kore_logs | But in your dreams whatever they be

He's at the age when he just started growing, really growing. He remembers the way his bones used to ache, and he feels it now, both at the same time, the memory and the sensation. He's got an accent he's still trying to lose, scraped knuckles from when Marty called him a greasy Dego fuck two days go, and a name he hates. Sal's a broad's name, he keeps telling it to his Pa every time he uses it at him, even if it earns him a smack across the back of his tousled head.

But he'd take his Pa any old day, even his Pa after a bender, coming home looking for a fight when no one but his second eldest kid still awake. He'd take that three times over instead of standing here in front of Joe The Boss.

Because he's here, now, even though he was home seconds ago. There's blood under his nose where it wasn't before, and a goony leaving new bruises in his arm, and Joe Masseria staring him down like he's worth less than what he scraped off his boot heels coming in. It ain't fucking fair, he's fourteen years old and Masseria is laying onto him like he's some big fucking deal trying to take over his territory. Fuck him, maybe one day he will be. That'd show him.

He can't hear what Masseria is saying to him. It's the same conversation anyway, the same lecture. The had it for years, ever since he was a scrawny ten year old with eyebrows bigger than his face.

Which is now. He barely comes up his elbow, and Masseria has him by an ear, shaking him. Pa had taken him. He was supposed to pay respects to the man running their neighbourhood. It hasn't worked well.

But now he's fourteen again, and Joe's still touching him, gripping the side of his face, breathing cigar smoke and liquor fumes into his face and he's trying to break away but the goony only holds him harder. He calls him 'Toto' when they stand like this and fucking Christ he'd take Sal over that any day. He has chills going down his spine and all he can think of is he hopes they just fucking kill him already.

But they didn't kill him, because he's sitting in a restaurant window now, age twenty-five. It could have been ten, though, could have been fourteen. Because when Masseria reaches over and touches his hand that same ice runs down his spine, like it always had before and like it will keep doing again.

"We're far apart, Joe."

"We're very close, Salvatore. We're two feet from each other."

Edited 2013-06-21 01:14 (UTC)

He's seventeen this time. Or maybe he's older. It doesn't really matter, because he's been in this position a million times. Elena Rosellini is older than him, and fucking gorgeous. Her hips are round and soft under his hand as he buys them another drink, her cheeks red as she laughs at him.

"You're a real cutie, doll. I could teach you a thing or two." He wants to respond that he doesn't need teaching, but then she's kissing him, and they're in her bed. Every inch of her is as soft as he thought it'd be as he slides her out of her slip.

But the dream shifts, and morphs, and he's not in bed any more. He's on his knees, a wall covered in peeling wallpaper behind him. "Fuck I so fucking want you right now." Charlie's own voice surprises him, because he doesn't even know who he's saying it to. Only that his hands are going to the fly in from of him, undoing it slowly. The lust rushing through him is incredible - heady and uncontrollable, and like waiting a moment longer is going to kill him.

He's sixteen. It's week one of six months. Six long fucking months is this hellhole. He has a black eye, and a sore spot in his head where they tore a chunk of his hair out on the first day. This is what he fucking gets for not ratting anyone out, huh? Guess that doesn't mean much to boys on the inside.

His roommate he's never seen before, but he knows them, inexplicably, slinking down on the floor next to their bunkbed and fishing out a smoke.

"You got a light?"

He's not sure what age he is here. Because he's been here a thousand times. Someone is holding him back, arms firm around his chest and shoulders, using every ounce of strength to make sure he doesn't budge an inch. Which takes some doing because Charlie is flailing, kicking, punching, using everything he has in him to fight back. The rage is white-hot in his mind, consuming everything else. There's no reason, no logic, no talking him out of this. Just the need, the deep, hot fucking desire to sink in nails and teeth and rip and tear and make someone fucking pay. He lashes out with a leg, hands desperately scrapping at the arms holding him back as he screams, spewing spit and hatred.

