[a smaller idiot shows up (late, again, maybe it's something in his blood), although this one is wearing a brown coat, oversized and incredibly grubby]
[he had been -- not excited, nothing so kiddish as that, surely -- interested! interested, to see what Sakamoto had for him, on a day that coincidentally happened to be his fourteenth birthday, even if it wasn't really a birthday, even if it wasn't really a year worth celebrating]
[but now, his face doesn't speak of that enthusiasm; when Badou plunks down beside Sakamoto, his face looks brittle, his eye too dry, and his mouth too thin]
[and he smells, overfuckingwhelmingly, of cigarettes]
[ 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. ]
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Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
oh we should meet somewhere
maybe by the shore???
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
i guess thats
good ?
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
Just don't tell carol
and bring some alcohol
a cup will do even a thimble
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
can u do w/ a thimble of booze
r u gonna cut me
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
im terrible w/ sharp things anyway so no
no cutting or sharp things
Re: text; on the morning of the 3rd...
fine
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ill see u whenever just txt me when ur free
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action mofo
an idiot in a red coat watches the distant horizon ]
Re: action mofo
[he had been -- not excited, nothing so kiddish as that, surely -- interested! interested, to see what Sakamoto had for him, on a day that coincidentally happened to be his fourteenth birthday, even if it wasn't really a birthday, even if it wasn't really a year worth celebrating]
[but now, his face doesn't speak of that enthusiasm; when Badou plunks down beside Sakamoto, his face looks brittle, his eye too dry, and his mouth too thin]
[and he smells, overfuckingwhelmingly, of cigarettes]
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.
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[he picks it up as bidden, turns it over]
...S'kiddie sized.
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[ 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]
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[ 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--
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Then we'll have to have a talk. Do you understand? Do I have your word on the matter?
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[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 ]
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