p. crumb has strong feelings re: mandatory pudding (godofnofun) wrote in dissentwo, @ 2013-04-01 20:09:00 |
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LOG: SEXUAL AWAKENINGS.
WHO: Pollo Crumb and Richard Chambers.
WHEN: September 23, 1976.
WHERE: Richard's flat, the surrounding area, then Pollo's.
WHAT: The only reason these two are not the gayest ever is because Elixir happened. Thank you, Elixir.
It had been a few days since the party at Jehan’s, and Pollo had, by and large, let the moment pass into memory and obscurity. Jehan didn’t seem to have any designs on kissing him again and, so, he assumed there was no more need to worry. Still, he’d noticed Richard’s conspicuous absence after Jehan had left his chair for greener pastures, and despite himself, he’d wondered. Usually Richard took a front row seat to any sort of humiliation of Pollo’s, good-natured or otherwise. That the drunk had been absent ever since was another curious fact, and when Sunday came, and Pollo had no work, the nearest rally nearly a week away, he gave in to curiosity. Richard’s flat was always a disaster, and Pollo did his best not to show his complete distaste at the state of it when he showed up in the early afternoon, a fry-up in a paper bag clutched in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. Monsieur was not immediately in sight, and thus he was spared the usual greeting of having a mangy one-eyed ball of murder launch itself at his feet. “Richard?” he called, giving the pile of debris on the kitchen floor a leery eye as he tried to decide how best to navigate it. It wasn't that Richard really thought that the kiss between Jehan and Pollo really meant anything, after all, he had kissed Jehan himself, they all had. But it was seeing Pollo kiss anyone, really, never mind another man. And to rub the salt in the wound a little further, Richard didn't want to sit around for the reminder that Pollo's orientation just didn't quite swing that way, affirming that whatever little fantasies or thoughts that he may have secretly, foolishly, held onto really were just that — foolish. He had holed up in his apartment the past three days, having never once left his art room except to take a piss every once in a while. His stash of brandy had lasted him this long, and he figured he still had a day or two stocked up before he would have to emerge again. He didn't recall having eaten, but it may have it happened, though probably not. Hearing Pollo's voice, Richard wasn't sure if it was the alcohol and exhaustion finally breaking him in, or if Pollo had actually called for him. Stepping out of his art room and locking the door behind him, he made his way into the kitchen, kicking random belongings out of the way to get there. Basically falling into the kitchen, immediately leaning against a counter to support just about his entire body, Richard gave Pollo a confused look. "Hello, Apollo. To what do I owe the pleasure?" The moment Pollo saw Richard — because, like it or not (and he didn’t), it had been long enough that he was intimately familiar with the various stages of Richard’s intoxication, and from the looks of him, it would probably be best to reintroduce food to his system very slowly — he set the fry-up on the counter, crossing his arms. Many might have seen this as a confrontational gesture, and they wouldn’t be quite wrong; even when Pollo was trying to take care of Richard, as he was then, there was something about the other man that had a tendency to put him on the defence. The vague, unpleasant scents of the flat had been overridden by a heavy breath of paint, a moment before, and it was all over Richard, speckled on his skin, his clothing, caught in his hair. There was always the possibility that he’d been commissioned to paint another cunting purist family, that that was why he’d been absent, but Pollo didn’t think so, not from the looks of him. He hoped Richard had been painting for himself. “Haven’t seen you in a few days,” he said simply, precious few of his thoughts making it through to the steady, serious look on his face as he sized Richard up, arms still crossed, though there was a slight smile on his face, for the paint and the relief of seeing Richard still apparently alive. “Thought I’d make sure Monsieur hadn’t finally killed you for the meat.” “He tried,” Richard deadpanned, pushing against the counter to try and stand a little straighter, running a hand through his hair which had more paint in it than there probably should have been, seeing as how he had been running his hand through