Despite the young man's efforts to soundlessly pry open the thin metal door painted iron grey, an adjunct to the small though modest sitting room in the middle of the camper van, a moaning creak still sounds as long as the young man taps the tip of a naked toe against it, Lawrence swearing it mocks him as the indication of his presence drones longer, as if by tantalizing him by being so noisy the door itself was fulfilling a vendetta.
He'd have to face the man at some point; standing before him wasn't what the Bostonian so verily feared, but he'd prefer to do so in a way that labeled the physicality of his entry as inconspicuous, so that he could stand in front of the Australian with a steeled resolve and rooted feet, and above all, a stifled desire to run. But by slipping slowly through the door, barely dry and barely clothed, pathetic faced with a blanket curled around the whole of his body so only his head was to be seen poking through the down like a guilty pimple, he only gave the man more time to take in the brevity of his apologetic stance—and that he allows the blanket to drag on the camper floor; he'd complained about it in the best, he'd be certain to grow upset about that fact.
He'd be upset about a lot of things.
Gulping and realizing that shuffling back to the flattened mattress in the sleeping room would not prove to be any better of a decision than bearing his fate and stepping forward, the young man allows his index finger, exposed and tender, to gander from in between the warm folds of cotton comfort and poke at the cold ore of the door. It swings open soundlessly once Scout actually applies some pressure and pushes it with the intent of actually slipping through it, no longer trying to hide himself. The muffled noise, he'd been able to decipher, being the radio turned down to a moderately low decibel, the voices quick, hushed, hollow, and filtered through the wooden contraption Scout aged to be at least twenty years old. Scout surveys the ground, pulling the blanket tighter around him, stepping forward just in time for the voices on the radio to share a booming laughing fit before a man gifted with the classic voice of fifties radio chatters livelily about setting mousetraps meant for women by placing new shoes where the cheese usually goes. Neither Lawrence nor the weary man slumped in the armchair—the only chair he can actually fit in the automobile—expend even a smile in honour of the misogynistic, wave riding comedians, the young man much too focused on his light and non-aggressive step toward Jack for humour.
The Australian sits with his eyes lidded shut, though peaceful and without signs of tension. His hands, ungloved, are clasped just below his navel, his chest rising like sitting dough, similar in acceleration and lofty in its movement. His wet hair suggests he showered a few minutes ago, damp but not sopping. The floor decides to give way and creak under his weight this time, though Scout decides enough time has passed between the present and other such notable events that had transpired that night, thus he doesn't let the groan bother him. The usual slouch hat, which Lawrence had not seen for the entirety of the evening, sits on the side table, sharing the space with a lamp and a particularly full ashtray, a visible increase in discarded cigarettes suggesting the man had been smoking profusely since Scout's nap.
The familiar sunglasses also sit folded and perched upon the corner of the stand, Sniper startling the young man as he goes to reach an arm to grip his ashtray, producing from behind it his lighter and a pack of the same French cigarettes he'd long since made a habit of stealing from Luc. Scout gulps and darts his eyes to the floor ashamedly as the man sits up to flick the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it smoothly, his actions void of any aggression in themselves. The two stand (and sit) in silence for a good minute in a half, a jaunty tune of brassy swing swindling its cloaked notes and jazzy sound through the ancient speaker.
Whilst reveling in their silence Scout decides to busy himself with the pattern of Sniper's long johns, a peachy colour and impossibly long in order to accommodate his neverending legs. He wears a matching thermal long sleeve shirt, also flesh coloured, a few strands of his masculine bushel of chest hair sticking out over the collar. Lawrence sighs before tugging the heavy blanket from around himself, slipping from his lean body like woven silk, nearing closer to the man as he motions to cover Jack with it instead. The third creak works as a charm, or perhaps it was the feel of the soft comforter draping itself suddenly across his chest, the Australian letting his eyelids retract sluggishly, eyes racing to meet the hesitant Scout who stands with his hands extended before him.
"Why in the world're y'only in your undies 'nd 'n undershirt, Lawrence…" Sniper snaps, in an exhausted growl, shifting so the blanket falls off his frame and onto the floor in a quiet slump.
"I thought I told y'to put warm clothes on."
"Sorry…" Scout whispers, picking up the down and wrapping it around himself again, Sniper laughing a brief, scoff of a laugh.
""S not my health," Jack growls, Lawrence sighing again and tugging the fabric tighter around him. "Then again if it were 's not like you'd actually take me int' consideration in the first place."
