[Omar softens a little at that, too. He starts to lean over, then just gets up and moves onto the bed instead, settling down near him. He plucks the proffered cigarette from his hand, brushing his fingers intentionally against Ricki's.]
I ain't -- but that's me.
[It's one thing for Ricki to lean on him in those moments -- it's not like Omar is unfeeling. It's another thing to expose those psychic wounds to other people, though.]
[Lighting his cigarette first, then taking it out of his mouth and offering it over, a soft, tender trade gesture, with curled fingertips.]
I mean, what am I supposed to say? 'Here's all the reasons I don't want to talk to you about this part. Here's why I'm fucked up enough that an amateur won't cut it. Here are the skeletons I can't let you near yet.' If we do this this way, I'm just going to rip myself open looking for approval from you, and probably resent you when I don't get it, when the truth is, I've already made up my mind.
[I can't is better than we're not, Omar notes in the back of his mind; he can't help but wonder if the improvement is intentional, though it's a step up either way. The rest...
He draws on the cigarette and looks away with a little shake of his head, going quiet. What is he supposed to say when he doesn't approve?]
You don't have to like it, and we don't have to talk about. I felt I owed you the veto. I'll be honest, I'm a hell of a lot touchier about wardens than you are.
[That had been the cause of all that fear and fury, waiting for him in his inbox in the last days of the event, the night he was first paired. He draws on his own cigarette, and lets out a long breath.]
But ultimately- I hear that you disagree with what I'm doing, and I'm going to do it anyways.
[The same blunt (if ever so slightly more quiet) flat out insubordination as last time.]
[He stays silent for a long time after that, though he doesn't try to hide the fact that it bothers him. He should go, he thinks. His options at this point are to slap Ricki down harder or roll over himself, and he doesn't especially want to do either. He wasn't expecting this little rebellious streak of Ricki's to be turned on him, and the edge of resentment it stirs up in him isn't what he got into this for. It's like Ricki said: he's here to make it easier to breathe, not harder.
They've been too close for that to really work for a while now anyway, he thinks. Close enough that he lost sleep over it tonight -- that's not what he wanted, either. But close enough that the thought of leaving sits too, too wrong with him despite all the rest.
He sniffs, drags deep on his cigarette, stares off at one of the bookshelves stuffed with secrets he probably knows too much about.]
[He falls back against the headboard, laces his fingers together and folds them over his stomach, letting out a long, thoughtful sigh. Backlash, any sort of bad kind, would have been on the list of things that might have been irrevocable.]
So I'm going to have to make it worth your while to learn to agree to disagree with a boy?
[Ricki's smile falters, and then smooths away behind his hand, as he reaches up to hold the cigarette for a moment, taking a second to rub his bottom lip with his thumb rather than mumble around it.]
Well then. Am I worth having, if you can't have control of me?
[He wonders, folding his hands again.]
The answer might be 'no.' I hope it isn't, obviously, because you stop my heart in my chest, but if this is the kind of relationship where I'm not on equal footing with you when it counts, it's going to cut me up and bleed me out slow.
[If he's found it hard to breathe around Ricki before, that's never been more true than it is now; the hitch in his throat is embarrassingly audible. He's hardened, but he's not unfeeling, not immune, and God-- he hasn't felt this way in a very long time, had no plans to really ever again, but even with all his self-control, he can only manage so much. He can only stay shut down for so long.
It feels like a betrayal, the way he feels right now.
And if this is a mistake, he's starting to realize it's another one he can't undo. He inhales shakily, first air and then smoke, rubbing a hand over his face in sudden and maybe surprisingly acute distress. He exhales sharply and grips one wrist in the other hand, thumbnail digging into the thin skin over his pulse point.]
[Ricki watches, for a quiet moment or two, and makes a few hasty decisions. First, the ashtray, for both his cigarette and Omar's, which he plucks from him unceremoniously, and slides over to the bedside table.
Then, twisting to face him, he reaches to take both of Omar's hands in his. His fingertips stroke, seek, thumb pushing against the ball of his hand to get him to let up the grip.]
Lie down. We're leaving it all, just for a minute. It's just us here, in my familiar bed, and there's nothing else in the world that can't wait.
[And he sounds as sure of that as he is of anything, and just about as safe as houses.]
It is very, very late, and even if you don't know it, you're tired.
[He doesn't feel safe at all. He feels like something is being prised open despite his best efforts to keep it shut and locked away, so much so that for a moment he actually resists Ricki's attempt to pull his hands apart.
He thinks of Brandon's voice whispering to him, pleading and accusing in turns, in a port so long ago that maybe no one but him and Anya still remember it -- they hurt me, you lost me, can't you make it better? Even knowing it had been nothing more than a trick, some Barge fakery, he still wants to dig in a little harder and bring back the penitent pain he'd put himself through then, too.
But Ricki's hands are warm and sure enough against his to at least keep him still until the worst of the urge passes, and then he relinquishes his grip, taking his hands tightly. He shakes his head, red-eyed, voice thick.]
