Chapter Text
Clarity
The first time I’wilo approached Larizu about getting-it-over-with, it didn’t go so well.
Larizu sat upon his little wooden stool, hunched over the workbench. A line of spliffs rested near the oyster shell to his right, which also contained a good number of roaches. Also to his right, was a half-empty pouch of Taurahe Spirit™ tobacco, for the tics, not for any real tobacco habit. To the left, sat the sewing basket. Between his toes, Larizu gripped his grungy blue pipe.
Larizu squinted at a stack of hoodies (thank you, Zena) that looked like this: two backup dark blue hoodies, one light blue hoodie, one backup light blue hoodie, one normal blue hoodie, one backup normal blue hoodie, one gray hoodie (no backup available), one black hoodie, one backup black hoodie, and one red hoodie to never be used outside of an apocalyptic emergency requiring a violent-colored hoodie. The original dark blue hoodie— hoodie, for short; ‘dark blue hoodie’ was also acceptable— rested upon the nearby bed.
I’wilo sat in the big chair, for Wil— or really anyone; Wil wasn’t territorial— to sit. The tauren Big Brekk had sat in the big chair for a time, but the rustic smell had now completely faded, to be replaced by the pleasant male troll musk that naturally accompanied I’wilo at all times.
The lean, green ice troll wore the same grey sweatpants he’d been wearing for most of the week, as it didn’t seem necessary to change into fresh clean pants, when one stayed indoors and mostly sat on a chair, or the floor, or sometimes the bed. He’d changed his undershorts, because he wasn’t some sort of savage. Likewise, he had changed his stretched-out undershirts between daily nonstop-music-festival-wipe-baths: Not a savage. His current shirt was not stretched. He anticipated that it would become stretched overnight. That is probably why they sold them in packs.
It should bear mentioning that I’wilo also did not wear the grey sweatpants when he went out two days prior, to his place, with their good friend and best rut-buddy the alpha-groomer Zena, to have some quick rut. They had done this at Larizu’s suggestion. When Zena had come to see how everyone was doing, and to drop off two varieties of chicken-jerky, and also one of beef, Larizu had said, “Please just go fuck each uddah instead of stinkin’ dis place up doin’ it wit your eyeballs.” He had also said, “Take your key and lock da door.” And, “Fuckin’ shower twice.” And then Larizu had lost track of one of his blue pipes and gone beneath the bed to have a panic attack, until such time as I’wilo had returned to retrieve Larizu from beneath the bed, and to give him his blue pipe, which had just been sitting on the blue comforter. And then Larizu had hidden up I’wilo’s shirt some, and it had become stretched. I’wilo had worn track pants, to go out, on that day. It was a super casual week.
Larizu picked up his clip-on sewing magnifying glass, which he had picked up at Fuck EWE craft-and-bullshit shop, and which was currently clipped to a lead-free-lead-pen. He moved the lead-free-lead-pen-handled-magnifying-glass in and out, as he tried to get his previously-lazy/currently-only/currently-overworked eye to focus on the thread that he held in his hand.
The clip went CLICK and the magnifying glass did a flip and clattered to the floor behind Larizu. Larizu went, “Loa, fuck.” And, “(Bless all o’ ya names.)” And, “You mudderfucker.” And “Where di fuck did… Where it run off… Heard it… hit di…” He twisted around on the stool and squinted all over at the floor.
I’wilo bent and stooped half-out of the big chair, to retrieve the magnifying glass. “Heah, broddah.”
Larizu grabbed the magnifying glass from I’wilo. “Tanks.” Larizu settled back on his stool, and I’wilo settled back on the big chair.
Then I’wilo said, “You know, we could go ahnd get some new—”
And Larizu said, “No.”
And I’wilo said, “Ri… You cahn’t—”
And Larizu said, “I been, mudderfucker.” This was true, he had been, for a week now... Living without glasses, that is.
Larizu’s glasses had been mortally wounded and died during surgery, on the same day that he’d been gaslighted by a disappearing monkeyfaced potato rat, and frightened by a pinstripe water cobra, and nearly drowned, and chased along the river by a disappearing giant feral troll, and traumatized into a full-on special passive berserker hibernation attack (to include a cat-in-the-bath paroxysm that you just had to see to believe), and had then needed to readjust his resting-intimidation perception-level to sync with the presence of I’wilo, who had once again returned from the spirit world, which is to say, Larizu had some transient anxiety-induced issues with object permanence, which he managed with magical thinking. Um…
Anyway, it had been a challenging week. There’d been no good time to bring up the glasses-thing.