it before the paint had any time to dry. “He always tries. He keeps me on my toes.” And just as he said it, Richard lifted himself onto his tiptoes, falling back over on the counter as he did so. Despite himself — and his considerable antipathy for Richard’s domestic hellbeast, and the fact that Richard had very obviously not been taking much care of himself, as usual — Pollo’s smile grew a little more, his posture uncharacteristically awkward as he tried to stand comfortably among the mess, ignoring the debris, still studying Richard. “I’ll avenge you if he ever succeeds,” Pollo said, not only because the idea of killing Richard’s cat had sometimes seemed, in moments when Monsieur raked his claws across Pollo’s calves with particular viciousness, strangely appealing. “I brought you food,” he added, nodding to the bag on the counter. “Where’ve you been?” “I’m not hungry,” Richard cringed, leaning over and resting his head on his arms on the counter. “I’ve been around,” he muttered into his arms, not wanting to discuss it. Pollo raised an eyebrow, the smile gone, his shoulders squaring as his posture reasserted itself in what had become a nearly natural reaction to Richard doing something Pollo disapproved of (in this case, Pollo would have said childishness, obvious intoxication, a refusal to take care of himself and what looked a bit like a case of exhaustion). There was a part of him that half-wanted to drag Richard to his bedroom and put him on the bed to sleep this off even if it required some manner of magical restraint, but forcing Richard into things didn’t tend to work well, and occasionally Pollo was capable of remembering that. “For when you are, then,” he said, expression softening slightly, though his arms stayed crossed and his back stayed straight. “I would have thought you’d stick around to see my humiliation through.” Richard kept his face buried in his arms, barely stirring. "I'm sure there will be plenty more times." Though it was probable that Richard meant Pollo’s humiliation in general rather than the particular form it had taken a few nights before, Pollo’s eyebrows still went up. “Jesus, I hope not. With no offence meant to Jehan.” Just the reminder that Richard, needed, of course. That the man he was in love with had absolutely no interest in other men. Richard felt his chest tighten a bit, as it did just about every time he was reminded he couldn’t have the only thing in life he actually wanted. “I mean you being humiliated.” It was a bit colder, snappier than Richard’s usual tone. “Right,” said Pollo, sounding unsure (one of several things he only tended to do around or because of Richard). “My mistake.” There were a few unnameable sentences dancing on his tongue, none of which he could hold still long enough to make sense of, so instead he nodded slightly, even though the other man was decidedly not looking at him. “Do you want to go somewhere? I’m told the walls outside one’s flat have something called fresh air. It’s allegedly delightful.” Richard slowly lifted his head, turning it, and resting it back onto his arms, now looking at Pollo with tired eyes. “Don’t think I’m good company right now.” Pollo felt a pang of sympathy at the look on Richard’s face — he was in dire need of sleep, and probably several meals with far more nutritional value than a fry-up, not that he’d eat them — mouth twisting slightly as he sought the right words. “I don’t mind much whether it’s good or not, it’s your company I want,” he admitted quietly, because it was September, and looking at Richard that tired made Pollo feel tired. “I can leave, if you’d like. I’m rarely good company.” And at that, a hint of a self-deprecating smile returned. “I need more red,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “I used all my fucking red. We can go get that?” “Okay,” Pollo said, this moment of having a conversation that bore a passing resemblance to normal, civil conversation between two friends rather than elaborate, sometimes too-personal verbal sparring strange enough that some of the uncertainty stayed on his face even as he straightened again, ready to go. “Do you have a jacket? It’s not that warm.” Richard finally pushed off the counter to straighten up, or at least try to, before shaking his head. “I’m fine. I don’t need my jacket.” He pat his pockets to make sure he had money on him. “Also, I need food for Monsieur. I don’t remember feeding him. he may like the fry-up.” “If you catch a cold and it’s my fault, Nico’s going to hit me,” Pollo protested, hoping invocation of Nico