"I'LL KILL YOU! YOU FUCKING HEAR THAT?! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Ned doesn't have to recognize the cell to know that it's a prison; the bars on the door kind of give that away pretty easily. There's a tall teenager who sounds oddly familiar talking to him, asking him for a light. Automatically, as he tries to get his bearings, Ned fishes around for his pockets. There are no pockets in this getup they've got him wearing. The clothes seem strange to him. They are huge on his small frame, too long in the sleeves, and old-fashioned. Very old-fashioned, actually.

"Sorry, no luck," he says, peering down from the top bunk at the top of a head of scraggly hair. Tentatively he climbs down, giving Charlie plenty of space. He goes to the other side of the cell and crouches down, back to the wall, to get a look at the guy. He looks like someone roughed him up.

There's something wrong about this entire place. Ned doesn't recognize any of it. This isn't his cell. "I'm not supposed to be here," he says.

"Yeah? You are half this fucking place. Ain't exactly where I were planning on spending my time."

He must have matches. Hes sure he would have had them. What's the point in having cigarettes without them? But he finds them under his mattress, where he knew they were all along somehow.

"What's your name, kid?"

Ned is close to awareness, but then it slips away from him, and he gives his head a little shake, letting that feeling of wrongness go for the time being. He watches the older boy strike the match and light his cigarette, wonders who it was that beat him him. It would be useful to know. He likes knowing these things because it helps him hide.

"Ned," he says, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his legs, propping his chin on one knee. "You?"

"S- Charlie." Because this is when it changed, didn't it? He'd been tired of the jokes ('Sal? You a fucking broad or something?'). A name like that was just asking for it in a place like this. He'd liked Charlie, too. Charlie Luciano sounded like an American, not a fucking immigrant like Salvatore. This kid was lucky. No one would give you crap about a name like Ned.

"You just got in, didn't yous?"

Edited 2013-06-22 14:47 (UTC)

Ned notices the hesitation, the change, but he doesn't question it. Some part of his mind knows what it's like to need to leave a name behind and never hear it again.

At Charlie's question, he nods. Of course, how could he forget. That was how he had gotten here. The man in the woods, who had shot himself. Waking him up, asking who'd killed him. Only just having the time to kill him again before the police arrived, and they hadn't seen anything, thank God. Nothing that would land him somewhere significantly less pleasant than this place. They just thought he'd killed the man like a normal person. So they'd locked him up. Had there been a trial? He can't remember, it's all fuzzy and distant. Maybe they didn't need trials if you were a minor and an orphan. Maybe the school and the warden had just worked out some kind of arrangement.

"Good fucking luck with it, kid." After all, Charlie's only been here a week, and he's already had his fair share of lessons about who's boss around here. Not an easy lesson to learn for a kid with a big mouth and a hair trigger temper. He sucks hard on his cigarette, reveling in the taste. Fuck, it took him a while to get these again. "You want one?"

Well, that's not ominous or anything, particularly considering the state that Charlie's in at the moment. Ned suddenly feels very, very small.

Ned shakes his head, "No, thanks." He doesn't smoke, isn't supposed to smoke. Something he hadn't known he remembered drifts back into his mind: walking in a park, with his mother (who knew where his dad was, as per usual). He must've been small from how far he had to reach up to hold her hand. There'd been a cluster of teenagers smoking and she'd stopped him and pointed to them and explained that he shouldn't ever do that because it would be bad for him, and he'd promised her that he never would, and she'd kissed his cheek.

He really doesn't want to think about that anymore, so he asks, his voice quiet as usual (he'd been very quiet at this age), "Why're you here?"

"Calm your mind."

Charles isn't even sure what started it, only one of the men in the bar had flown into some sort of rage and he'd acted instinctively. He'd grabbed for him as quickly as he could and only the element of surprise had really stopped him from either being elbowed in the face or thrown to the floor.

He has to raise his voice to be heard over his shouting though, "Whatever it is, it's not worth it."

Charlie gives him a disbelieving look. After all, he's never known anyone turn down a free cigarette before. So he just shakes his head, running a hand through his mop of hair. "Whatever, kid."

