thecapitol | Closed

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Who| Roland Deschain and Firo Prochainezo
What| Post-portal emotions
Where| Detention Center
When| After the Flower Girl plot
Warnings/Notes| Will update as needed

Down one more friend—Eowyn is gone for good. Firo tries to be happy for her, hoping that she’s where she should be and finally doing what she wants. It isn’t until he’s rubbing his still-aching head on the ride back, listening to the conversations around him, that it really sets in that he’s lost many more friends than just one. Of course, he can’t trust these people—scientists or Capitol leaders. Maybe going home was never a possibility at all.

Or maybe it was, and he just screwed up everything. Whatever way he tries to look at it, his thoughts always come back to that.

When they’re unloaded and returned to the Detention Center, he considers going straight for his cell. He’s never been subtle about how much he wants to go home, and he’s not too eager to weather the questions about why the hell he’s still here.

At the same time, being less alone than he is currently sounds like a good idea. He has the rest of his life to be by himself.

…Besides, he should probably check on Roland, right? Just to make sure he’s okay.

Firo easily spots him and trots over. It’s only when he closes the gap that he realizes he has no way how to open this conversation, so at first he just stands there with his mouth half open. With his hair more mussed and his face paler than normal, he may cut something of an odd picture right now.

“Hey.” What to say next? Asking how crazy that shit was is foremost on his mind, but that might open the door for conversations he doesn’t know if he can have. Reflecting on Eowyn’s departure, likewise, is also out. Instead, he slips his hands into his pockets—the very image of ‘casual,’ he hopes—and spits out whatever comes to mind to fill the fast-growing silence. “So. What’s goin’ on with you?”

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Roland's eyes narrow, briefly, as Firo makes his way nearer. He isn't too concerned about filling the silence, not even after Firo's question. He only glances around them, judging the mood of their guards. It's a very strange sort of prison, though, this place's prisons always have been, and now their prisoners are back in place the peacekeepers don't seem to much care what they do with themselves. Alright.

That means he's got room for another narrow-eyed stare, longer this time. "You've not been too far from me since they took me away to shove poison through my head. Everything going on with me, you know already. How's your head?"

Roland steps closer, peering at the spot he'd seen Firo get hit. There'd been no time to check then, of course, but while Firo works himself around to whatever it is going through the boy's mind now, Roland's probably got time to check on the body. "Head wounds can be tricky, and I don't imagine anyone's made the time to check yours over."

Should’ve known better than to expect Roland to help him out with anything resembling a superficial conversation. At least, Firo notices, he’s just asking about his head and nothing else—Firo assumes this means he’s doing a pretty good job of looking normal.

He tilts his head down so Roland can take a better look. And because staring at the floor is easier than having to meet that weirdly intense stare Roland’s giving him. As for the head wound, there’s been enough time for the area to swell up, but there’s no noticeable bleeding. All things considered, Firo lucked out.

He forces out a laugh. “Of course not. I’ve gotten plenty of hits like this before, and there’s not much to do about ‘em besides wait it out.” At least, nothing to do about them that Firo would bother with, and possibly it's the same for their captors. “It’s fine. I just—I didn’t—“

The justifications try to spill out before he can even think of what he’s doing. It’s so hard to explain what happened without making it sound like an excuse. Because that is kind of what he wants, save for a way home. But there really is no excuse for this—it’s a mistake and a betrayal, pure and simple. The one saving grace is that he doesn’t need to tell anyone, so he bites his lip to still his traitorous mouth.

“It’s fine,” he repeats, trying to buy time. He shifts his weight back and forth between his feet.

“Uh, so did you… Did you catch what all those people were sayin’? When everything started to go to hell and all.”

He’s fully aware that he’s grasping at straws, but Roland’s more trustworthy than all the murmurings on the train. Maybe everybody else missed something that Roland didn’t.

