Beelzebub (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gluttoning) wrote2023-08-28 10:39 am
gluttoning) wrote2023-08-28 10:39 am
SATURDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL (The World)
[FOOTBALL NOISES
aka this for IRL football watching or any communications outside Fragment. Yay football. :)]
[FOOTBALL NOISES
aka this for IRL football watching or any communications outside Fragment. Yay football. :)]
no subject
It leaves his chest a little more full, aching in a strange way - both with the corrections and the guilt of his own misunderstandings.]
...I don't mean to. To say things that make you wonder if I don't believe you, I mean. I... really want to believe you.
[How does he explain... SHOULD he?
His hands gently tighten against Morgan's.]
I've never really had someone say that before. Me just talking to someone and having it be something they liked. It's... not something that happens.
[He knows being called clueless or stupid or childish or simple. Not compliments. Not something out of kindness or genuine enjoyment.]
I don't know how to think about it. I like it. It makes me happy.
[And yet he can feel his eyes burn.]
You're enough for me. I... want to be enough for you, I-I...
[His hands occupied, Barrett can't quite stop the tears that fall. There's only a few, beckoned out of exhaustion and grief.]
I want to feel like I'm enough.
no subject
He squeezes Barrett's hands as his tears roll down his cheeks. )
... It's okay if it takes awhile. I think... I can try to figure it out with you - how I feel about myself.
( Because he isn't convinced he's enough either, but - well - first - he's not - he's going to say he's passed up revenge as an eventuality, or anything. But if he thinks for a moment, as a hypothetical, that maybe he won't pursue it - not a commitment to the idea, but trying the idea out, to see how it fits - would it feel like this, sometimes? Not less empty, but more - forgetting, a little bit, that he feels that way?
That was the feeling in his chest, when he first asked if he could try. He's not that good with words or feelings. He's getting there. )
... I want... to keep talking to you. And for you to keep talking to me. Even when you say things I don't believe about myself. I like them. Because... I do like you. ( A gentle rebuttal of the apology Barrett had signed into his palm. ) I can try to say it more. There's a lot of things I think but don't say.
( He'll need to recognize that he's in the process of liking something and then pull together a compliment, but - he's open to the idea. Barrett worries a lot about what people need, but he guesses not a lot of people get to hear what he needs, in turn. )
no subject
[It's delicate, giving the feeling a name. Realizing it's returned, even if not in the same flavor. A burst of nervous warmth behind how his tears still fall, slowly, unabated by the slow nod he gives, clenching his eyes shut and squeezing Morgan's hands with more purpose. That blossom stretches, wanting.
It is, after all, a want. A want from him... and it's another want from the young man who he holds hands with, a want from Morgan who never speaks of wanting. It's like a nail being driven in, painful and sharp, of how certain Morgan is about this, to give it that sort of word. A solid fact in the midst of grieving doubt.
Even if it was something Barrett himself didn't consider good enough, or something that made him worthwhile like his body or his potential... Morgan still wanted it. Enough to voice it. To give it reason and not let it exist in a hypothetical, at least for a moment.
...
His face feels messy and warm, and the urge to break contact to wipe it off grows by the second. Pull himself together, let him be stronger in front of Morgan so he won't have to worry. But the touch isn't something he wants to drift from. Like the walk back from the beach that stretched much longer than the journey out.]
I don't think I'll always understand everything. But I-- I like that you make me want to think. It's hard for me. I can't pretend to know things I don't understand. But... most people give up on me when I can't keep up.
You don't.
So I... I want to hear what things you have to say. Even if it's something you don't understand. Or if I don't understand. I... want to figure it out. With you.
[It's touching to think of it. Of the mundane chatter, the serious chatter. Listening to the sound of Morgan's voice and knowing the words don't come from obligation. He wonders if he'll ever hear that sea of words that flows from his mouth when he discusses something important -- he wonders if he'll be able to follow along someday. To understand and grasp that much more why Morgan feels so brilliant to him.
A quiet moment passes, and his voice grows small again.]
You're sure this is enough?
I... can't take you anywhere. Or be there to help you if you're in trouble. I can't show off for you.
I feel like...
...
Like equipment. That can't be fixed. That needs to be replaced. I... want to yell at all the doctors. All the news crews. I want to tell them I have a lot left to give, but... I...
I hate it. I feel like I lost my chance.
