[the touch startles him, his nerves still strung beneath that sicklyslack skin like piano wire; he jolts away from it harshly (nothing of that exhalerelease he will one day watch Heine do, when her small hands make contact)]
[the lighter has been crushed in his hand still open, and the scent of lighter fluid is stronger than the scent of confession or forgiveness (he has a hard time at the first, never seeks the second at all)]
[he jitters out, a bit manically (the stars already forgotten; wasn't that the way of it, for lost boys?)]
Don't, don't touch me.
[it's neither a plea nor a command, somewhere inbetween]
[ the hand retracts immediately. no flinch, just cessation, retreating to settle against a glass window.
she'd forgotten, almost, the value of personal space. perhaps because touch is her talk - it's always she who breaches, never hers that's invaded. everyone knows better. the issue fades to non-. (it slips her notice that even in peace she is protected - bad memories just as horrid as bad people).
a nod confirms that she understands, don't touch me a promise she'll keep until times are right.
gaze still implores. still questions. still begs talk to me where gentle fingers don't. ]
[Badou's body, Badou's touch, is defunct and defect; he can only touch in ways that carry pain, rough brotherly elbows and hands, dogs fightingplaying in the dirt, and gentlesilent Nill is not eligible for these activities (she's been handled roughly in ways Badou knows have nothing, nothing to do with actual human contact)]
[they've been cannibalized by the city in different ways, and sometimes their ragged edges don't match; Badou mangles words and cannot bear to be touched, Nill speaks with her hands and cannot bear to speak]
[talk to me, but how?]
Did'ja ever wanna hurt the people that -- did that to you.
[ it's not what she was expecting. that shows on her face for a moment -- then again, she doesn't know what she was expecting.
it's something she has to think about. did she? had she ever wanted to hurt them? she thinks back to times spent hopping between gaggles of damaged children cowering in the dark. thinks back to the times spent on her own, cowering under blankets and behind skips. thinks back to the times she hadn't succeeded at hiding, but was cowering all the same.
she doesn't remember them. the people who made her what she is.
Nill shakes her head. what would hurting them do? where one falls, another would surely step forward into their place, leap at the chance to make a profit. her face is a mask of thought, of pale disgust and frustration. ]
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Re: action
Re: action
[the lighter has been crushed in his hand still open, and the scent of lighter fluid is stronger than the scent of confession or forgiveness (he has a hard time at the first, never seeks the second at all)]
[he jitters out, a bit manically (the stars already forgotten; wasn't that the way of it, for lost boys?)]
Don't, don't touch me.
[it's neither a plea nor a command, somewhere inbetween]
Re: action
she'd forgotten, almost, the value of personal space. perhaps because touch is her talk - it's always she who breaches, never hers that's invaded. everyone knows better. the issue fades to non-. (it slips her notice that even in peace she is protected - bad memories just as horrid as bad people).
a nod confirms that she understands, don't touch me a promise she'll keep until times are right.
gaze still implores. still questions. still begs talk to me where gentle fingers don't. ]
Re: action
[they've been cannibalized by the city in different ways, and sometimes their ragged edges don't match; Badou mangles words and cannot bear to be touched, Nill speaks with her hands and cannot bear to speak]
[talk to me, but how?]
Did'ja ever wanna hurt the people that -- did that to you.
Re: action
it's something she has to think about. did she? had she ever wanted to hurt them? she thinks back to times spent hopping between gaggles of damaged children cowering in the dark. thinks back to the times spent on her own, cowering under blankets and behind skips. thinks back to the times she hadn't succeeded at hiding, but was cowering all the same.
she doesn't remember them. the people who made her what she is.
Nill shakes her head. what would hurting them do? where one falls, another would surely step forward into their place, leap at the chance to make a profit. her face is a mask of thought, of pale disgust and frustration. ]