Roland looks away from the boy's head to give him another flat look. If people would learn to get to the point and say what they mean, that would save Roland quite a lot of time. But whatever this is, Firo's got to work himself up to it. And considering where they've been today, what they've done, Roland expects Firo might actually need it. So he goes along with this, answering as best he knows how and watching Firo steadily, trying to track the progress of his thoughts as he moves toward the real point of this.

"I wouldn't be surprised if there was something I missed in all that, but I think there was only one person there whose words were worth listening to. That scientist. Do you think there's something you missed?"

Firo doesn't like being physically fussed over--he got enough of that from Sena every time he'd come into Alveare all scuffed up--but he'd really prefer it to that look. Roland must be at a record for the most Looks in the least time now.

For a moment, the rest of Firo's emotions take a backseat to frustration. He looks off to the side. "I missed all of it. 'Cause that stupid--stupid thing hit me."

More quietly, he continues, "What he said, are we really--?" Suddenly, he bites his tongue, afraid to go any further in case the lump in his throat weakens his voice entirely. He's fine, really, he just doesn't want anything to come out sounding weird. That'd be embarrassing.

He glances around, frowning as he notices the people still around them. Not as many now, but there are still people passing through every so often. He flicks his eyes back to Roland. "Can...can we go somewhere else first? My cell's close."

He backs a step away and points down the hall. Not the most precise designation, but it at least gives a direction.

Roland's still frowning, but not at Firo this time. For him. He nods, starting off toward the cell without another word. He gets as far as raising a hand almost to Firo's back before he remembers himself - most take comfort that way, or at least most who Roland's known. Firo doesn't. So Roland only walks alongside Firo with steady, unhurried strides until they reach the cell.

A part of Roland is satisfied at these, more than he was when the tributes were kept up in that tower in those rooms full of such luxury. This, at least, is honest.

Right now, though, a little less honesty would be useful. There were cameras in those older days in Panem, of course, but at least there were four solid walls. Roland will just have to stand toward that one open wall himself, facing the hallway and so forcing Firo to face away from it, to perhaps forget on some level that they are not alone.

"I remember all I heard in that room with the portal very well," Roland says, which might be the closest he can come to the concept of 'gentle encouragement'. "Ask your questions."

Firo wouldn’t mind the touch so much by now; Roland has friend privileges. Then again, he's just glad to get moving, and he doesn't acknowledge the gesture.

He spends the walk thinking of small, casual questions he could ask one by one to slowly jump around the big question he actually wants to ask. A trail of breadcrumbs so that he wouldn’t even have to come out and say what the big issue is—because there’s some shame in admitting to it. He realizes that now he could lose his last and best friend in this place, because Roland’s one of the few people who seems to understand how the Family works and so maybe he’ll simply find this mistake worthy of disdain.

Still, it’s a little late to just say forget it.

Firo steps into the room, facing towards Roland and away from the door. He glances back over his shoulder to make sure no one's out there; it's just as much hesitating before the big leap as it is an actual check. He looks back to Roland, flexing and unflexing his fingers.

All that planning evaporates when they’re finally settled. Even as he's speaking, he hates how he can't keep his voice from rising. And how obvious the fear is in it. “We’re stuck here now, aren’t we? We can’t get back?”

Ah.

Perhaps Roland should have realized it earlier, that Firo didn't truly know the decision he was making. That, or he didn't consider it. There's that head wound. Perhaps Roland should have thought of that, in the chaos and the goodbyes and that faint pull, even after everything, that dim but undeniable tug toward the portal, the center, the field of roses, that tall dark thing spiraling into-

Roland takes a heavy breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, shoving those thoughts back where they need to be. Perhaps he should have been thinking of Firo over all those things, but he wasn't, and didn't realize. He realizes it in this moment, staring at the boy, his jaw tight.

Ah.

"I don't know." It's the truth. It's the truth, and it's the coward's answer. Firo came to Roland for this; it's Roland's duty to say it. Loyal Firo, very far from his masters. Farther, now.

