Fanfic; Maybe if We Looked; DOGS; Badou Nails
Fandom: DOGS
Title: Maybe if We Looked
Character: Badou Nails
Rating: PG...13?
Word Count: 489 words
Summary: The blood on the sheets reminds him.
Note: I don't know. I'm tired and reread chapter 28. Spoilers for that? Also for Badou's side story, in a way. I meant to go to sleep two hours ago.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember his brother’s age.
He’s seventeen now with strands of red hair handing in his eyes, a single cigarette perched on his lips, and hands jammed into his pockets. It’s another day, Badou thinks idly; another day and it doesn’t make a damn difference.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” his brother remarks as he picks up his bag and heads for the door. Bandages makes his hands stiff as he wraps his fingers around the doorknob. Badou doesn’t bother to point out the hypocrisy, but tilts his head back and forces a large puff of gray smoke into the air. It doesn’t matter, he points out with this move, but when the smoke starts filling his nostrils he almost starts coughing, because it isn’t like tobacco’s become his reason for living yet.
-
Sometimes it’s hard to remember his brother’s there.
The blood on the sheets reminds him. Badou comes home from school-he goes, on occasion-and finds the bed covered in the dark brown stains. The stained shirts are usually destroyed by then, but his brother always forgets the sheets; forgets, Badou thinks. Forgets probably isn’t it. It’s his brother’s way of reminding him that he’s alive, that he’s kicking. He got up the next morning for work, didn’t he?
Cold water comes and by now, Badou’s used to the feeling of his fingers going numb trying to work out the dried stains. He smokes as he works, the warm air filling his mouth and riding down into his lungs. Inhale, exhale, wipe hands on his shirt so he can drop some ashes into the sink, and repeat.
-
Sometimes he wonders why he worries about this sort of thing.
Badou’s fingers are still numb when he leaves the apartment that evening. It’s been three days since he last saw him. There are no stains, no indications of his brother’s life still continuing. The only remains are his last unworn pants they bought a week ago and a calendar with a date marked in a week. He has plans, Badou thinks. Someone like that can’t be going anywhere yet.
There is detachment when he finds his way. He doesn’t know what leads him into the night, but when he finds it, when he says, “Sure, I’ll give you want you want,” in an ironic tone, for information, for his brother’s whereabouts, he doesn’t think they’ll bring him back so quickly. When he sees his brother, there are scratches over his face and his tongue sticks out a little like a dog-or like the kitten they had once, who ran out in front of the car and had its neck snapped. Only numb recognition washes over him before the man standing behind his brother steps out of the shadow and presses the gun to his head. Badou doesn’t know when he blinks the next time, but he’s sure he only had one eye when he managed it again.
Title: Maybe if We Looked
Character: Badou Nails
Rating: PG...13?
Word Count: 489 words
Summary: The blood on the sheets reminds him.
Note: I don't know. I'm tired and reread chapter 28. Spoilers for that? Also for Badou's side story, in a way. I meant to go to sleep two hours ago.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember his brother’s age.
He’s seventeen now with strands of red hair handing in his eyes, a single cigarette perched on his lips, and hands jammed into his pockets. It’s another day, Badou thinks idly; another day and it doesn’t make a damn difference.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” his brother remarks as he picks up his bag and heads for the door. Bandages makes his hands stiff as he wraps his fingers around the doorknob. Badou doesn’t bother to point out the hypocrisy, but tilts his head back and forces a large puff of gray smoke into the air. It doesn’t matter, he points out with this move, but when the smoke starts filling his nostrils he almost starts coughing, because it isn’t like tobacco’s become his reason for living yet.
-
Sometimes it’s hard to remember his brother’s there.
The blood on the sheets reminds him. Badou comes home from school-he goes, on occasion-and finds the bed covered in the dark brown stains. The stained shirts are usually destroyed by then, but his brother always forgets the sheets; forgets, Badou thinks. Forgets probably isn’t it. It’s his brother’s way of reminding him that he’s alive, that he’s kicking. He got up the next morning for work, didn’t he?
Cold water comes and by now, Badou’s used to the feeling of his fingers going numb trying to work out the dried stains. He smokes as he works, the warm air filling his mouth and riding down into his lungs. Inhale, exhale, wipe hands on his shirt so he can drop some ashes into the sink, and repeat.
-
Sometimes he wonders why he worries about this sort of thing.
Badou’s fingers are still numb when he leaves the apartment that evening. It’s been three days since he last saw him. There are no stains, no indications of his brother’s life still continuing. The only remains are his last unworn pants they bought a week ago and a calendar with a date marked in a week. He has plans, Badou thinks. Someone like that can’t be going anywhere yet.
There is detachment when he finds his way. He doesn’t know what leads him into the night, but when he finds it, when he says, “Sure, I’ll give you want you want,” in an ironic tone, for information, for his brother’s whereabouts, he doesn’t think they’ll bring him back so quickly. When he sees his brother, there are scratches over his face and his tongue sticks out a little like a dog-or like the kitten they had once, who ran out in front of the car and had its neck snapped. Only numb recognition washes over him before the man standing behind his brother steps out of the shadow and presses the gun to his head. Badou doesn’t know when he blinks the next time, but he’s sure he only had one eye when he managed it again.