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Who| Roland Deschain and Firo Prochainezo
What| talking about sad things
Where| the detainment center
When| late february
Warnings/Notes| nothing really, mostly talk of death and war, etc

When he's not trying to keep his body in good condition - and there's something insulting about the fact that he has to, that becoming withered and weak and no longer being able to count on his body, the one thing which, through everything, he has always been able to depend on, is even a danger here, on top of everything else - Roland is trying to keep busy. Not much way to do that, in this place, but it's all he has. He sits in this prison's open rooms, where at least other prisoners can come and go, where there are people.

He doesn't pay much attention to them. Everyone he'd care to pay attention to is gone. Nearly everyone. He only needs them to be there, needs the guards to be there, too, a reminder. Something to keep him still.

Signless is still out there, somewhere. Alain is still out there. Alive and fighting. They might be, anyway. Doesn't help as much as he needs it to.

He takes apart those two mechanical fingers, sometimes, sets all the pieces out very neatly, cleans them, puts them back. The first time he'd taken them apart in this place with the dull, sorry excuses for tools which are all the guards will let him use, Signless had just returned. He'd needed the other man's hands to keep his own steady. Roland's hands are very steady, now.

Other times he sews. He doesn't need to. Roland hadn't thought, back before this Panem's rot had broken into real war, that he could give less of a shit about clothes than he did then. But the guards will let him use a needle, they will let him have thread, and so when the cogs and gears of those two fingers are as shining and clean as they are going to get he sews useless loops around the edges of the collar and sleeves and every edge he can find. Something to do.

Something to keep him busy, and he does it all with singleminded focus, with the sort of look about him that tends to make anyone passing take a second look at whatever's in his hand, trying to figure out what it is that's so important about thread or needle or splayed out metal bits of him. He pays no mind.

This does not mean he is not aware, of course. If he has nothing else, he has his instincts. He has always had those, and it would take more than even this long, slow sink into this mire of isolation and grief to convince him to abandon them. A part of him is aware of anyone entering whichever room he's in, will note it on the rare occasion that it is someone he cares to know. He'll look up, watch with an intent, steady focus, and if they pass by he will look back down at his hands and start them moving again. Something to do.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Exactly so." Roland is not smiling. Almost wants to be. His voice is warm, though, and he doesn't stop leaning into Firo's space. Of course he doesn't have to be so close to watch, but it does not occur to him to move. "Why do you still ask me to give you every answer? That's not what you need. Repairing a tear, now, that may take a little longer to figure, if you'd like to do it right. Your 'truant officers' tell me about them. Which office do they serve?"

It's strange to Firo that, for all their knowledge and lessons and White, gunslingers don't seem to have learned about personal space. Or maybe that's just Roland. He supposes he doesn't mind it as much as he normally minds these things--it's almost reassuring to be reminded of his friend's looming presence--though he tells himself that he's only putting up with it for Roland's sake.

"I only asked you once." Never mind that it was at the first and only opportunity so far. At the mention of tears, "Is that what we're gonna do next?" He's not sure he's ready for 'next', as he makes uneven, clumsy stitches in the fabric. It's what is usually known as a running stitch, but Firo has no idea what to call it--it's simply a way to move the thread forward.

"I guess they just work for the school--they try to hunt down kids who don't show up. Not sure why they go through all that trouble just for that. It's wastin' everybody's time." He has a feeling Roland will disagree, but he says it anyway. Firo knows he's right this time.

"You've only asked me once today. And aye, I suppose you're right - though the ways of another people aren't mine to judge, of course." Roland says this blandly, and it's anyone's guess whether he's being ironic or really doesn't realize how many times - in front of Firo even, if perhaps not in so many words - he has done just that.

Firo pauses his sewing to wave one hand dismissively. “Yeah, and those other times were all a while ago.” Surely he doesn’t ask that much. And while he’s learning to think on his own, or trying to, it just makes sense to ask when Roland has all the answers. If only he weren’t so tightfisted with them.

He considers those words and frowns. “But you judge me all the time.”