However, upon further reflection, I’wilo had arrived at the conclusion that there would never be a good time, if one defined “good” as a time when a suggestion might be well- or even neutrally-received. It wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be well-received.
And, so, I’wilo plowed on, “Ri—.”
“Stop.” Larizu clipped the magnifying glass onto the hinged sewing basket handle. He angled the handle out, and squinted through the magnifying glass, so that he could thread a sewing needle. Larizu bared his teeth as he repeatedly failed to thread the needle. The needle-threading issue wasn’t directly related to the glasses-issue-at-hand. Larizu usually took his glasses off, or peered over them, in order to thread a needle. The needle-threading issue was indirectly related, in that Larizu’s hands were shaking; so incensed was he, over the glasses-issue. “Ffff… fuck dis.”
Larizu dropped the fucking thread in the fucking sewing basket, and dropped the fucking— “No, dammit!” Larizu squinted all around the workbench.
I’wilo stood and stretched. He crossed the creaky floor to the workbench, and picked up the dropped needle on his way over. He placed the needle in the basket. “Me touch?” He inquired softly, as he squatted near the workbench, to the left of Larizu.
Larizu was hunched over the workbench with his fists pressed to his aching eye, and to the do-nothing glass orb that resided in the socket where his favorite eye once lived… but now it was dead forever, just like his fucking glasses.
“Fine,” Larizu muttered.
I’wilo petted Larizu’s hackles down. They were stubborn, and it took several pets. “Ri, Ah’m sorry daht it so shit right now.”
“Me too,” said Larizu. Then his breath hitched, but not for rumble. “Oh shit,” sobbed Larizu. He folded his arms on the workbench, and dropped his face into his arms to continue sobbing.
I’wilo shifted and squatted closer, to hold Larizu. This was one of the benefits of being a big n’ tall hulking man monster; one could easily encircle the average-height brother who cried on a creaky wooden stool. Also, reach top shelf.
I’wilo covered Larizu with himself. He rested his chin on Larizu’s shoulder, and caught a couple of sympathy tears. Wil could sympathy-cry too, sometime. No law against it.
Larizu said, “I huh— can-n’t wi-it dis shit, Wil... Be… stuck… ‘tween two… fuckin’ Theres— uhuhuhfu-uuuck.” He sniffed approximately twenty times before bothering to continue. “Tired… Fuckin’… It fuckin’ hurt… to be dis afraid… all da… fuckin’ time.” He heaved a watery sigh and melted into the bench, from the sheer exhaustion of it all, which triggered Wil to rumble, which was helpful.
They just existed like that for a while. Larizu listened to I’wilo, as I’wilo shook himself, Larizu, creaky stool, and a little bit the workbench, with sustained rumble.
After a time, Larizu said, “I don’t know what da fuck I’m gonna do. Loa (bless all o’ ya names), I be stuck. Can’t even proper baste in cripplin’ depression. Close my eye for more den a minute, I just go someplace. Eye hurt from too much squint, so I go someplace else.”
I’wilo straightened, as Larizu straightened to grab a spliff. I’wilo said, “Me sit on bed?” Larizu nodded, so I’wilo stepped over near the bed. He sat on the foot of the bed, near the workbench, and scooted back until his feet hovered just short of the floor. Then he lay back, as that was just about the least intimidating position.
Larizu stuck the spliff in his mouth. He swiped his Zippy™ from the workbench, as he stood, pausing to unlatch and crack the front shutter. He went to the foot of the bed. He sniffed and thumbed the lighter open and shut a few times, then turned and sat on the bed between Wil’s knees. He lit the spliff, and said, “Okay.”
I’wilo sat up, and moved forward until his feet touched the floor. Larizu leaned back against I’wilo. When Larizu held up the spliff, I’wilo shook his head. “M-mm.”
Larizu smoked the spliff like a cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the cracked window. He opened his mouth, like to say something, then shut it and shook his head a little. He ground the spliff out without finishing it, and they sat for a while.
I’wilo didn’t bring it up again for a day.