212
see two young, savage things
attack the block (pest/moses)
1,006 words. pg-13, mostly for remembered violence and language. pre-slash! goddamn but the dialogue in this movie is difficult to reproduce effectively. hopefully the voice isn't too off! for gdgdbaby, because she asked me to. this probably isn't what you wanted, bb, but I hope it serves just the same! ♥
Pest didn’t used to get high all the time. Most hours he wasn’t at school, maybe - most hours he spent with the gang, definitely. But since the funerals, Pest can’t remember the last time he wasn’t at least a little buzzed, spliff burning a hole in his pocket, waiting for him to roll it up and smoke it. He’s smart enough to know a coping mechanism when he sees one, but knowing something and caring about it are two different things entirely. Two of his best mates have died in horrific, gruesome ways right in front of his face, like the kind of shit you see in a Tarantino flick. There ain’t really getting over that.
And it ain’t like his Nan understands how things are. She don’t even know what happened to them, not really. Nan didn’t have to wonder how they were going to reattach Dennis’s head, or how much of Jerome was even left to sew back together. All she saw was two closed casket funerals. Pest didn’t cry or nothing, mostly because he was so fucking stoned that he could barely stand. Moses literally held him up through the second half, while Pest stared into space, watching Jerome’s mum sob in huge, heaving breaths. He’d felt like he was being squeezed slowly out of his body.
Moses gets it, like a mate should. Like the only other person who seen it all and lived to tell. Sam, too, a little, but she never had to hide out at Dennis’s house during Nan’s terrible soaps, and she never climbed over Jerome’s sleeping dad for a late-night toke out of Jerome’s bedroom window. Moses had. Moses was there when Dennis’s head popped clean off, saw the blood that Jerome vomited all over the floor at Pest’s feet. And so Pest don’t mean to cling, but he can’t really help it, can he? No one else fucking gets it.
Moses’s uncle’s been gone most of the month. Pest hasn’t been sleeping, much, which is probably why he’s in Moses’s bed, underneath Moses’s stupid Spiderman sleeping bag, watching Moses clean one of Dennis’s swords with an oil-stained kitchen rag. He’s high enough to feel the tingling down to the tips of his fingers - body high, and that always makes him want to touch something. Wank, maybe, or get his fingers on the zipper of Moses’s hoodie. He don’t do either, obviously, but his fingers are clutching at the sleeping bag, and Moses has the joint hanging from his lower lip while his hands move up and down and up. Pest wonders if he’s ever nicked himself on a blade, but when he opens his mouth to ask, none of the words come out.
“I think I’m too high, bruv,” he says, instead. The words just fall out like children’s blocks. He touches his fingers to his lips and wonders if there is a way to stop them coming out wrong.
Moses grunts, a noise that can mean agreement or acknowledgement or anything else, practically. Pest is the talker. Pest has always been the talker.
“Moses, man, I’m not joking.” Pest’s voice comes out plaintive, almost a whine, and he rubs his hand up over his cheek. Still smooth. The window is open behind Moses, letting in the cool air, but Moses don’t seem cold. Pest pulls the sleeping bag up over one shoulder, and watches Moses smoke without using his hands at all.
“No such thing as too high, man,” Moses says, and puts Dennis’s sword down on the dresser.
“Don’t even remember what sober feels like, me,” Pest says, and he’s not touching enough, not skin-to-skin enough, but Moses only does what he wants, and he most likely don’t want Pest touching his skin, pushing his hands under the hem of his hoodie and over his stomach. Pest ain’t sure why he’s even thinking about it except that Moses is the only one left. And Pest never can control what his brain does. “It’s like - buzzing, everything buzzing around in my head, running together-like.” Pest pauses again, clears his throat, wishes that Moses would come back with the spliff. “You think about them, yeah? Dennis and Jerome and them coppers and everything?”
“Yeah,” Moses says. He’s walking back from the window, stepping over broken gaming consoles and takeaway containers and dirty clothing. He ain’t dainty, but he don’t trip, neither. Not once. Pest watches him with the kind of focus he only manages for insignificant tasks, at the moment. The scars on Moses’s face have healed a light brown, like coffee, but Pest’s leg is ruin of scar tissue and partially damaged muscle. He does PT twice a week, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Dreamed about them glowing teeth again. Sometimes I dream where they trap me like Biggz, ‘cept just when I think I’m safe -” Pest drags a finger across his throat, the universal sign of death. “Teeth ripping my chest open, bruv, blood everywhere, trust.”
“Pest, mate, you have to stop talking about it. Making yourself mental.” Moses sits on the edge of the mattress, leaning against the wall. Pest is slumped down enough that his head is just about at Moses’s elbow. He looks up through his fringe.
“Can’t help it, man. Never had much of a brain to mouth filter. Pot makes it worse, believe it.”
“Just shut it,” Moses says, though his tone isn’t harsh enough to sting. He puts a hand on Pest’s forehead, pats at his cheek. It’s about all that Pest can do not to rub up into it like a fucking cat.
“I - sorry, bruv,” Pest says, and Moses’s fingers are fucking warm on the side of his face, like it ain’t no thing at all. Pest shivers, but it’s not cold enough in the room to justify. Moses’s hand falls from Pest’s face to the mattress next to his head.