I'm sorry.
[He's not even sure who he's apologizing to, but he leans in to rest his head against Ricki's, and then to press their lips softly together.]
It's been a hard night, and it'll look better in the morning.
[He promises, returning the kiss, resting their foreheads together, still holding on to his hands. He shuts his eyes, and noses Omar's cheek, one side, and then the other.
His breathing is nice, and slow, and deep.]
I nicked you an extra toothbrush. Come on.
[Giving his hands a light tug. It's always tempting to abandon little rituals, at times like these, but the normalcy actually often helps.]
[He laughs despite himself, if a little weakly, letting himself be pulled along.]
Bad idea, yo. Didn't I ever tell you what I did the last time somebody up in here gave me an extra toothbrush?
[That's a better story, though he knows he has to tell the one he's been avoiding sooner or later now. Maybe in the morning, if things really do look better then, if he feels a little less overfilled.]
If it involves bloodstains you're keeping it out of my cabin. I am so incredibly sick of laundry.
[He toothpastes two brushes, just like he frequently lights them two cigarettes, and leans his back up against the sink as he offers Omar the new one, and starts to brush.]
[So that's totally okay, right? Obviously. He brushes quickly, thinking, calming as he does, because for all the blood and guts and anger between them, the story of him and Ladd is one that's easy to talk about. Even oddly relaxing in the midst of all this turmoil. That had been simple.
His smile is a little more natural when he finishes up and turns back to Ricki.]
Anyone ever mention a wild man, old inmate, name of Ladd Russo?
[He shakes his head, solemnly, toothbrush still in his mouth, pausing in brushing to watch him for a moment. It's hard to smile like this, but it sort of shows in his eyes; that's better.
Ricki leans over the sink and spits, then moves to rinse his mouth, listening intently, as he guides him back towards the bed.]
[He comes easily now, toeing off his sneakers and sitting on the bed
with his knees propped up, wrists resting on top of them, the mark his nail
left behind on the one already fading rapidly. Not gone yet, maybe not gone
for a good while, and certainly not whatever wound lies beneath it either,
but... fading.]
Ol' Ladd was as bad as it gets, man. Worse than Arthas back then. I mean,
before Arthas tried out that hostile takeover, anyway -- back in the day,
he was what you might call dormant. Ladd, though... That man would
kill you soon as look at you, just for the fun of it. Had some nonsense in
him about people shouldn't be clinging to life, some Angel of Death
business or something, but really? Dude just got a kick outta the deed.
Truth be, I didn't take all that kindly to that, especially once he started
going after the wardens. The good ones, too.
[Ricki stays up a few seconds longer, stripping out of some of his stiffer clothes, getting into a t-shirt and cotton drawstring pants, and then crawls into bed after him, like that. He settles down next to him, head resting on the pillow, knees hitched up so their legs rest together.]
[He holds up his hand, points it like a gun, and mimes shooting both of Ricki's kneecaps and then his temple in quick succession.]
'Course, lacking in perspective as the wardens here be at times, they didn't think Omar oughta have a gun after that, so they confiscated the piece. So I got a little creative, 'cause we had a war on by then.
[The corner of his mouth twitches slyly.]
Started asking after extra toothbrushes. Spare parts. Got some rubber bands out the art room.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I ain't -- but that's me.
[It's one thing for Ricki to lean on him in those moments -- it's not like Omar is unfeeling. It's another thing to expose those psychic wounds to other people, though.]
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[Lighting his cigarette first, then taking it out of his mouth and offering it over, a soft, tender trade gesture, with curled fingertips.]
I mean, what am I supposed to say? 'Here's all the reasons I don't want to talk to you about this part. Here's why I'm fucked up enough that an amateur won't cut it. Here are the skeletons I can't let you near yet.' If we do this this way, I'm just going to rip myself open looking for approval from you, and probably resent you when I don't get it, when the truth is, I've already made up my mind.
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He draws on the cigarette and looks away with a little shake of his head, going quiet. What is he supposed to say when he doesn't approve?]
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[That had been the cause of all that fear and fury, waiting for him in his inbox in the last days of the event, the night he was first paired. He draws on his own cigarette, and lets out a long breath.]
But ultimately- I hear that you disagree with what I'm doing, and I'm going to do it anyways.
[The same blunt (if ever so slightly more quiet) flat out insubordination as last time.]
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They've been too close for that to really work for a while now anyway, he thinks. Close enough that he lost sleep over it tonight -- that's not what he wanted, either. But close enough that the thought of leaving sits too, too wrong with him despite all the rest.
He sniffs, drags deep on his cigarette, stares off at one of the bookshelves stuffed with secrets he probably knows too much about.]
Suppose we've hit some kind of impasse, then.
[Very flat, very even, if a little hoarse.]
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So I'm going to have to make it worth your while to learn to agree to disagree with a boy?
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Whatever happened to the good boy I heard so much tell about?
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Put it like that, you make it sound humiliating.
