pack of cigarettes (Hijikata's) and a lighter (his own) from that stupid coat]
[Sakamoto had assumed he doesn't smoke; he doesn't. he just wants to pull heat back into himself, put something in his lungs that isn't loss (which coincides with the oxygen he keeps choking on)]
[he's unable to discern if it's in fact fer sure; he wonders if D -- if anyone could read this asshole consistently, suspects not (how do you get to be so good at lies? he's not sure he wants to know)]
[he's always been much too hungry to feel fed and special, so the beckon towards something to struggle at unwittingly pacifies]
[it's not ideal -- he'd rather not be taking (more) orders from this man -- but so few things rarely are]
Okay.
[he's always been much too hungry to feel fed and special, so the beckon towards something to struggle at unwittingly pacifies]
[it's not ideal -- he'd rather not be taking (more) orders from this man -- but so few things rarely are]
Okay.
Couple customers emptied some clips back on the range. Pick up the shells, then give the whole thing a sweep.
[the gigolo gestures at a closet marked with a UTILITY sign, broom-ready]
[he figures the kid's probably seen his way about a few times by now; he'd gotten word of a hopeful purchase for a firearm, had chuckled at it -- ]
Don't go hidin' in no corners, ya might get shot.
[the way he does now, full of jokes no one else laughs at]
[the gigolo gestures at a closet marked with a UTILITY sign, broom-ready]
[he figures the kid's probably seen his way about a few times by now; he'd gotten word of a hopeful purchase for a firearm, had chuckled at it -- ]
Don't go hidin' in no corners, ya might get shot.
[the way he does now, full of jokes no one else laughs at]
[a few doors slam in the succession; the one to the utility closet, the one to the range (even trying to camouflage himself in baggy clothing, he's as skinny as the damn broom over his shoulder)]
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[over black-and-white, red all over calls]
What else?
[it doesn't take him that long, non-withstanding one explosive occasion with a customer and the following explosive shouting match (Are you fuckin' slow?! Put the rifle down for ten fuckin' seconds!)]
[the third slam eventually comes, and he's back in the shop carrying a slightly larger raincloud than before (the question lingers; how did this kid look so dry and flammable all the time?)]
[he doesn't bother putting the broom away yet, and his hands (and the bandages around his hands) are greasy with gun-refuse]
[over black-and-white, red all over calls]
What else?
Edited 2013-08-04 20:48 (UTC)
[ eyes snap down to the pack, sharp and quick, but Sakamoto says nothing. there are worse choices that could be made in a kid's life, and smoking is perhaps the lesser of all adolescent evils out there, next to joyrides and shaving carol's head.
he could allow this much. at least it isn't the toxic mash of opium some other hate-fueled beast is so fond of.
it's with that same soothing slowness that he reaches out with his free hand, plucking up that pack. (a familiar sight, a familiar sort of smell, quickly filed away.)
it's not one cigarette that's tapped out, but two. ]
he could allow this much. at least it isn't the toxic mash of opium some other hate-fueled beast is so fond of.
it's with that same soothing slowness that he reaches out with his free hand, plucking up that pack. (a familiar sight, a familiar sort of smell, quickly filed away.)
it's not one cigarette that's tapped out, but two. ]
[they're not a crutch for his mind, not yet; he wouldn't have not been able to eventually shrug off that shoulder, to stand up, and skulk back to the asphalt (sand is too unstable, he needs hard pavement, even if it hurts more when you fall down)]
[but they are an acidic comfort, a warm reminder, and a chemical haze that drowns out (hateanguishhatehatehate) those feelings he falls prey to far too easily]
[he's too numb and dumb to stop the other man from taking them, but there's exhausted relief on his face when it's not another bullshit fight, not another pointless battle (nobody worried about smoking down there -- it was a much more generous death)]
[Badou provides the catalyst, and the chunky square lighter provides the flame]
[but they are an acidic comfort, a warm reminder, and a chemical haze that drowns out (hateanguishhatehatehate) those feelings he falls prey to far too easily]
[he's too numb and dumb to stop the other man from taking them, but there's exhausted relief on his face when it's not another bullshit fight, not another pointless battle (nobody worried about smoking down there -- it was a much more generous death)]
[Badou provides the catalyst, and the chunky square lighter provides the flame]
[ Sakamoto isn't a smoker; no time, no need, no desire. smoking on the ships could spell disaster, besides, the smoke interfering with hardware and the more delicate sensors. on top of that, the fact that oxygen was at something of a premium in the deeper reaches of the galaxy wasn't something to be easily ignored.
now, though, none of that really matters.
now, he's leaning in to light the end of his thieved cancer stick in the flickering butane flame of some slum-mole's lighter.
it's not so bad. ]
now, though, none of that really matters.
now, he's leaning in to light the end of his thieved cancer stick in the flickering butane flame of some slum-mole's lighter.
it's not so bad. ]
[the boy lights his own, inhales deep; he's getting better at it, not coughing (as much) as he used to do]
[the ash burns away the taste of fear, the smoke muddles his electrical fire brain, and the bright, bright glow at the end of the cigarette, even against the dull grey of the sea-sky, is a light in the darkness (that ain't at the end of a fucking tunnel)]
[when he breathes out, his shoulders finally (almost) relax under Sakamoto's long arm]
[it's not so bad for Sakamoto; it's just enough, just enough for Badou]
...Thanks. For the gun.
[the ash burns away the taste of fear, the smoke muddles his electrical fire brain, and the bright, bright glow at the end of the cigarette, even against the dull grey of the sea-sky, is a light in the darkness (that ain't at the end of a fucking tunnel)]
[when he breathes out, his shoulders finally (almost) relax under Sakamoto's long arm]
[it's not so bad for Sakamoto; it's just enough, just enough for Badou]
...Thanks. For the gun.
[ Sakamoto isn't a smoker, and he doesn't think he ever will be one. the smoke in his mouth, his throat, his lungs is an acrid thing, smoother than burning wood, grass, cloth, other things, but too similar still. singed tobacco and chemicals he probably couldn't name on a good day.
but he still pulls each drag deep, lets it sit a second before exhaling quiet and heavy, silent sighs each.
how in the hell did toushirou tolerate these things? ]
I trust you with it.
[ he says it simple and neat, imparting a fact. the sky is blue, the sand is warm, the stars are beautiful. ]
I'll teach you proper maintenance for it.
[ it'll be okay, his tone seems to suggest, the way his arm nudges in a little closer, protective, defensive. i'll be here to teach it. ]
but he still pulls each drag deep, lets it sit a second before exhaling quiet and heavy, silent sighs each.
how in the hell did toushirou tolerate these things? ]
I trust you with it.
[ he says it simple and neat, imparting a fact. the sky is blue, the sand is warm, the stars are beautiful. ]
I'll teach you proper maintenance for it.
[ it'll be okay, his tone seems to suggest, the way his arm nudges in a little closer, protective, defensive. i'll be here to teach it. ]
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