“Yeah,” Moses says. He stubs the joint out on the wall next to his hip. Pest closes his eyes, and tries not to sleep.
attack the block (pest/moses)
1,006 words. pg-13, mostly for remembered violence and language. pre-slash! goddamn but the dialogue in this movie is difficult to reproduce effectively. hopefully the voice isn't too off! for gdgdbaby, because she asked me to. this probably isn't what you wanted, bb, but I hope it serves just the same! ♥
Pest didn’t used to get high all the time. Most hours he wasn’t at school, maybe - most hours he spent with the gang, definitely. But since the funerals, Pest can’t remember the last time he wasn’t at least a little buzzed, spliff burning a hole in his pocket, waiting for him to roll it up and smoke it. He’s smart enough to know a coping mechanism when he sees one, but knowing something and caring about it are two different things entirely. Two of his best mates have died in horrific, gruesome ways right in front of his face, like the kind of shit you see in a Tarantino flick. There ain’t really getting over that.
And it ain’t like his Nan understands how things are. She don’t even know what happened to them, not really. Nan didn’t have to wonder how they were going to reattach Dennis’s head, or how much of Jerome was even left to sew back together. All she saw was two closed casket funerals. Pest didn’t cry or nothing, mostly because he was so fucking stoned that he could barely stand. Moses literally held him up through the second half, while Pest stared into space, watching Jerome’s mum sob in huge, heaving breaths. He’d felt like he was being squeezed slowly out of his body.
Moses gets it, like a mate should. Like the only other person who seen it all and lived to tell. Sam, too, a little, but she never had to hide out at Dennis’s house during Nan’s terrible soaps, and she never climbed over Jerome’s sleeping dad for a late-night toke out of Jerome’s bedroom window. Moses had. Moses was there when Dennis’s head popped clean off, saw the blood that Jerome vomited all over the floor at Pest’s feet. And so Pest don’t mean to cling, but he can’t really help it, can he? No one else fucking gets it.
Moses’s uncle’s been gone most of the month. Pest hasn’t been sleeping, much, which is probably why he’s in Moses’s bed, underneath Moses’s stupid Spiderman sleeping bag, watching Moses clean one of Dennis’s swords with an oil-stained kitchen rag. He’s high enough to feel the tingling down to the tips of his fingers - body high, and that always makes him want to touch something. Wank, maybe, or get his fingers on the zipper of Moses’s hoodie. He don’t do either, obviously, but his fingers are clutching at the sleeping bag, and Moses has the joint hanging from his lower lip while his hands move up and down and up. Pest wonders if he’s ever nicked himself on a blade, but when he opens his mouth to ask, none of the words come out.
“I think I’m too high, bruv,” he says, instead. The words just fall out like children’s blocks. He touches his fingers to his lips and wonders if there is a way to stop them coming out wrong.
Moses grunts, a noise that can mean agreement or acknowledgement or anything else, practically. Pest is the talker. Pest has always been the talker.
“Moses, man, I’m not joking.” Pest’s voice comes out plaintive, almost a whine, and he rubs his hand up over his cheek. Still smooth. The window is open behind Moses, letting in the cool air, but Moses don’t seem cold. Pest pulls the sleeping bag up over one shoulder, and watches Moses smoke without using his hands at all.
“No such thing as too high, man,” Moses says, and puts Dennis’s sword down on the dresser.
“Don’t even remember what sober feels like, me,” Pest says, and he’s not touching enough, not skin-to-skin enough, but Moses only does what he wants, and he most likely don’t want Pest touching his skin, pushing his hands under the hem of his hoodie and over his stomach. Pest ain’t sure why he’s even thinking about it except that Moses is the only one left. And Pest never can control what his brain does. “It’s like - buzzing, everything buzzing around in my head, running together-like.” Pest pauses again, clears his throat, wishes that Moses would come back with the spliff. “You think about them, yeah? Dennis and Jerome and them coppers and everything?”
“Yeah,” Moses says. He’s walking back from the window, stepping over broken gaming consoles and takeaway containers and dirty clothing. He ain’t dainty, but he don’t trip, neither. Not once. Pest watches him with the kind of focus he only manages for insignificant tasks, at the moment. The scars on Moses’s face have healed a light brown, like coffee, but Pest’s leg is ruin of scar tissue and partially damaged muscle. He does PT twice a week, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Dreamed about them glowing teeth again. Sometimes I dream where they trap me like Biggz, ‘cept just when I think I’m safe -” Pest drags a finger across his throat, the universal sign of death. “Teeth ripping my chest open, bruv, blood everywhere, trust.”
“Pest, mate, you have to stop talking about it. Making yourself mental.” Moses sits on the edge of the mattress, leaning against the wall. Pest is slumped down enough that his head is just about at Moses’s elbow. He looks up through his fringe.
“Can’t help it, man. Never had much of a brain to mouth filter. Pot makes it worse, believe it.”
“Just shut it,” Moses says, though his tone isn’t harsh enough to sting. He puts a hand on Pest’s forehead, pats at his cheek. It’s about all that Pest can do not to rub up into it like a fucking cat.
“I - sorry, bruv,” Pest says, and Moses’s fingers are fucking warm on the side of his face, like it ain’t no thing at all. Pest shivers, but it’s not cold enough in the room to justify. Moses’s hand falls from Pest’s face to the mattress next to his head.
“Yeah,” Moses says. He stubs the joint out on the wall next to his hip. Pest closes his eyes, and tries not to sleep.