The man's standoffish, accusatory tone suggests the man too had Scout's outburst on the mind. Understandably so; the man had dived into the polluted Missouri River after the drunken young man, hardly in a state to be in the water himself after two hours of drinking. The river itself had to've been at least sixty feet deep, the man having fought the tides and darkened waves to find the struggling young man passed out well below the surface. Taking much of the brine into his mouth, he'd only just made it and broke the water for air with the unconscious Lawrence on his back, trying to ignore the water in his own lungs to take in breaths deep enough to power his body to swim them both to the river's edge, the man performing CPR on the Bostonian for three minutes, fearing, with absolute agony, he had been too late.
Even despite embarrassing him in front of dozens, causing a scene and the locals in the area to call the police and cite him with a ticket, jack could never forget the damaging his van. After driving as far out of the city as he could, the man still parked and stripped them both of their sopping, filthy suits, giving the passed out Scout a warm shower with more than half of their water supply (the tank under the van only held a few dozen gallons), and tucking him into bed.
Of course Jack wouldn't be so quick to forget it all.
"D'd'you finish your soup 'nd bread?" Sniper asks roughly but evenly, Scout licking his lips before nodding sporadically. "I made it for you,"
"Yeah," Lawrence nods again, his hands circling the width of the ceramic bowl the Australian had prepared a hearty soup with.
"What'n the bloody Hell d'you think you're doin' handin' it t'me?! You've got legs, haven't you?!" Sniper snaps at the young man who made to hand the Australian the bowl he keeps tucked in his arms, implying he should walk it to the kitchen to the tiny sink barely able to fit any dishes at all. Lawrence says nothing outright before making toward the kitchenette, taking slow steps because of his wrapped figure. They do not stop him from tripping over the hem of the blanket and tumbling to the ground, the dishes crashing against the floor in a loud, ringing clang—
"CHRIST!" Sniper shouts, stomping from his chair and snatching the fallen cutlery from off the ground and making the rest of the trip to the sink, dumping them before making his way back into the sitting room, Scout hoisting himself from the ground. "I'm so tired of this, I'm so fucking tired of this!" Sniper snarls, bringing his head into his hands. Scout watches, tense, chewing on his lip and still covered by the whole of the blanket around him. He sighs worriedly, retracting into the fabric encasing him so only his eyes are visible.
"Sorry—"
"Sorry, Lawrence?! Really?!" Jack chuckles incredulously, turning to look the young man in the eye, though Scout averts his gaze the instant it settles itself upon him.
"Sorry for what exactly?! For makin' fools of us both like y'do every time I take y'the fuck outside?! Sorry for provin' y'don't trust me by thinkin' the waitress writin' her name down on a paper I didn't even expect t'get was my idea?! Sorry for throwin' me a right middle finger for the dinner 'nd wine by throwin' your arse into a river in an attempt to commit suicide?! Maybe you'll tell me sorry for the ticket I got on my permanent record?! Or maybe I'll get a sorry for the busted t'shit windshields 'nd headlights—!"
"Jack, please! I really am sorry, Jack—!"
"Right, well y'know what?! I'm real sorry too, I regret not leavin' your fuckin' arse back at 2Fort, y'stupid cunt—"
"Jack, I love you!" Larry wails, though amazingly his eyes are dry and void of tears, though his face is pink from frustration surely stemming from suppressing them. "Please don't say you regret all o'this, you know I love you!"
"Y'know, Lawrence, I really can't say I do," Jack chuckles, shaking his head and letting his arms fall to his side. "The more time I spend with ya, I really have t'wonder if it's true," the man snaps, Scout's features pulled back in utter horror.
"That hurts, Jack…"
"The only thing I know for certain is that you're fuckin' insane 'nd need t'be medicated—"
"I can't take it, Jack, it only makes me worse! I tried the medication, and it landed me with more therapy 'cause it made me suicidal!"
"'Course it does, it bloody figures, eh? Why should you ever have t'make an effort when I try for you already?! I try so fuckin'hard for you, every single Goddamn day I get up and make it about you, what can I do for Little Lawrence?!" the man begins, glaring at Lawrence in the eye. "I try for us both t'make this work, Lawrence, to the point where we've got people 'nd friends 'nd relatives riskin' their own lives t'keep what they know about us secret. T'the point where I'm throwin' myself in front o'my own teammate's fire in order t'save you from catchin' the blast. 'Nd even two years ago, when y'first told me about your feelin's, I sat there, thinkin' t'myself about ways t'let you down softly, wonderin' if I even wanted to continue our friendship. But no, Lawrence, I stayed your friend for you, because I didn't want t'see you hurt. I gave you a chance, 'nd before I knew it I loved you too, but even though you were callin' me a fag, tryin' t'fuck me 'nd play with my junk only t'turn around 'nd say you were just horny 'nd desperate 'nd not actually in love with me, I still stayed by your side, because I knew how hard it was, bein' in love for the first time; I didn't hold it any of it against you, because I loved you, because you were my friend. I knew I was prolly only goin' t'get my or yourself hurt, disregardin' our obvious incompatibility, but I did it t'give you, us, a chance. I let ya cum, fart, drool, sweat, 'nd sleep in my bed—I've made my home yours. I feed ya—all the food I keep in here is food y'like, I drove across the country for you, I've always got ya on my mind, 'nd I'm fightin' for us every day, every single bloody day, Lawrence, 'nd y'know? I'm startin' t'really wonder if I don't regret it. All y'do is bring me down, 'nd I gotta ask how worth it it all is t'me,"
Lawrence, mouth slightly agape, can only watch as the man slips the cigarette from between his lips, blowing out a gust of smoky air, though not without coughing violently, his lungs clearly damaged from the river water. It doesn't appear too painful, the Australian catching his breath moments later.