Well, whether Roland should tell him honestly is immaterial. He came to Roland for the truth. He is going to get it. "If you do go back, it likely won't be for a very long time."

There's a weight on those words, very long, the sort of weight which only a man who has passed more than half his life walking toward a distant, impossible dream can set into words like that. The words are even, not hushed, not slow. He just says them honestly and then watches Firo. Whatever the boy does now, whether Roland's words sink in or not, Roland makes himself ready for it.

Is it better not to know or to be certain? The same fears weigh on him regardless, but there’s always a little scrap of stubborn hope so long as the answer isn’t absolute. That hope hurts, though. He releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Roland gives the first part of his answer. Not out of relief but out of resignation. Who can they ask now?

But there’s some opportunity, maybe, if he’s hearing Roland correctly. With that to seize on, his focus sharpens, and he leans his whole self in closer. “But maybe I could? How? And how long?”

He draws back, his eyes bouncing all over the walls as he thinks out loud. “I’d just need… it couldn’t take more than a couple minutes to get a guard to go get Misery. And then—half an hour. I bet I could finish what they need me to do for Ennis in half an hour. And then for my Family, I…”

He trails off, deflating a little. Could he somehow reach them from the other end of the country? Alcatraz has no phones for the prisoners, and he doubts any letter he tried to write would get through. But there has to be a phone somewhere on the island, like in the warden’s office. He could at least say something. To tell them he’s sorry and throw himself on their mercy to protect Ennis in case Victor does try something.

And, of course, to thank them. He couldn’t say it enough no matter how much time he had, but he owes them his best attempt.

"Firo, it can not happen right now. Do you understand that?" Roland's voice - to him, at least - is not unkind, but it is firm. His face, a little, is worried. He's seen more explosive responses to devastating news, but it does not look like Firo has really understood what Roland is saying. He's making plans.

"Perhaps if-" Old habit stops his tongue before he says anything he oughtn't, but recent revelations start it up again. What are they going to do if he does say something? Something they know he thinks anyway? Will they send him home? "-if we broke out of this place we could start searching for other scientists who might know something, but I've tried something similar before, Firo. Maybe before you got here. Many of us did. In the space of a couple weeks, we were all rounded up again. I never made it out of the building. If the rebels win, maybe we could try to find answers for you, something more sure, but it will not happen today. Or tomorrow. Perhaps not the week after that, or the month after that, and so on. Going home may take you a very long time, if it's possible at all. Do you understand?"

The tone makes him pause just as much as the insistence, and at first he merely gapes at Roland. His chest may seem to deflate just a little, but Firo hardly seems to notice it himself.

Then dogged, he insists, "It's fine. I can wait--I've waited a while already." Over a year here, and then a few weeks more in Alcatraz. What's a month or even a year more? Hell, he'd already waited thirteen years of his life to find a family in the first place. He could wait it again or even more than that.

But the last part--if it's possible at all--echoes louder and louder in his mind.

He draws back one step farther and folds his arms over his chest, though it may look just a bit like he's simply hugging himself. He shrugs, roughly, staring intently at the wall off to the side. "It's... That's fine too. I know stuff like that never lasts, so... I mean, who says they'd even take me back anyway?"

At the end of the day, he knows he's hardly blameless in all this. He took Victor's deal without being able to ask them, and then he disappeared. Hardly what a model capo would do.

Roland studies him. Not that he's stopped. He wants to step closer, and resists the urge. He takes a breath instead, trying to hold Firo in place simply by looking at him, because if he does decide to leave, Roland will let him. He won't want to, but he will.

"No one. And no one says they won't, either. It isn't for you to wonder, Firo. It's for you to present yourself to your Family, once you can. And that's all. I'll help you with that. When I can."

His eyes move over Firo's posture, his stance, trying to decide how close Firo is to moving in one direction or another and keeps himself very still. "Until then, I'd like to keep you from doing anything stupid. Do I need to?"

