p. crumb has strong feelings re: mandatory pudding (godofnofun) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-03-31 14:41:00 |
|
|||
He’d just had to keep it together long enough to identify the remains. It was nice, at least, that he hadn’t had to hold anyone else together while he did it. Mum was over two years in the ground. Same with her parents. His mother’s father had died a year ago, of a heart attack. His father’s father was still alive. Probably, Pollo should have made some effort, gone to see him, gone to tell him personally — Hi, I’m sorry I’ve avoided you and everyone else, I know I’m the stupid bastard of a grandson who got your son and the family he made slaughtered, I know I’m the reason he’s a pile of bloody flesh in the bowels of St Mungo’s now, but I just wanted you to know I’m really sorry about all this; I had protests to throw — and maybe he would later, but for the time being, Pollo had identified the remains — Yes, these hunks of flesh rent and charred and mutilated are what used to be my father; Yes, those are his fingers broken and torn; Yes, those were his eyes, though there used to be something behind them, the vessels weren’t broken like that — he had signed some piece of parchment for he-forgot-what, he’d accepted the condolences of his colleague, an Auror, said no-he-didn’t-need-help-getting-home (he hadn’t), and he had returned to his flat, and he had sat down, against his desk, on the floor, by the top of the stairs, and he had stared at the wall. It was very unusual for Apollo Crumb to do all of nothing, but that was what he had done in the last few hours. It had grown dark. He hadn’t moved to turn on a light. He’d barely moved at all. He had stared at the wall, and thought, and not thought. He had probably cried already, at some point. Mostly, he hadn’t done anything. He had the feeling if he moved he might break, or be sick again, or possibly kill someone. Killing someone would be good. But then, he didn’t know who to kill. And that was another thing. Not just the ruptured blood vessels in the small sacs of organic matter that had previously been his father’s eyes. Not just that. They’d found his body cold. There were no leads. The Aurors would look for leads. They almost certainly wouldn’t find them. Everyone knew from the Dark Mark hanging over the house that it had been Death Eaters. Anonymous people in hoods and masks. Maybe it was someone he knew. Maybe it was someone he worked with. He heard a shattering of glass and knew he’d just unintentionally broken what framed photos and portraits he had in the room. He flinched for a moment. His wand was in his hands and he didn’t remember putting it there. He thought he likely should put it down. He didn’t. Richard’s family was dead to him, ask anyone who knew anything about the Chambers family, and they would tell you the same. Ever since he graduated school, he could count on two hands the amount of times they had visited each other, each time more unpleasant than the last. It was the Crumbs that had been kind to him, even when he ruined a dinner thanks in part to his drinking, and in part to his crude comments. They had still invited him over again, and it was something that Richard had always quietly been grateful for, and he even had grown to care for them in his own way. He didn’t consider them a second family –Richard had no family– but he cared for them the way he did so few others. He had been heartbroken when he learned of the first round of deaths, particularly torn up by Mrs. Crumb’s death, and had been there for Pollo as soon as he heard, letting Pollo mourn, and mourning with him. This time, knowing the state Pollo would likely be in, he didn’t even bother rethinking his decision to go visit and help his friend. There was no need to, he knew he had to be there. Upon arriving at Pollo’s, Richard walked straight into the room where Pollo was holing up, and without a word or signal of arrival, walked over and wrapped his arms around his friend, holding him tightly, trying to convey what he knew his words never could, being the drunken fool he was. Pollo hadn’t even noticed his fingers tightening on his wand when he heard the sound of apparition — hoping on some basic level that it was more anonymous men in hoods, that he’d have something to take all the rage he couldn’t make himself feel right now out on — until he let his eyes move from the wall to the figure in the room, barely registering it as Richard until the other man’s arms were wrapped around him. It took him a second, startled out of the blankness as he was, but soon his arms moved to pull Richard closer, clinging onto him like he was the only anchor left in the world without a word. And this was odd — it wasn’t as if they never touched, particularly on those few occasions before where Pollo had found himself broken and sought Richard out, or those few times Richard had been particularly drunk and moved to tuck Pollo’s hair behind his ear, or the times Richard had been an utter mess and Pollo had practically had to carry him to a bed, to brush his hair out of his face and gauge how likely it was Richard would be sick within the next 60 seconds, but they’d never held each other like this. If Pollo had been in any less sorry a state, he might have been unnerved by the sudden intimacy, but then, if he’d been in less of a sorry state, they likely wouldn’t have been holding each other in the first place. And then, still too utterly empty to even feel a moment of shame or hesitation, he began to cry, clutching Richard tighter as he buried his face in his friend’s shoulder, not even noticing the stench of alcohol as he moved from silence, gradually, to wordless sobs, vocal sadness that barely left room for a breath in between, gasping into the worn fabric of Richard’s shirt in a vain attempt to get the oxygen he was lacking, to somehow snatch from the still air of the