014: MEMORY
"Damn. Did I – was that me?" Satero's fingers brushed against Corosa's cheek, where the scrapes of a day ago were still healing. A reminder that getting into an argument with a drunk Satero was not a good idea.
Corosa nodded, arching an eyebrow at the unwanted physical contact. Satero didn't notice.
"Shit. I don't even remember."
"You need to stop drinking, then," Corosa answered carefully. Satero had just emptied a flask, though it was – so far tonight – his first.
"Ha ha. And you need to stop breathing." Satero's mocking tone dissolved, and he suddenly looked too self-conscious. "Uhm. I mean. I'm – fuck. What the hell do I mean?"
"I hardly know." Corosa was watching the clouds, only half-listening. The rest of him was wondering how far he could get on what bullets he had left. He hadn't gotten a chance to restock since the Sograt Desert. That felt like a year ago, now. In reality it had only been – how long? Half a month?
"Are ya even listenin' to me?" Satero asked, not angry but probing.
"Yes," Corosa said, looking up. Satero was sitting on the guncase. Corosa was currently half-sprawled out on the grass, using the rest of the guncase as an extremely high, hard, and uncomfortable pillow.
"Alright. What I wanted to say – want – whatever – fuck, I'm absolute shit at this--" Satero swore some more to himself, looking even more self-conscious than before. Quite frankly, Corosa was surprised the man was not yet blushing.
With a frown, Corosa noted, "You've never had much trouble talking."
"Yeah. Well. It ain't the talkin' that's the problem--" Satero cut himself off again, rubbing his head and looking annoyed. "Shit. Can't find the right words. Uhmmm."
The clouds became less interesting. Corosa glanced at the mastersmith. "You're worse than this when drunk."
Satero cocked his head to the side. "Fuck. Really? I always thought I talk easier when I'm wasted."
It took Corosa a moment of staring to accept that Satero was serious. His frown became deeper as he thought back to the strange moments Satero had now and then, when he became almost completely still save for a whisper that continued on for hours. They were still happening, once when Satero had been sober. Corosa had woken up in the middle of the night because of that, and had spent the rest of the night in a clearing far away, wishing desperately for morning.
"Well..." Corosa tried to put his words together. Satero never remembered his trances. Corosa wasn't sure whether Satero believed him about them, either. "...you talk easier, yes, but less clearly."
"Oh. Damn. Right. See, I jus' – what the hell, we'll be talkin' about religion again if this keeps on." Satero stopped talking, this time not struggling for words but struggling to find the point. "Right. What I've been tryin' to say all this time is that...oh, dammit."
Corosa resisted the urge to point out that this was exactly what Satero had been saying the whole time. Repeatedly, in fact.
Satero looked away. "Jus' tryin' to say, 'm sorry."
"What?" Corosa blinked. He tried to cross his arms, which did not work well with an arm and a half.
"Yeah. See what I mean? Sounds fuckin' lame. Doesn't even sound right. I mean...'s just a word. One word. Doesn't – doesn't get the point acrossShit, I'm bad at this." Satero scowled, looking, for a moment, even more like Corosa. Which was uncanny. After all this time Corosa was beginning to pick out the differences between them, minute as they were. Small enough that no one else would ever notice. Possibly not even Satero.
Satero's scowl changed, twisting to the side. Corosa's guts unclenched. His own frowns did not quite look like that.
"How the hell do you do it," Satero said, somehow managing to word it like a statement. "Apologize. 'S near fucking impossible. To make it sound right."
Corosa never thought about it. He never had anyone to apologize to. To those whom he owed the biggest apology – well, they were already dead. Or in some world beyond this one, minds too far removed to comprehend anything. Not even food, said the priests who took care of his daughter. They had to force-feed her. Sometimes Corosa wondered whether it would be a better apology to let her die.
"...Hey. You've been lookin' at me like that for the past eternity. 'S getting sorta creepy now." Satero waved a hand in front of Corosa's face. "Wanna stop anytime soon?"
"Sorry. I was thinking." Corosa said, pushing guilt-laden memories to the back of his mind where he could chew on them later. Damn Satero for bringing them back up.
"Ya do that too much." Satero shook his head, as if this was a deep flaw. Then he leaned over Corosa. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"
"Nothing, now."
"An' before?" Satero's eyebrows were raised. The expression he wore was too nonchalant to be truly innocent.
"I'd like to think that if I lose all privacy elsewhere, at least I still have the inside of my head." Corosa was not liking the amount of interest Satero was showing.
"Ah. Right." Satero's expression melted into momentary confusion, which was then replaced by the now-familiar wicked grin. "Why, somethin' ya hidin' from me?"
Corosa gave him a blank look, which showed exactly how much he understood Satero's question and the grin behind it. Satero let out an exaggerated sigh and mussed Corosa's hair. Corosa considered pulling away, and then decided his energy levels were just barely high enough for him to continue breathing.
Satero made a face. "Ya need to wash."
Corosa shrugged. "So do you."
"Yeah, but I ain't the one who's been runnin' around wild for the past – what? Two years?" Satero said, shrugging.
"I can still remember the last time I took a bath," Corosa said, in rather weak defense.
"Yeah, well I can still remember the first time I got in a fight an' that was when I was seven. Six. Maybe five. What does that say, huh?"
"You had a violent childhood."
"My parents wanted me to be a knight. Figured winning fights was good practice."
"Why didn't you become a knight, then?" Corosa considered moving again, seeing as Satero had forgotten about his hand and left it in Corosa's hair.
"I...see, that's what I'm tryin' to remember now," Satero said. "Huh. I dunno, really. Just...didn't. Never went to Izlude or anythin'. I mean...'s weird. My parents never stopped wanting me to be a knight. Still wound up a smith, somehow."
"Your parents let you?" Corosa asked, turning to look up at Satero again. His own parents had been none too pleased when Corosa joined the gunslinger guild, but at that point he was too old for them to control.
"No. Yes. Uhm. Fuck, I don't remember." Satero was chewing on his glove. Corosa could already see that his teeth had torn straight through the cloth. "I...don't know."
Now Corosa wanted to know what Satero was thinking. Humans forgot things all the time; it was the way minds worked. But Satero seemed too worried about it to be healthy. Corosa latched on to a new topic. "I don't think either of us can sew," he pointed out.
"What?" Satero glanced down at his glove. Realization dawned on him. "Oh. Right."
But he picked at it for the rest of the day. Corosa didn't see him do it, but the next morning he found a tattered scrap of black cloth discarded on the grass, where Satero had been sitting the night before.