mayoboro | 〈 ic contact 〉

i f ucked up again i need a cigarett e

How bad did you fuck up?

[...sure was in the middle of lunch. is not pedalling off his usual patrol route or anything.]

Edited 2013-07-17 12:25 (UTC)

[NO RESPONSE]

[he knows badou is the last person who wants people to think he needs to rely on someone. the kid is, for all that is first impressions, much more dependent and capable than the wild animal disconcerted by his surroundings. everything seemed better, as he rolled to his task of annoying others and being the most perfect piece of shit.]

[but traces of that first instance of vulnerability, when badou had thrown the first aid kit into a wall and cowered like a wounded dog, never quite left hijikata's mind. he would never prod and try to scrutinise rotten meat, but the flesh wound seemed to have dead cells at its core. it was only a matter of time, he figured.]

[he stops his bike, rests weight on his feet, and waits stupidly for another message telling him to 'shut the FUCK up this is dumb', or something along those lines. waiting in vain, and knowing so, he pockets the mobile and gets back on the bike seat, to turn back to the law enforcement building.]

[some time later, the scent of smoke will stink up the whole of badou's clinic room. outside, by the open window, hijikata will be off smoking while leaning against the walls of the clinic. he's waiting for the kid to get back to his room, or to notice. or whatever. he didn't really bother looking inside from the outside (he always patrols the outside of situations, reassuring himself that it helps keep a distance, until those inside lend him a hand before he can jump in).]

[a shaky Badou returns as the sky is darkening, and the smoke he sees outside his window makes him feel, in this state -- fucking delirious]

[his body feels like it moves all together, like some kind of shitty marionette, but his arms get there first, grabbing at the sill like the edge of a lifeboat. one is smeared liberally with fresh blood, but without any sign of a cut or scar. the other is bruised on the tender inside of his elbow, where an IV line should run]

[the name wells up in his throat, but he's hoarse from hate unspoken and self-loathing still scratches at his windpipe; it comes out wrong]

You --

[but of course, it isn't.]

[and after a moment Badou sinks to the floor inside his room, leaning against the sill]

[the ashen smell is enough to sedate his mind (but his stupid, idiot heart keeps beating wildly, unfairly)]

Hey, kid.

[he calls everyone younger than sougo "kid", unless he has reason not to. and it's not because he considers them children, but it's an easy name to fall back on which is not too personal nor sentimental or showing the current definitely weight in the atmosphere. clinging to their skin more than the humidity.]

[he puts a brand new package of cigarettes (malboros) on the sill; it still has the plastic wrap and the price tag at the back.]

Got your eye fixed?

[no movement, yet -- the stillness is unlike him. he's a frenetic boy with a constantly twitching body; staying still as a corpse might not signal a defeat, but it does signal something unnatural]

[but the fierce mutter comes]

No. You know what it looks like. Who cares, it's dead.

At least you're not completely blind. I knew a guy once who was.

[it sounds like he's making it up on the spot. casual and uncaring, not much of an effort to sound sympathetic. he takes on another drag of the cigarette and huffs.]

[the cigarettes will sit there and hijikata will make no attempt to push them towards him nor take them away if they don't seem accepted.]

I ain't feelin' fucking sorry for myself. F'my s-stupid fucking eye. I'm -- fucking --

[a few hard breaths from the other side of the sill; he refuses to lose it a second time tonight, to feel his brain switch off and something in his blood switch on, electrifying his limbs with fury]

[numb fingers finally fumble at the sill (the pack is taken by the arm smeared with blood)]

You would never feel sorry for yourself. You've made that pretty clear.

[some things are just meant to be. despite holly heights being a community where tragedy isn't meant to exist, where children and adults can live however long as a family unit regardless of their previously existing circumstance, there are things that never heal. a boy like badou, hijikata has figured, doesn't suffer over quantity of material possessions. much like he himself, what badou considered more important that barrels of gold and abundance of property was likely centred around something--someone.]

[he reacts impulsively and through a mix of emotions when certain terms are mentioned even if not meant to scratch at the surface of what is wrong. hijikata is no mind reader, but there's a connection that reaches out regardless of not knowing the whole story, and--besides--lost children are at times the easiest to read if one looks at the right angles.]

[beneath the thorns and the blood, there is something still vibrantly red and hurting. he gets that.]

Oi. How bad did you fuck up this time?

[now that the pack was taken, he puts down a lighter, calmly and gentle, in retrospect.]

Edited 2013-07-19 07:06 (UTC)

[there's a long silence-that-isn't in return; the quiet evening wind, Badou breathing in that above-ground air sharplyshallowly, a flint catching a few times, but no light, no fire]

Pr-pretty fuckin' bad. Makes the last time I fucked up look like, a, a fucking...

[he's struggling to focus on the words, to form them in a timely fashion and not stop-start-stutter (he's not good at words, was never good at them, though he still tries so hard)]

[he can't (won't) confess to the actual event a second time; it's already been gibbered incomprehensibly at the superwoman (who's luckily unversed in cryptic bullshit, he thinks, unlike a stupid infohound, unlike a fucking Nails)]

[instead of finishing the sentence, a light sparks in the dark, and a few seconds later, he coughs]

Edited 2013-07-19 08:28 (UTC)

[that's a lot of baggage for a kid his age- size- with skeleton shoulders and scrawny wrists. 'how is he supposed to carry all that weight by himself?' is not the question hijikata asks himself, but rather he doesn't question that badou will have to, one way or the other, conquer these hanging unspoken words that overwhelm and stir at ice on frozen waters--no budging and no giving in, a constant painful repetition reaching no conclusion.]

[at the cough, he too exhales (but with ease, in contrast). hands guarded inside pockets, the clock ticks away imaginary in his mind, and he's counting down to leaving.]

[he diverts the subject; he doesn't pry nor keeps on until given information, not in these circumstances.]

When are they letting you out of the clinic?

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