thecapitol | Closed

Roland doesn't answer. He barely registers that Firo's even asked a question. He is only concerned with the fact that Firo is here, is whole. His eyes go wide, his breath is sharp, and his pace, awkward as it is, speeds up until he can move one hand toward the back of Firo's head and the other for his shoulders, and if those hands get there Roland will try to pull him in.

He pays no mind to anyone else who might be in the hall with them. He pays no mind to anything save the boy in front of him, and when he feels tears sharp in the corners of his eyes, it's with relief that he lets them begin to fall.

"They brought you back," he breathes, voice quiet and rough. "I wasn't sure they would. Not for war. Thank the gods. Oh, thank the gods, Firo." He's curling over Firo a little, not caring where on the boy that makes his tears fall. Damp clothes do not begin to rate even at the bottom of Roland's list of concerns.

Firo doesn't try to move away--doesn't even think to--and is pulled right into that embrace. While he's still swimming in confusion about why this is happening, Firo's first thought is that he's about to die of embarrassment. What if someone sees? They can't do stuff like this in public, not unless it's life or death or like Roland's episode a little while back.

It isn't until Roland speaks that Firo realizes why he'd react in such a way. Humiliation is the least of his worries, though it remains at the back of his mind, and he hesitantly lifts one hand to Roland's arm. God, what does he even say? He'd hoped that he hadn't been gone long enough for anyone to notice. Suddenly, he feels guilty for leaving his friends like that.

"Y-yeah, they did. I guess they haven't gotten sick a' me yet, so here I am." It's in the course of his babbling that he realizes that the wetness isn't his imagination.

Shit. What does he do? People aren't supposed to cry! Especially not men. Especially not tough men like Roland. He presses his fingers in more tightly. "...It--it's okay, you know. I'm back."

When Firo's hand touches Roland's arm Roland raises his own hand, covering Firo's tightly with it. "You're back."

Then his head lifts and he focuses on Firo's face, eyebrows furrowing a little. He doesn't give a single thought to wiping his tears. "No thanks to your own efforts. What were you aiming for, boy? What were you thinking?"

He does not specify exactly what he means. Does he need to? What else could he possibly mean? Even as his voice shifts, though, tone going sharp, his hand stays where it is on Firo's grip settled and firm.

Firo's eyes widen in surprise at the sudden chance in Roland's demeanor. He's not sure if he preferred the crying or the anger.

He's immediately defensive to compensate for being caught off guard. His own grip slackens as he tries to take a step back. "What're you talkin' about? What the hell did I do, huh? You weren't even there!"

He didn't notice any of his allies, not that he was really looking at the time. Too busy with other things. But Firo's inclined to ignore what's outside his field of vision, so he doesn't consider the possibility that he was missing something.

"We were all there. You were out in the open, boy. Anyone else out in the open, anyone with sight clear enough, would have seen. I saw."

He would slap a child for behavior so rash, if they were in any state to be disciplined for it. It's an impulse, briefly, to do that here, too, but even if Firo were young enough for it Roland finds the gesture turning into something else instead, finds his hand trying to run itself slowly over the side of Firo's head.

"I saw enough to know you ought to know very well what it is you did. So I ask you again: What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Have you let anything I've been trying to teach you to do sink in at all?"

He saw?

Instead of pulling away like he wants to, Firo freezes in place. Unbidden, the memory of Phil mentioning his death by rodents weeks after the fact springs to mind--is Roland going to be bothered by these memories too?

For a moment, he feels a flicker of anger at realizing that he's hurt by the suggestion that he hasn't been listening. He doesn't want to be so weak that such things bother him. But he did try to listen, didn't he? At least, he paid attention while Roland was saying those things, and he stopped arguing in the end, so that should count, he thinks.

"It's different," He spits back before he can even think of how it's different. He's not so opaque as to think that what Roland's been teaching can't be applied to the battlefield. "We're supposed to get out there and fight and that's all I did."

"Supposed to?" His hand slides away from Firo's head but doesn't leave completely, lingers around the boy's shoulder. "Were you supposed to fight with your fists instead of your head? Were you supposed to ignore your surroundings and let yourself be cornered? If you were supposed to fight there, Firo, if you were supposed to die there, I want no part of it. You'll be cautious next time, Firo, no matter the cause. You'll use your head, and you'll be safe. You won't leave. Do you understand?"