room everything that had been taken from him, everything he’d lost for the sake of his stupid impulse to do the right thing, everything he’d made everyone else lose when it should have been him, always should have been him to pay the price for the things he dared to say. Richard said nothing as Pollo began to cry into his shoulder. He just held Pollo more tightly, one of his hands making its way up to the back of his head and entangling itself in his curls, as he cradled his friend’s head closer to him, trying to show what little support he could through his actions. Showing Pollo that this was okay, that Richard wouldn’t be deserting him, not now. He may have been unreliable every other day of his life, but not today. Were this any other day, perhaps Richard would have been basically bursting at the seams at the contact, at being able to bury his hand in his hair, and having his face and lips so close to his skin. But today wasn’t about Richard’s need for Pollo, it was the other way around, and Richard would be whatever it was he needed to be at that moment. He pressed his lips on top of Pollo’s head, reassuring him every way that he possibly could, and remained silent until Pollo decided he was ready to speak. Richard would stand there for hours, days even, if he had to. Pollo took a long time crying himself out, and when he did stop, it wasn’t so much because he was done as because the sudden release after hours of holding it in, of numbness teetering on a fine blade, hysteria on either side of the fall, he began to feel just enough himself again to be embarrassed at how openly he’d let himself sob. It wasn’t the first time he’d shed tears in front of someone else — Pollo had a tendency to feel so deeply, and he sometimes got himself worked up to tears, even if it was usually out of anger and frustration — but it was easily the first time he’d out and out sobbed around someone else since childhood. He’d cried in front of Richard before, including when his mother and her parents were killed, but not like this. It took some time for him to quiet down properly, the sobbing subsiding into sniffling as he unceremoniously wiped his nose on his sleeve, but eventually he did, one arm still around Richard’s shoulder, keeping him close, staring helplessly over his friend’s other shoulder as his fingers clutched absentmindedly at the man’s collar. He didn’t say anything yet, unsure of how to proceed — Hi? Thanks? He’s dead? Sorry? Thank you? — without sending himself back into the mindless sobbing again. Fleetingly, he considered suggesting to Richard that they go set fire to a purist’s house, but refrained, knowing his friend was all too liable to agree, or to drunkenly do it on Pollo’s behalf later. And at this thought, improbably, he let out a small, hoarse laugh, letting his forehead settle on Richard’s shoulder again. “Hey,” he said, voice ragged and quiet, “I need you to make a promise.” Now that Pollo seemed to be coming to, Richard found himself wondering if it was still appropriate to be nurturing his head against his shoulders, fingers still in his hair. Pollo hadn’t made a move to pull away, so he kept his hand there for the time being. At Pollo’s words, Richard had to fight every instinct within him to keep from throwing some witty or cutting joke his way. Instead he offered a simple, “And what would that be?” Pollo pulled back slightly, but then it was his fingers in Richard’s hair, keeping the other man close as he rested his forehead against Richard’s, grinning crookedly and more desperate and tired than maybe even Richard had seen him before. “Never set fire to the parlour of any of the bigoted murderous cunts you paint, even if I ask you to. I couldn’t stand it if you lost this job, too.” Richard had to concentrate harder than ever before to keep his breathing normal and his movements proper. This closeness was overwhelming and not enough at the same time, but tonight wasn’t about him and his selfish needs. At Pollo’s words, he let out a short laugh, however, temporarily pulling his mind back to where it was supposed to be. “And if I don’t want to make that promise?” “Then you’ll make it anyway because we’re friends?” Pollo said hopefully, sounding far more tired than he nearly ever did. “Fine,” he muttered into Pollo’s hair. “Because we’re friends.” “Thank you,” Pollo said, returning his forehead to Richard’s shoulder, his fingers releasing Richard’s collar to pull him closer again. He was a little more himself, enough to be slightly unsure at the act, but most of him craved the simple tactile comfort too much to be ashamed. “I mean it. I hate what you do for them.” Here his voice got less steady, as his sadness threatened to overwhelm him again. “I hate that you give the best of yourself to people who deserve nothing. But I want you to succeed. You know that?” Richard remained silent at his friend’s statements. He knew very well how Pollo felt about his work, but he was used to a harsher tone and a more biting delivery. This was too different, too tender, and he was unsure how to react. He just played with the ends of the man’s hair, and nodded his head. “Yeah, I know that.” “Good.” Pollo took a deep breath, still fighting off the wave of panic and broken, childish sadness that was constantly pressing at the edge of him, fingers running down Richard’s neck to rest at the other man’s nape, before continuing, more quiet than ever. “Sorry.” “Why are you sorry?” Richard asked, hoping the hitch in his breathing went unnoticed by Pollo as his fingers ran down his neck. “And don’t give me some stupid answer.” “Because I stopped talking to everyone after they killed mum,” and here his voice got unsteady again, “and you deserved some kind of family. You.” He stopped, swallowing hard and gritting his teeth as he pressed his forehead more firmly against Richard’s shoulder, trying to collect himself. “Your stupid fucking