might convince Richard to put on a jacket. “And the fry-up was meant for you, you know.” “Nico will find a reason to hit you one way or another,” Richard said, both of them knowing that it was just the cold, hard truth, that Pollo would never be safe from her little fists. Richard didn’t bother arguing over the jacket, and just walked toward the door. Before stepping out, he pivoted back, grabbed his flask, and turned back around. “Come on, Apollo. I need some red, and probably some black. And cat food. And brandy.” Rolling his eyes at the last item on the list, Pollo followed Richard’s lead, shrugging off his own jacket and draping it over Richard’s shoulders as best he could with a minimum of touching. “Humour me.” Richard didn’t fight him when he draped the jacket over his shoulders, partially because he just didn’t have it in him to argue, being as exhausted as he was, and partially because he didn’t quite mind being enveloped by the jacket that smelled like Pollo. The edges of his lips even quirked up the slightest bit. “Thanks.” Relieved that, for once, Richard wasn’t being as difficult as humanly possible, Pollo smiled back, crossing his arms over his chest as they walked. “What have you been painting?” he asked after a moment, on the off-chance Richard would answer him honestly. Richard just shrugged under the jacket, wrapping it around himself a little more tightly as they stepped outside and made their way down the street. He never spoke about his art, not even little hints here and there. He left it at that, not offering any more, and they continued to walk in silence. After stewing it over for a bit, Richard finally asked, “So Jehan not your type then?” Pollo glanced at Richard, surprised, before a smile crept over his face that he would have been hard-pressed to explain. “No,” he said. “I love Jehan dearly as a friend but I’m afraid we make absolutely no sense to each other half the time. I somehow doubt my striking up a romance with someone that romantic would work well.” A pause, as he turned his head to smirk across the street, the slight bite of the autumn wind — and it was threatening to rain, of course — no longer an inconvenience, given his sudden good mood, before he asked: “Is he yours?” Richard couldn’t help but smile a little bit at his response, though unlike Pollo, he knew exactly why. “You know I don’t have a type. I’ve never been anyone’s significant other,” Richard stated, his steps most definitely not leading in a straight line. “Alive is my type.” Pollo looked back to Richard, the smile he’d sported replaced by something much sadder (though, as ever, the undercurrent of anger was there, the frustration that Richard so wholly refused to treat himself better). “I wish you’d choose a better type,” he said, the admonishment in his tone not quite covering up the slight sting Pollo felt at the reminder of the sorts of people Richard had been wasting even more time than usual on, it seemed, in the last several months. “You should be with people who appreciate you.” Richard cocked a brow at Pollo, a humourless laugh escaping him. “We fuck, Apollo. Not hold hands and go to the park and cuddle.” “And none of that interests you,” Pollo pressed, before he could stop himself. “Hands, parks, cuddling.” It was, to the best of his knowledge, the first time he had spoken any version of the word ‘cuddle’ aloud in his life. He could understand part of Richard’s perspective (he thought); certainly, he’d never been an excessively attentive boyfriend himself, always too busy with his responsibilities to spend much time on what few girls he’d dated. (And it was over two years, now, since Margaret.) None of them had ever seemed important enough. There was, logically, no reason why Pollo should be at all interested in what Richard did with his romantic life, if that was the word for it. And yet. “You’d rather fuck,” he continued, the curse unusual and bitter on his tongue, “fuck people who have absolutely no respect for you. You prefer that. Is what you’re saying.” “I can barely take care of a fucking cat,” Richard pointed out, not even angry, just... tired. “Some people are made for relationships, some for mindless, senseless fucking. Way of the world.” There was still a strained look to Pollo’s features, as if there was the trace of a bad taste in his mouth, his arms still crossed tight over his chest as he studied Richard, but when he spoke, the heat of a moment before was gone, and he looked ahead as they walked. “You take care of me,” he pointed out. “When I need it.” It was rare for