[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]
[ he doesn't laugh, but he doesn't hide the smile either. when Badou coughs, he pats his back instead. nothing sharp, nothing too hard, but firm. a broad, friendly gesture.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
don't die too quickly, now. ]