"This isn't even about the ruined dinner 'nd date, or the ticket, or jumpin' in t'save ya. 'S isn't about the ruined Armani suit I'll never be able t'afford again; material possessions mean nothin' t'me, Lawrence, especially not if it means I saved your life t'night. 'S isn't about the fact I'll never get the smell o'the Missouri River out the back o'my throat. This isn't about everythin' I do, have done, 'nd what y'don't even know I do for you. I can take these things, Lawrence. I'm willin' t'take them if it means bein' yours—but when you touch my van…" Jack begins, sighing heavily. "Then it gets pretty bloody personal,"
"So then you mean to tell me the rest of that shit don't mean nothin' to you," Lawrence growls, tossing the blanket on the floor and looking the Australian in the eye with renewed fervor. "But I smash your van's replacable windshield and you're ready to break up with me—?!"
"The van has gotten me through more shit than you'll ever know or understand, Lawrence! It's been here longer than you'll ever be, 's literally supported me through some o'the hardest periods o'my life, 'nd y'know what?! I can expect more affection from a twenty year old, broken down camper than I could ever expect from you, a livin' human bein' who claims t'love me! 'Nd if y'don't think that's sad, then we've got a problem,"
"I don't get it…" Scout whimpers, picking at the blanket, his voice and tone disheartened and soft. "I don't understand why you gotta feel like the van loves you more than me…"
"'Cause I see it every day! Each and every single bloody relationship I've ever gotten into's been nothin' but me gettin'beaten, takin' more physical 'nd verbal abuse than I can stand, but I still give y'my everythin', Lawrence, because you're different from them, because I want y'to be different from them, but—"
"So what, you're sayin' I'm just as bad as your fuckin drugged up ex boyfriends that beat the shit outta you and called you a bitch?!" Scout shouts, glaring at the man who stands above him. "That fuckin' hurts, Jack…"
"C'mon, Lawrence, you're smarter than that; d'you not remember that you're gettin' paid on a daily basis t'try 'nd do me in—?!"
"Yeah, but it ain't me beatin' ya 'cause I wanna abuse you!"
"'Nd what about the whole year 'nd a half y'took t'call me a filthy faggot after you'd try kissin' me?! D'you remember, Lawrence?! Tellin' me y'wanted t'kiss me for the first time, 'nd how you'd come ont' me for the rest o'that damn year?! 'Nd despite lovin' ya back I'd tell ya no, because I knew the things you were gonna say, 'nd I just couldn't kiss someone who was gonna make me feel less than human the instant we broke apart!"
"But your hardly ever did, Jack! You'd rarely ever let me kiss you!"
"'Cause I knew how it was all goin' t'end!"
"Well whatever, Jack, it's in the fuckin' past! We're over it! You know I love you, I don't do that shit no more now I've got it figured out, now I'm okay that I'm gay for ya or whatever the fuck, why are we still on what I used t'do?!"
"'Cause I haven't got myself figured out, Larry, whether or not I wanna keep goin' like this,"
"Like what?!"
"Makin' excuses for myself why I bother t'even speak t'you in the first place! I give you everythin', 'nd even at your worst I forgive you, I get over it, because I don't wanna let y'go, but y'know what Lawrence?! I don't think I can come up with excuses anymore," but Jack simply exhales, flicking the dead cigarette filter into the ashtray before shaking his head heavily. "Fuck it." The camper door slams heavily, Scout not prepared and thus jumping wildly at the collision of the metal with the frame, the sound of Jack's footsteps crunching against the forest floor outside, the man bustling about for nearly a half hour.