him to refer to the times when he broke down outside of their duration. “You take care of Gav and Nico inasmuch as they need taking care of. You take care of Jehan — one would expect a cynic to be far less kind to a romantic as committed as he is.” A pause, as he considered his words, swallowing. “You shouldn’t avoid relationships because you think you aren’t capable, Richard. You’re more than capable. If you wanted to.” “Well, then I don’t want to,” he responded with no heat, just factually. He looked up at Pollo, making eye contact for a second, but breaking it, not ready to feel any more vulnerable than he already did the past few days. “I don’t know, Apollo. Just. I don’t fucking know so many things.” Pollo frowned slightly — like Richard, he’d been struggling with the concept of eye contact, failing to notice the way his fingers were digging into his own arms, and trying not to notice his heart beating with more force than that to which he was accustomed — looking back at Richard’s face properly for the first time in a couple of minutes. “Like what?” he prompted, voice uncharacteristically gentle. Once again, and as was usual for Richard, he just shrugged. He wasn’t even a hundred percent sure what it was he was talking about. “Just, things,” he repeated, looking over at Pollo, basically pleading with his eyes to not continue this particular prodding. Richard was in no mindspace for any deep soul searching or self-discovery bullshit. “Do you want all those things?” Pollo had been on the verge of changing the subject, at the look in Richard’s eyes, but at his question, his eyes widened slightly and he swallowed, frowning at the pavement ahead as he tried to parse out an answer. Pollo was not in the habit of thinking much about himself, and truth be told, when Richard asked him, Pollo had trouble discerning what the answer even was, let alone how to word it. “Yes,” the first word, and the most sincerely meant. “In a way. Doesn’t nearly everyone?” he asked, glancing at Richard again. “But I’m not sure it would be good. If I found it.” Why was it that Richard had the unique ability to destroy Pollo’s penchant for well-worded, smooth-flowing sentences? How, exactly, was he rendered inarticulate? “I’ve liked and respected the girls I’ve dated. But I haven’t loved them. I love... all of you, and I loved my parents.” He offered Richard a small, pursed, unconvincing smile. “Look where it got them. It’s hard enough worrying about getting all of you killed as is. I don’t want to have something that good just to have it...” and he shrugged, lips thin as he looked away again. "I get that," Richard replied honestly. He pulled out the flask in broad daylight, taking a swig, offering it to Pollo, even if he knew he wouldn't accept. "I wouldn't make anyone's life any easier, that's for certain." Pollo shook his head at the proffered flask, but didn’t give Richard the glare he usually received for drinking. There was something about Richard, this tired, this honest, in his jacket, that made him very difficult to look at just then. “Accommodating isn’t one of the first adjectives I’d use to describe you,” Pollo admitted, smirking slightly. He was vaguely aware of the usual buzz in his mind of all the things he had yet to do for the day — he’d only meant to stop by Richard’s for a minute or two, to make sure he was still alive — but they seemed less pressing than usual in the face of this, the look on Richard’s face. “But an easier life doesn’t necessarily mean a better one.” "A drunkard for a boyfriend, every man's dream," Richard said with a shake of his head. "Or woman's I suppose." “You make my life better,” Pollo asserted, some of his nervousness abating at the familiar motions of arguing with Richard. “Difficult, yes, but it would be difficult either way. You make it better.” Richard didn't know how to respond, but he did know that he felt himself try to stand a little straighter, a smile forming. If he were to walk down the street, along Pollo's side, especially after those words, he should try to look worthy of it, even if he knew he probably never would. "I guess that makes you an idiot then," he joked, his tone, though still exhausted, a little more playful. Though a number of more earnest responses played across Pollo’s tongue, what came out was decidedly closer in tone to Richard’s. “I believe it’s been established that we’re both idiots.” And his smile, when he offered it, was fond. "For what it's worth, if it's worth anything," Richard started, somewhat aware that were he any less out of