family never deserved you. You deserved better.” He tried, unsuccessfully, to calm his breathing, to stave off another few tears as his fingers clutched at the back of Richard’s collar. “I’m sorry.” “What did I tell you about giving me a stupid fucking answer?” he shot back, though there was no malice in his voice. He just wasn’t prepared to give a proper response to any of it. Pollo had to understand. He pressed his cheek into Pollo’s temple, doing his best to not be too thrown off by their intimate embrace, but also trying to make sure that he allowed every moment of this encounter to become etched into his memory from the sight of Pollo in his arms, to the smell of his hair, and feel of his skin. “Fuck you too,” Pollo muttered, laughing a little through his ragged tears as he said it. “I meant it, you ungrateful cunt.” “Watch your language,” Richard replied with a chuckle. “My virgin ears won’t stand for it.” “Liar.” Pollo took a deep breath, taking in the scent of brandy and stale sweat. It wasn’t necessarily pleasant, but it was familiar, which was something. He didn’t know what else to say. Acknowledging the truth of things — Richard, he’s dead and there is this hole in me and this guilt and I don’t know why I’m alive, why I’m allowed to be alive when I already took so much from him, he raised me and this is what I gave him in return — was unfathomable, so instead, after another sniff, he dragged an angry wrist across his treacherously wet eyes, pulling Richard to sit beside him, their bodies warm joined side to side as he shot his friend a weary smile, arm still slung around his shoulders. “I assume you have a flask on you.” Richard suppressed a frown as Pollo moved to his side, though the fact that they were still touching eased him somewhat. Richard just laughed at his request and shook his head. “Oh, my friend, I stopped carrying flasks in fourth year,” he pointed out, pulling out his wand and a small bottle from his pocket, which he then cast back to it’s normal size. “Why magical folk even both with flasks, when they could fit dozen on bottles in their pocket, is beyond me!” Pollo gave Richard another tired smile, giving the other man’s shoulder a squeeze, too worn out to let himself process the (several, sundry) downsides of Richard’s statement, or to process why he kept touching his friend. “You can make them bigger on the inside,” he noted. “Bilius does.” “I would be doing the the brand a disservice by not using the bottle, I feel,” Richard defended himself, offering the bottle to Pollo, trying to act cool and calm, and not weirded out (and slightly excited) that there was a chance that Pollo would be drinking with him this evening. “Plus, I enjoy bottles. Let me enjoy my bottles.” “I don’t want you to enjoy your bottles,” Pollo pointed out, though there was no heat behind the comment as he took the offered drink, screwing off the cap and taking a long drink, face contorting at the taste as he passed it back to Richard. “I want you to enjoy something else. Obviously.” Richard couldn’t help but smile as he watched Pollo take a swig of the bottle. This was a rare enough moment that Richard would let anything the man said to him slide. He would not get upset or aggravated tonight, no matter what was said. “I’ll work on it,” he lied. “Good.” Pollo didn’t really believe it, but he didn’t want a fight tonight, any more than Richard did. He sat for a moment, tense and somewhat nervous, before, lips pressed together, he slid on the floor slightly, enough to rest his head on Richard’s shoulder. It wasn’t as easy as it had been to return a hug, but it still felt good. Richard sat there still as Pollo rest his head on his shoulder. It wasn’t just the contact anymore, it was what this meant. Pollo, for some reason, trusted Richard enough to show his vulnerability. Richard had witnessed it to some degree before, but never like this. If Richard were a man more in touch with his emotions, he may have focused on a new warmth that he felt spreading within his chest at the thought. But he wasn’t, so he wouldn’t. Instead, he carefully placed arm around Pollo’s shoulders in an act of comfort. He took a big gulp of his brandy, handing the bottle back over to his grieving friend. “This stuff’s disgusting,” Pollo said, after taking another drink, making a face and, figuring it would keep awareness at bay for a while longer, taking another before handing it back to Richard, adjusting his weight more comfortably against his friend. Neither of his drinks had been as big as Richard’s, but hey, he tried. “I want you to know that. Why don’t you drink champagne all the time? They pay you enough to drink champagne all the time, right? Why brandy.” “Brandy is my friend, and when you have a friend that you love and hold dear to your heart, you deal with the bad sides of them,” Richard grinned. “Plus, she grew on me, and tastes quite wonderful now.” “You’ve killed all your tastebuds,” Pollo summarized. ’I’ve killed many parts of my body,’ he wanted to say, but thought better of it. “Yes, well, drink up and kill some of your own.” “Bossy,” Pollo chided, giving a small, slightly crazed laugh as he reached for the bottle and obliged. He swallowed hard, pressing it back into Richard’s hands and trying not to let the sheer immensity of what was happening overwhelm him again. He was an orphan. He hadn’t thought of it that way before. Did it still count as being an orphan if it only happened after you were an adult? Pollo wasn’t sure where to look for that answer. Maybe a dictionary (which he had; a large one), but moving seemed like a very bad idea just then, especially as the late summer wasn’t quite hot enough to keep the flat warm as night fell, and he was starting to notice the cold, even as the brandy heated (scalded) his chest and made the cold seem much less important. What was warm was Richard’s body against him, which was something he