It's only after Roland's stopped speaking that Firo recalls that the man isn't his boss and so Firo doesn't have to follow his orders. However sensible they may be.

"So next time I'm supposed to just run away?" He can't deny that that had been an option, at least until he let himself get too badly trapped. His lip curls in what he imagines is disgust at the mere suggestion; fear might be a more accurate description. "I can't! I'm not gonna go out there and look like a coward!"

Bad enough that he probably did look stupid dying like that. But at least he didn't look shameful.

"Better a live coward than another dead friend! You'll run-"

Roland pulls himself back from Firo, breathes, and runs a hand over his mouth. "I'm not your-" Your dinh, but Firo wouldn't be able to make anything out of what that damned translator would twist the word into in his mouth anyway and he catches it just in time. He has no patience for tripping over his own words, not now. "Your leader. Your boss, that was the word you used. I forgot. No, I only wished to forget, to pretend I had the right to speak to you so. But I don't. Firo, I cry your pardon, I've no right to tell you to run. But I can ask it. As a friend, Firo, I can ask it. Please. If the next battle comes and you stand and fight, if you stand too long to fight, I-"

There's no sense in finishing that sentence. He doesn't want to finish it, anyway. There is only one thing Roland truly wants to say.

"Please."

Edited 2016-01-14 15:34 (UTC)

He winces at the apology, ashamed to hear someone else say it when he's the one who actually hurt Roland enough to bring him to tears. He almost wishes that he could trust himself to heed what Roland asks next time, just to spare him the pain. Because the fact that he won't be the only friend Roland's lost--as indicated by that "another"--is impossible to miss.

But it's a hard promise to make. Firo doesn't like to think he'd be dishonest to his friends, and he's very aware that a request is much harder to follow than an order. The latter is difficult enough when it's something like this.

He folds his arms around himself and looks at the floor. "...You don't need to--I'm sorry. I - I didn't know you were there." He's not sure it would've made a difference, actually. But it is true that he wouldn't have wanted to do such a thing in front of a friend.

"And if I hadn't been?" Roland turns back toward Firo. "You'd've been just as dead. Just as much of a risk that you weren't-"

Roland's hesitation is very brief, but it's there. It's a concept he doesn't want to speak on. Not when it comes to Firo, not when it comes to anybody. He's sick of it. But that doesn't mean it isn't true, hasn't been a truth of his life and does not promise to keep being so.

"-coming back. Are you only sorry I saw you do it?" He takes a limping step closer to Firo, expression intent, almost hard. "If you're going to apologize to me, Firo, do me at least the courtesy of being clear."

So much for that; leave it to Roland to immediately catch the semantic twist. Firo bites his lip, still refusing to look up.

The limp looks more troubling up close, and Firo reflects on how it's just a bit funny that Roland's the only one of them who still has any injury from the battle. Looks like the guy got the short end of the stick in more than one way this round.

"Yeah, that's what I meant." It's the truth, so he might as well own up to it. He can at least assert that the apology was genuine in that respect. Voice more firm now, he lifts his face. "I never wanted to make my friends see stuff like that, so I'm sorry."

Roland's shoulders slump. "That doesn't ease it any, Firo. Not seeing a friend's death, yet knowing. But nevermind. If that's the most I'm going to get, then it's what I'll get. I'm tired, and I don't want to argue with you. Not now. For now, you're here."

He puts his hands on Firo's shoulders, smiling a small, tired smile. "You're here, and I'm glad," Roland says, and limps even closer to try and pull Firo in for a tight hug. Yes, another one. Fewer tears this time, but there's no less feeling in it.

Almost like a reflection, Firo deflates as well. Shouldn't that have helped somehow? "I don't wanna argue either..."

He wonders if that needs pointing out. It's not as if he enjoys upsetting Roland; it just seems that he happens to accidentally do it a lot.

He has to remind himself to stay in place and brace himself for the hug, but stay he does. He'll even fling an arm around one of Roland's sides--the one not above the leg he's been limping with--in an attempt at returning it. "You shouldn't worry. My friend Claire says I always come back from this kinda thing even if a normal person wouldn't." Firo reflects that the man was probably just making fun of him, but it's true, isn't it? At least, Firo hasn't experienced anything to refute it, because he's still alive. "I just hope it didn't look too dumb."