Already a little bored of the basic stitch, even if he’s not close to mastering it, Firo tries to move on. He brings the edges of the cloth together to simulate a rip and starts sewing them together with simple loops.

“Can you tell me what you got into when your friend had to sew you together?” It must’ve been an adventure, and that’s more interesting than judgment or truancy officers.

"Do I?" Roland watches the movement of Firo's needle. In his own lessons a boy who decided to move on to something else so soon would have regretted it, but Roland does not think on that except vaguely. He lets Firo do what he will, waiting for the boy to make a mistake before he interferes.

"Ah, sure." Roland sits back from Firo a little, tilting his head back and scratching at his chin, looking into the distance while he thinks. "Let's see. Yes, it was, ah, after we lost Gilead. Quite soon. We were doing the attacking - didn't need to, the battle didn't win us anything except a chance to use up our bullets. But I don't think we could have stopped ourselves even if we'd wanted to. There were many of us then. The thirteen of us who won our guns, the soldiers who escaped - not all of them soldiers, then. Not yet. Not even the gods know how we didn't all die right there, myself even more than the rest. Thought I was being reasonable, of course, as young men will. My father died in Gilead, you see. When we lost it."

Roland goes silent for a few seconds, seeing memories which he does not feel the need to detail. Then he keeps going.

"To be honest, I don't remember when I got it. I remember the way Jamie stitched me up while Bert stood there yelling. I remember how steady his hand was, as if he didn't even hear Cuthbert right there giving me one hell of an earfull." To someone who looks closely enough, for a few seconds, Roland smiles. "His other hand was on my side. That's how I knew he was angry with me. Acting like I needed to be held still, like a child who hadn't yet been trained out of squirming."

"In terms of strategy, the battle was - how is that phrase said here? It was nothing to write home about. But it was one of the first. The first fought by us, anyway, by the last that place would ever see of gunslingers."

He looks down, remembering Firo's stitching. If he does see a mistake he'll interrupt himself here to tap it and instruct Firo to undo all the stitches after, go back and fix it. Either way, though, he'll study the work and share his thoughts on it. "Needs a lot of practice. Could be straighter. Not bad at all for a first try, and on your own."

Firo probably should have known better than to go asking about old scars, he reflects. He looks up, cautious, at Roland’s mention of losing both his city and his father. Being fatherless is the norm in his circle, but that doesn’t mean it’s pleasant. And a home is quite a thing to lose too.

Firo doesn’t often apologize when he’s stepped on a conversational landmine. Only for a select few people—those whose feelings he can be bothered to care about. Roland would be one of those, but Firo also imagines that an apology wouldn’t be useful at all anyway. It’s not going to bring anyone back.

There is at least some small comfort in seeing him smile—that and the fact that he still seems levelheaded, not nearly panicked as he was the last time Firo saw him ruffled by memories.

“He sounds like a good friend, if he really stuck it out through all that.” What else could a friend do? But Firo knows plenty of people out there would cut and run. Or not go into battle with you in the first place.

As for the sewing, there are mistakes and then mistakes on top of mistakes, of course. He nods and sets about poking around to double back the needle and do it over. Here, at least, eyes sharp from about a decade in the casino are helpful, and he figures out how to loop back and undo the stitches.

Ordinarily, the bare compliment and assistance would still have him puffing up with a bit of pride, but not now. How could he, after that? The corrections are just something to keep his hands moving as he chews on this unsavory hunk of history.

"Of course they 'stuck it out'. Of course they did. Not a one of us ever considered otherwise. Tried to convince me to turn aside a couple times, but that was another matter entirely." The comment's called Roland back from the land of memory, though, and he goes silent a couple long seconds, eyes moving over Firo's face. "Does something bother you, Firo? Something I said?"

He shakes his head. "I should be askin' you that. You don't mind talkin' about it?"

He wants to know more, of course. It's hard not to be curious about what his friends got up to back in their worlds. But things like loss and the like--those are easier simply not to talk about when they're your own. At least, that's how he thinks of it.

