[ 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.
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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. ]