#ronmanmob 02

Plundered from [ x ] @ronmanmob

Blue, pale from dehydration, tracks every single movement Ron makes. From leaning over, hands grasping the urn, to standing up right again. The urn set top the bar, like it no neverminded a single thing in its whole life. The mug taken up next and sat down, along with sugar cubes and--the slightest widening of eyes. He hasn't seen a jug of proper milk in ages. Not since the bad place anyway. And parts of him always coudl tell that whatever the facility had deemed milk maybe wasn't entirely that.

Still he doesn't move towards any of it until Ron's gone through his instructions. He's glad for them because everything had been automated in the facility. He'd learned how to manually do somethings since he'd escaped yes, but using things as luxurious as this 'urn' ? Definitely not one. So those movements are sharply watched as well. And only when Ron's said something about fetching Aunt May or at least something she'd made, and moved to go do said fetching (claude thankfully going with him), does Billy unwind.

Arms that unfold from his torso. Hands that reach for the mug. Repeat the actions Ron had mimed for him. The hot liquid filling up the cup at a fast yet weirdly easy pace. Milk added next, the sugar looked at but never really considered. His sweet tooth had never been overly large, not like Beth. His sister loved sweets, and maybe that's what has him plucking a few from the top when he's still alone. Stuffing them into his pocket for safe keeping, until he can give them too her. Forgetting altogether or maybe not really knowing completely yet that here that sort of survival instinct isn't needed. But as it was...

The cup is lifted. Brought to his nose. A sniff. Two. Smells like...the briefest of fragments skip across his minds eye. Arms wrapped around him, the sound of a voice singing. Warmth. Blond---the fragments scatter before ever making a real picture. Belly left in the cold void it leaves behind. And later he might realize it is what chased him to take a sip.

"Ffff--!"

A hand to his nearly scalded mouth. A tongue that has a few choice words for him if he'd let. Hot. Right. And there's a quick dunk of the very tip of his finger into steaming tea. Another lift and another sip and yes. That will do. Much better. And while he probably looks a bit silly cradling the cup in both hands--like a baby giant trying to use a toy cup as a tea cup-- he cares not at all. Another bit of warmth seeping deeper into him. Distrated enough that maybe when gracious host returns, Billy does not give up his realestate on the opposite side of the urn and bar.

Ere we are then---

Blue that's gained back a bit of its vibrance with the go wide without any thought to hiding. He's never seen so much food in one place. At least not outside magazines, old restaraunt menus, and eatery windows. His gaze jumping from one item to the next, his stomach growling out something hollow and warnings of turning green this very instant if he does not---

Only caution ya t'eat slow...

It doesn't deter a hand coming out. Grabbing a bit of bacon with his fingers. Taking a bite with no care at all if its too hot to eat or not. And a sausage is plucked from the lot next as he blindly sinks into one of the bar stools. He'll go slow but not slow. Completely forgetting that manners, and things like utensils exist, as he snags another bit of protein from the plate. Relishing in ever single drop of juice and crunch that come from them between his teeth. ANd only when that last bit has been chewed and swallowed--despite fingers going for yet another sausage...

"Th-thank you. I-its....thank you."

continued from [ xx ] @ronmanmob

Moved...start...business...less time than me...

He doesn’t know why but that tugs at his mouth. As an almost nonexistent single chuckle loose. And its not because what Ron said was any amount amusing. Its so strange and yet he can’t really unhear it. The way Ron goes about talking. Its roundaboutly to the point. And yes he knows that probably doesn’t make sense and wouldn’t make sense if he ever said it to anyone. But that roundaboutly to the point way? That way was his best friends way of talking. His best friend of course being his Old Man. And maybe that helps untie a few more of the knots that keep Bastian wound up tighter than a drum a lot of days. Or maybe its his preference. But if anyone that knows him would tell you, it definitely wasn’t the singular drink he’s had so far. And speaking of...

This time he only downs half leaving the other half to sit for just a bit longer. Life’s taught him to saver not guzzle. Or at least not to guzzle all the time. He’d done the guzzling method a few times in his life. The first time he’d been grounded for a week, when he’d gotten into his dad’s liquor cabinet the day someone broke his heart the first time. Granted he’s pretty sure the week’s grounding then was because it took that long for his smaller, lankier ass to sober up. The second time? Well that’s as obvious as his hair color.

“Sounds like a ton a work...y’did good. M’mom would like it here f’I could get ‘er ta go more places sides work n’the grocery store.”

Said so he’s got time to figure out how to answer Ron’s question. Settle some parts that it rattles and quakes. Spots that still haven’t healed. Might never. Emotional bits that in a lot of ways he just wasn’t born with the tools to handle properly. Or so the school counselor had told him, when she was trying to get him into better programs. Lot of good it had all fuckin’ done huh? And there’s a rerrange and a forced settlement come to inside of him fast and sharp. But thankfully maybe it didn’t hurt as much as it did last time. And maybe if he’d noticed he’d believe it was progress.

“Y-yea...yea its...mine.”