He shakes his head. "Why would I? It all happened, Firo. The bad, and the good. Sometimes both at once. Just because a thing wasn't pleasant at the time doesn't mean it didn't happen. Is that why you're concerned for me? Because I might remember something unpleasant? If I tried not to remember every unpleasant thing that's ever happened to me, I'd not have a memory at all."

Roland's looking a little amused, there. It does not occur to him that those words, said by anyone else, could have been sad or self pitying - it does not occur to him that there might be anything at all unusual in what he's said. The only people who have purely untroubled minds, after all, are either babes or those who've built their own easy lives off the backs of others. Such a thing is rare, and not particularly desirable in any case, and so Firo's concern doesn't really make sense to him.

Near as Firo can tell, he doesn't seem upset, which is good. With that established, he wonders if he should drop it right there, but he's not sure he'd be allowed to. "Just because it happened doesn't mean you have to talk about it. If you don't want me askin' about that stuff, just say so and I won't."

Though he doesn't want to admit it to himself, Firo's discovered the sad truth that you can't forget everything bad that's happened to you. But you can try, and you can put on a good show of it.

He is concerned for Roland, that he'll get stuck lingering on something painful just because Firo was stupid enough to ask without thinking. And then it comes back to reputation, too--if you pretend you've forgotten these things, it makes you look less vulnerable, doesn't it?

"If I didn't want to talk, I wouldn't." Duh is not in Roland Deschain's vocabulary, but with his tone doing what it's doing now, it doesn't need to be. That particular tone doesn't last once he goes on, but he does sound very stern - he is not angry, not remotely, but what he's about to say is an elementary truth, and shouldn't have to be said. Shouldn't, but does. "Finish off that row of stitching, Firo, and ask your questions. My friends lived well and died bravely, I won't waste any more time than I have already in closing myself off from that simply because it hurt."

The tone hurts more than Firo'd like to admit; the idea that's supposed to be so natural is bizarre to him. He's used to being treated like an idiot, but not necessarily by Roland.

He reads both parts as an order, so finish he does. These stitches are no more hasty than the ones before--he finds he's not so eager to move on--but none the straighter or neater for it. He doesn't want to ask. He wanted to know generally about the old days and the battles, but he doesn't want to ask now. Even after Roland's words, it doesn't feel right to pick at that wound.

But he said to. So he has to? Well, it's not like he hasn't obeyed orders that made him feel like shit before--he accepts it without stopping to realize that he doesn't have to obey this one. Firo steels himself, lets the sewing drop into his lap, and forces himself to look into Roland's face.

"In battles after that one? Same war?" Referring to the deaths--he figures that's plain enough.

He nods. "Battle. All of them died in the same one. Not that we hadn't had deaths before that, but none of them were-" He thinks on how to say ka-tet without saying it, how to say what he means without that damned machinery inside him forcing something clumsy and wrong out instead. "None of those deaths were of mine, if you understand me. That battle I won't speak on. Is that enough to reassure you, Firo? To see that I wasn't lying when I said I'd stop you if I needed to?"

It doesn't occur to Roland that Firo has not actually accused him of lying about that. What does occur to him is that even a drop of reluctance is too much and that if he pushes the boy into forgetting about that weakness he's seen in Roland's mind maybe it'll push that reluctance out, keep Firo from treating Roland like glass. His voice is harder than it maybe ought to be, it has a little more of an edge to it than it should and he thinks nothing of it.

Firo nods, understanding exactly. Plenty of other picciotti died over the years—whether from knife fights, gunshots, or “disappearing” into the Hudson—but it didn’t rankle him too much even if they were technically Family. They didn’t fit into the place that’s both Family and family, and so they didn’t have such a close place in his heart or such a keystone position in his little world. Just as Roland says, they weren’t his.

As for the next question, “Yes,” he answers, testily. He’s angry at himself for getting annoyed by that tone—Roland does have a right to be mad at him, and especially on a topic like this. And he’s a little angry, too, because he doesn’t know what to do here. This is another area where it’d be easier to interact with someone he didn’t care about—then he’d just jab at that sore spot.