it, perhaps he wouldn't be saying any of this. "I think you deserve a good woman. You're the best of us all, Apollo." And just like that, the nervousness returned, and Pollo resumed trying to push it away from his consciousness, fumbling for a moment in his search for a reply. “I’d like a good person,” he said. “But I’d much prefer seeing you with one.” A pause. “It’s worth a lot.” Richard, intoxicated though he was, did not miss his use of the word 'person.' His smile brightened up some. "Looks like we will just have to hope for one another then, yeah?" Pollo looked from Richard to the pavement, his responding smile automatic, though he tried to hide it. “Apparently.” "The store is right down this way," Richard said, changing the topic. It was a small form of torture, talking about their futures, when he didn't even expect a long one ahead of him. He shrugged off the jacket, handing to Pollo. "I'm not cold anymore." Pollo took the jacket back carefully, studying Richard again. He held it in his hand for a moment as though he had forgotten what to do with it, before sliding it back onto his shoulders all in a rush, trying not to notice the warmth of the fabric, how it smelled slightly of brandy and paint. Fastening it shut was as good excuse as any to look away, to breathe and take a step back from the unexpected avenues the conversation had dove into. “To hell with Monsieur,” he said suddenly, frowning at the sidewalk. “Richard, do you have food for yourself in that flat?” Richard closed his eyes to think it over, though focusing was hard. When he opened them back up. He gave Pollo a somewhat sheepish look. "Don't think so? It's okay though." “Richard, you have to eat,” Pollo said, feeling a bit absurd for having to point out something so obvious. "I eat, Merlin," Richard defended himself, the same way he always had in the past. "Can we just go in and get my paints now?" “Yes,” said Pollo, amusement mingling with annoyance. “Can I feed you later?” “I swear, you must be trying to fatten me up for the slaughter," Richard said, walking into the Muggle art supply store, walking straight to the section he needed, knowing where everything was in every aisle, and every employee knew him by name. He stood in front of the acrylic paints, temporarily forgetting Pollo was there, going through all the tubes looking her his specific shades. He ended m grabbing more than just the red and black, instead holding about a dozen new tubes in his arm, a new painting in mind, and a huge smile on his face, much like a kid with an armful of candy. "Okay, I'm ready." It was rare for Pollo to see Richard concentrating on something in earnest, and for all that he obviously hadn’t been taking care of himself since the last time Pollo saw him, the intoxication and sleep deprivation seemed to fade somewhat under the intensity of Richard’s focus. When it became clear that, until his task was complete, Richard would not recall Pollo was there with him, Pollo allowed himself to study Richard openly, the stubble marking his jaw, the paint caught in his hair (even wilder than usual), the darkness around his eyes and the focus in them as he went through the paints. It never ceased to amaze Pollo that even while wildly intoxicated and otherwise disadvantaged, Richard could still operate at a level above and beyond the better part of the sober people he’d met. … mind, it was rare enough for Richard to put that ability to good use, but this, at least, was nice, and the closest he was likely to get to seeing Richard paint. If Pollo were better at recognizing his own thoughts and emotions, he would have recognized his need to map out Richard’s features and the ensuing intensification of sensation as what comparatively well-adjusted people call ‘arousal.’ He offered a salute and a beat of the eyebrows to Richard’s announcement, smiling despite himself at the look on the other man’s face. “Lead on.” Walking up to the register with all of his supplies, dumping them in front of the young man who worked there, Ben, Richard dug out some of his Muggle currency to pay. Ben started some small talk with him, telling Richard about some new canvases that came in, and they chatted a bit before Richard finally got his bag. As he walked out the store, Richard rummaged through his bag, taking out several of the tubes, then putting them back in, making sure he was satisfied with his collection. He pulled out a teal color, opened the top, and squeezed a bit out onto his finger, squinting at it and showing Pollo the paint. “What do you think of that