[ he hears Badou before he sees him, but surprisingly, he smells him before he ever gets close enough to see, too. he knew the boy wasn't a smoker, knows that nobody in that household was save for Toushirou. this, though, isn't anything near what the Shinsengumi vice-chief smoked.
he smiles to the sky when the kid sits down, though, watching him sidelong and so carefully neutral. takes note of what he can see of the boy's face, his expression, the set of bony shoulders.
the coat.
ah. ]
Would you like it now, or do want to enjoy the scenery a little more?
[he's not good at answering questions on, really, his best days; living in an infohound's den was bound to fuck with your sense of other people's curiosity (if words are weapons, how can they ever leave your mouth painlessly?)]
[so the response is a shrug, and an empty ache where he should feel something]
[his goal, his hate, that ten fucking K to that fucking asshole, he can't even focus on those tried and true distractions; it's nothing but static and echoes]
[ like he'd ever forget the weight, no matter how small the object. but it's with a small laugh, a chuckle, that he brings the box forward, simple cardboard kept closed with tape around an embarrassing wad of crumpled newspaper, a poor man's wrap-job.
better action than words, in this situation. the stench of old cigarette smoke is almost overwhelming, less for the acrid aroma than the faded sense to it.
[he doesn't tear at it like an adult, or a kid, really; neither calmly paced nor frenzied and overexcited; he rips at the newspaper like a person might rip off an old bandage destined for the trash, thinking on the wound instead of the wrappings]
[his eye, slack and glossy, goes a bit sharper when he pulls the box open, and his voice sounds strained, like he's been screaming (like has hasn't stopped screaming since -- )]
It's a Derringer, twenty-two caliber. Rosewood grips. It's small, but it's still powerful.
[ fondly, as if talking about a prized possession, a pet, a friend. he takes a smaller box from his coat, gives it a little shake. it rattles thickly. ]
Now, before I let you walk off with that, I need a number of promises from you.
This isn't a toy, an accessory, or something to play around with. You will not keep it loaded when it's not in use. You'll carry it on your person only, and only when you feel the absolute need to have it with you.
[ his pitch is still mild, his voice merry, but there's steel underlying all that now. this is Serious Business. ]
Use it only in the event of great danger to yourself, your housemates, or your friends. If I hear anything at all about you waving it around otherwise, firing it for no arguable reason, threatening one of the other kids your age with it, or otherwise showing off--
[his breath gets shallower as Sakamoto lists the promises that need to be made; something, he can feel something in his gut, finally -- and the demands sound muted in his head, although he hears every word]
[when the merchant finishes, asks for his word, Badou manages to identify the feeling in his gut]
[it is unfairness]
[and that half-hoarse voice gets rougher]
If ya think I'd do any'a that fucking scumbag shit, you're a bigger idiot than you look like, an' you look like a huge f-fuckin' idiot --
[the words are too forceful, his lungs feel punched of air, and his teeth shred his lip as they have once before]
Fuck you. M'not a fucking...
[whatever he isn't, he can't say, because the sparse air he has runs out. he shoves the gun back into the box, drawing his knees to his chest, that shitty brown coat enveloping thin, suddenly shaking limbs]
I guess I'm just that crazy, ahh? Old men like a little reassurance before they hand off something important.
[ he says to the sky, the clouds, still smiling like a dream. beside him, a small world shakes itself into a froth, a world that smells like cigarettes and iron and blood and a life so very far removed from his own.
something curious and small quivers in his chest, something he doesn't think he's felt in a long while. ]
[Badou is aching, Badou is tired, and he is so worriedlonelylost without his brother he can't even get pissed about it, not with this smell he'd already forgotten fogging his head up, making him dumb and raw]
[there's a sickness chewing at his temples and at his heart; he'll need a bigger gun than a Derringer to lay it to rest, but it's a start, it's a start towards trying to feel safe again (not protected; he was never protected)]
[there's a lot of reasons why he doesn't lean so much as cave beneath that arm, that mostly have to do with Dave]
[but some of them have to do with Sakamoto, too]
[his eye is dry; his body is crying for him, in feverish sweats and nerve twitches; with no rain, the storms underground are all electrical]
[ he feels the sun on his face, its warmth, and it makes him smile. he feels the breaking of something under his arm, at his side, and something just as small, odd and lumpy and foreign, catches somewhere in the general vicinity of his throat.
tipping his head down, he loops his arm around sharp, shaking shoulders with a certain sort of care, like he's loathe to disrupt the storm raging under sickness-pale skin. but the embrace is there, however light, that unspoken assurance hanging heavy between them, in the minute space left over.
i'm here, the arm around thin shoulder says. it'll be fine. ]
[it doesn't feel like his brother's arm; it lingers too long, it's too gentle, it's too strong, not Nails-sharp, brother-rough and jostling. he doesn't want to push it off, to stop the impending too-hard hair scruff, to bitch aw knock it off a'ready! because he was just doing it to embarrass him anyway, the stupid grinning idiot]
[he blurts, messy and catching, fish-hooked breaths]
I don't -- I don't know --
[where he is, if he's okay, why this shitty coat was sent, what to do, where to go from here, how to walk with a chest all full of hate and hollows alternating]
[he finishes all wrong, petulantly and disjointed]
[ 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. ]
[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)]
[ 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. ]
[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]
[ 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.