Roland makes a noise of disgust, muffled somewhat by the fact that his face is right next to Firo's head but maybe still clear, and clear in his voice, too. "Dumb. Firo, what you looked to me was dead. Prideful and dead for it."

He draws back, eyes moving over Firo's face. "You're so young, still so concerned with how you look." He sighs, the sigh of someone who knows the only thing which will cure this from Firo is time, and who knows well the pain of watching, wondering whether it's time the boy will even get. "Come, walk with me. Anywhere, where hardly matters in this place. Unless there're others you need to visit? How long have you been... alive?"

Edited 2016-01-18 16:34 (UTC)

His shoulders stiffen; he's offended by the disgust, however deserved it may be. What's worse is that he's not sure how to refute that statement, save with drawing himself up to his full height and declaring, "I'm 22."

Hardly young. As far as Firo's concerned, he became an adult when he became a camorrista all those years ago.

He shrugs. "Pretty much just woke up." He should probably go see Eowyn and Jack--or well, just Eowyn, because he's reminded again that Jack is gone. He looks down at Roland's leg, then up at his face. "Are you okay to walk?"

"It isn't my leg," he says, following Firo's look and patting the spot on his shirt that hides the stitching. "Above my hip. Walking pulls at it some but if I had to sit on my ass all day I'd-"

In his head, he goes over all his options. The violent ones, paths he can not take - refuses to - but sometimes finds himself dreaming about, anyway.

"I'd do something rash," he finishes, dryly. "Suppose you'll be heading to see someone, then. I'll see you part of the way. You ought to see Eowyn too, some time. I told her of you, after the battle. Didn't mean to, but I did. I didn't know you two were close."

Would he do something rash? Would he really? Firo has a hard time believing that, and after he follows Roland's gesture to the wound, he gives the man's face a big, long stare. Not buying it. But he does have one bit of friendly concern to offer. "I get not wantin' to sit around, but don't you think messin' with it too much might be 'rash' too?"

Though despite his skepticism about Roland being anything but levelheaded (he has much to learn about his friend), Firo has to wonder just how that injury happened in the first place. And he decides to keep his pace slow just in case.

Eowyn is indeed the person to see, but Firo blinks like a deer in headlights at Roland's news. "You..?" Great. He sighs. "Uh, was she mad too?"

He wonders if he should entertain a change of plans and spare her the sight of him. Of course, part of that desire is the selfish impulse to avoid being yelled at again; maybe it'd be better to just go and let her get it out.

"I was 'mad'," he says, starting to walk in the direction Firo'd been heading, going nowhere in particular, "because what happened to you could have been easily avoided. She only knows you died."

Roland glances at Firo then, and the glance turns into a slightly longer look, because coming back to life after arenas is one thing. Those arenas were so false, such ridiculous excuses for cruelty and gossip, that it was easy to feel that whatever happened in them was not quite real. But wars, battles? Those Roland knows and knows them very well, and when a man dies in one, he does not come back. But here Firo is, beside him. He reaches out to squeeze the boy's shoulder, lets himself savor the feeling of that shoulder real and present under his fingers, and then drops the hand with a sigh.

"All she'll know is what you tell her. What that is is up to you." His expression's dry then, and his tone a little disapproving. Would you like to lie to her, Firo? To your friend who loves you? Well, of course, it is your decision...

For that brief moment, Firo lets out a quiet sigh of relief at the news. Maybe it won't be so bad seeing her; they can sweep the topic aside and forget about it.

Firo tenses again, both at the unexpected touch and because he has no idea what the reason for it. Roland reminds him so much of Yaguruma that Firo wonders if he's going to turn the squeeze into a grab and the grab into a flip. It's what the old capo would probably do.

"So you're sayin' I should tell her." He hears that judgement, Roland, don't worry. "That's not gonna make her feel better."

He has a fleeting thought of counterargument: does Roland bother to tell the whole story every time? Like when thoughts of that 'room' left him in such a vulnerable state; for something with such a big effect, Firo's sure all that Roland said couldn't be the entire history of it. And how did he get that wound? When Firo asks--as he'd been planning to even before this terrible tangent--is Roland going to immediately open up then? He doubts it.