Part of him wants to throw the sewing on the table now and ask how he did, what he did wrong with it. Then they could talk about that stupid thing instead of this. But, although Firo doesn’t personally think of it that way, he’s nearly certain Roland would call that cowardice. Maiza would’ve gone along with it; he’d just smile and switch gears as if nothing had happened.

“And then it was just you after all that.” He does mean it as a question, but it comes out flatly, more like a statement. He knows what that is, too, to suddenly be cast out on your own.

"It was just me," he agrees, studying Firo's look, his tone, and coming away satisfied that the boy is at least doing as asked. None of the mistakes he made with Alain, letting his old friend draw away out of fear until Alain was far out of reach, lost to another war where Roland can't follow.

Selfishness. Alain is better off now than he was then, ought to be glad of that. He's better off.

"That was one of those things Alain was afraid to ask, I think. Those years. What happened to me, afterward. There were people, of course, not that anyone ever lasted. I think I wanted them to, at first. Those first few years. There was one, at least one, who I would've- Would have." Roland says those last two words dismissively, shrugging them away with as much near-disgust for himself as he'd shown for Firo earlier. Would have, along with if, is one of those phrases Roland doesn't really have much time for. Especially here and now, in this place where his mind has nothing but time.

"Things were-" Simpler. Emptier. "-different, then. The Man in Black can't point my way, now. Do you understand, Firo, why I have you ask? Why I can't let you back away from it?"

He nods, his face mostly blank. It's unusual for Firo, but it's not forced; there are some things in life that he just accepts, and the fact that you lose the people you love is one of them.

Firo hadn't consciously thought of it yet, but evidently Alain had died with all the others. He wonders if that added an additional layer of reluctance but doesn't ask--what's the point in being scared of your own death? If Roland finds it as silly as Firo does, he imagines that asking would be an insult to the man's friend.

Firo wants to know who this person is and what Roland would have done with them. How can he not? Curiosity about his friends' friends is only normal to him. Again, he doesn't ask, but maybe that's something he'll try in a moment if there's time for it...

One corner of his mouth rises up in a self-deprecating smile; there's nothing funny about this except his own denseness. His voice is light, almost airy now. "I thought you'd know by now that I don't understand anything you do. Sorry to disappoint."

Roland does not doubt himself, precisely. He doesn't make a habit of that, possibly does not even know how. Instead he reconsiders his methods, considers the motivation behind them. Or tries to. It's hard. He realizes his mind is working slow, and is not surprised to find it. There's quite a bit going on in there for clear thought to push against, and it's no wonder the gears are sticking a bit when they try to turn. He frowns at Firo's voice, and frowns at his face, like he's only just noticing the two.

"Mayhap I'm going about this wrong," he mutters, looking away, frowning at the stitching which he'd meant to be teaching Firo, just now. It seems things aren't going that way. How to make matters clear? For Firo, at least?

He thinks it over. "Firo, do you understand that there's more than one way to lose a loved one? Death can take them, and does, but their minds-"

One metal fingertip taps at his temple and Roland takes a deep breath, still trying to pick up the words and put them where they need to go. "Their minds and their hearts can become closed to you, intentionally or not, so completely that they're just as gone from you as if they'd died. Maybe it shouldn't be so, but it is. If I'd pushed Alain the same way I'm pushing you, before he was taken by thirteen- Well, who knows? If." There's that other word Roland has no time for, and he says it with just as much disgust as he'd said would have a moment ago. His head hangs a little, and his shoulders slump under the weight of if.

"Do you understand that I'm afraid?" Roland sounds frustrated now, wanting Firo to make this easier on him, knowing there's no point in wanting things easy and frustrated at himself, too, for wanting that anyway. "I'm grieving and I'm afraid and even if I weren't, I couldn't allow you to close yourself from me, especially because you don't want to hurt me. I don't want to lose you that way either, do you understand?"

Firo bites his lip as he realizes that, yes, he does know about losing people in other ways. His fear isn't quite the same as Roland's, from what he can tell, but he has always worried about his friends simply moving on without him and leaving him behind. Then they'd be essentially lost to him, even if they could still see and speak to each other. Different causes for their cases, but the same result.

He doesn't linger on these thoughts, because he's too occupied being shocked by Roland's next confessions. Grieving for Alain he'd said before, but Firo hadn't realized that he was afraid just now. To Firo, sharing feelings is what's scary, not having your friends try to skirt the subject.

"What? I'd never--!" There's a low growl in his throat, like a dog about to bite. Now he's frustrated, too, that he didn't realize how dire things were and that he didn't put Roland's mind at rest immediately. "If I turned my back on my friends, what good would I be? I'd rather die than leave you like that."

"Karkat might have, too. I never asked him. But he's gone from me either way." 'I'd rather die' is not the most helpful sentiment, no matter how disposable the boy may think himself, and so Roland touches on that point but briefly, not long enough to pull them off track.

"Intentions don't make as much difference as all that, Firo. I know you intend to do nothing but protect me, even from something so simple as a piece of my past which might pain me to think on. But I mean to see that those intentions don't take you too far, no matter how comfortable it would be for either of us. Intimacy is as important as water, Firo, especially in a place like this. A man may survive without for some while, living on nothing but parties and pleasant chatter, but what will become of him? That's what I'm afraid of. That's part of it. I don't doubt your loyalty, but I'm going to keep pushing you whether it pricks at your pride or not."

Firo might need a distraction after that, he thinks. Something to focus on if Roland's words make him angrier. He looks down at his discarded shirt for a moment, the one Firo had been sewing, and reaches out to pull a long tear into it. "Fix that, if you don't mind. Stitching as tight as possible."

Edited 2016-04-28 14:01 (UTC)

Firo sets to stabbing the shirt with the needle—the stitches are tight, but the end product isn’t going to look very nice. I’ll fix your goddamn shirt all right.

“You really think that, huh?” He’s not mocking, because even when he’s disagreed with his superiors he’s mostly kept it to himself. Even defended them to others. Also, he can’t entirely disagree. He remembers that stretch of years—4, and it felt like forever when he was a child—when he was starving, homeless, and lonely. There’s the fact, too, that while he’d fervently protest that he doesn’t need such things, this isn’t about him. Throwing his own friend out in the cold just isn’t right.

“Okay, fine, so what do you want me to do? Or do I have to figure that out on my own?” There is a bit of resentment as he throws in that last question, but it vanishes quickly and he barely leaves a spot for a response. He’s accepted that his lot in life is to figure out Roland’s riddles, and, more important, that brief moment of reflection into his past makes him realize that he may have some insight that could help.

(spoilers: probably not)

The thought that he could be helpful does something to brighten his attitude, at least; his tone is more upbeat now and matter-of-fact. “You don’t have to feel things like that, you know. I’ll do my best so that you don’t have to do this, but you could just shut things like that off.” He cants his head to one side, “Like if something happens and I’m not here anymore. It's easy, I've done it before.”

"Have you?" Roland's sitting straighter now, frowning. "Have you, Firo?"

Memories announce themselves in his mind, then, memories of Firo's manner whenever Roland tells him anything to do with strong emotion - love, fear, grief. Roland shouldn't even have to ask.

"Of course you have," he corrects himself, slowly, sounding almost sad. "Firo, so have I. I know it can be done, for I have done it. I wasted quite a few years that way. I've mentioned that the years after the war - Gilead's war - were long, haven't I? They were. Very long. Do you know what I became? What I came very close to becoming?"

"A man has his gun - or some weapon, men like you and I will never be without weapons. He has his instincts, he has his wits. And what directs those instincts, that wit and weapon? Pure need? Nothing at all? Will he run wild like an animal, ruining anyone in his path simply because they are there and because he can, killing without thought, without care? Without his heart to direct him, what is he? An animal. Worse than that, because even the simplest animal can show loyalty, even love. I've seen what becomes of a man who locks his heart away. I won't go back to that. Turning my back on all those who turned me from that path, becoming that loveless creature, that would destroy me as surely as a bullet, or grief, or any number of other things might yet destroy me here, someday. And I won't see you become that either, if I can help it."