His words ring harshly in Lawrence's ears and memory, the hardly clothed young man curled in a quiet ball in the vacated arm chair, the radio personalities now comedically trying to list all fifty US states between themselves, the ticking of the wall clock Jack had never bothered to tack up sounding from a corner of the sitting room, an odd number of beeps signaling to Scout it was indeed 4:15 am. Only when a distinct number of chirrups exemplifies to the mentally spaced out Lawrence that a whole other half hour had passed does he jolt back to reality, instantly taking notice of the fact that Jack had not returned. Hoisting himself from the armchair, Scout slips into the evening, sighing above at the cloudless sky; it wouldn't be much longer until the spring would fold back and reveal in its wake a toasty, comfortable summer. Perhaps a warm summer meant for grilling, with chilled waters and icy fruit, the two lying with their backs against the van, arms touching so unarguably the Bostonian's arm would actual prickle due to Jack's arm hair…
Maybe him, Jack, and Luke could all laugh about the times and people and their histories like always, Luke sharing humourous stories about his hippie aunt and uncle and the things witnessed whilst living in the commune, Lawrence begging again for the fifteenth time in a row for the French-Canadian to reveal to him what the other French speaker of a similar name had been gossiping about his youngest stepson…
Though with the way things looked Lawrence could hardly say he had any hope in his fantasy coming to pass. The very real sounds of Jack banging away on the steel of the van does much to impede his conscious from making anything of the young man's reverie as well; he saunters his way over Jack, who kneels in the mud, tongue clamped tightly in between his lips in concentration as he screws a lightbulb into the still cracked headlight, grumbling to himself as the current refuses stimulation.
"…looks like you might be able to get your headlight fi—"
"Lawrence why are you outside without clothes," Jack interrupts coldly, not even looking at the young man as he does so. Scout blanches, for he still stands in only his underpants and a flimsy undershirt, and absolutely no shoes. "For God's sake, you're outside," Jack growls taking a glance at Scout's bare feet before shaking his head at the crestfallen Bostonian. "Stupid fuckin' idiot—"
"Jack, I came out here to help—"
"Y'can help by gettin' outta my face for a change,"
"A—alright…." Scout replies meekly, sighing hurtfully as he heads back inside and plops back into the same dark red armchair, focusing on the frayed and torn fabric, picking at a slight hole in the corduroy. He finds himself trying to name presidents in order along with the same two jovial men whose voices still clutter the sitting room.
"….Now I believe it was a fine young gentleman by the name of Zachary Taylor—"
"That's ridiculous, Archie, any American on well standing ground knows the title of Thirteenth President goes to Millard Filmore—"
"Millard?! How can you expect me to Mill 'er before I Fill 'er?!"
"I bet you his wife would have something to say about the things that filled her—"
"Archie, think of the children!"
"What children?! I was going to say ice cream because the silly old goon Millard was too busy wearing Whigs to actually be a husband!"
"Yeesh, these guys are terrible!" Scout moans right as the two men erupt into a fit of laughter, Jack barging through the door, visibly shivering and absolutely covered from head to toe in oil and grease, his long johns sullied as well. Scout watches him with wide eyes as he strides past the young man in the armchair without a word, striding back toward the sleeping room and busying himself in there for a couple minutes' time.
"…Jack?" Scout calls, curling back up in the chair as he yields no response. "You alright back there?"
The Australian strides past him, naked from the chest up and drenched in the auto fluid, wiping his brow and setting their kettle on a single heated camp plate, warming the water for more tea. Scout smirks warily, but still rises from the chair and into the small bathroom, soaking a clean rag in warm water and soap, careful not to be too generous with the faucet, for supplies were clearly running low. "Hey, don't tell me you like these guys…" Lawrence smiles smally as he returns to find Jack having stolen his spot on the armchair, once again leaning back with closed eyes and a suggestion of preferring not to speak more than necessary. "They're bozos." Jack opens an eye and glares at him quietly with a raised eyebrow, falling silent as Lawrence actually crawls into the chair with the rag, nestling in the man's lap and falling against him softly. "I don't hear a no."
Lawrence brings the rag to smooth across the man's stubble free cheek, Jack grunting as Scout's motions skew his face though do clean him off, the oil sliding from his skin like ash across silver. He does this for a few minutes, bringing the rag against his jaw and slowly lowering it to his neck, a spot that was always highly sensitive and arousing for the Australian. This particular kink shows itself in the form of a light start and grunt from the man, who shifts and mutters, but let's Scout continue nonetheless, much to the Bostonian's pleasure. He watches as his own wrist drags the blackened cloth across the man's tanned skin, smoothing over his hairy chest and catching the grease that resides there too, settled deep in his skin. Lawrence twitches and brings his legs to curl closer against his own chest, bringing the cloth back to the man's left cheek while slowly leaning in to kiss softly along the other—
"Whoa…sorry Jack…" Scout whispers at the man's start over Scout's lips grazing at his jawline. Sniper looked disgruntledly uncertain at best, shying away from the affectionate young man's maneuvers and sighing deeply as Scout grabs his large hand.