color?” Pollo felt much more out of his element than usual — there was something strangely domestic about this, and domestic activities were not typically Pollo’s strong suit — and also far more acutely aware of particularly how Richard’s curls framed his face and how his clothing felt against his skin. The sensation was just powerful enough that, for a moment, watching Richard with the paints, Pollo was painfully aware of what that sensation was. So, when Richard spoke to him again, Pollo’s eyebrows shot up and he looked, briefly, not unlike a schoolboy who has just been caught in the middle of something he shouldn’t have been doing. “It’s nice,” he said, eyes darting from the paint on Richard’s finger to his eyes and back again. (There was an absurd part of his brain that immediately began making comparisons between the two colours in which the one Richard wasn’t deliberately showing off invariably won.) Trying to ignore the rising sense of something similar to panic in his chest and his sudden desire to go and not-have-a-talk-with-Telyn-because-there-w Richard nod his head, still examining the color, pulling his flask out with his free hand, downing the entire contents of the flask before putting it back in his pocket. “I have to go there a lot. My job, you know?” Pollo cleared his throat, looking away and nodding. “I’m painting a new MacDougal couple next week,” Richard threw out there, mind still focused, though the brandy he just drank was already starting to take effect. After a while, he nodded his head and rubbed his hand off on his pants, and looked back up at Pollo. “You’re quiet. That’s weird.” “You would prefer I spoke more?” Pollo said, looking a little tired when he met Richard’s eyes again, smiling faintly. “I have several choice words for the MacDougal family, if you’d like to hear them.” “And I’m sure they have several choice words for you,” Richard countered, tripping over one of his feet, barely catching himself before making a complete ass of himself. Most of the time, when Richard stumbled and staggered, Pollo tended to react in anger and disdain and, certainly, those things were still there — there would never be a time, he hoped, when watching his friend destroy himself wouldn’t enrage him — but the movement of his hand to Richard’s arm, helping steady the other man, was automatic. And, once his hand was there, he was reluctant to move it away, his palm sliding to the back of Richard’s shoulder as his eyes flitted over the other man’s face. He would not ask whether Richard was okay — inquiries after Richard’s health were typically met by a deliberate attempt on Richard’s part to sabotage it further, and he would not ask whether Richard was okay. “I’m sure they do,” he said after a length of time that felt much more significant than it was. “Where to next?” Richard tried not to show how much the hand on his shoulder affected him, so he kept looking ahead, pointing to a convenience store down the street, though he did have the faintest of a smirk on his face. “Monsieur needs food. And I need a razor. And some wine. Also, don’t let me forget socks.” “Do I want to know what happened to your socks?” Pollo asked dryly, letting his hand fall from Richard’s shoulder with some reluctance, all too aware of it swinging awkwardly at his side, at the distance between his hand at his side and Richard’s body, of how easy it would be to just graze accidentally... but he didn’t. "Probably not," Richard replied, swinging his shopping bag around. "Which reminds me, I need scissors, too. It is time for Monsieur and my annual haircut. Also, I'll need a sponge." “A sponge,” Pollo repeated, trying not to imagine where, precisely, Richard would be using it — how much hot water, exactly, did it take to get that much paint out of hair that curly? — and resisting the urge to become too concerned about the idea of Richard, drunk, armed with both scissors and a murderous cat. “Also, I lost my towel about three months ago, and I’m tired of using paper towels to dry off after a shower, so can you add towel to my list?” Richard asked, rubbing his face to try and wake up a little more. “You got everything?” Pollo shot Richard an exasperated look before reciting, carefully, “Towels, sponge, scissors, socks, cat food, painter food, razor.” If he left a couple of items off the list, he couldn’t really be blamed. “And wine,” Richard added, not remembering if he mentioned it before or not, but making sure to do so now for good measure. Richard continued to rub his face, the exhaustion really starting to catch up with him. “Maybe we can get all that tomorrow, though.” “You and your cat need food,” Pollo pointed out. “At the very least to ensure he doesn’t try eating you alive while you sleep.” “He won’t eat me, he loves me,” Richard whined, leaning against Pollo’s side, as the world started getting a little spinnier. “He loves me.” If Pollo weren’t distracted by the sensory overload prompted by Richard’s choice of post to lean on — and, as his hand had gone to Richard’s arm automatically before, now his arm went around the other man’s shoulders just as thoughtlessly, supporting him — he might have felt a pang of contrition for scoffing at the various romantic trials and tribulations of his acquaintances over the years. ...but that was somewhat doubtful. He was, after all, Pollo. “Come to mine,” he said, before he could stop himself. “We’ll pick up your ill-tempered beast. There are towels. And socks. And a razor. And painter food.” A pause. “I will feed your bloody cat. Also, my bedding has been washed in recent memory, which I assume isn’t the case for yours.” Richard took a minute to think over everything Pollo had just offered, and after a moment, nodded his head into Pollo’s shoulder. “Yeah, we’ll do that,” he muttered, then turned his head to look up at Pollo. “And he’s not an ill-tempered beast.” “Monsieur,” Pollo began, leading Richard back in the direction of his flat, his hand sliding to Richard’s waist to better support him — and he was too thin, he really did need to eat — as Pollo pushed back the urge he’d had with their faces too close (his gaze darting from Richard’s eyes to his lips), swallowing it down to make room for the words, “is the most bloody minded cat I have ever met in my life, and if I survive his visit to my flat I will serve out the rest of my life in shock and gratitude.” He glanced at Richard, expression soft. “How long have you been awake?” "I love him," Richard said, his only defense for his cat. He knew the cat was a bastard, but so was Richard, so it just fit. At his last question, Richard let out a groan, knowing that if he was honest with Pollo, that he would be chastized. Still looking at Pollo, he attempted a small smile before answering truthfully. "What day is it today?" “Sunday,” Pollo sighed. “It’s Sunday. The 24th.” "Thursday," he said quietly, looking away and starting to remove himself from Pollo's hold. This would be the part, Richard figured, where Pollo would lecture. But when Richard started to pull away, Pollo pulled him closer, brow furrowed. “Did anyone ever tell you alcohol is supposed to make people sleep? I’m told that’s one of the better known side effects.” "If I slept every time I drank, you would have to call me Rip Van Winkle," Richard attempted to joke, though the exhaustion was thick in his voice. "Your couch is heaven, I'll sleep there." “You’re sleeping in the bed,” Pollo said firmly, speeding up their pace as much as he could with Richard practically falling asleep on his feet. “I’ve slept in a bed several times in the last few days, I’ll survive the deprivation.” Richard shook his head. "You will be deprived of nothing, my Apollo," he said sleepily, letting the nickname slip, trying to keep up with Pollo's pace. “If you try to go to sleep on my couch, I’ll just end up moving you,” Pollo threatened, his arm tightening around Richard, slightly. “Would you make your Apollo carry you up the stairs with your hellbeast nipping at my heels?” "Never," he yawned, submitting. "And he's not a hellbeast." “He is absolutely a hellbeast,” Pollo countered, squeezing Richard’s arm. Finally, they were back at Richard’s flat. “Grab what you need.” A pause. “I’ll carry it. You’re carrying the h- cat.” Richard looked around his flat, throwing his bag of supplies on the ground before grabbing a random shirt and pants, whatever was closest, whether dirty or clean, and called for Monsieur, who like the little shit he was, did not come when called, but instead decided to attack Pollo's legs as soon as he walked past the couch he was hiding underneath. “Bloody—” Pollo jumped out of the cat’s range, shooting it a formidable glare that didn’t quite leave his face when he looked to Richard. “I found your hellbeast,” he said dully, keeping his distance from the deranged creature Richard thought was fit to be a housepet. "Monsieur, mon petit!" Richard exclaimed, picking up the cat, who was now purring and nuzzling his face. "Let's go?" Pollo spared one more glare for Monsieur, before nodding at Richard. “Can you Apparate without splinching yourself, and if not can