It’s true, what Roland says, and Firo supposes it should be a comfort. He’s not safe, but he’s not yet lost either. Either way, he doesn’t see how Roland could possibly help with any part of that, but he stops just short of saying so. He’s not sure if it’s because he wants to pretend he could or if he’s afraid Roland would simply leave if he said that.

He rakes the back of his hand across his eyes. Then another time, even more harshly, as if irritated at them for suddenly stinging so much. He keeps them fixed away from Roland, so he doesn’t see what his friend is doing or how little he’s moving. That's not even on his radar; he's more worried about keeping Roland from seeing what's going on with him.

At the question, he scoffs and forces out something like a laugh. Dismissive—that’s something he can try and pretend at. "Stupid? What the hell could I even do? I can't screw things up more than I already have."

"It'd screw up quite a lot more if you were dead." Although, that word doesn't quite mean the same thing to the two of them, these days, that it used to. To any of the tributes, likely. Doesn't matter. It's still a risk and, as Karkat has shown him too well, an unacceptable one.

While Firo's too busy trying to hide his face from Roland to look at him, Roland tries to take a few steps closer. If it won't startle Firo too much - Roland is very aware of where they are, whose power they are under, and should Firo react badly to losing his home Roland is very aware of the risks here - he will move as close as Firo will let him. "I can't promise that you'll serve, or even see, your Family again. I can promise that you can try. I can promise you I'll help. Is that enough, Firo? For now, is that enough?"

Does it really matter if he can’t see them again? They can always put someone else in charge of the casino, and he’s not the only loyal capo they have. Sure, none of the picciotti really seem to be worth much these days, but, with the don and all the capos being immortal, they don’t need to worry about new blood. The management of the casino could fall to Maiza in addition to his accounting duties, and Firo’s sure he’d do a fine job with it—probably better than Firo did. Maiza and Yaguruma and Ronnie and all the others are there to protect the Don and the Family.

Getting upset about it is just selfish.

While he doesn't react to Roland's movement, he glances up without thinking--just a fleeting moment before he looks away again and presses both hands over his face--when Roland repeats his offer of aid. He doesn't think of his friend as the type to throw him out in the cold, but he's the only person here who impressed Firo as truly understanding what Family means. So he should also be the one to understand how useless Firo is for messing this up in the first place.

And so the simple fact of the offer means a lot. Yet he wonders if it’d even be necessary if he were handling all this better, like a capo should. He shouldn't need help. He keeps his face bowed but draws his hands away, clenching them into fists. He can't stop the dampness he feels welling up in his eyes, but he can at least try to look tough. “You don’t… You don’t have to do that. It’s my problem.”

"If you want it to be," Roland says, and he means it. "That's your right. But if you change your mind, remember that I'll not change mine."

Which is all Roland, without further prompting, will say on the matter. The offer's been made, and he's told Firo that the offer stands. The rest is Firo's decision, and that is all there is to say about it.

But not all there is to say about this. Roland keeps on looking Firo over, and takes another couple steps forward. These rooms, these cells, are fairly small, and if Firo lets him, Roland will be standing very close. "I'll stay if you'll have me, Firo. I'd like to. I don't like leaving you alone just now."

Firo knows what he wants, of course, and he wants to scream inside at the thought of Roland leaving him alone right now. That's why he doesn't move back to compensate for Roland's advance, even if he stiffens just a little to feel that closeness and to see his friend's shoes eclipse some of the floor he's studying so intensely.

Asking for these things like help and company is always hard, even when the offer is there, tempting. He falls into a somewhat evasive construction by instinct and shrugs, “I don’t want you to not stay.”

“Just don’t expect me to be very good company.” He tries to laugh again, but it just doesn’t make it out of his throat before choking off. "I just--I know it's not a big deal, but I can't--" No, no, not what he wants to say. "I just don't know what to do..."