But Firo immediately hates himself for even thinking of these things--a friend's suffering isn't something you pit against him like a poker hand.

Roland feels the boy tense, and he knows, of course, that Firo's not so comfortable with that sort of thing. More so than Karkat, whom he tries to remember to avoid touching overmuch - tried to remember, anyway, the boy's gone to thirteen now and far out of Roland's reach no matter how far he stretches his hand - but still less than Roland, and the touch of Firo's shoulder he'd allowed himself just now was a selfish one. He knows this, but does not regret it. Their shoulders, too, are close, although Roland's odd gait means that he can not walk so near to Firo as he'd quite like.

"Lying to her to spare her feelings. Is that the kind of relationship you two have?" Does Roland's tone sound like he's fishing, here? Well, maybe he is. The two people left to him in this place are close, it turns out, and the question as to just what kind of close that might be is an interesting one. Genuinely interesting, in spite of everything. Perhaps because of it. What they are to one another is a happy question, no matter the answer, and a harmless one. That's rare. More and more so, these days.

Roland is one of the few who gets a relatively tolerant reaction towards this thing; he won't even scuttle away at the proximity. It reminds him of when the touch actually was helpful for his friend.

Firo assumes that Roland wouldn't be happy if he answered in the affirmative. He puffs out his cheeks in something that's almost trepidation, because he also has a feeling that his answer isn't the 'right' one either. But he won't lie.

"It's not lyin' if you're just not tellin' somebody something." It can't be because that'd mean he does much more lying to his friends and his bosses than he'd like, and he's not supposed to be doing that. "And no, it's just... Well, sometimes you just don't talk about things. To save face, you know? It's not about her feelings, it's about that."

It is about feelings. But it's important to Firo that he treat her like the warrior she is, and that entails not talking about feelings if they can help it. He thinks it works out fine for them; it just means that they get drunk and watch movies instead of spending too much time asking painful questions like 'what's wrong'?

"That's a steep road, you know. It's a lesson I've had to learn, myself. More than once, for I ever have been slow to learn. Lying to those important to you is the sort of thing that builds on itself, even if you are doing it to 'save face'." He huffs, a noise which makes it clear exactly what Roland thinks about that. "More of that young pride. What face do you need in front of your friends, Firo, except the true one?"

Defensive, he feels the need to add, "It's not just for me, it's for her too."

Firo could say the kind of face he needs--manly, in control, strong--because he's thought about it so much. But he doesn't want to walk into a conversational trap Roland may have set there, so he takes another tactic.

"You and your friends--that Cuthbert guy and the others, I mean--you didn't talk to each other like that--" He waves his hand a couple times in place of examples of what he means: confiding their fears, pains, worries. Because he's trapped in that voicing these examples would mean admitting to experiencing them, which is exactly what he's trying to say you're not supposed to do.

He means to leave it like a statement, but suddenly he's not sure enough for that. Roland is, after all, the only man Firo's ever seen cry, which goes against anything he's ever learned or thought about manliness. So question it is; he peeks up at him, "...Did you?"

When Firo starts to speak Roland's expression tightens and he even opens his mouth to snap at the boy, still sore with grief for Firo himself and ready to be angry at having another gone friend, his oldest, used against him simply because Firo knows Cuthbert's name. But then Firo turns it into a question and he sees that Bert isn't being used against him at all. He sees that Firo is just a boy, just trying to understand. Roland takes a breath, lets it out in a sigh slow and deep, and lets go of both his anger and his shame at almost releasing it at such an undeserving target.

"Yes," he says, watching Firo tiredly, sounding tired. "I would have told you once that we told one another everything. I would have been wrong, of course. But we tried. What kind of di- di-" And, because he is tired, he forgets that the tongue of a dead people of a dead home means nothing here, and dinh turns itself into, "father-leader."

Roland pinches at the bridge of his nose, takes another slow breath. "Friend," he corrects. "Brother. I could be none of those things to him if I didn't admit to my own mistakes. And I expected the same from him."

"Do you understand?" he asks, turning to Firo again. "It's important. It depends on how deeply you feel for her, but in this place it doesn't pay to waste time, yours or hers. If you care for her, then it's important."

