Now I know there's no one I can trust - I used to think there was
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
you can tell me that I'm cutthroat but I think you've got your eyes closed
They're constantly dancing on the edges of bruises, sparking little nerves that warn too close without ever fully pressing down. Living in close quarters, they knew when to growl and when to snap, like dogs shoved into a wire kennel with few chances to be rid of one another. They usually didn't want to of course, but Caido is vast and things are still pretty fucked up in their own heads considering they'd gone years with the other dead.
"Nonna would never, because unlike you I'm the favorite," he wheedles, though it's more of a huff as Nate hauls him up like a wet kitten. Fuck that dude's bulk. As if he needed to be any stronger than normal human muscle, The Voice had to go and 'roid him up until Bart can't knuckle him into submission anymore. He couldn't before, really, so he's mostly just moaning. As always.
It's just as familiar to wrap an arm around the bottom of Nate's ribs, wavering through the snow like a drunken idiot for a moment, bouncing off his brother's side until he's steady. The brush too close to the fire of vulnerability singes Bart's skin, and he's not even the one who said it, but this close - and even after all these years - it's like tuning into a muffled radio station. Still decipherable with a little focus. "You carved 'em into my frame instead'a makin' one I can actually use?" he snarks back automatically, and then goes a little pale around the gills. He'd gotten used to exercising his tentative queerness back home in the unit, and he knows sure as shit his brother wouldn't say anything anyway, but it's terrifying regardless. "You sure they even look like dicks? Y'ain't known for your art." He lets Nate lead them in the supposedly correct direction, content to drift between his brother's arm and shadowed by Pemota's calm aura.
"Nonna would never, because unlike you I'm the favorite," he wheedles, though it's more of a huff as Nate hauls him up like a wet kitten. Fuck that dude's bulk. As if he needed to be any stronger than normal human muscle, The Voice had to go and 'roid him up until Bart can't knuckle him into submission anymore. He couldn't before, really, so he's mostly just moaning. As always.
It's just as familiar to wrap an arm around the bottom of Nate's ribs, wavering through the snow like a drunken idiot for a moment, bouncing off his brother's side until he's steady. The brush too close to the fire of vulnerability singes Bart's skin, and he's not even the one who said it, but this close - and even after all these years - it's like tuning into a muffled radio station. Still decipherable with a little focus. "You carved 'em into my frame instead'a makin' one I can actually use?" he snarks back automatically, and then goes a little pale around the gills. He'd gotten used to exercising his tentative queerness back home in the unit, and he knows sure as shit his brother wouldn't say anything anyway, but it's terrifying regardless. "You sure they even look like dicks? Y'ain't known for your art." He lets Nate lead them in the supposedly correct direction, content to drift between his brother's arm and shadowed by Pemota's calm aura.
Feel the fear and swallow back the tears
let weakness disappear
let weakness disappear
BARTHOLOMEW
