[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.
[He clucks disapprovingly at the language, but he can't help but look entirely pleased by the praise, the smirk turning into a bright, toothy grin.]
Well, you ain't got nothing to worry about, honey.
[He hooks his arm around Ricki's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. The other hand still lingers over his heart when he draws back again; Omar's smile softens, fades at the corners, voice dropping a little lower.]
[He returns the kiss, and shuts his eyes at the question. It's a terribly intimate thing to dwell on, when he still doesn't really have an answer from him, and doesn't expect one at least until morning.]
Of course.
[It's a bit of a strange thing to say a prayer for, but he does, privately, nonetheless.]
[He does dwell there, though, if silently. He shuts his eyes too and rests his head against Ricki's again, lips pressing briefly to his temple.
This is the only answer he has in him tonight, though it's already a lot to give. His mood is still mercurial: this is intimate enough to hurt a little, definitely enough to pull him back down from his reminiscent glee, but it's like the part of him that wants it to hurt won't let him stay too high for too long right now. Like he needs to remember that if he's deciding to stay, it's for more than joking and flirting and halfway mythical autobiography.
And he stays, and it does hurt, and it really should. He draws back, tracing his fingers down Ricki's cheek.]
[Ricki wants to know, apropos of nothing, except that he sits up enough to lean over him and turn off the bedside lamp, plunging them into darkness. He adjusts the pillows for them both, and rolls onto his side, taking Omar's arm and giving it a light tug, hoping to coax him to press up against his back, tangle an arm around his waist. He wants to be close, without necessarily facing all of it, right now.]
[That works for Omar -- maybe it's even a little bit of a relief at the moment. He spoons up behind Ricki at his urging and drapes his arm over his side, leaving it loose around his waist.]
[Omar doesn't dream, or if he does, it's in murky, fleeting snippets that are instantly forgotten. He sleeps restlessly anyway, more like catnapping than actual sleep, leaving him waking up haphazardly throughout what remains of the night and into the morning. He doesn't take Ricki's advice to get up and do something else. He'd chosen to stay, and he stays until Ricki wakes up again, and tries to keep the chaos quiet in his mind each time until he can doze off again.
He's not really feeling any better at the end of it, but the long night has given him a little more clarity, and he knows this much: he has to tell him something. Maybe everything, maybe not, but at least something to explain why this isn't just a power struggle. He owes him that much.
So when he feels Ricki stir, when he opens his eyes to see all the little signs of wakefulness, he tells him before he can start to get up:]
[Ricki rolls onto his back to look up at him, reaching up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He's soft in the mornings, and a little groggy, but senses right away that this is going to be important.
Worth sitting up, then, and giving him a soft kiss on the mouth, deciding;]
[Omar was kind of really hoping to get this out before Ricki could get up or, say, look at him, and he seems a little more reticent right away. Ricki goes to get his tea and Omar sits up to watch him, then bites his lip and looks away, trying to reframe the little speech he'd prepared during all those wakeful hours. He's no coward, but when it comes to things like this... Well, even for him, there are things that are easier to say to a man's face than others.
He chafes his hands over his wrists, thinking for a moment, then starts again, like he's taking a new tack:]
Got this thing we say back home when we get locked up: "You only really ever do two days -- the day you go in and the day you get out." Except we all know that second day come sooner for some people, right? And it be a foolish man that get too attached to somebody got a lot less time in between the two than he do.
[A prison fling is one thing, he means. Something to help pass the time, to make doing the time a little easier. Something both people let go when the first one gets out. Tricky and complex as things with Ricki have always been, that had been Omar's main thought when he'd kissed him that first time: finally, a little fun.]
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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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Fuck, Omar.
[That's-]
I'm not even going to let you use paperclips in here.
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Well, you ain't got nothing to worry about, honey.
[He hooks his arm around Ricki's neck and tugs him in for a kiss. The other hand still lingers over his heart when he draws back again; Omar's smile softens, fades at the corners, voice dropping a little lower.]
Enough to stop your heart, huh?
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Of course.
[It's a bit of a strange thing to say a prayer for, but he does, privately, nonetheless.]
cw: self-harm ideation
This is the only answer he has in him tonight, though it's already a lot to give. His mood is still mercurial: this is intimate enough to hurt a little, definitely enough to pull him back down from his reminiscent glee, but it's like the part of him that wants it to hurt won't let him stay too high for too long right now. Like he needs to remember that if he's deciding to stay, it's for more than joking and flirting and halfway mythical autobiography.
And he stays, and it does hurt, and it really should. He draws back, tracing his fingers down Ricki's cheek.]
You're right, man -- it's late.
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[Ricki wants to know, apropos of nothing, except that he sits up enough to lean over him and turn off the bedside lamp, plunging them into darkness. He adjusts the pillows for them both, and rolls onto his side, taking Omar's arm and giving it a light tug, hoping to coax him to press up against his back, tangle an arm around his waist. He wants to be close, without necessarily facing all of it, right now.]
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Don't know-- so I guess not, really. Why, do you?
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For the first few minutes.
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Good dreams, then.
[Omar doesn't dream, or if he does, it's in murky, fleeting snippets that are instantly forgotten. He sleeps restlessly anyway, more like catnapping than actual sleep, leaving him waking up haphazardly throughout what remains of the night and into the morning. He doesn't take Ricki's advice to get up and do something else. He'd chosen to stay, and he stays until Ricki wakes up again, and tries to keep the chaos quiet in his mind each time until he can doze off again.
He's not really feeling any better at the end of it, but the long night has given him a little more clarity, and he knows this much: he has to tell him something. Maybe everything, maybe not, but at least something to explain why this isn't just a power struggle. He owes him that much.
So when he feels Ricki stir, when he opens his eyes to see all the little signs of wakefulness, he tells him before he can start to get up:]
The thing of it is, I wasn't planning on this.
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Worth sitting up, then, and giving him a soft kiss on the mouth, deciding;]
'm put tea on.
[He'll hear better once he has.]
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He chafes his hands over his wrists, thinking for a moment, then starts again, like he's taking a new tack:]
Got this thing we say back home when we get locked up: "You only really ever do two days -- the day you go in and the day you get out." Except we all know that second day come sooner for some people, right? And it be a foolish man that get too attached to somebody got a lot less time in between the two than he do.
[A prison fling is one thing, he means. Something to help pass the time, to make doing the time a little easier. Something both people let go when the first one gets out. Tricky and complex as things with Ricki have always been, that had been Omar's main thought when he'd kissed him that first time: finally, a little fun.]
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