Firo catches the tail end of that look; the only response of his own that he can offer is one of utter confusion. Though he's relieved when Roland seems to calm, he's still startled--what the hell was that for? Firo thought the man liked Cuthbert.

Roland's point, admittedly, makes sense. Firo doesn't enjoy being chewed out--and he's pretty sure he experiences that enough already--but he can see that owning up to your failings is one of those bitter things you just have to swallow. Even if it's for something that isn't Family business.

His eyes dart back to the wall as he chews on his lip. With a sigh of his own, he looks back to meet Roland's eyes. “Yeah. I’ll tell her, but you need to do something for me first.”

It’s hardly fair, to try to make Roland pay up for something Firo should be doing anyway. And something he’s doing for someone else, at that. “What's wrong? Honestly.” Since they’re on the topic of telling your friends things… It's only fair, isn't it?

Roland's face goes blank for a second with surprise. He's honestly not sure what Firo means, and is about to tell him there's nothing before he catches himself.

"More than expected, you mean?" His smile's a little rueful, because of course there's something wrong. The only truly happy people in Panem, he's sure, are the monsters. The monsters, and those too willfully blind to see those monsters living around them.

But in any case, Firo's asked a question. A reasonable one, too, although Roland knows his own response might be taken as trying to avoid it. "Afraid you'll have to be a little more specific."

"Yeah." Firo nods and returns the smile, just a little amused. It's true that baseline in Panem is probably 'pretty damn terrible' at best; he'd think that someone was crazy if they claimed otherwise, at least among their fellow tributes.

Firo's eyes narrow just a bit. Fucking seriously, pal? This had better not be a dodge, not after all the honesty and emotions Firo's had to suffer through in their conversations. "Just now. You looked mad."

It's something that might be tempting to let slide, considering they're both men here. He clears his throat as he tries to explain himself. Make it plain that he has a reason for asking this, and it's not because of something like concern (which it is, but it's necessary to pretend otherwise). "If you're gonna make me come out and say things, you have to do it too."

Roland snorts, smiling very faintly at his shoes. "Aye, you're right. That's only fair."

He watches the awkward steps of those shoes for a couple paces; one step, then a limp. One step, then a limp. Then he speaks. "I misunderstood you, Firo. I thought you'd brought up Cuthbert's name only to win your point, keep me from pressing you too hard by distracting me with my own feelings for him. I won't apologize for that because in the end, I didn't act on it. I will tell you that I'm quicker to anger these days. Quicker than I was. I may have to ask your forgiveness for that some time, Firo, but not today. If I'm lucky."

It’s not what Firo expects to hear, and it takes him a moment to process and react. “Damn.” Does that say more about him or Roland? He hopes that maybe it just says more about the overall situation—tensions are high in this place.

He shrugs a shoulder. “I already owe you a pass on that considerin’ you gave me one before.” He’s not sure if Roland remembers the time they almost came to blows thanks to Firo’s anger, but Firo sure does, and with no small helping of shame.

“And, anyway, I’d say you were messed up in the head if you weren’t gettin’ angrier.” He imagines he can’t say why but is sure that Roland will catch his drift. Though he’s struck by a somewhat nasty concern as soon as he says the words. “…It doesn’t have anything to do with your head, right?”

Meaning the room or whatever it was that so rattled him that while back.

"My head's as fine as it ever was. You don't need to worry about me, Firo." He thinks of Alain. Alain, who'd given him this limp the same day he'd watched Firo die. Alain, who kept his distance from Roland for fear of the same thing Firo's thinking of now. He'd kept himself from Roland for fear of hurting him, of breaking Roland's oh so fragile mind, and then Roland had lost him.

There was no way to keep Firo from seeing what he saw. It may be possible to keep Firo from thinking on it, though.

Roland isn't made of glass. He won't lose what closeness he has in this place because of it.

"And yourself? Are you getting angrier, too?"

Ever? It didn’t seem so fine before, but Firo imagines that was by far the exception rather than the rule. So that he’ll let slide. He’s not so sure about the second statement, both because he finds it natural to worry about his friends and because it sounds sort of close to something that Roland lectured him about before. Didn’t he say friends were supposed to be concerned about each other? He sighs, “Can’t make any promises there, but I’ll try not to nag you about it.”

