kore_logs | But in your dreams whatever they be

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But in your dreams whatever they be

Who: Charlie "Sassface" Luciano and EVERYONE (yes and you)
What: Dreamtiems. All the dreamtiems.
When: Day 83-88
Warnings: Gangster language. Underage drinking/drug use. Sex. More R-rated things involving Chawlee's mouth.

[ooc: Different dream scenarios in the comments. Can take place on any night, just let me know. Multiple people can totally take the same dream, most of them are small snippets which may be reoccurring. If you have a specific dream idea you want from Charlie PM or plurk me. Totally open.]

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"The fuck would I be asking about yous for? I got my own shit to deal with." Charlie collapses back on the bed again.

"I didn't say you'd be asking about me, I just asked if you'd heard anything."

A long, overly dramatic sigh, and then he finally seems to notice the bruises and lacerations on Charlie's face. It's the way of these dreams -- information that should be obvious isn't, and things that would make no logical sense otherwise somehow do. "The fuck happened to you?"

"Take a fucking guess."

He's the new kid. He's not intimidating enough yet and he's not a fucking toad either. Meyer knows how things work here.

It kind of makes him wonder why he's not covered in bruises himself. He's just as new, and even less intimidating than Charlie, to be completely honest. He puts out his cigarette, shaking his head.

"Yeah, okay, so I guess I've probably got some of that coming myself."

He's not looking forward to it. Truthfully, he has no idea why he's in this cell. He feels like he could just get up and walk out if he wanted to, but then he'd be leaving Charlie stuck here.

Charlie senses that, too. That Meyer is just visiting, somehow, that he's the one giving a full sentence. But since when are people allowed to visit someone in a jail cell?

"I don't figure you do," he passes Meyer back his light, "You ain't staying here, are yous?"

He's seeing them both at once, now. Meyer at sixteen, small as he is now if a little thinner. And Meyer as he knows him, fully grown in a suit and tie. How is he seeing Meyer like that when he's only sixteen himself?

"I don't know," he says, and those're his least favorite words, but he sure seems to be saying them a lot lately. He stares at Charlie for a minute, wondering how it is that Charlie can look so young. If Charlie's sixteen, how is it that he can possibly be sixteen, too? He should be eleven or twelve, at most. And he doesn't feel sixteen, he feels much older, much tireder. He has to put a hand to his head to quell the headache that's starting to building from puzzling all of this out.

The answer occurs to him without conscious thought. "No," he says, "I'm not staying here. I can't stay here."

"I figured, yeah. You weren't ever there, when I were on the inside." He reaches forward and brushes Meyer's shoulder, testing if he's really there or if he's going to turn into smoke.

"I'm here right now."

But even as he says it, he's changing back into the adult he remembers being, before he stepped into this jail cell. Any traces of youth that had been present in his sixteen year old form are gone, and he's twenty one again, twenty one and somehow looking at a sixteen year old Charlie, and it's confusing. Why isn't Charlie aging too?

"I should have been there."

He has no idea why that comes out of his mouth. He'd been a kid when Charlie had gone away. What could he have done about it?

"Don't be a fucking idiot."

It's fucking screwing with his brain, looking at Meyer like this. Grown-up, when he's barely more than a kid himself. He feels a drip from his nose and swipes at it, fingers coming away bloody. Strange.

"I thought I cleaned all that up."

He takes a step closer to Charlie, something like concern crossing his face for a moment. Charlie hadn't been bleeding seconds before. He fumbles for a handkerchief, holding it out to Charlie, realizing how incongruous his own suit looks when he's in a jail cell and everyone else is wearing their prison uniforms.

"Here. Maybe you bumped it."

That'd explain why it started bleeding again. Maybe the scabs aren't fully healed.

He takes the handkerchief and presses it to his nose, but the blood is flowing freely and the white linen is soon stained red. "You don't got another one do yous?"

"I don't usually carry more than one."