wasn’t going to think too deeply on. He wondered if he should have been more upset. It felt like he should have been more upset. He’d seen other people when they’d lost someone, and they’d been inconsolable. He didn’t feel inconsolable; he was, he thought, very calm, now that the tears had subsided. It was probably absurd to start mentally berating yourself the day your father died for not being inconsolable. Wasn’t not being inconsolable the more useful thing to do? What was also absurd was his vague desire, kept at the back of his mind, to drag Richard from their space against the smooth cold wood of the desk over to his bed, or more rationally a couch, hopefully involving a blanket, to better stave off the chill of the growing night, make better use of the warmth of Richard’s body. He was so warm. But Pollo didn’t have the energy for whatever sarcastic comments Richard would start making then, and he had even less energy for the prospect of thinking on his impulse in the first place. Besides, he did, technically speaking, have a girlfriend, even if she was frequently annoyed with him for caring too much about politics and he was frequently annoyed with her for not caring enough. Probably, if he wanted to drunkenly cuddle anyone just then, it should have been her, but he couldn’t muster up the slightest interest in bothering with her at the moment. This was much better. This was nice, even if it left Pollo wondering exactly why it was so nice. “It’s cold,” he said finally, hoping Richard’s faculties were still together enough to deal with this situation. Luckily for Pollo, Richard was still together, retrieving his wand, and bringing the blanket over to the two of them. Not wanting to impose, he let the blanket drape over Pollo, leaving himself outside of the blanket’s warmth. He downed more brandy, leaving a little left in the bottle, and handing it to Pollo, allowing him to finish it off. Fortunate, too, that Pollo was too distracted (and, having uncharacteristically missed both lunch and dinner, definitely tipsy) to fully process that Richard had just given him the last of a bottle, which he assumed was one among a drunk’s ultimate acts of love. He finished the bottle without comment, frowning at it after as though he didn’t quite know what to do with it, before fully realizing that Richard had been a complete idiot and stayed out of the blanket. Frowning and reaching to set the empty bottle on the desk behind them, he lifted the blanket, pulling his friend closer and draping the fabric over his legs (again, not letting himself think much about what it meant to do so) before he readjusted himself against Richard’s side. Sometimes it was genuinely astonishing how Richard could be so smart and so dumb at the same time. Richard got under the blanket with no argument and instinctively closed his eyes at the new, warm sensation. There was no small part of him that wanted to get as close as humanly possible to Pollo, press his body against his, and to just take what he had wanted for so many years, but Pollo was not like Richard. He had an annoying girlfriend (at least in Richard's eyes) and only loved the fairer sex. It was a cruel trick the world played on the drunk. "Need anything else?" Richard asked, trying to get out of his mindset. “Just this, thanks,” Pollo said, half-amused at how pathetic the admission was, even as he shut his own eyes, surrendering to the cradle of warmth. After a moment, realizing what a child he was acting like (orphan, n.), he opened his eyes, frowning. “You? Sorry, have you. Do you need something.” He already knew how exasperated Richard would be with him for asking, Pollo wasn’t especially used to being the one taken care of. "I need many things, Apollo," he chuckled, unconsciously bringing the blanket and Pollo closer to him. "But I'm good for now." “Okay,” said Pollo, following the insistence of Richard’s arm just as unconsciously, sliding his arms around the other man’s torso, one crossing his back, the other across Richard’s abdomen, kept at a respectful height from anything too intimate. He was, he realized, very tired. He either wanted to be utterly awake and on fire — and, possibly, disemboweling the bastards who had killed before and gotten away with it, who had killed his father and would get away with that, too — or asleep. It was not, he knew, at all reasonable to go to sleep on the floor like this, even if he also knew from experience that Richard had fallen asleep in worse places without complaint. Still, the idea of inviting Richard in his bed seemed all too ripe for misinterpretation, and he wasn’t sure, if they moved downstairs to the couch, that they’d be able to get this back, this strange peace that was so different from their usual sniping tension. As Pollo wrapped his arms around Richard’s torso, Richard could feel himself easing into the other man. His drunken brain wanted to just stay there, melt into Pollo, and never move again. For the first time in what seemed to be ages, Richard felt almost at peace. But that came to a crashing halt when he realized that this wasn’t going where he had always hoped a scenario like would lead. He wasn’t going to get Pollo, and in a way, he felt as if he was taking advantage of the situation. Pollo was upset and drinking, and here Richard was, holding a taken man in an (if you ask him) intimate embrace. It wasn’t right. It felt it, but he knew it wasn’t. And yet, he was selfish enough to hold onto the moment for as long as he could. Not knowing what to say, Richard just went with what he knew best. “Do you want anymore liquid healing?” “No,” Pollo mumbled into the general vicinity of Richard’s shoulder. “If I keep drinking I’ll end up being sick, which would really make a topping finish to the day but I don’t feel like being that... literal.” He lifted his head up from Richard with some effort, lips pursed in a slight frown as he