Ficlet: Like My Rotten Bones Do
Author: rivlee
Title: Like My Rotten Bones Do.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Snafu, Gene Roe. Background Babe/Roe
Summary: There are times when Merl-Francis is the only one who can get Gene-Baptiste to sleep.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated. Title from The Gaslight Anthem's The Spirit of Jazz
There were things Merl-Francis knew about Gene-Baptiste that no other soul would ever uncover. Even Heffron, for all this love and devotion, would never know the shuddering sound Gene-Baptiste made when word came that his daddy had died. He’d never know the choked-up prayers muttered in a mixture of French, English, and something just flat-out distinctly Cajun, as their last goodbyes were said to Grandma Roe’s casket, Merl-Francis’ hand clutched in Gene-Baptiste’s own. He’d never know just how loud and long Gene-Baptiste cursed when he got the opening line from his daddy’s first famous song inked under his left arm, always close to his heart. He’d never know the smell of summer and the taste of the bayou in their mouths, as they ran around throwing confiscated firecrackers and laughing at the bird squawks as only ten-year-old little shits could do.
There were some connections that went deeper than love, blood, and bond. Some people just carried parts of each other souls within them; that’s how it had always been between Merl-Francis and Gene-Baptiste. They knew each other, mind, body, and soul, like no other would ever discover. There was a time, Merl-Francis knew, that Paw-Paw worried it would stop them from seeking out others. There were whispers since they were kids about them being too involved. Merl-Francis never worried; they were a part of each other, that little bolt that kept the whole thing working, but they didn’t make each other complete. Gene-Baptiste now, with his red-headed boy full of a foul mouth and dirty jokes, was getting closer to that complete. There was still more before it all slid into place, still wrinkles of life to smooth on out, but they were getting there.
It didn’t change the fact that some nights the only one who could make Gene-Baptiste sleep was Merl-Francis. It was always nights like this, when the air felt like sludge, full of humidity even in the middle of winter. It was the kind of nights where even the owls couldn’t be bothered to hoot and the whole world went silent. Gene-Baptiste hated quiet; the absence of sound had always terrified him, Merl-Francis too, but nothing like Gene. Silence meant complete solitude and even Gene, loner that he was, always needed some noise in his life.
It explained a lot about why he was so attracted to Heffron. That boy wouldn’t know quiet if God dropped an anvil on him and told him to shut his damn mouth.
“It’s usually your ruddier half I find waiting for me this late,” he said as he dropped his bag by the door.
“He’s still at work. They had an issue with the cooler and are running around the parish trying to find people to store food,” Gene said.
Merriell squinted at the clock on the microwave. “It’s two in the morning.”
Gene shrugged. “They got a lot of regulars.” He turned from where he was staring at the blank tv screen and studied Merriell. “Where they hell did you learn a word like ruddier?”
Merriell smirked. “I told you I met some educated boys while in the war.” He slid down next to Gene and tugged them down until they were sprawled out on the couch. “Night terrors get to you? Paw-Paw telling you stories about a loup garou again?”
“Something even worse,” Gene murmured into the worn fabric of Merriell’s white t-shirt.
Memories then, just as Merl-Francis assumed. Some people didn’t get that there were things worse than nightmares, than waking up with tears in your eyes, and that was memories. Whether they came to you in sleep or the waking world, they’d cut you down like no other. Merl-Francis had more than enough experience with them. They left aftertaste in the mouth and on the soul.
Merl-Francis didn’t say anything because there was nothing to be said. No Hallmark-card phrases were going to erase a past like Gene-Baptiste’s. They all had their sins and confession only went so far. He did what he could, just being there, the person who knew best what Gene-Baptiste needed right now. Later he’d hand him over to Heffron, to hands that would soothe and stir, to kisses, and bites, and knowing Gene’s tendencies, probably a hard, quick fuck. In the morning the night would still linger, but it’d start the slow path of re-set. All of it was parts to the greater working whole. Merl-Francis did his now, Heffron would do his later, and Gene would finish it out on his own.
Now it was time for some distraction. Merriell reached behind him and grabbed the remote.
“Let’s watch some TV Land. I swear not to leave it on M*A*S*H this time,” he said.
Gene-Baptiste huffed out a laugh. “Last time it was The Twilight Zone and you swore for the next week Mrs. Beatty’s great-grand-baby was trying to mind control us all.”
“Something ain’t right about that boy,” Merl-Francis insisted. “He stares.”
“You stare.”
Merriell held his hands out. “My exact point. We don’t need another me in this parish. World will end.”
Gene slapped his stomach. “You ain’t too bad.”
Merriell grinned as he fussed with Gene’s hair. “Neither are you.”
It went quiet as they watched some episodes of Roseanne. Merl-Francis wanted to make a joke about how old they were when their childhood shows were on the old-timer’s network, but he spotted the steady rise and fall of Gene-Baptiste’s chest. Merl-Francis grinned before lying his head back down and closing his eyes.
Might as well get some shut-eye of his own.