His tone is light, but his expression is serious. Charlie's nose shouldn't be bleeding that badly, not if he just reopened a recent scab. "Tilt your head back."

In the meantime, he's taking off his tie. That might work as a makeshift handkerchief, at least, until the bleeding gets under control. He doesn't care if Charlie stains it with blood, too. What does he need a tie in a jail cell for?

Charlie's hand wraps around Meyer's wrist, sudden and firm, before he brings that tie any closer to his face.

"You're gonna need that. Remember the meeting?" Someone has to keep their place running while he's in here - talk to AR and Masseria and keep everyone happy.

"What meeting?"

He's confused, feels displaced both in literal place and in time. Is he supposed to be at a meeting? With who? If so, why is he here and not there? How does he get out of here and go where he needs to go?

"You're bleeding," he says firmly, trying to shake off Charlie's hand, "You don't want to bleed everywhere, do you?"

"I'm gonna anyway. I got blood fucking everywhere the first week heres." He can see the spots on his pillow, the flecks on the sleeve of his dumb prison-issue jumpsuit here he wiped his face of after the guy decked him in the yard.

He doesn't like feeling displaced, and he doesn't like feeling powerless, and he knows he's both right now. Sure, he's standing in the cell with Charlie, but he's not really meant to be here. He feels like a ghost, somehow, like an intruder into a part of Charlie's life he never had any place in.

"Just be careful." He knows as he's saying the words that they're useless; Charlie can be as careful as he wants, but in a place like this, it doesn't much matter.

"Like that's gonna work."

He wipes at his nose once more, but as suddenly as it started the bleeding's stopped.

"I ain't any good at being careful if you're not arounds."

That's worthy of a small smile, at least, but it's not a particularly amused one.

"You do fine without me."

Sure, he knows he helps calm Charlie down, but he's also pretty sure that Charlie can handle himself. Admittedly, Charlie's impulsive, he gets angry, he makes decisions in the heat of the moment, but he's made it this far, hasn't he?

"I made it out, at least."

But he feels very small like this. Helpless. Meyer is still standing close enough and it doesn't take much to lean forward, head against Meyer's chest, breathing him in.

"Yeah. Luck's always on your side."

It's not that he chalks up everything good that happens to Charlie simply to luck. That would be underestimating his innate abilities, insulting his intelligence. On the other hand, Charlie has better luck than most people he knows. He certainly has better luck than Meyer himself does -- luck has never been a close friend of his.

He puts an arm around Charlie, patting his head, a gesture that's almost comforting, almost a reassurance, but he's never exactly been great at that kind of thing.

It doesn't matter if Meyer is not terribly good at it, just a little affection like this goes a long way. He realises he never had this as a kid - never had anyone he would just lean against and breathe the scent of and feel better for it. He presses his nose a little further into Meyer's vest, hands gripping and wrinkling the material.

"Let's stay like this a little longer."

"I don't know how long I can stay for."

He realizes as he's saying it that it makes very little sense. It's not as though he thinks he has anywhere else to be, it's not even as though he's supposed to be here in the first place. Why can't he stay here as long as he wants? But somehow, innately, he knows that his time is limited, that he can only comfort Charlie for so long, and he pats him again, clumsily, an attempt to tell him that it'll be okay, even if he's not sure it will.

But then, it had been, hadn't it? At least, it had been in the sense that Charlie had made it out, had come back.

His fingers grip in harder at that, as if clinging tightly enough will keep Meyer here for longer. Despite the fact that he knows, now, too, they only have minutes left together.

"You don't have to. We could leave together."

"We can't," he says. Even as he's saying it, he's not sure how he knows it, but he does. That's why he's not particularly surprised when he looks down and sees that he's literally begun fading, becoming less solid and more like a ghost. It makes sense in the context of the dream, and he doesn't question it, although he tries to fight it, not wanting to leave Charlie behind, stuck in this place.