[it's been a little more than three days since they've seen each other, which isn't out of the ordinary -- as much as Badou lingers, he frantically scatters (ashes) too, and Genkaku's stoner-sedentary lifestyle is too slow for extended exposure]
[even the radio silence, while estranged from them, isn't what's weird, what's making his hands twitch (that's probably Too Much Coffee and Nicotine at work again) and his thoughts (sick)lical]
[it's the fucking circumstance of the absence that turns it into a ...hole. there was almost-threat in those last words; you should get rid of me, like whittling a knife to carve out more loss]
[the ache (not in notes, but sub-zero degrees) is familiar and safe, although he... doesn't embrace it, doesn't pull it into a frosty chest, for once]
[there's heat in the heels of his feet as he tracks and trails, spots welt red hair moving this way, that way
( ... )
[ he let something go. he's never let something go, never released it from his claws and teeth and worship once he got it in him, once the toxins set in and his imagination took over in wild, frenzied fanaticism. get rid of me, ditch me, leave me, let it go -- they were, at baser meanings, all forms of the same thing: masochism. he is a sadist as much as his own flesh will allow, as it desperately longs for knives or words to slit it open and bleed out his misery
( ... )
[the lighter's flame becomes a small dash of light below the monk, and Badou tries to reason out himself within it's glow]
[Heine's gone again. it doesn't really matter; he didn't even notice the first time the albino went stray until he came back. he trusts Heine to leave, to not ask questions. he likes, trusts, and returns Heine's remiss]
[it was different with the monk. Genkaku, from the start, has had nothing to do with remiss. it's been nothing but ...overabundance, excess, greed -- which he guesses, if it's his bony ass on this shitty steel, his boots smacking on tile in pursuit, he's returning, too]
[save it up and blow it all, laughs a voice in his mind. Dave had wanted too much, pursued winning and losing with equal enthusiasm]
[and so Badou lives stingy; he doesn't save up anything, survives on even less, be it money or bullets or friendship]
[the knack for blowing it, though, seems to have been wholly genetic.]
[the hell made you stick to get burnt? usually you're out by then.]
[ it's strange that when Badou is feeling such loss and trying to sort his own mess out that Genkaku thinks about Security. it was a conversation they had too long ago to really be recounted for anything solid, the word never appearing between them again, but he can hear it in a dense translation over the babelfish. he found it in him: the security of leaving, how reliable it was that, once again, Badou was following him. how many times had he now? each time a reassurance that he was going to stick around. ]
[ but in the steps forward Genkaku had recently taken, he has taken at least three more back. every time, every fucking time Badou pushes and pushes and points out the things he does and doesn't realize he does -- ]
[ flighty, he'd called him once. the monk corrected with flaky, but for once the Fox was the one who was precognitive. flighty but secure. flighty but there
( ... )
[he's always been something of a walking accident. for as much as they understand each other, there are things (most of them sexual, some of them Important) that Badou is oblivious to. whatever the opposite of natural charm is, he's got, which is apparently extremely charming to a propaganda-spewing super monk]
[either way, I can always find you, that (homing) signal ability, is Genkaku's bag. it's never with intuition that he's able to find the other man; reason and logic serve him better]
[he jerks to a halt as he catches sight of the other man, and there's a long pause in which he only returns the too-intent stare]
[words are untrustworthy. he's known this for a long time. none of this would be happening if he'd just... kept silent over that stupid feed]
[it's unfair that his lies, his dodging and truth-swallowing, don't function as they should around the one man he's starting to realise he'd do almost anything to just keep around, liecheatkill]
[for better or worse, he's found a partner in Genkaku]
[he turns around, sitting all angles on the curve of stairs just beyond the other man, the DNA ladder twist separating them]
[there's a shff of dingy fur as he digs within his coat for the pad of scraps he keeps lying around, all full of cryptic shorthand, like a paranoid schizophrenic's bible]
[he flips past the job notes, the addresses, the names (missing persons, mostly, or those soon to be) before coming to a crinkled but clean page]
[the pen's tip across the scrap is skirtchscratchy in the wordless silence, the subsequent, quick rrrip of the page's separation even louder]
[it's passed up to the other, through prison bar steel, in mechanistic movements - like if he thinks too much, feels too much, the motions will stop]
[ eyes go down when the man turns his back, to the dingy army green of the coat folded uncleanly on a step, to the off-kilter twist of shouldershipslegs, to the man's body language as he finds his own seat, collapsing and compartmentalizing his own body, as if in a too-small pew of a church. Genkaku's too good at reading people, knows the discomfort held in the twitch and jerk of the ministrations, the shifting crinkle of papers and words. ]
[ he's seen Badou's handwriting. he wonders how many people he's shared notes with. (Heine? the Freezerpops Guy? ... his brother? maybe he was too young and it was different then...) ]