I don't want you to not stay. Roland can't help the wry twist of his lips when he hears that, or the brief but real amusement in his eyes, but even Roland is aware that there is a point where you do not push, and Firo has passed it. Roland lets the evasion stand, makes a conscious decision to take it in the spirit it was meant, and as Firo goes on, as his speech stops and starts up again and then goes very quiet, Roland feels his expression soften, as much as it ever does. He takes a further chance, not in moving closer because that would be very difficult, but in reaching out and taking Firo's shoulders in his hands.

"Do what you can," he says, as if it is that simple. It can be. Listen, Firo, and he will tell you how. "For now, what you can do is sit with me. As close or far as you like. Hm?" Roland raises his eyebrows, tilting his head toward Firo's bed and trying to catch Firo's eyes with an expression that is not gentle, but only quite, only misses it by a small margin. It's an expression which asks - not demands, which makes it soft enough for Roland, only asks - Firo to look up and meet his gaze. He'll keep looking at Firo expectantly until he does. Afraid there's no way around it.

Right. That’s helpful, just to do what he can. If he were certain his voice wouldn’t betray him, Firo’d voice those sarcastic thoughts. That and if Roland weren’t, for once, going on and actually telling him what to do instead of making him guess at it.

Firo doesn’t yet look up, to see where Roland’s indicating or to meet his eyes or otherwise; he thinks he can get away with it. There are only so many places to sit in here, anyway. “Yeah. Okay.” It doesn't quite seem like doing something to him, but... considering his usual response to problems he couldn't fix in the past has been to run around aimlessly or break things, it's about as productive as what he'd be doing otherwise.

And at least he's not alone this way.

He tells himself to simply move forward to sit down on the bed. He doesn't have to look at anybody. Not that he has anything to hide. He's not too visibly affected, so Roland wouldn't notice a thing, he thinks. Still. Better just to keep his head down.

Instead of simply trying to push his way forward, though, he finds himself looking up just a little while he moves to take the first steps, just enough to meet Roland's eyes with his own. It's hard to do and it's hard to keep doing it--he finds himself automatically glancing off to the side and soon stops himself--but he does it.

There's approval in Roland's face for a second, for two seconds. He sees the effort it takes Firo to meet his eyes now, and he sees that the boy's done it anyway. Then Roland's arms rise and move around Firo, wanting to pull him close, if Firo lets him. If Firo lets him, Roland is going to fold himself around him for a hug, and he will stay there that way just as long as Firo wants him to.

Firo wonders if he's reading that expression wrong, but it immediately makes the effort worth it. His own face doesn't brighten, but it softens as some of the tension leaves it.

He finally lets his gaze break away out of surprise when he glances down at the arms that are wrapping around him. While he doesn't yet move to return the gesture, he doesn't offer a peep of protest and simply stands there in place. Well. Perhaps he takes advantage of his position to bury his face in Roland's shirt; if he were bothering to think on it now, he'd be grateful that it's muffling him somewhat. There’s actually a small part of him that’s relieved, because this is rather clearly the opposite of the rejection he’d feared.

He sighs. “D-damn it, I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

Not the embrace, but most everything before that. So much for playing it cool.

"But it did," Roland says, and he doesn't mean simply the encounter in this room - this cell - either. Would-haves, could-haves, should-haves, people tend to favor those and Roland has never quite understood why. What is, is. No one means to make mistakes, yet they make them. No one means to invite the consequences of those mistakes, but the consequences always come. Perhaps things would go easier for people if they better understood that. Better for the boy burying what are likely tears against Roland's shirt, particularly.

"Deal with what is, Firo. Living in what was meant to be will only hurt, that much I know, and very well. It'll solve nothing."

His arms are loose around Firo, but until Firo moves to escape them, they won't drop. One does rise, though, the flesh-and-blood one, the warmer one, almost rubbing Firo's back as it moves to try and settle solid between his shoulder blades. "That said, this between us, here. How did you mean for this to go?"