[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]
[ 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. ]
[and for the second time in Holly Heights, Badou finds somewhere -- finds someone -- that feels safe, that has seen him growl and shiver like a wounded animal and not turned away in disgust or fear or pity]
[he's been given trust, he's been given a shoulder to rest against, he's been given a person to talk to when his fucking head is too noisy]
[(Sakamoto has already been teaching him maintenance)]
[he takes another drag on the cigarette, and -- starts coughing]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: action mofo
he smiles to the sky when the kid sits down, though, watching him sidelong and so carefully neutral. takes note of what he can see of the boy's face, his expression, the set of bony shoulders.
the coat.
ah. ]
Would you like it now, or do want to enjoy the scenery a little more?
Re: action mofo
[so the response is a shrug, and an empty ache where he should feel something]
[his goal, his hate, that ten fucking K to that fucking asshole, he can't even focus on those tried and true distractions; it's nothing but static and echoes]
Re: action mofo
[ like he'd ever forget the weight, no matter how small the object. but it's with a small laugh, a chuckle, that he brings the box forward, simple cardboard kept closed with tape around an embarrassing wad of crumpled newspaper, a poor man's wrap-job.
better action than words, in this situation. the stench of old cigarette smoke is almost overwhelming, less for the acrid aroma than the faded sense to it.
it smelled like things gone. ]
Re: action mofo
[his eye, slack and glossy, goes a bit sharper when he pulls the box open, and his voice sounds strained, like he's been screaming (like has hasn't stopped screaming since -- )]
Seriously?
Re: action mofo
Very serious. Go on, you can handle it; it's not about to fall apart.
Re: action mofo
[he picks it up as bidden, turns it over]
...S'kiddie sized.
Re: action mofo
[ fondly, as if talking about a prized possession, a pet, a friend. he takes a smaller box from his coat, gives it a little shake. it rattles thickly. ]
Now, before I let you walk off with that, I need a number of promises from you.
Re: action mofo
[but now, with Sakamoto, today, he doesn't, just turns that sea-glass sharp eye on first the rattling box, and then the older man again]
[he grunts an assent, hands both tightening on the gun]
Re: action mofo
[ his pitch is still mild, his voice merry, but there's steel underlying all that now. this is Serious Business. ]
Use it only in the event of great danger to yourself, your housemates, or your friends. If I hear anything at all about you waving it around otherwise, firing it for no arguable reason, threatening one of the other kids your age with it, or otherwise showing off--
Re: action mofo
Then we'll have to have a talk. Do you understand? Do I have your word on the matter?
Re: action mofo
[when the merchant finishes, asks for his word, Badou manages to identify the feeling in his gut]
[it is unfairness]
[and that half-hoarse voice gets rougher]
If ya think I'd do any'a that fucking scumbag shit, you're a bigger idiot than you look like, an' you look like a huge f-fuckin' idiot --
[the words are too forceful, his lungs feel punched of air, and his teeth shred his lip as they have once before]
Fuck you. M'not a fucking...
[whatever he isn't, he can't say, because the sparse air he has runs out. he shoves the gun back into the box, drawing his knees to his chest, that shitty brown coat enveloping thin, suddenly shaking limbs]
Re: action mofo
[ he says to the sky, the clouds, still smiling like a dream. beside him, a small world shakes itself into a froth, a world that smells like cigarettes and iron and blood and a life so very far removed from his own.
something curious and small quivers in his chest, something he doesn't think he's felt in a long while. ]
Re: action mofo
and he holds out a hand, like an invite.
it's okay ]
Re: action mofo
[there's a sickness chewing at his temples and at his heart; he'll need a bigger gun than a Derringer to lay it to rest, but it's a start, it's a start towards trying to feel safe again (not protected; he was never protected)]
[there's a lot of reasons why he doesn't lean so much as cave beneath that arm, that mostly have to do with Dave]
[but some of them have to do with Sakamoto, too]
[his eye is dry; his body is crying for him, in feverish sweats and nerve twitches; with no rain, the storms underground are all electrical]
Re: action mofo
tipping his head down, he loops his arm around sharp, shaking shoulders with a certain sort of care, like he's loathe to disrupt the storm raging under sickness-pale skin. but the embrace is there, however light, that unspoken assurance hanging heavy between them, in the minute space left over.
i'm here, the arm around thin shoulder says. it'll be fine. ]
Re: action mofo
[he blurts, messy and catching, fish-hooked breaths]
I don't -- I don't know --
[where he is, if he's okay, why this shitty coat was sent, what to do, where to go from here, how to walk with a chest all full of hate and hollows alternating]
[he finishes all wrong, petulantly and disjointed]
-- it wasn't even August, it w-was fuckin' March.
Re: action mofo
[and he chokes off again; the only thing he had was reality to hold onto, Dave got all the dreams and ideals]
[curling up tighter, he hunches against Sakamoto's weight like a rock to hide behind (he can't deal with erosion, not like this)]
Re: action mofo
[ 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. ]
Re: action mofo
[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)]
Re: action mofo
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. ]
Re: action mofo
[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]
Re: action mofo
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. ]
Re: action mofo
[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.
Re: action mofo
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. ]
Re: action mofo
[he's been given trust, he's been given a shoulder to rest against, he's been given a person to talk to when his fucking head is too noisy]
[(Sakamoto has already been teaching him maintenance)]
[he takes another drag on the cigarette, and -- starts coughing]
Re: action mofo