Title: Like My Rotten Bones Do.
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairing: Snafu, Gene Roe. Background Babe/Roe
Summary: There are times when Merl-Francis is the only one who can get Gene-Baptiste to sleep.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended.
A/N: Unbeated. Title from The Gaslight Anthem's The Spirit of Jazz
There were things Merl-Francis knew about Gene-Baptiste that no other soul would ever uncover. Even Heffron, for all this love and devotion, would never know the shuddering sound Gene-Baptiste made when word came that his daddy had died. He’d never know the choked-up prayers muttered in a mixture of French, English, and something just flat-out distinctly Cajun, as their last goodbyes were said to Grandma Roe’s casket, Merl-Francis’ hand clutched in Gene-Baptiste’s own. He’d never know just how loud and long Gene-Baptiste cursed when he got the opening line from his daddy’s first famous song inked under his left arm, always close to his heart. He’d never know the smell of summer and the taste of the bayou in their mouths, as they ran around throwing confiscated firecrackers and laughing at the bird squawks as only ten-year-old little shits could do.
There were some connections that went deeper than love, blood, and bond. Some people just carried parts of each other souls within them; that’s how it had always been between Merl-Francis and Gene-Baptiste. They knew each other, mind, body, and soul, like no other would ever discover. There was a time, Merl-Francis knew, that Paw-Paw worried it would stop them from seeking out others. There were whispers since they were kids about them being too involved. Merl-Francis never worried; they were a part of each other, that little bolt that kept the whole thing working, but they didn’t make each other complete. Gene-Baptiste now, with his red-headed boy full of a foul mouth and dirty jokes, was getting closer to that complete. There was still more before it all slid into place, still wrinkles of life to smooth on out, but they were getting there.
It didn’t change the fact that some nights the only one who could make Gene-Baptiste sleep was Merl-Francis. It was always nights like this, when the air felt like sludge, full of humidity even in the middle of winter. It was the kind of nights where even the owls couldn’t be bothered to hoot and the whole world went silent. Gene-Baptiste hated quiet; the absence of sound had always terrified him, Merl-Francis too, but nothing like Gene. Silence meant complete solitude and even Gene, loner that he was, always needed some noise in his life.
It explained a lot about why he was so attracted to Heffron. That boy wouldn’t know quiet if God dropped an anvil on him and told him to shut his damn mouth.
“It’s usually your ruddier half I find waiting for me this late,” he said as he dropped his bag by the door.
“He’s still at work. They had an issue with the cooler and are running around the parish trying to find people to store food,” Gene said.
Merriell squinted at the clock on the microwave. “It’s two in the morning.”
Gene shrugged. “They got a lot of regulars.” He turned from where he was staring at the blank tv screen and studied Merriell. “Where they hell did you learn a word like ruddier?”
Merriell smirked. “I told you I met some educated boys while in the war.” He slid down next to Gene and tugged them down until they were sprawled out on the couch. “Night terrors get to you? Paw-Paw telling you stories about a loup garou again?”
“Something even worse,” Gene murmured into the worn fabric of Merriell’s white t-shirt.
Memories then, just as Merl-Francis assumed. Some people didn’t get that there were things worse than nightmares, than waking up with tears in your eyes, and that was memories. Whether they came to you in sleep or the waking world, they’d cut you down like no other. Merl-Francis had more than enough experience with them. They left aftertaste in the mouth and on the soul.
Merl-Francis didn’t say anything because there was nothing to be said. No Hallmark-card phrases were going to erase a past like Gene-Baptiste’s. They all had their sins and confession only went so far. He did what he could, just being there, the person who knew best what Gene-Baptiste needed right now. Later he’d hand him over to Heffron, to hands that would soothe and stir, to kisses, and bites, and knowing Gene’s tendencies, probably a hard, quick fuck. In the morning the night would still linger, but it’d start the slow path of re-set. All of it was parts to the greater working whole. Merl-Francis did his now, Heffron would do his later, and Gene would finish it out on his own.
Now it was time for some distraction. Merriell reached behind him and grabbed the remote.
“Let’s watch some TV Land. I swear not to leave it on M*A*S*H this time,” he said.
Gene-Baptiste huffed out a laugh. “Last time it was The Twilight Zone and you swore for the next week Mrs. Beatty’s great-grand-baby was trying to mind control us all.”
“Something ain’t right about that boy,” Merl-Francis insisted. “He stares.”
“You stare.”
Merriell held his hands out. “My exact point. We don’t need another me in this parish. World will end.”
Gene slapped his stomach. “You ain’t too bad.”
Merriell grinned as he fussed with Gene’s hair. “Neither are you.”
It went quiet as they watched some episodes of Roseanne. Merl-Francis wanted to make a joke about how old they were when their childhood shows were on the old-timer’s network, but he spotted the steady rise and fall of Gene-Baptiste’s chest. Merl-Francis grinned before lying his head back down and closing his eyes.
Might as well get some shut-eye of his own.