Not too much, at least.

The honest answer or the proper one? Firo veers toward honest—after their conversations, he’s almost getting afraid not to. “How could I not be? Just when I think I can’t get more pissed off—” He shakes his head and throws up his hands. “I mean, not mad at any of you guys, but.” Everything else? That’s fair game.

He tosses a sidelong glance Roland’s way when he realizes that he actually didn’t get too much of an answer out of the man aside from another question. “Are you tryin’ to change the subject?”

"Hm." Roland feels the corners of his lips curl up again, amused again both at himself and at Firo. The boy won't let Roland get away with much, that much is clear, and Roland is glad of it. He's glad to have Firo beside him, glad that Firo is alive and that he is here. "Maybe a little."

He looks over the hallway in front of them, thinking on what to say, and realizes what he's actually doing is trying to think of excuses. None of that. He owes Firo more than that. "I'm not only angry, Firo. I'm afraid. My friend Alain, my dear friend, he knew about-"

Roland stops, stuck for a moment on wondering how to say this. It's difficult enough to let someone see that part of him, the part he can not will away, can not push through. The mind of a gunslinger ought to be whole, and he can not make his into anything other than what it is. To speak on it is a very difficult thing, a very painful thing, and Roland is not sure he has the words.

"He knows what you know. He's seen what you've seen. I last saw him the same day I saw you die. I haven't told that to anyone." It would have been shameful to tell Eowyn that his own grief for the man who'd died and the man who'd only left was the same, and there's been no one else to tell. Roland sets a hand briefly on the deep slice over his hip. "He gave me this. When we were still called tributes he saw- he saw my mind, and he was afraid. Of me, and for me. I suppose there was more sitting between us than just that, but all the same, I don't like the idea of you thinking too much on it. I'm still as strong and as well as I ever was. I'm still a gunslinger, even without my father's guns hanging on me."

"It may have been a distraction, but that doesn't mean I don't want to know how you are. Especially today, after that death of yours."

Firo readily smiles back, only for the cheer to slip away as he listens--afraid? How the hell can Roland be afraid? And hearing the story, he feels more guilty about how he’s been acting, especially at first; it makes sense that Roland would be so upset, having two friends slip away at once. He kind of just wants to shrink away in shame.

He resists that urge and shrugs as he gives his answer. "...Thanks. But, like I said, I'm okay. It's happened before." Not like that. But listing all the ways he's died before Panem probably isn't going to make Roland feel too great.

Something catches in his mind, though. Come on, Roland. Firo may be thinking-averse ("stupid" would've been his term, until a certain stork of a man prevented him from using it), but he can't hear something like that and not wonder about it. He doesn't do too much thinking before he opens his mouth again.

Puzzled, the question popping out without much consideration, "Why would he be afraid of you?" His hands rise cautiously, as if to ward off an attack. "...I mean, no offense."

Fear-inspiring is something desirable, in Firo's mind. But not to your friends. Even the friends who he knows could (and would, with proper reason) kill him are never people Firo'd think to be afraid of.

"None taken," says Roland, whose opinions on fear are nearly, though not quite, the same as Firo's. It's a valuable tool, when used the right way. Sometimes that 'right way' is against friends. Sometimes it isn't.

"He wouldn't be, not for his own safety. If it came down to that, he - at least, as we used to be - he would trust me to make the right choice. What I was, what I used to be, it isn't quite like your bosses, but I think it may be close, in some ways. I can't say what I was, back in the days when I was capable of being so. The word turns into mush and nonsense in my mouth. But Firo, imagine you're speaking to your boss, perhaps receiving orders, perhaps speaking on the past, it doesn't matter. But at a question that, to you, was perfectly innocent, your boss does - what you saw me do. He is as you found me. Would you not be afraid? Not for your own safety, but not entirely for his, either?"

Roland's frowning, looking pained. This is not an easy thing to talk about, and it is getting no easier with practice. "You aren't in the same place, thank the gods. Whatever gods made you loyal to your Family, rather than to me. "But can't you understand my own fears? It's pride too, of course it is, but if you see too much of that, I don't like to think on how you'll react."