met the other man’s eyes for the first time in... well, a while. “Do you want to go?” “Nah,” Richard played it off as if it were no big deal, squeezing his shoulder with one hand. “I’m feeling mature or whatever the fuck today.” “Of course you would choose the one day I’m useless to feel mature,” Pollo said, sounding more amazed than annoyed. A pause, a swallow, then, more quietly, “Will you stay?” Richard’s eyes widened at the request, his stomach doing a flip or two, even if the request wasn’t meant in the manner which he had always hoped. He wondered if it would be too hard for him to stay there an entire night, possibly in an intimate embrace with Pollo, if he would be able to keep his hands to himself. It was selfish, but the results could be catastrophic if he made the wrong move, and Richard always made the wrong move. Still, he could never refuse Pollo. “Of course.” “Okay,” Pollo said, head settling back on Richard’s shoulder as he quickly pushed his confusion at the look on Richard’s face out of his mind. He half-wanted to stretch out one of his legs to get better comfortable on the floor, but didn’t, for fear of breaking the cocoon of warmth they’d built under the blanket. “Thanks.” “Are you hungry?” Richard asked, not used to taking care of himself, never mind another person. Feeding was a thing, though, right? “Or are you uncomfortable on the floor?” Pollo let out another breathy laugh, his fingers closing briefly around the fabric atop Richard’s ribs before smoothing it out, as if trying to erase the act, as he straightened again, resting his head lightly against the side of the desk and shooting his friend a wry grin. “I must be in bad shape if you’ve remembered normal people eat.” “Hey, I eat,” Richard argued, his hand making its way back into Pollo’s hair. “I ate a burger yesterday, I think.” It was a bit strange, Richard’s hand in his hair now, with them looking at each other, with the chatter about food making Pollo feel closer to a human being than he had in a while (even if he mostly felt like a human being who physically could not handle thinking about where his life was just then and should probably just crawl into the nearest sewer, lay down, and be done with it), but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and he allowed it, still smiling faintly. There was warmth in his belly he might have had the sense to recognize under different circumstances, or with a different person, but this was Richard, and so instead he asked, “When was the last time you even touched vegetables?” “There was a tomato on my burger?” “Tomato’s a fruit,” Pollo said, moving to stand, his arm sliding along Richard’s shoulder until it was grasping Richard’s own in an offer to help him stand (some concession to the warmth of moments before). He didn’t particularly want to eat, but this was, at least, something to do to feel less useless; his father was beyond help, but maybe he could at least get a solid meal in his chronically malnourished friend. “Come on.” Richard couldn’t help but frown a bit as Pollo stood up, though the look was somewhat lost as he tried to stand up with Pollo’s help, stumbling but making his way up, letting go of his hand once he stabilized. The room was spinning a bit, but that was nothing new. The world was always spinning a bit. “You’re not going to make me eat a salad, are you?” “Of course I’m going to make you eat a salad,” Polllo said, grinning again, hand moving to squeeze Richard’s upper arm, presumably in apology for having the audacity to feed him vegetables. “Something else, too, though.” And with that, he headed down the stairs, hoping that he wasn’t about to be sick or stumble or have a nervous breakdown in the kitchen. “I’m not gonna eat a bloody salad,” he complained, though still following Pollo into the kitchen. The apartment was so much cleaner than his own, not that he wasn’t used to Pollo’s place. He had woken up here countless times before. As he walked, he pulled out another bottle, enlarging it, popping the cap, and drinking. “I’m not that hungry.” “You’re never that hungry.” Briefly, Pollo sounded more like himself as annoyance crept into his voice — one of the last people on earth Pollo counted as his own and he wasn’t hungry — though the grimness of the thought was too stark a reminder too fast, and the heat was gone from his voice when he added, “You’ll eat anyway.” “Fine,” he said, not willing to put up an argument with his grieving friend. Well, not today at least. He jumped up on one of the counters to sit, almost falling over in the process, gripping the edge with one hand for balance, the other holding onto his bottle for dear life. “What are you making me, woman?” “Meat, salad. Thrilling. Remember that there are knives in this room, Richard, before you start invoking tired gender roles.” "Mmm, I love meat," he replied, avoiding the second half of Pollo's threat. There was an obvious joke to be made there, but Pollo avoided it, partly out of a respect for Richard’s life which he frequently suspected Richard himself didn’t have, partly because making jokes about that seemed a little inappropriate, under the circumstances. The retrieval of a pair of steaks and their subsequent seasoning while a pan heated on the stove came automatically enough, though it had been a long time since Pollo had cooked for two. The salad could be thrown together easily enough but, considering the fact that he’d barely eaten all day, that Richard definitely hadn’t, and that at least one of them would be ingesting a considerable amount of alcohol yet tonight, he retrieved a pot, filling it with water and slicing potatoes to drop in once it boiled. All of this was done in silence, though from Pollo’s end, it was companionable; going through the motions of cooking gave him something to do, something to stave off thought. Richard just sat on the counter, drinking and watching Pollo prepare the food. The smell of the steak both made his stomach growl with forgotten hunger and nauseous at the same time. A part of him wondered how this night had gone from him trying to comfort Pollo, to Pollo taking care of Richard, and he felt the usual pang of guilt that only made him take larger gulp of his brandy. That usually squashed that feeling. The quiet was nice, between the sounds of the now sizzling steak and the faint humming of the fire beneath the pan, but Richard could feel his eyes begin to droop, as he had spent the entire night before painting, and had barely slept since. Conversation would be necessary to keep him awake. “Make sure it’s bloody,” he said, pointing to one of the steaks. “I like it bloody. It’s better that way.” Somehow this seemed appropriate — that Richard would want it bloody, of course, like he couldn’t possibly stand the sanitized quality of a steak cooked through, like it had to stay connected to the beast it had been, blood red — and Pollo smiled slightly before his mind made the jump from the chunks of meat in the pan to the slab of meat — that’s what it was, wasn’t it? meat, past a point? — he’d nodded at with thin lips earlier in the day, in the St Mungo’s mortuary, which was an absurd connection to make, and counterproductive, but his mind made it anyway. His smile extended for a brief moment, too sharp, and he gave a small laugh, forcing away the sudden pinpricks at his eyes and the wave of nausea he felt staring at the meat in the pan, nodding as his jaw worked to force the bile and grief back down. His spit felt too thin. He felt, in general, stretched altogether too thin. “Yeah,” he said, checking to make sure Richard’s steak hadn’t passed that point yet. His, he decided, he would cook beyond recognition. “You really should eat more, Richard.” It was sometimes hard to remember what Richard had looked like in Hogwarts, when the structure of the school day had forced him into eating with rather more regularity, but Pollo knew it had been different, that the sharp angles of his friend’s face were too sharp, just another sign of a sickness he’d already carried for far too long (maybe, though Pollo didn’t want to admit it even then, past the point of hope). Richard rolled his eyes and focused on the cabinet behind him, opening and closing it to keep his hands occupied, which forced him to concentrate on something other than the food and upcoming lecture. It was rhythmic, the opening, the closing, the sounds, and it kept him transfixed. He said nothing in return to Pollo, because everything he could say on the subject had been said countless times before, and as he had reminded himself several times over the course of the hour, tonight was not the night to argue with Pollo. Pollo glanced at Richard, finally, drawing his attention away from the food to the bewildering man on his counter, who looked about as tired as he felt. He hadn’t even questioned it when it had been Richard who showed up — not his girlfriend, not a family member, not a coworker, not any other friend, but Richard, always — and it was remarkable, really, that for all that Richard was usually one of the least reliable people he’d ever met, he always managed to be there when Pollo was weak enough to admit he needed someone. Never anyone else, not for years. Always Richard. “But you already knew that,” he conceded, voice still uncharacteristically quiet as he took the other man’s steak out of the pan, sliding it onto a plate, shaking salad on beside it, drizzling the greens with balsamic in the vain hope Richard might actually pick at a few of them. (Pollo assumed he would have had better luck if he owned some sort of cream-based dressing, but he didn’t.) He passed the plate, a knife, and a fork, to Richard, and hoped his friend wouldn’t manage to stab himself with the knife. He didn’t know exactly how drunk Richard was tonight, but he wasn’t sure he had it in him to go back to Mungo’s any time soon. That answer, Pollo, was that Richard was quite spectacularly drunk, but luckily for both of them, still coordinated to be able to use utensils (albeit with less dexterity). He pushed the salad aside with his fork, and cut into the steak, moaning as he ate the first piece. It usually took actually getting the food in his mouth to make him realize how famished he was, and this time was no different. He dug through about half the steak before feeling too full, yet another side effect of his drinking, as his stomach had shrunk from what it once was years ago, and pushing the plate aside and leaning back against the cabinet, eyes closed, before Pollo’s steak was even done cooking. “That was delicious.” “Thank you,” Pollo said, quietly pleased despite his brittle state of mind and annoyance at Richard’s blatant rejection of the vegetables. He continued to prod his own steak halfheartedly in the pan, putting off the consumption of the thing for as long as possible. “Have some of your salad.” A pause, before he smiled slightly again. “Or I won’t eat a thing.” Eyes still closed and head still against the cabinet, Richard just shook his head. “I’m full. Plus, I can’t force you to eat. I’m not your f–” Richard stopped himself before he could go any further, eyes snapping open, though he was glad he was somehow able to stop himself in time. Still, there was probably some damage done. He looked at Pollo apologetically, before grabbing his plate, and though it was with a cringe, ate a small forkful of the salad, before putting the plate back down. Though Pollo had flinched slightly at the unfinished sentence, he gave Richard another thin smile, thankful, when he at least got some salad down. Despite his best efforts not to, he wondered what his father would have made of this scene; his mother had always been uncommonly patient with Richard, but his father, much more like Pollo in his impatience and, yes, tendency to judge first and