[there's a minute or two before the next text, Badou checking the network for context -- he finds the conversation quickly, eye drawn to that redred stare and blunt voice]
[that boy reeks of dark holes and he's itching, itching to find out more]
before when they gengineered u ? i thought u aint remembered any of that
[ she shouldn't be talking to him about this everything is dangerous everything is too close to too much and she can't she can't she can't one word out of place will break everything but she needs someone, needs something to hold onto— ]
[the boy forgets to shrug off his apron, simply walking out of the grocery shop to a chorus of hey Freckles you just had your break where d'ya think you're goin' -- ]
[ and she is, a small little thing huddled up on the steps outside the vast building, outside because for as close as it is to "God" it isn't close enough to home
she's wrapped her cardigan around the egg she's made of herself, nose to her knees and stubbornly not, notcrying. what is there to cry about? but she's so much smaller than she had been an hour ago, lost wings neatly clipped. ]
[when he appears, he looks edgy and distracted, constantly checking his phone, but seeing her focuses his attention, and the mobile is shoved into an apron pocket]
[he makes an awkward pile of limbs next to her, all edges and sharpness, where she's all curved smallness]
[it's not like he's waiting for her to speak, but he doesn't say anything, all the same; he's not sure what she's going through, and Badou knows enough not to fuck with what he doesn't understand (now, he does, anyway)]
[ Badou arrives and Nill crumples and strengthens at once. she's not sure exactly when she came to expect him as much as she does (to know he's around, that he's there, that he'll be there at times exactly like now) but the heap of limbs that lands beside her is like a spine, something to shape herself around, to bend and re-gather.
but it's also a reminder. suddenly, she's in too deep. suddenly heine's here and it's not a heine she can ask to keep quiet. it's not a heine who can or will lie for her. it's a heine from before her time.
she misses him. she misses him, him and everyone, misses them terribly and suddenly he's here - but he isn't, not really. that boy isn't the man she knows. and part of her is afraid to meet him, afraid to know what came before. but just as great is the fear that badou, the piece of home that was most alien there but has come to mean Home in a place that's alien, will find out that he's before her time too.
she's never considered this happening. she should've done. if badou can be younger, why not anyone else? and now there's just a mess and she's the only one who can see just how much, stood holding all the strings with no idea how to do anything but tie them in knots.
exhausted already, thoughts a whirlwind mess (there's nobody who can help me with this, nowhere to turn with this), Nill leans gently to the side, letting gravity tip her to bump against Badou's shoulder. hopes that's okay, because she just needs to know she's not going to drown. ]
[despite his luckiness comparatively, despite his non-stop mouth, Badou knows how hard communication can be. he knows what it's like to struggle with being understood, and to have just too much in your headheart. he knows what it's like to want to just give up, when his teeth and tongue inevitably shred every word up, distorting them as they try to escape]
[and he knows she only has that gentle touch, just as only he has those rough words and bone-bruising hands]
[so even though he's unused to it (now more than ever), even though it makes his skin prickle uncomfortably at first, he lets her light weight settle on him, like it's nothing (like they're nothing, just like the City had always told them)]
[the Undergrounder thinks of that afternoon at the beach, where Sakamoto had taken him under his arm and just let him fall apart and put himself back together, and how safe he'd finallyfinallyfinally felt -- but his cast is too bulky between them, resting on his knee, and he's too young to follow that kind of intuition (he's not a creature of comfort, but he can try to be a creature of not-hurt, maybe)]
[her hair smells nice, he thinks stupidly, and squeezes his fucked up palm, forcing the nerves to spark; where were her other scars? it wasn't just her throat, he knows that much (today proves that much)]
[ she isn't rejected, isn't inched away from. instead she is met where she lands, light against his side, allowed a space there for the time being. two placeless people given place, temporarily. alright. if he's fine, she can be. she can.
there is a quiet between them broken along with the silence as Badou asks his question - and it isn't intrusive, not really. it's surface. at least, it is on the surface.
fiddling about, her hands eventually slide out of her cardigan brandishing her phone and she stares at the blank message window for a moment longer than she needs to. her head swims. her stomach churns and she feels sick. she wants to tell him everything, but in reality she should probably tell him nothing.
taps out a message, tilts the screen so he can see: ]
nobody yet
[ and it hurts, because that little bit of truth might just mark the last thing she'll really be able to say to him for a while ]
[ she feels overwhelmed, everything swells and redacts and she just stares at the phone, awaiting inevitable questions. those three little letters stare her in the face, larger than life, larger than anything, and she wishes she never typed them.
but she doesn't flinch. maybe, in all the hubbub, they'll fly low under the radar if she just doesn't flinch. ]
[he wants to bite out a million questions, tells himself that he doesn't because the most important one (how do I get down there? how do I get down where they made himyouthem?) will go unanswered; almost-empathy tugs at him anyway, makes him want to try, try hard and say something, anything that will help her]
[but he knows can't undo the damage of the Below, can't make anything unhappen to any of them, can't make her sing her blues more clearly for him]
[in the end, he can only listen to her (it's not funny anymore), breathing in that softwashed scent, and offer ugly words slung together as best as he can]
That ain't so bad. It's another chance, ain't it? Least he's alive. If he's important... ya ain't gotta give up.