Edited 2016-02-06 15:18 (UTC)

Just thinking on such a scenario scares Firo into feeling sick, as if the floor were rocking beneath him. He wants to protest that it would never happen, and he opens his mouth to do that. But he thinks a little more—just a few months ago he also would’ve told anyone who asked this question about Roland that it would never happen. But it did.

“Then…” He’s getting a message from this that doesn’t quite align with what Roland seems to be saying, but he feels it’s important nonetheless, so he's answering with utmost seriousness. It’s with a pang of shame that he realizes that he may have been going about this all wrong—should he have never asked? Should he have forgotten about it completely? It still doesn’t seem right, but he has to give his honest answer. “…then we’d have to make it like it never happened.”

If Don Molsa Martillo had such a room that haunted him, his capos would first raze it. Then they would methodically track down the architect, the builders, any financiers, and anyone those people may have told about it. They would torture and kill all of them. Firo doesn’t know what punishment he'd get for being the one to raise such memories--losing his tongue or head, maybe--but he would accept it willingly. The problem would then be gone, and they would act as if it had never existed.

Is that what Roland wants? Or is that the kind of reaction from his friends that he says he fears? The things a friend of his might fear?

"Would you? Alright. Very different from your Family already, the way mine used to do things. We may not speak on it much but to deny it altogether - no. No need to pile cowardice onto shame. Not that I mean to speak on your own loyalties at all - I'm sorry, Firo. I cry your pardon."

Roland bows his head for a couple seconds, rubbing at his jaw. He knows how sensitive Firo can be when it comes to the lords he serves. He knows, and yet he still said that without thinking. Roland is tired, he knows that he is tired, and he knows that is not good enough because tired is what this place makes you and he does not anticipate feeling well rested or settled or whole any time soon. He says none of this, because it does not matter; it's true, but it is an excuse, and not a good one. He will, though, if he has to. He raises his face, watching Firo carefully to see whether he does.

Roland is correct, of course. Firo barely hears the request for his pardon, because forgiveness always floats far away from his mind at these times. His hand moves down to his waist, where he would keep his knife if he had it. It’s not a conscious movement, and it’s only when his mind stops reeling and starts wondering why the hell Roland’s talking like this that he stops. Which isn't to say that he's relaxing at all, but he recalls how this went down last time--it hadn't been an honest insult worthy of the usual penalty.

“Cowardice?” Is he crazy? What’s the alternative? Talking about it? For what? If Firo had to pick one, he’d call that cowardice. …He’s just couldn’t really explain the reasoning for that.

He straightens his back and settles his voice into a growl. “Mind tellin’ me how takin’ care of the problem is cowardice?”

There’s no other way to deal with these things, as far as he’s concerned.

Roland does not miss the movement of Firo's hand. He barely even looks at it, but he doesn't miss it. He sighs.

"Firo, how your lords deal with their problems is their business, and none of mine. But if it were me, in the days of Gilead, or perhaps my father - aye, it'd be seen as cowardice, if we tried to hide it and were found out. Taking care of a problem is one thing, Firo. To try and pretend a thing never happened at all, well. It's strange to think on this, on the days there were people to hide something like this from. A gunslinger so afflicted, hm, his reputation would never recover, I don't think, no matter what he chose. Some might even decide to take his guns. But trying to deny it was happening altogether would've had anyone branded a coward for sure."

"But Firo, I don't care what your lord- your Family does. It doesn't concern me, and I don't expect it ever will. What concerns me is us, here, and what you think of me. If you're going to try and draw your weapon on me every time my mouth moves faster than my head - not a problem I ever expected to have, but nor do I expect it to go away any time soon - the two of us might be in for some problems." He closes his eyes for a couple steps, takes a slow breath and presses the heel of his hand down near the muscles around his injury. He's still walking but he's waiting, too, listening for Firo and waiting for him.

"That's the point. If nobody knows, they can't use it against you." His tone is impatient, some of the desperation coming through. Not only to defend his bosses like a good capo should, but because he fears Roland not knowing this. Openness makes you vulnerable, and he doesn't want that for any friend. The only consolation is knowing firsthand how tough the man is, but evidently it's not enough if the Capitol could so rattle him.

He wants to point out that the fact that he only got part of the way to his imaginary knife is actually a good sign--faced with someone he didn't hold in such high regard, he would've hurled himself at them immediately.