He drags deeply, throwing himself back onto the bed before he answers. "Just trying to make some money, sold to the wrong people."

"Don't fucking tell me what's fucking worth it!" Charlie is still pulling, pushing and scrambling at the arms holding him back. Oddly, he can't even see who's he's angry at, only that it's clawing at him and flooding his mind with the need to rend and tear and rip. He gives Charles a particularly strong shove, enough at least to stagger him.

Ned stays where he is, head tilting to the side. "Sold what?" he asks, with genuine curiosity, as if he has absolutely no idea what Charlie's talking about. Which he doesn't, really. Making money is legal. Selling stuff is legal.

He's impressed with how much older Charlie is than him. For some reason it feels, for a moment, wrong. Like he should be the older one. But that's ridiculous. He knows how old he is: barely eleven, and still as small as he was when he was nine.

Charlie leans up long enough to give Ned an incredulous look. "Take a fucking guess."

Gosh this boy swears a lot, doesn't he? Ned shifts uncomfortably, pulls his knees a little tighter to his chest. Seems like he's getting on Charlie's nerves, and he doesn't mean to. He really is trying. He's making conversation and being sociable, like he's supposed to, but it's not going right.

"Something you...stole?" Ned conjectures. Yes, he's for real.

Jesus. Charlie leans up on his elbows again and stares at Ned like he's not sure he's not imagining him. "What the hell'd you do to end up in here, steal a fucking teddy bear or some shit?"

Ned is suddenly staring down at his shoes like they are the most interesting thing he's ever laid eyes on. He shrugs and talks towards the ground when he answers Charlie. "They think I killed a guy."

And he had, hadn't he? Not the first time, but the second time. Not like it had been his choice. Someone else would have died, otherwise. Besides, the police would have seen the man, alive and breathing, with a giant hole through him, would've asked how he was still alive, and the secret would be out.

It wasn't as if he were the first one Ned had killed, either.

For almost the first time since being thrown into this dumb, Charlie actually laughs. It's not demeaning or patronizing, but genuine, his face breaking out into a broad grin.

"No fucking way. What the fuck happened?" He sits up in bed again, leaning forward because oh man, this is going to be a good story.

"Nothing happened," Ned insists, but he says it too quickly for the lie to be convincing.

"I didn't do it." Part truth, part lie, and the half that is lie stands out. As he talks, Ned scrapes at a spot on the floor of the cell with his fingernail, probably only adding to his appearance of guilt. "I was playing in the woods by my school and I found him dead. He was hunting and he shot himself with his gun and died. But it was bad timing and the police showed up and they thought I did it. They wouldn't listen to me when I told them I didn't do it, so they brought me here."

Scrape, scrape, scrape. "That's all."

He trips, catches himself from falling by wrapping an arm around the bar. Well then, he's going to have to change tactics. A good, hard shock might do the trick. So his next statement comes not aloud but within Charlie's mind.

I'd advise a little decorum. I'm fairly certain the man who just entered is a police man.

If he was going for a shock, he's certainly achieved it. As suddenly as he kicked off, Charlie is still again. Everything feels slow as he turns to meet Charles' eyes, staring at him hard with furrowed eyebrows. "What the fuck did you just do?"

"Jesus, kid, you're a shit liar. You pop him or something?" In Charlie's experience, coincidences like those only happen in people's imagination.

"Saved you from inevitable arrest?"

His expression is innocent. Now he has a good look at Charlie's face the understanding kicks in. Everyone is so plagued by dreams that it's almost difficult to remember from one to the next. He hadn't known when his own were on display.

"I know I enjoy a good bar brawl, but unfortunately the law do not."

But in your dreams whatever they be

Masseria;

Sexy Sex (this one happens a lot);

Prison;

Fight;

day 85

/switches to teenager icons and gives zero fucks

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

idk if this is okay or not lemme know.

no subject

yes excellent use your mind skillz

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject