(no subject)

[freedrinkplease]

//"What's the color of love, Pig?"

"What sort of love, love?"

"Don't know. But you know the way things, they got a color. I wonder what the color of love is."

"Jesus, Runt. You could read a thousand thick books and never know the answer to that quiz."

"It's be a good one to know, ah?"

"It'd be brilliant, Runt. It's around here somewhere."//

He couldn't sleep.

He'd had a dinner of eggs and spam and he just couldn't sleep after Tillman had closed his door. He tried pacing, he tried talking to himself, but every time he laid down he leaned over and tried to reach a hand out through a wall that wasn't there, reaching in to grasp a hand that didn't exist.

Maybe Runt had found it.

The only reason he slept was because he was tired, too tired, and this place was so warm he even took his socks off, using the couch's arm as a pillow. It was still uncomfortable and it still gave him a horrible crick in the neck, but it was better than a bus stop.

Once he did finally go to sleep, though, it was easy to tune things out. It came from living with a rambunctious toddler, it came from hearing Runt's parents yell at each other every morning, it came from his mom parking herself in front of the television and ignoring everything for that brief hour in the morning when she was free of work.

It was the smell that dropped him out of his light snoring, and his hand twitched--it was odd, but since he was little, he couldn't sleep without Runt's hand in his. Even in the hospital.

"It's around here somewhere, Runt," He said softly, before the smell hit him. His stomach rumbled loudly and he opened his eyes, jarred out of slumber from his own hunger.

"Jesus," he mumbled, getting up and rubbing his face. Where was he?

Comments

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman's favorite nights were the kind that lacked dreams. He did not have good dreams anymore, just flashes of old memories that sleep twisted or visions of a blood soaked desert, of the deathly pale faces of the damned, of bombs and screaming.

He woke a few hours after he had set off to bed, shaking and sweating and for several terrifying minutes, he did not recognize where he was. Muscles twitching, he stood up and opened his reluctant bedroom window. The cool night air rushed in and while he could feel it ghost over his sweaty body, it did not make him feel cold. He could see his breath, and his fingers, pressed flat against the icy pane, were numb and unresponsive, but he didn't feel anything.

When dawn began to soften the shadows in the streets, he forced the window down once more and turned away. He found no comfort in watching blackness fade to gray.

Routine was what kept him functioning on mornings like this. He set up the coffee pot before stepping into the shower. He was efficient, accustomed to bathing where water was limited. When he washed his face, pain flared up and forced him to pause.

He remembered, then. The bar and the fight and an Irish waif named Pig. Cork, Ireland and babbins and kissing blokes and a splash of color that was so impossibly blue. Tillman touched his face again, a reminder that it had happened, that it wasn't some hopeful dream tucked between visions of death.

Tillman vacated the shower and dressed in worn jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. Today was his day off. He had promised his neighbor that he would fix her sink. He had an appointment with his therapist. The former was more important to him than the latter.

He poked his head into the living area briefly, eyes slow to adjust to the darkness after the naked incandescent light in the bathroom. He could just make out a pair of pale, narrow feet sprawled somewhat haphazardly over the couch.

Tillman resumed his routine. He poured himself a cup of coffee. He set some bread into the toaster. He cracked twice as many eggs as he usually did.

He was already halfway through his breakfast when he heard stirring from within the living area. He sipped his coffee and waited.

[freedrinkplease]

Pig's hair looked like a cow had licked him straight up the side of his head, even though he'd actually showered the previous night. He had the crumpled blanket from the couch draped over his body like a robe, and blue eyes were half open when he entered the kitchen and leaned against the wall.

"Jus' nap," he mumbled. Granted, the nap lasted the entire night, but that was a minor detail.

Tillman looked like him, a little bit. Sitting at the table. Granted there was no chain smoking mother or little brother, but he had the same look in his eyes. Dead without a purpose.

[slayer_not_player]

"I made too much food again," he responded. His voice sounded hoarse and dry. He sipped his coffee. Eating was a chore, like everything else in his life. After a poor night's sleep, breakfast was the worst. It didn't taste like anything. He wanted to get up and move, but he forced another fork full into his mouth instead.

[freedrinkplease]

"Okeydokey," Came Pig's response, though a yawn cut through it's effectiveness. Tillman had a habit of making too much, it seemed, but it was a nice habit. Pig could play pretend.

It's all he'd ever done.

"Tilly sound?" He asked, immediately helping himself. He didn't know where his next meal was, what was even happening. Why Tillman had taken him in. He wasn't even sure Tillman really wanted him to stay, or was just being nice. All Pig wanted to do was curl up with Runt and have a drink, or go to Crosshaven Beach and stare at the ocean for ever. Dance at a club and make fun of everyone. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he realized he had a report due in school tomorrow. Something about Romeo and Juliet.

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman stopped chewing and stared at Pig. Tilly? He surprised himself by snorting in amusement.

"I'm still breathing, kid. Right as rain," he responded.

[freedrinkplease]

Pig snorted back.

That was the most important part--while Tillman was just amused Pig literally snorted like a swine, and then despite tired eyes and a blanket wrapped around him and outrageous hair, he was smiling. It was the cautious smile of a seven year old, not a scrawny teenager that had suddenly decided (for whatever reason) he was going to move to America.

Whatever had happened, Tillman had done something to make Pig like him just a little more.

"Pig likes," he said simply, helping himself to the plate and then sitting next to him. He gave the other a semi-grin, a bit of a thank-you.

"Leave, leave. Tillman no see Pig."

[slayer_not_player]

Pig's responding snort incited in Tillman, a fleeting moment of juvenile amusement. When he chuckled, it was quiet and dry and airy, like dead leaves sliding over pavement in the fall. It was a strange contrast to his growled speaking voice. It felt strange and good and it was over too quickly. A little reminder of how the world had felt before the war. When there was still laughter and music and horseplay and nicknames like Tilly.

He shook his head and pushed his remaining eggs around his plate as he watched Pig. There was a slight crease to his brow as he thought about that last sentence. If Pig wanted to leave, Tillman wouldn't stop him. He simply had to brace himself for resignation, to prepare for the world to fade back to gray.

"My mother would tan my hide if she knew I was wasting food. If you wanted, you could stick around until I got my sense of proportion back." His gaze was steady and blank.

[freedrinkplease]

"Your mam smart like." Pig slows his eating, though he doesn't quite pick at his food. When the Runt incident happened, all he could do was push at his food. He remembers the truck ordeal when they were kids, and how he'd wait and wait and wait and wait, staying so still his mom had to feed him from the curb.

But he was smiling, waving his fork around. "You want Pig to stay yeah. Pig got no Runt, no live. Stay here."

He nodded to himself.

"No brother, no mam. Pig and Tilly. Pig and fucking Tilly."

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman nodded his approval and stood up to pile his dishes in the sink. His own enthusiasm for the agreement was spent in thinking up lists of things that needed to be done. He was, above all else, a practical man.

He opened the fridge and was surprised to find nothing but beer, butter, and some ancient ketchup that he could not remember buying. He did not particularly like ketchup.

He added a trip to the grocery store to his list of errands for the day.

[freedrinkplease]

"Not getting none," Pig pointed out, leaning in his chair, laughing. Like Tillman had done something funny.

"You a foxy fella, no beout, no babbins? You got none for care like. All gone, okeydokey?" He snorted in amusement (though not like an actual pig this time) and let his chair drop, picking at his old, dirtied shirt he'd yet to take off.

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman looked over his shoulder as he closed the fridge. Pig was strange, and it often seemed like his attention was spread thin or focused in places that Tillman couldn't see, but then he would voice the soldier's thoughts as if reading them. It might have been chilling if it weren't so interesting.

Tillman dismissed the thought by running a hand through his hair. "Got some things to do today. I'll be gone for a couple of hours," he informed Pig. "But I'm heading to the store first. What do you eat?"

[freedrinkplease]

"Chips and milk."

Pig ate chips and milk. He always ate chips and milk. The words came out of his mouth before he realized it, just a simple rush and he glanced at Tillman before grinning as big as he could, moving forward.

"Gotta be chips and milk like. All warm and through you're tummy."

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman raised an eyebrow but nodded anyway. Chips and milk. He would pick up some peanut butter and jelly to go with that. "What flavor chips?" he asked.

[freedrinkplease]

What flavour?

Pig's confusion is more than evident. He wrinkles his brow, scoffing, a hint of a smile breaking through.

"What kind of--Jesus. Jesus, Tilly, chip chips. Fucking chips yeah? Itty potatoe wedges that go in your mouth all soft and warm, okeydokey?!"

A stark, high, amused crowing of laughter.

"Don't know chips, don't know nothing. Pig explain everything and Tilly don't no nothing."

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman pressed his lips together until realization dawned. The kid was talking about fries. French fries and milk. Maybe it was an Irish thing?

Idly, Tillman wondered what the Irish called chips, if fries were called chips.

Pig's laugh prompted a hint of a smile in Tillman. "Chips, right," he agreed. "If you come with, you can pick out your chips. I'm leaving in ten minutes," he stated.

[freedrinkplease]

"Ready." He hadn't even moved. Then again, he hadn't even taken his shoes off to sleep. He was still laughing though.

"Flavours. Outta mind, you mog. Fucking flavours in chips."

But he was going to a grocery store, now. Had he moved in with Tillman? He wasn't really sure how, but...Apparently he was. He felt like he was cheating on Runt, cheating on what they had. Since little kids, they'd been together. Every day. Always every day with the exception of...

"Chips. Fucking chips," He shakes his head, digging his hands into his pockets. "Red white and blue all right stuffed like, Tilly."

[slayer_not_player]

Five minutes later, Tillman led Pig out of the apartment and back into the bleak, icy streets. His Jeep was a dented bucket of rust that still ran like it was new. When he had bought it in the summer, it had only come with a rag-top. When the cooler months had rolled around, he had been first surprised by his lack of forethought in preparing to winterize it, and second, overcome by apathy over the matter. The cold didn't bother him, even when his fingers refused to uncurl from the steering wheel.

The engine roared to life and he checked to make sure Pig was settled before pulling out into the street.

"Buckle your seat belt," he prompted instinctively. His little brother had always required reminding. It was strange that he remembered now-- he hadn't driven his brother anywhere since they were kids.

[freedrinkplease]

Pig buckled in and, in all honesty, American cars still weirded him out quite a lot. The steering wheel was wrong. There was a lot of things wrong with this, but at least Tillman had a car.

The ragtop was more than a little disconcerting and Pig still wished he had his jacket. It wasn't really a proper jacket--but it was more than the long-sleeved shirts and dirty jeans he'd had. He settled for crossing his arms, shoving his hands into his armpit and bringing his knees up in an attempt to huddle.

He didn't really want to say anything, even as he was reminded of a seat belt. He did what he always did--retreating into his own world. A world where he was King and Runt was Queen and they lived in a palace...

"Tilly got royalty?" He asked suddenly, trying not to shiver. "You prince?"

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman's brow furrowed quizzically. He stopped at a red light and turned his head to ask for clarification. When he saw Pig, he just swore.

As he pulled his cracked aviator jacket off, he tried not to dwell on the fact that oversight was deadly in the field, how leading ill-prepared troops into battle was a death sentence. Huddled as Pig was, the jacket engulfed his entire thin frame.

The car behind them honked impatiently.

[freedrinkplease]

Pig was used to swearing, that didn't bother him. Nor the swearing at him, which is what he thought it was. It didn't hurt, there wasn't a pang. Pig answered it with a dull, blank look on his face as he gazed out the window.

It wasn't until he felt the blanket over his body that he broke his expression, looking down with confusion. Slowly, rather boney hands moved to take it by the front and pull it closer to himself.

Why?

He'd been cold, he answered himself. Tillman was just being nice.

...But why was a hard question to answer in his head, and he looked over the leather jacket again. Maybe the colour of love was brown. Warm and earthy and safe, like the jacket, and like Tillman's hair.

It's the honk that spooks him out of it--literally makes him jump and hold on to the jacket a little tighter before his normally childish expression turned into one of rage and annoyance.