[ notes are distance, he recalls. he's left them on bloodsmeared walls (SHOW), in foxden beds (TELL), under cracks of doors (SHOW) and in the phantoms of carpetting (... ASK), on snakeden bed tables (SHOW), and delivered by junkies in yellow hoodies (OFFER, SAFETY, SECURITY--). they're evolved between them, changed just like the meanings of words and the sureness of their resolves. ]
[ the note protruding between bars is flicked by his sososo sure footing, like a goddamn card in the spokes of a kid's bike, ruffling against his sole. ]
[ his own pause is enough to make anger flashflood in his veins, quick and redhot. ]
[ if Owl had passed him a note through prison bars, would he have dismissed it? would he have welcomed it? would he have sworn it was that fucker Nagi being an amnesiac bastard; would he swear it was a ransom note cut out of a DW newsletter scraps and said, oh, he's just fuckin' with me, that coy little bastard, he's just playin' pretend, he's just sitting on his fucking branch and looking down at a humble fucking snake-- ]
[ the sigh leaves his chest, so heavy and so thick it's as though he could cast the branded scar there right off of his body. he squats down facing the bars and almost rips the note as he plucks it out of thin, unfeeling (like fuckin' everything) fingers. ]
[ words are digested, because as much thought as Badou must have put into them (of this situation, of this sudden and violent impossibility), they at least deserve a little bit of his attention, no matter how much he's aching. ]
[ lies are even more distant than notes. he doesn't like the words, the statement, the accusation of being unfair, because that allegation is even more unfair for him: a man who has sworn equality in killingsavingending all of humanity, and the one who ... surely bleeds more, between the two of them. more pints of blood than injections of addictions. ]
[ when he finally regards the man, looking for somethinganything, he only condescends with; ]
[ but that statement of itself seems to trigger another reaction: if he did it, he needs to take responsibility for it. ]
[ taking the offered pen is no less aggressive, his scrawl quick and twitchy-angry against the rail of the stairs, and crumbled and thrown into the man's lap instead of offered (like he didn't even want the contact of proximity). ]
[ it reads, in violent, bold, black psuedo-calligraphy: ]
i honestly believe you can fix me.
[ the words are intended to hurt, but it probably doesn't make any difference. Badou's used to nobody believing (in) him; why would faith (or lack thereof) from a "Holy Man" be any different? but he wants the lie to hurt the same way HOPE had him. ]
[the blow hits it's intended mark, easy to see by the man's posture, which opens up, rather than collapses down (accepting the full brunt of the hurt)]
[the smile, too, is telling, verifying Genkaku's thoughts. Badou is used to not being relied on. Badou is used to not being trusted to do a goddamn thing right. Badou is used to being discarded]
[but Genkaku at least gave him the chance.]
[even if Badou could kick himself up and down the fucking station for all the pain and anxiety this whole fucking thing brings, he knows he went into it willingly, would do it again]
[it's the Sad kind of funny, which burns like salt in a wound, and he's always smiled (as Genkaku knows) at that kind of thing]
[he smooths out the abused paper on his knee without even attempting a verbal response]
[this note comes a bit slower, is passed with more vertebrae grinding as he turns]
I DONT EVEN WANNA TRY. NOT LIKE IM OBSESSED WITH YOU.
[ he's ... relieved? as body-language familiar as he is, Genkaku doesn't understand that reaction, quirks a brow over bloodied forearms folded on the rail of the stair. there's a certain impatience to him as he watches the muscle corners of his mouth quirk from the unsure angle, and he finally squats down to take the note passed from hand to hand to try and gauge something, anything from the not-grinning-but-smiling mouth. ]
[even the radio silence, while estranged from them, isn't what's weird, what's making his hands twitch (that's probably Too Much Coffee and Nicotine at work again) and his thoughts (sick)lical]
[it's the fucking circumstance of the absence that turns it into a ...hole. there was almost-threat in those last words; you should get rid of me, like whittling a knife to carve out more loss]
[the ache (not in notes, but sub-zero degrees) is familiar and safe, although he... doesn't embrace it, doesn't pull it into a frosty chest, for once]
[there's heat in the heels of his feet as he tracks and trails, spots welt red hair moving this way, that way ( ... )
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[ he let something go. he's never let something go, never released it from his claws and teeth and worship once he got it in him, once the toxins set in and his imagination took over in wild, frenzied fanaticism. get rid of me, ditch me, leave me, let it go -- they were, at baser meanings, all forms of the same thing: masochism. he is a sadist as much as his own flesh will allow, as it desperately longs for knives or words to slit it open and bleed out his misery ( ... )
Reply
[Heine's gone again. it doesn't really matter; he didn't even notice the first time the albino went stray until he came back. he trusts Heine to leave, to not ask questions. he likes, trusts, and returns Heine's remiss]
[it was different with the monk. Genkaku, from the start, has had nothing to do with remiss. it's been nothing but ...overabundance, excess, greed -- which he guesses, if it's his bony ass on this shitty steel, his boots smacking on tile in pursuit, he's returning, too]
[save it up and blow it all, laughs a voice in his mind. Dave had wanted too much, pursued winning and losing with equal enthusiasm]
[and so Badou lives stingy; he doesn't save up anything, survives on even less, be it money or bullets or friendship]
[the knack for blowing it, though, seems to have been wholly genetic.]