"…is everything okay, Jack? I'm just—I'm just tryin' to find a way to show I'm sorry…" Larry whimpers, Jack opening his eyes wearily.
"No, Lawrence—'s 'lright…"
"But do you mean it though? I—I just don't get the feelin' you're too happy with me for real,"
Sniper chuckles unamusedly.
"Seriously though—I love you so much, you don't even know—I'd do anything for you, and I don't want you to be mad at me no more—and I don't want you to be sad, okay?" Lawrence asks the man quietly, trying his best to keep his own voice and wavering eyes even. But no matter his efforts Sniper can still read the desperation in his figure, in his eyes, in his motions and thoughts and in his tension. He tries hard to speak. He tries so hard, for the sake of the young man who looks him dead on in the eye with more sympathy and apology he ever thought possible for him to muster, to comfort him and steal any sort of apprehensive awareness of Jack's own hesitancy. He tries spreading his thin lips, only to bring them together again, to a fine point before Scout places them on his own.
"…do you still love me, Jack…?"
"I just dunno, Lawrence," Jack sighs, plucking Scout from off his lap before sauntering off toward the sleeping room, Scout's expression one of utter disappointment.
"I just dunno."
-
"Get up, Lawrence."
The addressed makes to respond to the Australian's request, sitting up from the blankets and rubbing his eyes, the organs unable to adjust to the light of a golden morning on their own. The only way to stop them from stinging to the point of blindness being to shut them with his fist. The effort to speak is breached as well, his voice commandeered by a violent fit of wet coughs that actually causes the young man to double over and clutch his stomach, Lawrence moaning in between the taxing ruptures.
"You're comin' down with somethin', aren't ya?" Jack grumbles, fully dressed in comfortable slacks and a windbreaker over a short sleeve shirt. Scout watches silently as the man rummages wearily through the small chest near the bed, lips pointed to better exalt his moody disposition, emitting soft wisps of sighs as it grows more apparent his fingers do not traverse the box absentmindedly but instead clearly search for something in particular.
"Right."
Scout grunts as Sniper sticks the thin, silver end of a thermometer in between his moistened lips, the young man curling his eyes shut as he blankets the small metal nub underneath the hooded warmth of his tongue. He parts his lids open slowly as he realizes the man had no intention of pulling back anytime soon, the expression he dons Lawrence finds to be unreadably stoic and ambiguously cold in its inflection. Scout stops himself from making a mention of how gross it was he sat tongue kissing the oral measuring tool after who knew how many times Sniper too had slathered the mouthpiece with coats of his genetic liquid. He chooses to say nothing only because it lightens him to see the Australian cares for his condition at all; Lawrence had only spent the whole night paranoid, lost in crisscrossing musings stemming from a distinct worry about how the older man would choose to interact with him come morning. That Jack acknowledges his presence at all surprises him both pleasantly and muchly, thus he withholds his New English snark. He'd rather remain tactful with the man he's surprised finds it within himself to speak in his general directon.
He doesn't watch Lawrence, however, and as the young man follows his makeshift doctor's gaze (Heinrich would either be proud or insulted to know a Bushman had so easily and effortlessly stepped up to assume his role) to their real point of interest, he sees the way his grey irises fish out a verdict from the simplistically though clearly medically versed contraption (for the thing was able to determine whether or not he had a fever), and Lawrence allows his eyes to cross in an effort to do the same. Watching the mercury travel past the short black dashes serving as markers, Scout feels his stomach drop as he sees the red finally stagnate to 38 degrees Celsius.
"Shit."
Lawrence stares at his hands guiltily, his mind heaving a laborious, mental 'great' as he adds yet another thing to the list of reasons Sniper was certainly accumulating to live deep in the forest where no one could reach him ever again.
"What's 38 mean?"
"Means fever, 'nd that you'll be hackin' up body parts for the next three days, I reckon 's jus' the silence b'fore the storm for you right now," Jack grumbles, snatching the thermometer, deeming a simple swipe of the reed with his shirt to be sanitary enough of a cleansing procedure before shoving it back into the drawer. "I told you t'keep your body covered last night,"
"I'm sorry, Jack, it's just that it was hot wearin' the pants under the blankets, too…"
"Right, well, now you've got pneumonia…"
Jack takes the young man's chin into his fingers, dragging gentle hands across his profile and bringing them to rest on his forehead. "…you're burnin' up, Scout,"
"I'll be alright…" he nods assuredly, shifting again and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Still, 'd be good if y'ate these," Sniper grunts, gesturing to a small fruit plate he must have prepared, Scout eyeing the crescent orange slices and banana chips longingly, for they looked cold and ripe, everything else around him so humidly sweltering.