[Obsolete in a single moment.]
no subject
So this isn't, really - needing. It's kindling something else. Killing the professor is a need, because he doesn't know what else to do with himself, because he doesn't know what other meaning there is for him if not for that. And maybe it's a little weightier in his chest to say I choose this, I've decided to want this, when I know I have every means to walk away.
With each tumbling and tear and word, his chest feels not so much a steady beat as it does a gentle thump, one that lands a little heavier and a little softer into its soft bed of feeling with each repeat. So naturally, like a reflex, he meets the gentle squeeze at his hand with a full and proper hold, so he is not so much keeping Barrett's hands wrapped in his as he is holding it, mutually, with as much intent as he can manage. )
... If you want to yell at them, then yell. They don't know you. And if you don't know the words yet, you'll find them. We'll find them, it sounds like.
( He says it like a fact - like a weather forecast - like maybe they just don't know when, but it's bound to happen from the look of it. His voice is certain and frank, as it is when he speaks of things he knows.
He squeezes Barrett's hands once more before he lets them slip free, just so he can gently let the palms come to rest on either side of Barrett's face; the fingers half-spread, so they can curl light into his wet face. )
... You're enough for me. ( The phrase echoes familiar. ) You, you as you are. I like seeing into you - seeing you. And you don't look broken from where I am.
no subject
It's... okay, isn't it? If he lets himself go for just this moment?
It matches how his throat and chest tighten, eyes screwing shut even as Morgan's hands deposit his to frame his face instead. He can't conjur up words. The what-ifs that pile up feel muted under his touch, the worries of the future something for another moment to process and devour.
Right now, Morgan believes in him. Expects nothing eloquent. Sees nothing broken. Breaks the distance and voices himself anyway.
Barrett can only nod in response. The tears start to flow a little more, and he takes in a shaking breath, letting one hand rest against one of Morgan's hands as he presses his face into the other.
For a long moment, and another, it's all he allows himself to do. To nod, fervently, as though he can't trust his own mouth, while his hurt bubbles up like a spring that's finally been allowed to release, his shoulders shuddering along with his breaths
...
When he finally feels he can regain control of his breathing, his reddened eyes open a little more, glancing at Morgan with exhaustion laced with a touched sort of gratitude, before his free hand lifts to try and wipe at his own face.]
--'M making such a mess, huh... [A tight, choking sound in the back of his throat, what could be a laugh if he weren't just fresh off of crying. He exhales deeply, intentionally.]
...I trust you. I want to keep trusting you.
no subject
He'd meant it, when he said he liked Barrett like this, too. Mithrun is not so good at reading hearts; he can't see them so well when they're hidden away. He thinks he understands this a little better - the vulnerability, and how it balances Barrett's affection. And Barrett seems a creature of love, if anything - in that so much of what he does is defined by how he cares for others.
Caring, wanting - are both hungry things. And Barrett offers them to him anyway, even while red-faced and teary. Gentle thumps, gentle thumps. He can't think of Barrett as anything like a mess. )
... I think... I'd like that. I trust you, too.
( His palm presses into Barrett's cheek, fingers brushing into his hair. He'd considered for a moment if there was anything better to say here, but he guesses he will never quite have a hang of what the right thing to say he; he can only be transparent and honest.
Which, speaking of honesty and feelings. He recognizes a feeling that he'd just sort of been overlooking for a time - he just notices it now. If his hands weren't preoccupied, he might've just followed his impulse into direct motion; but, because he's almost reluctant to move them: )
... Would it hurt if I came up onto the bed?
( Like, not in with Barrett exactly, but up beside him. Getting closer, as it were. )
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Barrett thinks for a second before shaking his head shallowly against Morgan's hands, taking a moment to wiggle his closest arm down to collapse the handrest on the right side of his bed with a fumbling touch.]
If I don't move very much, it'll be okay. [Given Barrett's size, there's not a ton of room to work with on the cramped incline... but they could make it a snug fit.
Looping his right arm further back on the bedframe, guiding IVs out of the way, Barrett holds out his other hand to rest against Morgan's forearm. Pulling slightly, eagerly.
Stay with him.]
no subject
His fingers curl and brush along the underside of Barrett's eye before he lets his hands slip away, carrying away what's left of the wet lingering there - taking in, for a moment, his red-eyed, wet-faced gaze; better now, he thinks. He wonders how often Barrett lets himself cry.