[the hell made you stick to get burnt? usually you're out by then.]
[...he's been a goddamned idiot.]Fuck ( ... )
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[ but in the steps forward Genkaku had recently taken, he has taken at least three more back. every time, every fucking time Badou pushes and pushes and points out the things he does and doesn't realize he does -- ]
[ flighty, he'd called him once. the monk corrected with flaky, but for once the Fox was the one who was precognitive. flighty but secure. flighty but there ( ... )
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[either way, I can always find you, that (homing) signal ability, is Genkaku's bag. it's never with intuition that he's able to find the other man; reason and logic serve him better]
[this intuitive finding is entirely accidental]
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[words are untrustworthy. he's known this for a long time. none of this would be happening if he'd just... kept silent over that stupid feed]
[it's unfair that his lies, his dodging and truth-swallowing, don't function as they should around the one man he's starting to realise he'd do almost anything to just keep around, liecheatkill]
[for better or worse, he's found a partner in Genkaku]
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[there's a shff of dingy fur as he digs within his coat for the pad of scraps he keeps lying around, all full of cryptic shorthand, like a paranoid schizophrenic's bible]
[he flips past the job notes, the addresses, the names (missing persons, mostly, or those soon to be) before coming to a crinkled but clean page]
[the pen's tip across the scrap is skirtchscratchy in the wordless silence, the subsequent, quick rrrip of the page's separation even louder]
[it's passed up to the other, through prison bar steel, in mechanistic movements - like if he thinks too much, feels too much, the motions will stop]
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IT AINT RIGHT FOR YOU TO LIE WITHOUT GIVING ME THE CHANCE TOO - LETS LIE TO EACHOTHER, OK?
I WASN'T LOOKING FOR YOU
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[ he's seen Badou's handwriting. he wonders how many people he's shared notes with. (Heine? the Freezerpops Guy? ... his brother? maybe he was too young and it was different then...) ]
[ notes are distance, he recalls. he's left them on bloodsmeared walls (SHOW), in foxden beds (TELL), under cracks of doors (SHOW) and in the phantoms of carpetting (... ASK), on snakeden bed tables (SHOW), and delivered by junkies in yellow hoodies (OFFER, SAFETY, SECURITY--). they're evolved between them, changed just like the meanings of words and the sureness of their resolves. ]
[ distance, in that moment, ( ... )
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[ his own pause is enough to make anger flashflood in his veins, quick and redhot. ]
[ if Owl had passed him a note through prison bars, would he have dismissed it? would he have welcomed it? would he have sworn it was that fucker Nagi being an amnesiac bastard; would he swear it was a ransom note cut out of a DW newsletter scraps and said, oh, he's just fuckin' with me, that coy little bastard, he's just playin' pretend, he's just sitting on his fucking branch and looking down at a humble fucking snake-- ]
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[ he wouldn't have. ]
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[ words are digested, because as much thought as Badou must have put into them (of this situation, of this sudden and violent impossibility), they at least deserve a little bit of his attention, no matter how much he's aching. ]
[ lies are even more distant than notes. he doesn't like the words, the statement, the accusation of being unfair, because that allegation is even more unfair for him: a man who has sworn equality in killingsavingending all of humanity, and the one who ... surely bleeds more, between the two of them. more pints of blood than injections of addictions. ]
[ when he finally regards the man, looking for somethinganything, he only condescends with; ]
I opened this shitty can'a worms, yeah?
Reply
[ taking the offered pen is no less aggressive, his scrawl quick and twitchy-angry against the rail of the stairs, and crumbled and thrown into the man's lap instead of offered (like he didn't even want the contact of proximity). ]
[ it reads, in violent, bold, black psuedo-calligraphy: ]
i honestly believe you can fix me.
[ the words are intended to hurt, but it probably doesn't make any difference. Badou's used to nobody believing (in) him; why would faith (or lack thereof) from a "Holy Man" be any different? but he wants the lie to hurt the same way HOPE had him. ]Reply
[the smile, too, is telling, verifying Genkaku's thoughts. Badou is used to not being relied on. Badou is used to not being trusted to do a goddamn thing right. Badou is used to being discarded]
[but Genkaku at least gave him the chance.]
[even if Badou could kick himself up and down the fucking station for all the pain and anxiety this whole fucking thing brings, he knows he went into it willingly, would do it again]
[it's the Sad kind of funny, which burns like salt in a wound, and he's always smiled (as Genkaku knows) at that kind of thing]
[he smooths out the abused paper on his knee without even attempting a verbal response]
[this note comes a bit slower, is passed with more vertebrae grinding as he turns]
I DONT EVEN WANNA TRY. NOT LIKE IM OBSESSED WITH YOU.
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[ nothing hits him. ]
[ not until he reads the contents, anyway. ]
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