"….thanks,"
"Right; I guess I'm gonna go 'head 'nd hit the road. If I keep goin' all day we'll definitely hit the 'Fort by tomorrow mornin'."
Jack speaks as if talking to a potential hirer and not his own best friend, his tone formal, efficient, moderately cold; it was a voice Scout was readily familiar with, one he knew Sniper kept reserved for his colleagues, or that he would use with representatives from TF Industries who appeared every now and then, suited in tweed variants of whatever colour or side they represented. Lawrence fully recognized the hollow dialogue and uninvested eyes, spaced out and not focused on anything in particular. He'd come to know it from the other side, as someone so familiar with the man's soft spoken Australian drawl, so familiar with the comfort of its timbre, that it never once occurred to him that perhaps he wasn't so immune to this unpersonable tone of voice himself.
"…Still…" Lawrence begins timidly, mouth full of citrus slices. "It ain't like I've never dealt with pneumonia before, huh? 'S long as you got some Wagner records it'll be like old times,"
Sniper chuckles only once, shortly, deeply, and somewhat humourlessly. Still, Scout finds he cannot ignore the small smile resting on the corner of each of the man's dimples. It was a good sign, Scout concludes; a sign he didn't hate the young man completely.
"I reckon you ought t'stay in bed; clearly y'need your rest…"
"Naw, Jack, I wanna be up there with you—if that's alright…"
"Sure," Jack mumbles without any real conviction or emotional investion in Lawrence's decision, Scout scratching behind his neck before swiveling his arm around to his lips, using the crook of it to catch his sickly germs. "If you're up to it,"
Scout nods.
"'Lright, fine," Jack sighs, though he slips from the sleeping room without another word, leaving Scout no hint as to whether or not he intended for him to follow. Either way he sweeps the comfortable blanket with him, walking about cloaked with heavy bed linens and moving gingerly because of them. Stepping outside he is able to properly hear the engine rumble, Sniper already in the driver's seat, hat on the dashboard, sunglasses rested and balanced on the bridge of his nose. It must have been early, the sun just barely haven risen fully, and the air so cool he can see his breath as he exhales. Even as Scout bunches the blanket and lifts himself up into the van, his hope for the day to come does not dwindle. The man eyes him curiously but lets him be, Scout curling in the passenger seat, the blanket however so taught around him only his head could be seen.
"You're jus' bringin' the whole bed, aren't ya…."
"'S way more comfortable, 'specially for a poor little sick thing like me!"
""S why I told you t'keep your arse in bed if sittin' up was too much for ya, we sleep in those blankets, 'nd it's filthy in here!" Jack growls, gesturing to the well kept though admittedly dusty and grimey seats and dashboards of the van.
"'Nd look, y'got the blanket draggin' all over the floor—the whole point o'doin' laundry back at your Mum's house was so that we wouldn't have t'spend money at the Laundromat in Teufort City, Lawrence,"
"Sorry, Jack—I'll—I'll go put the blanket back—"
"'S whatever, 's too late now!" the man scoffs, Scout clearing his throat only after a few minutes of silence.
"….are you annoyed with me?"
"Hah—understatement o'the bloody century, mate!" Jack chuckles Scout failing to see the humour in being called the annoyment of a lifetime. "Can't think of a single thing you've done in the last twenty four hours that could'a pissed me off!"
"I dunno how many times I gotta say I'm sorry…." Scout sighs, drawing his knees to his chest in a ruffling fit of shifting blanket. "You know I am, Jack, and I wish you'd just quit holdin' it against me!"
"Bein' sorry doesn't fix my van, mongrel—dunno what Mummy taught you but the revivin' power of children's tears doesn't do shit in the real word,"
"I don't understand why you're puttin' a fuckin' car before the one you say you love; I said I was sorry, so I dunno why you gotta hold a grudge…"
"Right, y'know I'm pretty sure you came first last night when I jumped after ya into the Missouri River, swallowin' heaps o'dirty, trashy, polluted water, 'nd yet there I was, drunk 'nd hardly even able t'walk straight, 'nd I'm leavin' my poor, broken van that you vandalized alone so that I can go after you!"
"So what do you expect?! You went after a human being instead of standin' there starin' at your car, congratufuckinlations! I'm pretty sure anyone woulda done that!"