Somehow, he realizes that may not be the best way to answer.

He lets his hand drop and trails a pace after Roland, once again fighting the urge to hunker down that has so often struck him in their friendship. He's feeling ashamed on two levels now--ashamed for hurting a friend and ashamed that he'd even consider caring about someone who insults the Family. But he does, and he can't stop that.

He starts thinking out loud, and what comes out isn't what he'd planned. "...Just because you're not one of my bosses doesn't mean I don't respect you." He shakes his head roughly. That's probably not important, is it? The first thing he should probably do is find out if this is Roland's roundabout way of telling him to fuck off. "So what do you want?"

Roland blinks and looks over at Firo with a tired but genuine smile. Firo may not think his declaration of respect means much, but Roland does. He looks back ahead of him when Firo changes the subject, thinking. "First I suppose I'd like you to understand, I don't mean to declare my every- my weakness, for that's what it is, isn't it? I don't mean to declare my every weakness to anyone who'd listen. In fact I was hoping, if I spoke on it seldom enough, the Capitol's men wouldn't see it."

It's clear how well that turned out. Roland doesn't bother to say so, it's clear to both of them.

"I want quite a few things, most of them far out of my power, or yours. But so far as you're concerned? I want to keep you, Firo. I'd like to keep your regard - your respect - so long as I'm able. Is that possible, do you think?"

Smiling is promising, Firo thinks, if shocking. He just stares back, too surprised and still too worried to return the look until he knows where it's coming from.

"...Okay." He's comforted by that, chastened just a bit too. Perhaps he should have let the subject of Roland's hurt lie from the beginning.

He blinks. His respect is something he keeps in very closed, stingy hands. Still, it's not as if it's a treasure many are vying for. "You--?" Not what he expected, but in a wholly pleasant way. It leaves him unsteady and searching for words. "I-if that's what you really want... You can have it."

It's horribly confusing to have to juggle these feelings with thoughts of what could happen at another perceived insult against the Martillos, which he has to do if he's going to be honest. How he feels personally will always come after his loyalty to the Family, so they can be separate things, and so then he's allowed to feel however he wants about Roland, right? He wants that to be right. Badly.

"It is. Thank you, Firo." Roland looks over again to study the boy, pressing his hand against his hip again as he slows, then stops to lean back against a bare piece of wall. "I hadn't expected that to be so surprising. That's what I've been saying all along, isn't it?"

Roland sighs a little and shakes his head, focusing his thoughts deliberately. If he wants the right answers, he ought first to be asking the right questions. "Are we speaking at cross-purposes, Firo? What is it you think I've been saying?"

His tone is not short, although the words themselves might sound it. That they might doesn't occur to him. He is only curious, very faintly concerned, and, of course, tired. Tired, but still quick enough, just yet.

Edited 2016-02-14 01:05 (UTC)

Firo stops when Roland does, looking at him questioningly. He hadn't expected there to be more, especially not something that they have to stop for--though maybe it's just the leg troubling him.

He considers denying it, but opts not to. What if all that does is get him another disappointed Roland face? "...No, that's not really what I got out of it."

What was he getting? That's another question he wants to shrug off, because he's not completely sure. He just took everything Roland said at face value, so shouldn't it be obvious what he got?

...Then again, he has to admit that he may have been reading into some things. He toys with the collar of his shirt, laughing a tad awkwardly. "I don't know about the rest, but just now I was wonderin' if you were tryin' to tell me to get lost."

It's a bit funny looking back--he can think so now, knowing that the worry was unfounded.

"And now you know better." It's not a question, because Firo obviously does. Roland thinks about it, and decides they've talked about all they need to. "Now go on, Firo, see whoever you need to see. I'll take a rest here for a while. And I'll be seeing you again."

At this, Roland gives Firo a look. He'd better.

He does, and he reflects that it can feel good to learn from a conversation so long as it's stuff like this.

Amazing what not bottling everything will do for you. There's a revelation to chew on.

"You will," he nods firmly, still smiling despite the serious matter. He'll do his best to stick around, and this agreement means that Roland, too, has to take care of himself until next time.

With that, he takes off down the hall, less full of trepidation than before.

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