dowhatisays | IC Contact

He's really got no choice but to believe Charlie, and to trust him that he's okay for now, and oddly, the tight grip on his thigh reassures him that Charlie's doing as well as he could possibly be, under the circumstances.

"Okay. The painkillers'll start kicking in soon. I gave you some strong shit."

"Yeah. It's cause you love me." He is feeling nicely sleepy again, the world getting fuzzy around the edges and the pain heading towards the back of his mind.

"Yeah, I do."

That's something to joke about most of the time. At the moment, though, he doesn't have a problem admitting it. Very gingerly, he brushes a little bit of Charlie's hair off of his forehead.

"You might be allowed to nap a little, but I'd have to keep waking you up to make sure you're okay."

He really just wants to take pity on him and let him sleep, but he doesn't think he's supposed to.

"Yeah, whatever." Meyer's hand in his hair feels damn nice though, so he reaches for his hand and places is back up on his head. "Keep doing that."

"Okay."

He really is a pushover when it comes to Charlie. He'll do just about anything. He keeps on petting Charlie's hair, very gently, trying to be at least somewhat soothing.

He's not sure if it's the drugs kicking in or the way Meyer is playing with his hair so gently but all of a sudden there are tears welling up in his eyes. God fucking dammit, he didn't cry once when they were kicking the shit out of him in the first place and he doesn't want to fucking start now. He turns his head into Meyer's lap, trying to stuff all the emotions back inside. But he can't stop it - his eyes are leaking dammit and he can't make them stop. Sorry for a wet spot on your jeans, Meyer.

He doesn't mind the tears, can't judge them in any way, certainly won't think less of Charlie for them, but he also doesn't know how to respond to them. Does he draw attention to them by saying something? Would that be unappreciated? He knows that when he cries (the precious few times he does, he hasn't for a long, long time) he doesn't want anyone to act like they've noticed. But...

"It's okay."

That's something. Kind of vague, but an acknowledgement and a reassurance, right? And more hair stroking. He can do that.

"It really fucking ain't." Sorry if you can't make out his words at all, Meyer, seeing as he's still face-down in his lap as he speaks. He reaches a hand up to scrub away at his eyes, trying to push the tears back in with no avail.

"My brother fucking hates my guts and now my fucking face is leaking."

"Your brother's a fucking douchebag, and sometimes our faces just leak sometimes."

Sometimes. Maybe not too often. He doesn't think he can recall ever seeing Charlie cry before. This is a special circumstance, though. He's got no good answer to any of it.

"Your brother'll probably be back in jail soon, and you won't have to worry about him for awhile."

"Not such a fucking fan of 'probably.'"

God he could use a joint right now. Everything just feels way too fucked up right now.

"I wanna go to bed now. Promise I won't fucking bleed on the sheets."

"So we'll find a way to send him back to jail ourselves."

He's talking big, of course, but he's only half kidding. He bets they could get that asshole back in jail in no time. Maybe it's better not to tangle with him at all, though. That doesn't stop him feeling some need for vengeance of some kind.

"If you bleed on the sheets, we can wash them. C'mon."

He knows he's going to have to help Charlie into the bedroom, but he's prepared for that, willing to take as much of his weight as he has to.

He uses their height difference to his best advantage, looping one arm around Meyer's shoulders to lean in one him as he stands up.

"I like that you're little. Really fucking helpful about now."

"If you weren't so badly injured, you know I'd probably punch you for always calling me little."

Even if it's, y'know, true. At least he's strong enough to support Charlie on the walk to the bedroom, even if every step probably feels agonizing to Charlie.

"Get in bed. You want me to bring you anything?"

"Yeah. Get me my fucking bowl." He's got a bong stashed under the bed, and he needs a hit right now more than anything.

"Then you can get your dumb butt in the bed, too."

"You better be nice to my dumb butt, because it's going to be taking care of you for however long you're all fucked up."

Still, he's doing as Charlie says, because of course he is. Look at how good at taking care of him he is, getting him drugs and everything.

"You are the best boyfriend ever, you know?" He's certainly extra appreciative as he digs his lighter out of the table and lights up to take a long hit. He holds it in a long time, collapsing back onto the pillows with a sigh as he breathes out.

"I'm gonna need more weed man ain't fucking planning on staying sober for a few weeks, thanks."

"Oh, I know, I'm great."

He's only being kind of facetious. At least, he's trying to be a great boyfriend. He's surprisingly pleased to hear that he seems to be not fucking it up fairly successfully.

"Yeah, I'll get you some more. And more painkillers, too. We'll keep you constantly high."

That's the way to handle medical issues, right? Drugs are great.

"Best way to be. C'mere." Look, he's lying in bed, and you're not joining him, what is this?

"Okay, okay."

And he's even taking off his shirt and pants before he slides under the covers, so that Charlie can have the comfort of cuddling up to bare skin, if he wants it. Great boyfriend indeed. Who could be better?

"Happy now?"

"If my face weren't fucking swollen to shit I would be, yeah." Hey look, he's allowed to complain. He's looking pretty shitty.

But he does pull up close to Meyer, putting his head on his chest to feel the comforting thrum of his heartbeat. It's amazing how much a little bare skin pressed into his has always been of so much comfort to Charlie.

"Yeah, it is pretty bad."

Always so polite, this one. But, hey, he's allowed to say it. Better to joke around about it than let himself be as worried as he's inclined to be. And having Charlie close is nice, too, only it gets him started worrying again, because whenever something like this happens, he imagines what would happen if Charlie got beaten up even worse, if he died, or something, and then he can barely stand it.

"You're worrying."

He's known Meyer long enough now to be able to tell. He can almost feel it coming off him in waves. He turns his face around to kiss his chest, just gently.

"No, I'm not."

Yes, he is, and it's stupid to lie to Charlie, who seems to have some sort of bizarre sixth sense when it comes to detecting his internal thoughts. He sighs and scoots a little closer.

"Yeah, I am. You should get some sleep."

That earns you a poke in the side for lying, Meyer.

"I fucking got outta this one, didn't I? And like you said, we just gotta frame that asshole for murder or some shit."

"Yeah, yeah, you got outta this one."

But how many more things can Charlie keep getting out of? His luck can't last forever, right? The poke in the side isn't reciprocated, just because he doesn't want to hurt him. He'll save it for later, when Charlie's all healed up.

IC Contact

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)