[they're all a little cracked, but they're not broken -- despite what everyone sees, they're not broken and they're not done, not yet]
Badou is blunt rust and sharp edges. it's not that she'd been expecting cruelty, but... perhaps at least for his kindness to be fumbled, awkward, better served silent. instead what she gets is— it rolls out of him and seeps into her, into all the stresstense muscles her little frame has to offer, under all the aches and over all the scars. it curls in her chest and wallows there, a hungry crocodile whose prey of choice is hurt.
she feels safe.
the guilt, a few short moments later, as she realises he gave her that and he probably doesn't understand yet, is crippling. but it buys her time. space to find something to do with all these strings.
breath rushing out in an audible sigh, Nill affords herself a small smile as her head turns to the side, forehead lowering to press against his shoulder for a moment; part acceptance, part thanks - all relief ]
[his head turns just a fraction, eye glancing down at the wavy wheat-blonde, trying to gauge that release against him -- but then the relieved sigh against his pallid, freckled neck makes him twitch, startle straight forward once more, all awkward and young]
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
[ her head lifts at the question, glances up at his face as the cigarette lights and is passed down, a baton of-- of what? it doesn't matter what. it's shared.
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: text
[that boy reeks of dark holes and he's itching, itching to find out more]
before
when they gengineered u ?
i thought u aint remembered any of that
Re: text
i dont
i dont know what to do
Re: text
Re: text
[the second text is sent with much more thought (about Nill)]
just talk 2 me
4 a while
maybe he got fucked w/
u know how ppl 4get stuff
down there
Re: text
but then it softens, a kindness, and although his platitudes lack anything that can actually comfort her, she finds comfort in them anyway ]
maybe
maybe thats it
[ it isn't, but that's okay ]
are you free?
Re: text
yeah
action;
[ and she is, a small little thing huddled up on the steps outside the vast building, outside because for as close as it is to "God" it isn't close enough to home
she's wrapped her cardigan around the egg she's made of herself, nose to her knees and stubbornly not, notcrying. what is there to cry about? but she's so much smaller than she had been an hour ago, lost wings neatly clipped. ]
Re: action;
[he makes an awkward pile of limbs next to her, all edges and sharpness, where she's all curved smallness]
[it's not like he's waiting for her to speak, but he doesn't say anything, all the same; he's not sure what she's going through, and Badou knows enough not to fuck with what he doesn't understand (now, he does, anyway)]
Re: action;
but it's also a reminder. suddenly, she's in too deep. suddenly heine's here and it's not a heine she can ask to keep quiet. it's not a heine who can or will lie for her. it's a heine from before her time.
she misses him. she misses him, him and everyone, misses them terribly and suddenly he's here - but he isn't, not really. that boy isn't the man she knows. and part of her is afraid to meet him, afraid to know what came before. but just as great is the fear that badou, the piece of home that was most alien there but has come to mean Home in a place that's alien, will find out that he's before her time too.
she's never considered this happening. she should've done. if badou can be younger, why not anyone else? and now there's just a mess and she's the only one who can see just how much, stood holding all the strings with no idea how to do anything but tie them in knots.
exhausted already, thoughts a whirlwind mess (there's nobody who can help me with this, nowhere to turn with this), Nill leans gently to the side, letting gravity tip her to bump against Badou's shoulder. hopes that's okay, because she just needs to know she's not going to drown. ]
Re: action;
[and he knows she only has that gentle touch, just as only he has those rough words and bone-bruising hands]
[so even though he's unused to it (now more than ever), even though it makes his skin prickle uncomfortably at first, he lets her light weight settle on him, like it's nothing (like they're nothing, just like the City had always told them)]
[the Undergrounder thinks of that afternoon at the beach, where Sakamoto had taken him under his arm and just let him fall apart and put himself back together, and how safe he'd finallyfinallyfinally felt -- but his cast is too bulky between them, resting on his knee, and he's too young to follow that kind of intuition (he's not a creature of comfort, but he can try to be a creature of not-hurt, maybe)]
[her hair smells nice, he thinks stupidly, and squeezes his fucked up palm, forcing the nerves to spark; where were her other scars? it wasn't just her throat, he knows that much (today proves that much)]
...Who is he t'you?
Re: action;
there is a quiet between them broken along with the silence as Badou asks his question - and it isn't intrusive, not really. it's surface. at least, it is on the surface.
fiddling about, her hands eventually slide out of her cardigan brandishing her phone and she stares at the blank message window for a moment longer than she needs to. her head swims. her stomach churns and she feels sick. she wants to tell him everything, but in reality she should probably tell him nothing.
taps out a message, tilts the screen so he can see: ]
nobody yet
[ and it hurts, because that little bit of truth might just mark the last thing she'll really be able to say to him for a while ]
Re: action;
but she doesn't flinch. maybe, in all the hubbub, they'll fly low under the radar if she just doesn't flinch. ]
Re: action;
[but he knows can't undo the damage of the Below, can't make anything unhappen to any of them, can't make her sing her blues more clearly for him]
[in the end, he can only listen to her (it's not funny anymore), breathing in that softwashed scent, and offer ugly words slung together as best as he can]
That ain't so bad. It's another chance, ain't it? Least he's alive. If he's important... ya ain't gotta give up.
[they're all a little cracked, but they're not broken -- despite what everyone sees, they're not broken and they're not done, not yet]
Re: action;
Badou is blunt rust and sharp edges. it's not that she'd been expecting cruelty, but... perhaps at least for his kindness to be fumbled, awkward, better served silent. instead what she gets is— it rolls out of him and seeps into her, into all the stresstense muscles her little frame has to offer, under all the aches and over all the scars. it curls in her chest and wallows there, a hungry crocodile whose prey of choice is hurt.
she feels safe.
the guilt, a few short moments later, as she realises he gave her that and he probably doesn't understand yet, is crippling. but it buys her time. space to find something to do with all these strings.
breath rushing out in an audible sigh, Nill affords herself a small smile as her head turns to the side, forehead lowering to press against his shoulder for a moment; part acceptance, part thanks - all relief ]
Re: action;
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
Re: action;
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]