"HEY!"

He'd craned his body around, even if the other car couldn't hear it, they could sure see him yelling.

"Fuck YOU! Gettin' into Tilly and Runt like. FUCK YOU."

[slayer_not_player]

"Leave it, Pig. It's my fault," Tillman muttered gruffly. His expression was grim, projecting a glare at the world that was meant for himself. He wondered if Pig would have said anything or just froze to death. Without thinking about it, he set a hand on the top of Pig's head for a few seconds, reassuring himself that he was still there.

[freedrinkplease]

The hand on his head made Pig blink, more confusion flickering through his face.

What was this? What was this really? Nothing mattered but him and Runt, nothing ever did, but the way he put a hand on his head, a simple gesture, he could already hear Runt's calm voice saying 'leave, Pig.'

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the nervous habit evident, and once he withdrew it Pig immediately snapped his wrist upwards to catch the other's hand in his own.

Maybe it would feel the same, too.

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman didn't quite flinch, but he did tense up at the contact. He remembered all at once, reluctantly tugging his brother through the crowds at the mall, and the first time he kissed Amber Valleti with her long bony fingers entwined with his, and squeezing Scotch's bloodied hand and muttering false reassurances.

His eyes flicked away from the road for a moment, though his face remained forward, and he looked at Pig, all messy hair and pale skin blotchy with the cold and a gaze that was all at once intense and far away.

Tillman's shoulder relaxed and he gave Pig's hand a little squeeze.

[freedrinkplease]

"Allright like, Tilly." It was all he said for the rest of the ride, holding Tillman's hand tightly, a peaceful smile on his face.

He dozed off, then. Wrapped in the jacket and holding Tillman's hand, and even if it was upright in the car it was the best sleep he'd had since leaving Cork.


The grocery store was equally silent--save for blue eyes glaring at anything that looked at him and Tillman funny (what he deemed to be 'funny,' which was mostly everything). He tossed his desire things in the cart: not much, just a jug of milk, a thing of ready-made french fries, a 2 litre of milk and cap'n crunch. And every time he finished putting it in he wrapped the coat a little tighter around his shoulders, wearing it like a cape.

It's when they're at a red light that Pig scoots just a bit closer, tapping Tillman on the shoulder and waiting expectantly for the other to turn his head to look at him.

[slayer_not_player]

The trip went somehow smoother than he had expected. He scanned shelves idly for non-perishables that appealed to him, trying to broaden his spectrum beyond over-processed pork. Pig, for his part was quiet and direct. Tillman didn't care what he put in the cart, just noted it for the next trip.

The cashier was surprised to see him with food beyond his usual fare-- canned soup and lunch meat and a bag of apples, peanut butter and jelly and potato chips. She made a joke, something idle and dull, and Tillman managed a weak, sociable smile as he handed over his money. Her answering smile had been knowing. Tillman didn't know what to make of it. It irked him a bit.

"Yeah?" The speculation was forgotten as he shifted his focus.

[freedrinkplease]

It really had just started with a thought. He wanted to know if it was the same or not. He had a hard time focusing on things he didn't care about, but all he could care about now was if it was the same.

He'd only done it once before, though. The light was still red and after licking his lips he scooted closer to the other, faces inches apart.

"Pig and Runt no more," he explained, as if that meant the world to him--and it did. It genuinely did as he tilted his head upwards in the old, beat up jacket that was the colour of love, and lifted his lips to Tillman's.

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman did not normally freeze under pressure, but the gentle press of lips to his own paralyzed him for several seconds. His eyes were open, wide and blinking. A warm rush shot down his spine, bringing a moment of clarity that brought attention to just how cold it was in his car.

He remembered the cashier's knowing smile and suddenly, it clicked. She had watched him march into the store for months and pick up the same items, but today he had gone in with a strange street kid wearing his jacket and picked up new and different items. She had assumed something uncouth.

Apparently, Pig had as well.

It was easy to pull away. Pig's skinny arms were tucked inside his jacket, not wrapped around him in any way. Tillman gently pushed the boy back down into the seat with one hand.

"No, Pig," he said simply, eyes trained on the road once more.