He finishes off what’s left in the glass for a precious few more seconds to find words. And also to let the liquid give him just the tiniest boost of brevity.

“Uh...while. M’dad opened the place. He uh’...he passed when I was eighteen. I been runnin’ things with m’mom’s help since...an’ a course Mr. Thatcher. Keeps th’bind th'scenes stuff spinnin’ y’know?”

He’s not proud of that last bit. Cuz it’s a lie and yet it’s not. The place is Bastian’s--it’s just that could change at literally any second without his conscent. And that hits hard like it always does. Because damn his dad would have told that man where to shove it by now. Wouldn’t have gotten himself in this deep. Would have fuckin known better. But that’s water under the brooklyn bridge now. No sense throwing himself off and into at the moment. And as a hand asks for a refil his mouth diverts to something that can’t hurt.

closed starter for @ronmanmob​

An hour or so til closing. His mother tucked away in the back finishing up paper work. Doing everything she can to make sure they break even at least. Keep the wolf away just one more week. And there’s a settling sigh as the mop is hung up. The bucket stowed away on the shelf underneath.  A hiss and a small wince for his trouble.

Damned cracked ribs are still sore at him for taking one too many hits. For taking another loss, so the asshole holding the deed on this place doesn’t run out of charity. Hindsight reminding Bastian, for the hundredth time, that he should have never made that fucking deal. But if he hadn’t? 10 Rounds would have long been turned into some 24 hour modern day joke. A streamlined nightmare, he's sure would have caused his old man to roll over thrice in his grave.

A scowl at the image that creates against his locker door, before he’s half yanking it open. Fingers flexing as he reaches for the tape. Practiced hands that do a fair enough job wrapping themselves, though his mother slips in a moment later. Undoes some of it, and re-wraps. It hadn’t been needed but he knows her well enough not to complain. She misses doing this for his dad. And he can’t blame her one little bit.

          Don’t stay too late, yes? 

             “I won’t.”

They both know he’s lying, but neither one acknowledges it as she helps him into his gloves. Little said between them, if at all, on the walk to the front door. Where he keeps a watchful eye until she disappears down into the subway across the street. And it is only then that he turns away from the door. Moves across the mostly empty space, a few stragglers from tonight’s excitement noticed, one in particular recognized from the crowd at his last bout. And while any other keeper of the keys might try to move them on their way given the hour, Bastian leaves them be.  He doesn’t mind if they stay passed closing. Reminds him of how things used to be when his dad was alive. When this place still buzzed like Madison Square Gardens on fight night.

A thought that fuels the first strike he makes on the speed bag. Another wince and a readjustment, before his off hand is thrown out next. Back and forth and back and forth. Mimicking the dance all real boxers know like they know breathing. Over and over and over again. Strike after strike. Working through the pain of still healing bones. Taking out the frustrations that he can’t on anything or anyone else. And with each hit his blood burns a little hotter and little quicker. Until eventually an off hand drives out of right field and the bag pops. Spilling sand all over the mats. A breathed kind of curse escaping him.

Quiet. Early morning judging by the light creeping in through the crack in the curtains. Judging by the silence that rests beneath his feet as he picks his way towards said curtains. Moves them but a breath apart to look outside. The street littered here and there with people. Normals. Going about there day like there isn’t a thing out of place in the world. As though it isn’t all out of balance. A shake of his head that carries as he steps away from the window. Fingers rubbing together at his side, makes him realize how dry they are. He needs hydration. And blue is cast about the room looking for a wayward water bottle but--

A full bodied sigh. 

They’re all empty. He can feel that as much as see it.  A knowledge that has his gaze settling on the door. The door that he really--desperately--does not wish to pass through just yet. Because Beth...Beth is sleeping. One of them has to keep watch. Nothing and no where is really safe. They’ve learned that time and time and time again. But necessity is calling. A claw scratching at his stomach. He needs food as much as water. They both do. Two things that aren’t going to magically materialize in this room. The former because he doesn’t have that gift the later because there isn’t enough moisture in this attic space to fill a tea cup.

Right then.

A step, then two and he’s at the door, hand around the knob. A breath. A glance over his shoulder at the only person he trust implicitly, before the knob is turned. The door opened and he’s ducking his head to look out. Nothing but a hallway. A flight of stairs. Small sounds drifting up from down stairs. Another twitch of his fingers against each other before he’s stepping out. Closing the door behind him and creeping one cautious step at a time to the stairs. No one and nothing in sight for all that the easy sounds continue to perpetuate. Sounds that he starts to recognize as dishes the further he descends the stairs. Liquid of a kind against a hard surface. A scent that---

Tea. Honest to god and country tea.

He hasn’t had a proper cup in--well he’s not sure how long. Minimal and clipped memories that he has of before. Before that night he still doesn’t dare look at save side long glances. Before the facility. Before when he had a room of his own. A mother who’s face he can’t recall anymore just her voice. An easy tune that seemed to float about in the ether, the similar sound of dishes. Its captivating the place where memory and imagination meet in his head. So much so that he half expects, when he turns the corner to see her standing there at the kitchen stove.