"No, not everyone! I don't care how many bloody disorders or issues you've got, I'm not gonna sugar coat reality for you like Mummy may have all your damn life, but I'd reckon the majority of people would've let you drown after pullin' a stunt like that on 'em—"
"Fine, Jack," Scout sighs, turning his gaze to glare out the window. "I get it. I get it, I really fucked up, okay?! I deserved to drown and you should have let me,"
"'S not what I said—"
"I fucked up, I know, I know—"
"Yeah, you fucked up, with that new ticket I can't affort t'pay 'nd my busted t'Hell bumper 'nd headlight I hardly doubt we'll get t'the 'Fort without gettin' stopped by police!"
"Okay! Okay…" Scout sighs, the two men silent for a good thirty seconds.
"I get it,"
"So then quit askin' if I'm a little ticked then,"
"Look, Jack, you're bein' really immature, you know that?! I apologized and I mean it, so why can't you forgive me and justdrop it?!"
"Look, I'm dealin' with this in the most mature way I can, 'lright?! Sorry—I know you're tryin' t'make it up t'me or whatever but I just can't—I'm just havin' a hard time lettin' it go; I'm pretty sure your mother wouldn't be so quick t'drop it either!"
"My mom isn't here, Jack, and I wish you'd quit tryin' to fill in for her! Seriously! I apologized, and all I'm tryin' to do is come at this like an adult,"
"Right, after that adult like fiasco from yesterday,"
"Jack, seriously—I know I did some serious major shit last night, but you don't understand how sorry I am! I'll pay for you to get your van fixed, I'll pay off the ticket, just please, Jack…" Scout huffs, bringing a hand from the folds of his blankets to swipe through his hair.
"…I don't want you to be mad at me no more…"
"Why, 'cause you actually feel bad for me after all the shit you've put me through these last three years?! Or d'you want me t'just suck it up 'nd move on that way I can go back t'makin' everythin' all about you?!"
"I never said I wanted shit, Jack, just that maybe you could quit puttin' a car before me—"
"'The only reason I'm riskin' the van overheatin' 'nd rushin' back t'2Fort is for you, comin' down with a cold 'nd whatnot, I wanna get you back t'your Doc so he can get you taken care of before you die o'hepatitis or somethin'!"
"So then you're just cartin' me back to the base so the Doc can pump me full of needles?!"
"I'm cartin' y'back to the base so you can get some shots—that way he doesn't end up havin' t'give you a bone marrow transplant! You're snifflin' 'nd shiverin' 'nd y'just don't need t'be out on the road anymore,"
"You're sayin' it like you're angry…"
"I'm sayin' it so you'll listen t'me; I'm tired o'tryin' t'help 'nd look out for you, only for you t'turn around 'nd not actually try t'take my advice into account; Y'need t'eat real meals, drink tea 'nd not Bonk, keep your feet, throat, 'nd head nice 'nd covered. Try not t'talk so much, blow your nose with a new tissue—"
"Jeeze Jack, I ain't even for real sick though…"
"I'm jus' tryin' t'keep ya from gettin' that bad, Lawrence; you're not gonna find yourself nursed back t'health on the road 'nd in a non ventilated van. Y'need the medicine o'your Doc 'nd to be sleepin' in a real bedroom,"
"Yeah, naw, I get it…" Lawrence whispers, nodding slowly at the man's words.
"…thanks."
Jack says nothing in response, though Scout finds the sentence to be a success if his comment doesn't ignite another flare of anger from the Australian. He doesn't say anything for a whole forty five minutes, the man strumming his fingers to the sound of soft voices and a languid guitar that seeps its way through the radio in the dashboard, his face unexpressive, leaving Scout unable to determine an approximation of the mood the man experiences either way. He coughs every now and then, hoping the sudden intrusion of noise doesn't cause Jack to slam his foot against the brake and cast the young man out onto the road yet again. Though still the young man can't help but notice that aside from the whistling that filters through the cracked follicles of splintered glass of the mangled windshield, the engine runs relatively silently, especially considered it too had taken heavy blows in Lawrence's rage.
"…she's drivin' good…" Lawrence whispers with apologetic sincerity, bringing his hands to rub along the dashboard gingerly. The act incites from Jack a silent but startled gasp as the young man strokes the junked contraption, though he hides it by swallowing any distasteful words and giving Lawrence a curt nod.
"Yeah, she's holdin' up pretty well…"
"You know I remember you sayin', back in February…"
"Wossat…"
"…you were sayin' she wasn't runnin', and that she needed a tune up,"
"Yeah, but a tune up next to broken headlights, busted windshields 'nd wipers, 'nd a shoddy engine's gonna cost me money I don't have…"
"'S too bad we can't turn around now and get Paul to help us out,"
"'S too bad hindsight 'nd wishful thinkin' never got anyone anywhere,"
"Jeeze, Jack, you know what?! Fuck it," Scout bursts, mouthing further words but growling as none of them suit what he tries to express. "I'm fuckin' sick of tryin' with you…"
"You too?! Join the club!"