Edited 2016-06-22 12:36 (UTC)

What is is that he’s a failure of a capo; Firo doesn't see how accepting that is going to make things any easier. Then again, neither does thinking about what he could have done better.

He could pull away now, but he doesn’t just yet. He tells himself that he’s doing it because Roland likes this kind of thing, not because he needs to hide right now. Instinctively, one of his arms flings around Roland's side, as if to try and keep him there.

Once he's listened and breathed a moment and trusts himself to talk again, he tries to explain, “I just meant—I just meant to say I was sorry. For this.” Much as he tries to be, Firo’s not that oblivious. He recognizes that this is all something Roland’s doing for him, and Firo’s basically putting him out. This is not how any sane man would want to spend his time, yet Roland stays.

“I was just gonna ask for what you knew.” That was it." Or it was supposed to be.

"Be sorry for that if you like, but I'm not." He shrugs, careful not to dislodge the arm Firo's got around his waist when he does it. "I wouldn't have told you something like that and left you, Firo. I'm glad I didn't."

He looks down at the top of the boy's head - not so much a boy as Roland tends to think, maybe, but young. As young as Roland had been, once.

"You know," he starts, casual. "After- the last battle. After the war ended. My own 'bosses' were years dead, and my bondsmen, or whatever your Family would call them- Well. Once I was gone from that place I didn't weep. I thought I might, later. After a few years I realized it probably wasn't going to happen. Without that, I don't know if I ever truly did mourn."

If Firo could see Roland's face right now, his expression would be pointed, because he is very much making a point. Making his point and explaining why Firo ought to believe it, all in one. Efficient. Having done so, he is prepared to wait. This is one point he won't push, not now, not if Firo doesn't want him to.

I didn’t weep--at that phrase, Firo draws away in one jerky movement. That’s right, of course Roland wouldn’t cry at a time like that—for the moment, Firo completely forgets that he’s seen him cry at all. Because Roland’s a strong person, and that’s what Firo’s supposed to be too, no matter what happens. He’s trying: that’s why he hasn’t broken everything in the room right now. But he can do better. He should do better, and letting himself cry into his friend’s shirt isn’t better.

And then he just stares up at his friend and that pointed look, Firo’s own eyes red and mouth frowning in confusion. Confusion not quite because of what Roland’s just said. No, he’s more confused by how what Roland’s actually said doesn’t match up with what Firo assumes he should've said.

“So what’re you sayin’?” Not a challenge, just an honest question. Not crying is good. Same for not mourning; it's in moving on that you show your grit. “You did what you were supposed to do.”

There’s a piece of him that’s always eager to please his bosses and friends, and that piece jumps up now like an eager puppy, wanting to say how Firo didn’t cry either when he was orphaned and thrown out on the street. See, this thing right now? This is just another mistake, and he’s tougher than that. He can do better.

"Supposed to?" He looks down at Firo, into his reddened eyes, and thinks on how to explain. Now, if he needed it, he has proof that this is something
Firo needs to hear. He doesn't try to move back toward Firo, just watches where the boy's drawn himself away and thinks on it. Supposed to.

"Then I guess I was supposed to become the man I did, for a while. Uncaring, unfeeling, determined to remember nothing of the home that was gone from me, to not even think on it. Not the things it taught me, not the people who did that teaching. Not the people who loved me, and died for it. Because it was easier than respecting those things, maybe that's why I was supposed to. Maybe I was supposed to become the sort of man who denies everything that matters. I've met men who've gone far down that road, plenty of them. They certainly don't seem bothered much by pain, or grief. At least, not for anyone but themselves. Is that the sort of man you'd have us become, then, you and I?"

Edited 2016-06-25 15:24 (UTC)

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if you meant them to talk while they walk let me know and i can edit

Nope, this is perfect, thanks!

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