[freedrinkplease]

No?

Pig was moved to his seat and he pulled his knees up, confusion flickering on his face. He brought a cold hand to his lips, pensive, before suddenly swiveling to face the other.

"It's the same," he sounded surprised. "Piggy right like--same all round, yeah? Not soft but same."

He nodded slowly. "Same, same, same...Jesus, Tilly." Short laughter, and despite being told no, Pig was laughing. It was a slightly dangerous laugh, however--a tone not quite there before.

"Fucking same."

[slayer_not_player]

The reaction was not quite what Tillman had expected. Relief was what he expected when he informed a streetrat he wasn't going to have to pay his way with sexual favors. There was no relief evident in Pig's expression. And that laugh...

Tillman pulled onto his street and looked at Pig briefly between scanning for a parking space.

"Same as what? What's the same?" he asked, tone neutral.

[freedrinkplease]

"You be kissin' like a lady," Pig remarked, amused. "Wanted to see if it was the same like. It's the samelike, but you got stubble."

The car was parked and he hops out of the car immediately, looking up at the apartment, swimming in Tillman's jacket.

"Thought it'd be different."

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman sat in the truck for several seconds longer than necessary before killing the engine. He kissed like a lady? He kissed like a lady. He was not sure if he should feel insulted or not.

He grabbed their groceries and closed the door with his hip. "How did you think it would be different?"

[freedrinkplease]

"Tilly be a man." Pig shrugged, making his way inside. He hasn't taken off his jacket, though, and once he entered the apartment he even zipped it up, silently heading to the couch and diving headfirst into it.

He rolled over onto his back, staring at Tillman.

"No worry, Tilly. Pig curious."

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman glanced down at him briefly, cocking an eyebrow as he passed by on the way to the kitchen.

"Just curious?" He prompted as he shifted the contents of the fridge around to make room. Curiosity was... Well. It was alright. Better than assuming Tillman was looking for something depraved.

[freedrinkplease]

"Pig used to King and Queen," Pig pointed out, staring at Tillman for a few moments. Not that he'd kissed a lot. Or had even had sex--but that was a different. This was different.

"No Tilly." His brow quirks up. "Just Beout. But Tilly got none. No lady, no man."

[slayer_not_player]

"Just the man," Tillman echoed in agreement. When everything was put away, he leaned in the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"This is America, kid. There's no royalty here."

[freedrinkplease]

"Royalty," Pig cut in, sitting up straight.

"I be the King, okeydokey?" There was an oddly serious tone to his voice--he genuinely believed this, and judging from the look, he expected Tillman to believe it. He sat up, hair still cowlicked from the morning (there was no need to take care of himself anymore) and he zipped up the leather jacket.

"Pig and Runt, King and Queen! King of Pork City. Find the palace like, yeah?"

[slayer_not_player]

Tillman listened attentively, curiously, and at the end of Pig's little speech, he nodded. The kid could have claimed to be the King of England and Tillman would have answered the same way. Pig spoke with such conviction to his nonsense. Tillman didn't mind listening to it.

A soft knock sounded at the door and Tillman pushed himself away from the wall to answer it. The conversation he had with his neighbor was brief and concluded with him promising to be over in a few minutes.

"You're not going to burn my apartment down if I leave you alone, right?" He pulled his toolbox out of the hall closet.

[freedrinkplease]

Someone at the door. Pig was unusually quiet, unnaturally so, and the moment the toolbox was out of the closet he seemed to relax.

He still wouldn't touch the coat, though. It remained around his shoulders, and he buried his hands in the pockets.

"Guarding the castle like. Be good, Pig will. Gonna fish a beout?"

[slayer_not_player]

"Fixing a sink," Tillman answered. He started toward the door, stopped, set the toolbox down, and disappeared into his bedroom briefly. He had a .357 tucked away that he didn't want the kid to stumble upon and play around with. He kept it loaded. It was a heavy, familiar constant in his life.

"You can turn up the heat if you're cold. Help yourself if you get hungry. I'll be back soon," he said on his way out the door. "Thanks for keeping watch, kid." And then he was gone.