you restrain him long enough for me to lead?” Richard nod his head, holding Monsieur in one arm. "I can," he said, even if he had said the same words before in the past, yet still found himself in Mungo's, splinched. "I'll see you there." And concentrating as hard as his drunk, tired mind possibly could, apparated himself into Pollo's living room, Monsieur immediately jumping out of his arms to explore the new space. Pollo shot the cat another glare — one might be tempted to suggest that if Pollo didn’t glare at Monsieur so heartily and so frequently, the cat might hate him less, but Pollo had never been a fan of housepets, and for him and Monsieur, it had been hate at first sight, so far as he was concerned — hoping the beast didn’t destroy anything he cared about too completely. For a moment, he was hesitant, eyeing Richard, before he nodded at him, one hand cradling the other in front of his chest. “Come on,” he said, moving to place a hand at Richard’s back again, guiding him to the stairs. Because Richard was very tired, after all, and Pollo didn’t want him to trip again and break his neck. That was all. Richard instinctively leaned against Pollo for support as they climbed the stairs, and were he less tired, then perhaps he would have said or done more, perhaps been more observant. As it was, however, Richard just really just went with whatever felt most natural, and thought little through. "Do you pity me, Apollo?" Richard asked, still leaned against the other man. “I have sympathy for you,” Pollo replied after a moment’s delay, his free hand steady on the railing. And you are occasionally pitiful, but it wouldn’t do to say that out loud. “I wish you would treat yourself better. But no, I don’t typically pity you. Would you prefer I did?” “I’d rather be dead,” Richard replied, almost losing his footing. “Never pity me.” “I’ll do my best.” Pollo slid his arm more fully around Richard’s back when he stumbled, and it stayed there when they reached the top of the stairs, entering his room (the bed, of course, made, the room immaculate). Finally, he stepped back, releasing Richard, not quite wanting to but quite unwilling to overstay his welcome (Richard needed sleep, after all, and Pollo knew enough to know Richard was probably on the verge of removing clothing). “Do you need anything else?” Richard just shook his head, kicking off his shoes while pulling off his shirt to get ready to fall into the most comfortable bed that there has ever been, bar none. Richard looked down at his torso, finding different colored dried paint here and there, and he turned to Pollo, a small frown on his face. “I should really take the couch. I’ll dirty the bed up.” Pollo swallowed. “It’s fine,” he said, voice unusually quiet, one hand back to cradling the other before his chest. “I know how to clean sheets.” Which was an obvious, banal thing to say, but at least Pollo was more than acquainted enough with rigid self-control to keep his eyes fixed on Richard’s face (he dug the nail of one thumb into its opposite’s knuckle). “Go to sleep, Richard. And if I’m not here when you wake up, please eat something. You know where everything is.” It didn’t take anymore convincing, so as soon as Pollo finished speaking, Richard collapsed onto the bed, kicking his jeans off onto the floor, curling up on top of the covers, as he usually did. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Richard was knocked out cold, and not too soon after, Monsieur had found his owner, cuddling up beside him to do the same. Getting the covers out from under Richard was a task to which Pollo could not rise, just then; fortunately, he had spare blankets in the cupboard. Fetching one of these — the warmest he could find — he draped it over the painter and the cat, earning another glare from the beast in the process. “Deal with it,” he muttered at the cat, lingering for a moment to study Richard’s face and attempt to digest the lump in his throat and the unusually present feel of his heart thudding blood through his body. It was not long before he left, heading back down the stairs, but it wasn’t the last time that day he would find an excuse to go in and watch Richard sleep — he couldn’t write at the desk downstairs, needed the one in his room; he had to shut the drapes, lest the daylight through the window wake Richard up too soon; he had to find a change of clothes; he had to brush his teeth — and by the time Pollo himself retreated to the couch for a few hours of restless sleep, due to rise again before dawn, he had sorted nothing out. |