'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan’s first thought, when he finally spots Carlo dangling from Finch’s grip, was that his brother looked very strange from that angle. His second thought comes a little sharper, cutting clean through the sour spit and the ache in his stomach: the crowd was no longer much of an asset, not when Finch had gone and made himself their brother. Fine, then.
"MOM SAID YOU WEREN’T ALLOWED TO CARRY HIM LIKE THAT," Calan bellows, because if Finch has given them a family, Calan is perfectly willing to be the worst part of it. Several heads turn again, which is useful, but not the point anymore. Calan staggers toward Finch with one hand clamped over his stomach and the other pressed to his mouth, cheeks puffing as if disaster is only a breath away. This part does not take much pretending; the orange peel is still bitter at the back of his tongue, and every step makes his middle remember exactly what he has done to it in the name of business.
"Put him down," he groans, pitching himself close enough to Finch’s boots to make the threat clear. His eyes water. His knees wobble. "I’m gonna—" He retches hard toward the sand at Finch’s feet, loud and ugly and wet enough to make a few nearby people recoil. At the same time, Calan’s free hand shoots out, fingers clutching at Finch’s clothes like he’s only trying to steady himself against his very real, very terrible suffering.
It is a needy little-brother grab. A sick-child grab. A please-don’t-let-me-fall grab. It is also, for anyone watching closely, a trying-to-steal-back-the-candy grab.
Calan’s fingers bunch in the fabric for half a second before sliding lower, quick and skinny and sticky with orange oil, searching for the pocket where the candy has gone before making another horrible sound in his throat and leaning more of his weight against Finch, as if the only thing keeping him upright is the exact person he is trying to rob.
"MOM SAID YOU WEREN’T ALLOWED TO CARRY HIM LIKE THAT," Calan bellows, because if Finch has given them a family, Calan is perfectly willing to be the worst part of it. Several heads turn again, which is useful, but not the point anymore. Calan staggers toward Finch with one hand clamped over his stomach and the other pressed to his mouth, cheeks puffing as if disaster is only a breath away. This part does not take much pretending; the orange peel is still bitter at the back of his tongue, and every step makes his middle remember exactly what he has done to it in the name of business.
"Put him down," he groans, pitching himself close enough to Finch’s boots to make the threat clear. His eyes water. His knees wobble. "I’m gonna—" He retches hard toward the sand at Finch’s feet, loud and ugly and wet enough to make a few nearby people recoil. At the same time, Calan’s free hand shoots out, fingers clutching at Finch’s clothes like he’s only trying to steady himself against his very real, very terrible suffering.
It is a needy little-brother grab. A sick-child grab. A please-don’t-let-me-fall grab. It is also, for anyone watching closely, a trying-to-steal-back-the-candy grab.
Calan’s fingers bunch in the fabric for half a second before sliding lower, quick and skinny and sticky with orange oil, searching for the pocket where the candy has gone before making another horrible sound in his throat and leaning more of his weight against Finch, as if the only thing keeping him upright is the exact person he is trying to rob.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
