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Feb 22, 2011 14:06

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[FILL] - Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks 1 (Eduardo/Mark + OT4 Friendship NC-17) anonymous April 24 2011, 08:22:03 UTC
“Hi,” he says after sitting next to the crying woman for almost twenty minutes. It’s making him nervous. Antsy. It’s also frustrating and loud, and his head hurts. His head always always hurts. His fingertips twitch and he wants-

He just wants her stop.

Just shut up.

Sniffling, she looks up at him through the veil of her hair. “Hi,” she replies in a heavy accent, recovering some semblance of calm. “I’m sorry, I-“ Her words are broken off into a sob.

He exhales sharply and says, “Could you stop? My head hurts.” He punctuates this by pressing a palm to the stubble of his scalp, face pinched into an uncontrollable scowl.

She stops crying entirely, hot eyes cutting him a sideways glance. “Cabeza de Guevo,” she spits, followed by a whole litany of what he somehow recognizes is Spanish in nature.

The shrieking makes him cringe into his chair, the flats of his palms pushing into his eyes.

His nurse comes and yanks his wheelchair away from the bench where the lady sits, still babbling and making his head pulsate. Words are said between the two women, and eventually, the hysteric woman quiets and he’s wheeled away down the hall, to his room.

The nurse says in her broken English, “Lady father no live for surgery. You insult her with rude, mister.” With a tisk, the large woman leaves him there in the bright room and he covers his eyes, wincing with every beat of his pulse.

He just wanted to go out into the hall, for just a little while, away from windows.

Away from light.

*

The person in the room across the hall screams at the nurses in a language he can understand, which is odd only because it’s not English and not Spanish.

The nurse tells him it’s Portuguese.

When he’s put on pain killers for the ache in his head, he rolls across the hall in his wheelchair and tries to strike up a conversation. The young man inside the room throws things at him, screaming obscenities and clutching his abdomen.

He doesn’t try again.

*

The hysterical lady visits him, days later, head peeking in through his open door. The first thing he notices about her, now that he can think, is her jewelry. She must have thirty bracelets on each wrist, dangling with her every movement, noisy like wind chimes or flatware against china.

She greets him with an owlish smile and perfect English. “I don’t want to be a bother, but I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

He stops her with a raised palm and a rueful grin. “Don’t, it’s my fault. Sometimes it’s hard for me to-”

“-interpret social cues, I was told as much.”

He nods gratefully, adding, “I’m sorry… for your loss,” and she enters the room, so he sighs in relief that he’d said the right thing.

He rarely says the right thing.

“I’m Nita,” she ultimately announces, hand extended.

He shakes it with enthusiasm and says, “Pleasure to meet you, Nita,” because it’s not often he meets someone fluent enough in English or Portuguese to hold an entire conversation with. He’s excited. “I’d tell you my name, but…”

His laugh is nervous.

“How long have you been… awake?”

“A month or so?” he guesses.

“Well,” she begins, righting her posture. She climbs onto his bed without apropos, crosses her legs and puts a hand on his ankle. “Why don’t we try this. Close your eyes.”

He swallows a laugh and obeys.

“Just relax and think of a letter. A letter you’d use to sign your signature with. The very first letter of your name. Does anything pop out?”

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