empathize later, had been slightly less sympathetic to the boy’s plight. Back when Richard had been a boy. He wasn’t sure the label applied to either of them anymore, at least not in its entirety. A part of him very nearly wanted to hug Richard, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the food. He turned off the burner beneath the potatoes, even though he already knew there was no chance he’d convince Richard to have those, too, by the looks of him. He didn’t even like potatoes. Why did he even have potatoes? He didn’t particularly want to eat — especially after the thought of the steaks, the meat — but a deal was a deal, and he made himself a plate, the same as Richard’s (albeit with a much more burnt steak), cutting off a piece of meat and forcing himself to chew it thoroughly, to swallow. After a moment, his attention apparently on his food and the world outside his windows, he spoke again. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” He let the question hang in the room for a moment before adding, “Don’t lie.” Richard scoffed at the question, taking a swig and looking down at Pollo from his place on the counter. “No,” he replied somewhat honestly. Mostly it was just hope that there wasn’t. “We’re just biological beings, and we just die. And God help us me if there is an afterlife, because I’m not going anywhere lovely. No place in heaven for queer drunkards, you know?” He laughed, taking another large gulp. “You’d be safe, though. Your mum would be there, probably making sure Jesus ate his veggies. Your dad, too, if that’s what you’re worried about.” “I don’t, either,” Pollo said immediately, the contortion of his brow at Richard’s personal claim to hell lightened as he replied. Plenty of the people he protested with believed in a god, but Pollo had spent his faith on the power of the people; he had little room left to hope for some omnipotent being who would one day cure all ills. Besides, from what he knew of Christianity, at least, he didn’t have much patience for their god, arrogant and capricious. “But if there is I expect to see you, wherever we go. If heaven has no place for queer drunkards I have no patience for heaven.” Richard stared at Pollo, his look a cross between admiration and frustration. It constantly confused and frustrated Richard how much his friend believed in him, how much Pollo truly seemed to believe that Richard was worth more than he actually was. He leaned over, placing a hand firmly on the nape of Pollo’s neck, holding him there as he continued staring at his friend. “I wish you would stop believing in me so much.” The movement of Pollo’s own hand to the side of Richard’s neck, resting firm and warm on the flesh, was automatic, the food gladly forgotten in favour of offering his friend a small smile rarely seen on his face, warm, affectionate, devoid of any sharp angles or sarcasm. “You’re never getting your wish,” he assured Richard, releasing his friend a moment later to take another bite of the salad, chewing it through and swallowing before adding, more reflectively, “I’d be lost without my cynic.” "Someone has to keep your arse in the real world while your head is up the clouds of justice," Richard replied, returning to his resting position, the world feeling slightly more spinny than before. The food in his stomach felt too heavy, and discomfort was quickly turning into nausea. Maybe if he just sat on the counter and held onto it, it would pass. The white walls of Pollo's apartment always made it a little harder to not feel sick when he got to this point. Pollo had always been too good for his own good at spotting someone in distress, and he’d seen Richard in practically every imaginable stage of intoxication enough times that his body language set off alarm bells. “You okay?” he asked, setting down his fork. "You poisoned the salad, didn't you?" Richard tried to joke, as he always did when he didn't want to admit to his discomfort. He hated the look on Pollo's face every time he got sick, and this was nowhere near as bad as he had been other times before, so laughing it off seemed best. “No,” said Pollo, a little tired but nowhere near as audibly upset as he usually was when Richard had obviously drunk too much (as if there was any such thing other than ‘too much,’ when it was Richard). He couldn’t tell if it was comforting or depressing, that they’d be acting out this same old scene tonight; life went on, even when it felt like it shouldn’t. He wondered, not for the first time, if he’d be the one who would plan his father’s funeral; it seemed absurd, considering how little they’d spoken in the last couple years. “Can you make it to the bathroom, or?” "I just need to take a piss," he explained, regretting opening his eyes the second the world came back into view. He got off the counter and made his way as quickly as his stumbling would allow to the bathroom, closing the door. He threw up, pissed, washed his hands, and came back out, hoping Pollo didn't hear the puking, though he knew better. The steak wasn't as delicious coming back up. The salad tasted the same. "You look tired," Richard said, trying to coax Pollo into calling it a night. "I'll take the couch." Admittedly, Pollo had a far more comfortable couch than most — not the one he’d first bought when he’d moved to London; this one, bought some years ago, was broader, softer, easy to sleep on, and if Richard’s habit of being sound asleep in his flat when Pollo woke up had had anything to do with the purchase, Pollo had never said so — but he felt a twinge of reluctance he couldn’t explain at Richard’s suggestion. He imagined it would be good to sleep, but eating, talking, doing the dishes and putting away the spare food — save Richard’s, which was thrown out — and above all gauging the length of time Richard spent in the washroom, the sense of relief when the sound of the sink going suggested he was still