"Whatever your pain is, Firo, you must not lock it away. You must not. You need not face it all at once, or on your own, but if you lock those parts of yourself away that will destroy everything that is good in you. You need not face it now, but promise me you'll try. Promise me."

That posture tells him all he thinks he needs to know: he's made a misstep. His eyes are wide and searching as he watches Roland speak, his heart sinking the more the man recounts his experiences with this very strategy. Perhaps it was silly of him to hope that his suggestions would be of use, but he had hoped that somehow he'd be able to help fix things.

And yet here they are, treading the paths of bad memories once more.

It's hard to think of Roland being like that ever. Before he really got to know him, sure; he'd seemed like the silent and stoic type, and Firo knew plenty of those who turned out to be stone cold. But now, having seen the range of emotions the man's willing to express and speak of openly, it seems so strange to picture--and it's easy to see why it would've been torturous for him.

He flinches at the sound of his name, looking down to the shirt in his lap. "I-I didn't say anything about pain." Of course, considering they've both done this thing, trying to deny it may be pointless. Roland knows. He's immediately guilty, too, knowing that this is just a way to try to put off making that promise.

He forces himself to unslouch, but he can't quite bring himself to look at Roland just yet. If they hadn't just spoken of Roland's lack of desire to shy away from bad memories, he'd apologize. But that won't cut it now.

"You really don't need to worry about that. I'm not doin' it now."

Roland studies him a moment, then nods. "And you won't. If you love me- No. If you have any love for yourself, Firo, for the man you may one day become and for all those who'll love him, you won't."

Roland's hand reaches out before his mind has time to doublethink it and runs itself over Firo's hair, fondly, before drawing back. "I couldn't stand to see you turn into that. Will I not have your promise?" That last is no order, of course. Firo's true loyalty is and will always be to other men, and thus Roland has no right to order him. This does not mean, though, that he can not sound disappointed, and he does. It's calculated, that disappointment, at least a little. But that doesn't mean it's a lie.

That disappointment hurts and the affection hurts even more, though this time he doesn't shy from it. For Roland asking, he would uphold that promise, but the mention of those others who love him--who need him--draws Firo up short. He can't let himself forget them. "But... What if they need me to do it?"

He's not as ruthless as he should be in his line of work. Maybe he should give an example; he doubts this is something that comes up often for people not in the mob. He looks up now. "If my Family needed me to abandon or hurt one of my friends, I don't think I could as I am normally."

With a touch of desperation, he adds, "I don't want to tell you no. And I'm not--not yet." He doesn't want Roland to think this is just him arguing for the sake of it. He drops his gaze once more.

"What did you do instead when you stopped?" He doesn't seriously expect an answer, not after Roland's rebuke about asking for one earlier, but he wants one badly. "Please, can you at least give me a hint?"

Roland's thinking on Firo's words when he asks the question and Roland focuses on Firo's face again, taking a second to back his thoughts up from their former path and take them down this new one. "Firo, it isn't like one of these Capitol men going on their diets. It isn't as simple as, say, sucking on a sweet whenever you feel your heart slipping away from you. It..."

He frowns, looking distant, then shakes his head and comes back again. "It's quite a long story, I think, and one I cannot tell. I think I had to be... Reminded. What it is to love. What it means. I know I will not forget my loved ones, Firo. That's all. They died for me. Because of me. There's no making up for that, not if I live a thousand lifetimes," and for some reason that makes him shiver, sends fear skittering up his spine and across his shoulders. He moves past it, because his words here are important. "But what I can do is remember them. Much as I'm able. The least I can do is remember their gift to me, and keep it alive. That's important. Perhaps the most important thing there is. Do you not think so, Firo? Do you need more than that?"

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roland deschain, ninja cowboy knight-prince, emotional counselor

Is there nothing he can't do?

ask him to pronounce tuna fish sometime

But "tooter fish" is so lovely and full of panache

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