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I told you, that's how it's been working in my crew. My people do what they told, and I make it worth they while. Boys and girls and all of 'em.
The ones who don't like it--
[He looks away again, jaw tightening.]
They always been free to buck out.
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[He wonders, folding his hands again.]
The answer might be 'no.' I hope it isn't, obviously, because you stop my heart in my chest, but if this is the kind of relationship where I'm not on equal footing with you when it counts, it's going to cut me up and bleed me out slow.
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It feels like a betrayal, the way he feels right now.
And if this is a mistake, he's starting to realize it's another one he can't undo. He inhales shakily, first air and then smoke, rubbing a hand over his face in sudden and maybe surprisingly acute distress. He exhales sharply and grips one wrist in the other hand, thumbnail digging into the thin skin over his pulse point.]
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Then, twisting to face him, he reaches to take both of Omar's hands in his. His fingertips stroke, seek, thumb pushing against the ball of his hand to get him to let up the grip.]
Lie down. We're leaving it all, just for a minute. It's just us here, in my familiar bed, and there's nothing else in the world that can't wait.
[And he sounds as sure of that as he is of anything, and just about as safe as houses.]
It is very, very late, and even if you don't know it, you're tired.
cw: self-harm
He thinks of Brandon's voice whispering to him, pleading and accusing in turns, in a port so long ago that maybe no one but him and Anya still remember it -- they hurt me, you lost me, can't you make it better? Even knowing it had been nothing more than a trick, some Barge fakery, he still wants to dig in a little harder and bring back the penitent pain he'd put himself through then, too.
But Ricki's hands are warm and sure enough against his to at least keep him still until the worst of the urge passes, and then he relinquishes his grip, taking his hands tightly. He shakes his head, red-eyed, voice thick.]
I'm sorry.
[He's not even sure who he's apologizing to, but he leans in to rest his head against Ricki's, and then to press their lips softly together.]
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[He promises, returning the kiss, resting their foreheads together, still holding on to his hands. He shuts his eyes, and noses Omar's cheek, one side, and then the other.
His breathing is nice, and slow, and deep.]
I nicked you an extra toothbrush. Come on.
[Giving his hands a light tug. It's always tempting to abandon little rituals, at times like these, but the normalcy actually often helps.]
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Bad idea, yo. Didn't I ever tell you what I did the last time somebody up in here gave me an extra toothbrush?
[That's a better story, though he knows he has to tell the one he's been avoiding sooner or later now. Maybe in the morning, if things really do look better then, if he feels a little less overfilled.]
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[He toothpastes two brushes, just like he frequently lights them two cigarettes, and leans his back up against the sink as he offers Omar the new one, and starts to brush.]
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[So that's totally okay, right? Obviously. He brushes quickly, thinking, calming as he does, because for all the blood and guts and anger between them, the story of him and Ladd is one that's easy to talk about. Even oddly relaxing in the midst of all this turmoil. That had been simple.
His smile is a little more natural when he finishes up and turns back to Ricki.]
Anyone ever mention a wild man, old inmate, name of Ladd Russo?
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Ricki leans over the sink and spits, then moves to rinse his mouth, listening intently, as he guides him back towards the bed.]
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[He comes easily now, toeing off his sneakers and sitting on the bed with his knees propped up, wrists resting on top of them, the mark his nail left behind on the one already fading rapidly. Not gone yet, maybe not gone for a good while, and certainly not whatever wound lies beneath it either, but... fading.]
Ol' Ladd was as bad as it gets, man. Worse than Arthas back then. I mean, before Arthas tried out that hostile takeover, anyway -- back in the day, he was what you might call dormant. Ladd, though... That man would kill you soon as look at you, just for the fun of it. Had some nonsense in him about people shouldn't be clinging to life, some Angel of Death business or something, but really? Dude just got a kick outta the deed.
Truth be, I didn't take all that kindly to that, especially once he started going after the wardens. The good ones, too.
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What'd you do, darling?
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[He holds up his hand, points it like a gun, and mimes shooting both of Ricki's kneecaps and then his temple in quick succession.]
'Course, lacking in perspective as the wardens here be at times, they didn't think Omar oughta have a gun after that, so they confiscated the piece. So I got a little creative, 'cause we had a war on by then.
[The corner of his mouth twitches slyly.]
Started asking after extra toothbrushes. Spare parts. Got some rubber bands out the art room.
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Everyone keeps saying, 'don't you know you might start a war.' Do none of them see you're practically trembling for one?
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Am not.
[Is too, is too, is too.]
You a smart man, though, Mister Tarr. 'Chu think I did with all them bits?
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[Fingertip rubbing a circle on the spot he'd go for.]
Am I close?
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Yeah, you close.
[But the truth is so much better, and he's feeling up to showing off again -- it doesn't exactly take much for that. He smirks.]
Rigged up a little crossbow. One bolt, right across the deck.
[He taps Ricki's chest.]
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cw: self-harm ideation
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