more or less himself enough to get through the night without needing any help had left Pollo decidedly awake. “Don’t,” he said after a moment’s consideration, watching Richard as he slid the towel he’d used to dry the dishes over the oven handle. “I might write a while. Come upstairs and use the bed.” Richard had to take a moment to suppress a small groan at the thought of Pollo inviting him into his bed, something he had said in several of Richard's fantasies over the years. No, a moan would not do right now. "So you think you can dine me and I'll put out?" Richard finally asked once he regained his thought process. "I'm not that kind of girl!" A small roll of the eyes was all Pollo had to spare for that comment, already headed for the stairs. “Come on,” he said. “I promise your virtue will remain intact.” As if Pollo hadn’t seen the various sorts Richard had publicly groped over the years (and he was more than capable of imagining the ones he hadn’t seen, though he preferred not to). Richard followed behind Pollo, heading up the stairs and into the bedroom. When they arrived, Richard smiled at the sight of the bed. It just looked too damn comfortable to not just jump into. So, that is exactly what he did after pulling off his shirt and tossing it on the floor. He didn't even bother getting under the covers, as he was running warm anyway. He moaned into the pillow having not experienced a softer bed in... years, really. "Please don't ever wake me up. I change my mind, I found heaven." The eyebrow cocked at the tattoos sprawling Richard’s torso settled as Pollo grinned, shaking his head as he sat at his writing desk, pushing aside a small pile of books and taking out his journal, inking his quill and opening to the next blank page. “I told you you would.” Richard turned over onto his back, remaining sprawled out, taking up a good chunk of the bed. “You cheated. You knew this was here.” “Doesn’t make me any less right,” Pollo countered, still smiling, his eyes barely flickering over Richard before he returned his attention to what he was writing. “I should buy one of these,” he thought out loud, staring at the spinning ceiling. “Then I wouldn’t have to use your couch half as much.” “You know my couch is always yours when you need it,” Pollo said without looking up. Admittedly, there had been (many) times where the sight of Richard barely conscious, or drunkenly slurring insults, had made Pollo want nothing so much as to toss him back out to wherever he’d come from, but the times when Richard had provoked him to the point of sending him off on his way were surprisingly few and far between. “But by all means, if you want to buy a better bed, have at.” You might get a housekeeper while you’re at it went unsaid. “Mmhm,” he murmured, throwing an arm over his eyes and taking deep breaths to try and relax himself. The comfort of the bed and the scratching of Pollo’s quill make it easy for him to drift off to sleep, which he did. He would deal with the hangover in the morning, just like he did every other day. By the time Pollo realized Richard had fallen asleep, he’d been out cold for several minutes already; it was only when Pollo noticed that the soothing, barely there sound in the room was the sound of Richard’s slow, steady breathing that he thought to look up again. He knew, having housed a passed out Richard before, that it was only a matter of time before the snoring started; on other nights this might have annoyed him more, but tonight it was more amusing than anything. It wasn’t as if Pollo would have slept well anyway. Smile small and slightly rueful, he shifted in his chair to better study his friend — a few of the tattoos, he thought, looked like some of the paintings Richard had used to do — as he kept writing. It was curious; in some ways, writing down the day — albeit a drastically sanitized version — made all of the panic, sadness, fear, guilt and shame resurface, and a few times he had to stop, studying Richard and the room as he regained his composure, jaw tight. In other ways, though, writing it down made it more distant, as if in committing the day to ink he bled some of it out of himself, better able to carry on with the night, and the long days ahead, which he already knew would be twice as difficult to breathe through, to keep his patience in, to function during. He was, for whatever reason, proud to be able to write about it so soon. It might not have made him a terribly good son (but he knew that already, really), but it made him a more efficient person, he assumed. He only alluded to Richard’s getting sick; he did not write down how they had held each other. Thinking on that only made Pollo wary, and he had no desire to confront what it was about the memory that made him anxious, that made his thoughts go too fast. Better not to leave traces to worry about later. Once he felt calm enough to sleep — and they were far enough into the night that he was tired, too worn out by the day to struggle for consciousness much longer — he set the journal back in the warded drawer where it resided, taking off shoes and belt and considering how to get into his bed now that Richard was drunkenly sprawled across the better part of it, if it was even worth the trouble. True enough, he could have gone down to sleep on the couch, but Richard really should have been sleeping on his side anyway, considering, and besides, Pollo was tired. Rolling his limbs until there was enough room for Pollo to comfortably get under the covers wasn’t terribly difficult. Neither was grabbing a spare blanket to drape over Richard. He paused for a moment, a hand resting on his friend’s bare shoulder, one thumb brushing against the side of the other man’s neck, before he swallowed and moved to turn out the light. When he laid down, he did so facing away from Richard, and by the time the other man started snoring, he had, finally, fallen asleep. |