"I don't wanna join no fuckin' club, all I wanna do is move past this, Jack—"
"'S always about what you want,"
"I think any rational person would wanna move on though?!"
"Listen t'you, mate! Over there lecturin' me on rationality when the waitress I wasn't even remotely attracted to tries hittin' on me 'nd sends you into a suicidal rage!"
"So what, you wanna just sit and stay bitter 'cause I roughed it up?! She's twenty years old, Jack, and hey, she's still drivin' at least! You got plenty to be thankful for!"
"'Nd you can be just as thankful I don't have the mind t'open that door 'nd toss ya out onto the ground with the way you're talkin' t'me 'bout my van,"
"Look, you're bringin' me to this point, Jack! No matter what I say, no matter how I say it, you've still got a fuckin' problem,"
"Maybe this isn't one o'those things I can jus' forget about, Lawrence—maybe this isn't you jus' throwin' a tantrum 'nd gettin' red in the face 'nd callin' me a poo brain; you accuse me o'cheatin' with a woman I'd never even bloody met, much less one I'd only known for a total o'maybe twenty minutes if y'count all the times she came back t'the table, only t'take a swipe at the van afterwards when she didn't do a thing t'deserve it! I excuse 'nd forgive a lot for you as it is, Lawrence—there've been a Hell of a lot o'things I've forgiven y'for over the last three years, 'nd y'know what? It was okay for a while, but when y'start t'wreck the only thing I have, the only thing that's never judged or hated me for who I fall in love with, the only thing my father's ever given me outta love in my life—'nd you should know how that feels, havin' an attachment t'the only proof y'ever had you had a dad t'begin with—"
"'Kay, so now you're gonna bring my dad into this Jack?! Is that the best you can do to hurt me?!"
"All I know 's that we've come full circle if I've somehow ended up apologisin' t'you for all the shit you've done on this trip alone," Jack spits, Scout staggering as he tries to come up with a comeback.
"'Nd I'm tired of it. I'm through with disregardin' myself 'nd apologisin' to you when I've done nothin' wrong. Clearly y'can't quit thinkin' 'bout yourself long enough t'realise everythin' I do for you—"
"What gives you the fuckin' right to just sit here and tell me the things I notice like you're lookin' through my eyes—?!"
"—So why should you even be worth the time?"
"I'm sorry if you don't find your own fuckin' boyfriend worth the time—"
"Not everyone is Julie Fitzpatrick; not everyone is required t'love you, 'nd yet I do, 'nd all you do is take advantage of me—"
"Just say it, Jack!" Scout interrupts with a dirty, enraged glare, his face red and his brow wrinkled to the point of unrecognisabiliy, glaring fumingly at the Australian who, like he's done the whole time, allows his attention to stay plastered on the road.
"Just say what the fuck you mean to say so we can mo—"
"I think it would be better if you 'nd I went our own ways, Lawrence."
Scout blinks. The air he feels pulsating through his chest he finds unable to exhale, stunned to a point where even the subconscious mechanics of his body find themselves rendered to a point of disbelieving malfunctionality.
"So what, then…" the young man asks quietly, chewing on his lips. His lidded eyes and wavering voice suggests he was very well aware of what was to come. Taking the Australian's hat off the dashboard, he brings it to rest atop his blanket, his nimble fingers fidgeting with the garment, busying himself with it until the older man can bring himself to speak once more.
"I don't understand what you're sayin', Jack…"
"I'm sayin' that when we get back t'the 'Fort, I'm packin' your little belongin's, handin' 'em to ya, 'nd you won't be comin' 'round anymore,"
"…So then that's it? Three years of friendship just gone and out the window, Jack?!" Lawrence blanches, eyes wide, his fingers twirling the slouch hat's brim around in small revolutions with the tips of his fingers. He hugs it gently, pressing it to his chest, eyes on the floor, refusing to look the Australian in the eye.
"…Sorry,"
Lawrence's lips twist queasily, the young man closing his eyes gently.
"'S one thing I can apologise to ya for; I never shoulda led you on in the first place,"
"So then that's it, Jack?! Just, goodbye?"
"I'm afraid so,"
"So then I'm just supposed to pretend we never happened?!"
"It would be better for you than you think,"
"When I step outta this car then I'm just supposed to be gone, forever…"
"…"
"You never wanna see me again…"
"It's better for both of us…"
"So you're…just givin' up on me then," Lawrence croaks a final time, the man's hat still snug in the brace of his arms against his chest. "I ain't even worth fightin' for,"
"No, Lawrence," the man sighs, his eyes never once lifting from the road in front of him.
"'S you not fightin' for me."