Then he abides by the charmingly eager tug and he pushes himself up and into the bed. It's a quick and easy motion, slipping in just beside him - against the chest, just under the arm - a little snug, but comfortably so. He's thankfully petite enough to Tetris in. As he comes to settle in against him, cheek brushing against his chest (not really sitting up, but not fully lying down yet, either), he is quiet for a moment; past the familiar sterility of the hospital and its familiar fabrics, he feels... )
... You're warm.
( He says, gazing up at him. It's a tone of surprise, and positive regard. To Mithrun, who runs a little stuff and cold, and for the both of them sat in the off-kilter cool hospital, Barrett might as well be a radiator. If he thinks back on it, he thinks he may have vaguely noticed this before, on the occasions Barrett has picked him up, but he's never totally registered it like he finally has now. )
no subject
With Morgan up on the bed, Barrett's arm threads back to curl against the smaller man's arm and waist - an idle rest more than an actual hold, given how much is still attached to Barrett for equipment. The comment cuts through the whir of machines, earning a chuckle that vibrates through his chest as he rests his free hand against his own stomach.]
You too, huh...
Booker says that, too. Something about me being a good place for naps, I guess.
[A pause, a glance down.]
Is it bad?
no subject
If the awkward and smushed-up positioning of the bed, the equipment, and the Barrett bother Mithrun, he doesn't seem to indicate it; or, mind if he does, as with most things.
Naps, huh... )
... No. You're comfortable.
( Hmm!! He sets his cheek against Barrett with a contemplative expression, as if to test it. (He may look too seriously thoughtful considering the levity of the subject matter.) Hadn't he done this before at the picnic? He was a little tipsy then, he thinks... Had he fallen asleep then? Was that because of the alcohol, or Barrett? )
... I can't really sleep, normally. I usually take medication for it. ( Sleeping, like eating and The Basic Human Instinct To Remain Alive, is also a thing he lost. ) But I feel like I might've fallen asleep against you last time...
( :thinking: )
no subject
[The anti-Booker...... well, he supposes it makes sense, given what else Morgan struggles with. But sleep was an odd one. It felt so overpowering natural so long as you were tired enough and comfortable enough.
Maybe he just didn't remember how to be comfortable? But, no, he just said... hm.
Hmmmmmmmm. His brain creaks open, slowly, groggily. Test? Is this where you'd offer that?]
Booker falls asleep on me all the time. So I'm used to it. I guess I didn't notice at the picnic...
You wanna give it a try? It's, uh... not the nicest place to sleep right now, but... [He shuffles a bit to adjust one of the several hospital blankets draped around him, tucking the textured fabric against Morgan as best he can.]
I don't mind. It gets cold in here. And... it's easier, to sleep when you're not all alone. Sometimes, I mean.
[...]
I'll stay with you. Until you fall asleep. Just like before. [Just like when their positions were reversed, thousands of miles away over nothing but a phone, Barrett wrapped in the cold of night while Morgan slipped off to the drone of hospital monitors.
The touch at Morgan's waist curls a little.
He likes this. Not being apart this time. Even if this isn't a good situation... he likes the good in the moment.]
no subject
It isn't lost on him, the familiar echo of their situation - a mirror of some week ago, an inverse of the day before; it isn't lost on him, the warming sensation of his firmer hold. )
... Sleep too, if you're tired.
( He closes his eyes in quiet affirmation that he'll see if he can get some rest against the gentle radiator that Barrett is. He shifts - not so much getting comfortable but finding some closer position, arm curling up over Barrett's chest as he rests against him - and seems to settle there. )
I'll be back tomorrow, too. As long as you're here.
( He's not going anywhere. He couldn't tell you why or what for; he just simply has decided this would be true, and so he will be here.
His breathing remains steady for a time; the same, quiet breaths in his same, slow rhythm. Conscious, not really minding the silence; not needing to talk, even if it's what he likes. Being here is all right. And in the quiet depths of his relaxed mind, there is some part of him that finds relief in this; he doesn't realize how exhausted he'd been, all wound up and upset over Barrett.
Eventually, his breathing starts to slow. It's a gradual gradient. It languishes in its pace, but it flows its way to restfulness eventually. His expression relaxes, and the tension in his muscles goes soft.
Mithrun doesn't really dream; and he doesn't either, this time. But the darkness that finds him now is something more comforting, more safe than he's found it in a long time. )