[behind her is more nothing, more stillness, more silence; it's so quiet here, he thinks, and immediately hates the sick thrum of homesickness (not the place; the person) that churns in his gut]
[but after a moment, there's a metallic sound; a lighter flicked idly open with a had that was too chewed up to belong to a fourteen year old above the ground]
[flick, catch. flick, catch. like a signal fire, or a lighthouse, maybe: communication still being attempted in the dark]
[and he suddenly wants to start babbling at her I hurt him, I lost it and I hurt him, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what's happening to me, I know exactly what's fucking happening to me, but all that comes out is]
[ a shake of her head, blind attention fixed on his lighting up the darkness with small flame and its trigger sound. but his question is bland and empty and not a question at all, and Nill's not sure the extra quiet of a turned back will help anything any at the minute.
but she also isn't sure face to face won't act like a battering ram, clam him all up tighter.
holding stance, she turns her head, blue eyes open and seeking him out again as she flashes a slight weary smile - a show of solidarity.
[the boy wonders why Sakamoto sent her (because he obviously did, even with whatever the hell Badou did to his face, his ribs); concludes after a few moments (a few catches of the lighter) that probably nobody ever knew why that asshole did anything]
[although he doesn't smile back, he doesn't tell her to fuck off. he does eventually say, over the quiet hum of cicadas]
Just 'coz I'm from the same place as you don't mean ya should trust me. Shit, it probably means ya definitely shouldn't. Ya really wanna be out here at night with some shithead ya don't know? You're either fearless or stupid, ain't ya.
[ which only has her smile stretching wider, has her finally twist around to brandish a brazen, openly confident shrug. there are bigger things to be afraid of than some bleeding one-eyed homesick shithead sitting on top of some poor asshole's car in the dark.
she's distracted, unwittingly, with the sky. the stars. one twinkles in her peripheries as she's busy having faith, and her chin tilts up to meet it. to take in the full map, to join dots and draw pictures in the night.
it's incredible, really. a completely different type of darkness. a completely different type of light. ]
[a rough snort, at that bold shrug, although with less derision than he's been known to snort with; after all, he knows it's fearless, wonders how she got like that (he knows which one he is, and that it's not the same)]
[he follows those bright blues after a moment, the tip of that pale-blonde head]
[do you know the constellations? he'd been asked, and he'd spat venom in return]
[the stars seem far away, unimportant and too lofty, compared to the stressful grind of now and here, of the answers he needs to know but can't find out, of the pump of sick blood and the gnash of too-sharp teeth that comprise Badou's every waking fucking moment]
[from the stars' angle, from the sky's angle, though, he guesses -- those are the unimportant things]
[he's not a bird, and he's never entertained flight; the sky makes him fearful and exposed in the daylight. but the night sky...]
[the night sky isn't home either, but it isn't as bad.]
[ the quiet is allowed to settle for a moment while she gathers her thoughts, arranges herself into something more helpful than a living confessional to a person who says less than she does for all his mouth talks.
she's not sure sure what he's gone through tonight. the blood (and that's something she'll deal with later if he's not planning on going back to base camp any time soon, though she's not so good at dealing with real wounds that stay open) she associates with Sakamoto's jumbled texts, but the trigger? the actual happenings? she doesn't know. what she does know is that it doesn't feel right to know nothing and let the issue lie, let old wounds fester further, wouldn't that be unhealthy? but then again, maybe he's done enough of his own purging for one night.
she doesn't know. she just doesn't know.
badou needs you, he'd said. what good had she done so far?
there's a certain hesitance in motion as her head lowers to look at him, a vague melancholy in her face. she knows the man this boy becomes almost less than she knows the boy himself - but these wounds, today's wounds become tomorrow's distance just as much as today's distance becomes tomorrow's bravado, and more than anything she just wants to know—
a hand reaches out, fingers brushing feather-light at a knee, and her face is all question and a dash of concern (she can't keep it hidden forever, it isn't in her nature to lie.)
[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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Re: action
[but after a moment, there's a metallic sound; a lighter flicked idly open with a had that was too chewed up to belong to a fourteen year old above the ground]
[flick, catch. flick, catch. like a signal fire, or a lighthouse, maybe: communication still being attempted in the dark]
[and he suddenly wants to start babbling at her I hurt him, I lost it and I hurt him, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what's happening to me, I know exactly what's fucking happening to me, but all that comes out is]
Can't sleep neither, huh.
Re: action
but she also isn't sure face to face won't act like a battering ram, clam him all up tighter.
holding stance, she turns her head, blue eyes open and seeking him out again as she flashes a slight weary smile - a show of solidarity.
sleep? it's a wonder anyone can. ]
Re: action
[although he doesn't smile back, he doesn't tell her to fuck off. he does eventually say, over the quiet hum of cicadas]
Just 'coz I'm from the same place as you don't mean ya should trust me. Shit, it probably means ya definitely shouldn't. Ya really wanna be out here at night with some shithead ya don't know? You're either fearless or stupid, ain't ya.
[flick, catch.]
Re: action
she's distracted, unwittingly, with the sky. the stars. one twinkles in her peripheries as she's busy having faith, and her chin tilts up to meet it. to take in the full map, to join dots and draw pictures in the night.
it's incredible, really. a completely different type of darkness. a completely different type of light. ]
Re: action
[he follows those bright blues after a moment, the tip of that pale-blonde head]
[do you know the constellations? he'd been asked, and he'd spat venom in return]
[the stars seem far away, unimportant and too lofty, compared to the stressful grind of now and here, of the answers he needs to know but can't find out, of the pump of sick blood and the gnash of too-sharp teeth that comprise Badou's every waking fucking moment]
[from the stars' angle, from the sky's angle, though, he guesses -- those are the unimportant things]
[he's not a bird, and he's never entertained flight; the sky makes him fearful and exposed in the daylight. but the night sky...]
[the night sky isn't home either, but it isn't as bad.]
Re: action
she's not sure sure what he's gone through tonight. the blood (and that's something she'll deal with later if he's not planning on going back to base camp any time soon, though she's not so good at dealing with real wounds that stay open) she associates with Sakamoto's jumbled texts, but the trigger? the actual happenings? she doesn't know. what she does know is that it doesn't feel right to know nothing and let the issue lie, let old wounds fester further, wouldn't that be unhealthy? but then again, maybe he's done enough of his own purging for one night.
she doesn't know. she just doesn't know.
badou needs you, he'd said. what good had she done so far?
there's a certain hesitance in motion as her head lowers to look at him, a vague melancholy in her face. she knows the man this boy becomes almost less than she knows the boy himself - but these wounds, today's wounds become tomorrow's distance just as much as today's distance becomes tomorrow's bravado, and more than anything she just wants to know—
a hand reaches out, fingers brushing feather-light at a knee, and her face is all question and a dash of concern (she can't keep it hidden forever, it isn't in her nature to lie.)
—are you alright? ]
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. ]