surface_level | (no subject)

Assured now that the touch is not unwanted, Lucas ceases to be tentative. He reaches over and takes hold of Leif by the shoulders, gingerly dragging him across the floor until he rests Leif's head on his leg. It isn't the most comfortable surface, but it is a form of contact, and it allows Lucas to leave his hand loosely curled around Leif's shoulder.

"You may continue to do so, if it is a help."

He squirms just a bit at being tugged, trying to scramble by himself, but stopping as his back gives a stab of pain. He lies still for a moment, part of him anticipating the return of the belt or the lighter. But then he curls himself tighter, reaching out in the miniscule room, fingertips just brushing against the wall. There are drawings on it, close to the ground, childish stick figures, trees, birds and dogs and such, scratched into the whitewash.

He gives a shudder, shutting his eyes and letting his hand drop. The tears are more of those same soft, animal-like whines and moans, stifled by Leif's hand over his mouth.

His thumb moves on Leif's shoulder as he feels him shake, watching him. He remembers being this. He hurt himself with morphine withdrawals and binges, and cried curled on the street outside the penthouse he'd shared with Alexi, unrecognizable to the people who'd held doors open for him months before.

Leif shudders for only a few minutes, all told, ending up hiding his face in his arms, shoulders hunched tightly, from the force of the embarrassment and shame he feels. Somehow the location, this place, which had been a place for happiness and good memories, makes him feel even more ashamed.

"I'm sorry."

"Do not be." His thumb continues to move. It's as close as he usually comes to a friendly cuddle.

He whines a little, softly, fidgeting and reaching up to fray at the edge of the Ace bandage.

"Thank you."

Lucas is quiet for a long moment, still touching Leif's shoulder.

"If there is more I am able to do than cause pain, speak."

"...sing that song again. Please. Only for a little, and then you can leave, if you'd like."

If it were feasible for Lucas to look bashful, he would now. He looks at the ground.

"... I do not sing in a skilled way. Do you still wish it?"

That gets the faintest sort of smile.

"I did not request for it to be in a skilled way."

His face still pointed toward the floor, Lucas clears his throat and closes his eyes. His voice is very deep and it wavers on any sustained note.

"Спи, младенец мой прекрасный,Баюшки-баю. Тихо смотрит месяц ясный, В колыбель твою... Стану сказывать я сказки,Песенку спою; Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки, Баюшки-баю."

For the first time all day, Leif actually relaxes a little, though he's still trembling a bit, curled up, wiping at a few stray tears. As soon as Lucas finishes, he swallows hard, then sits up, slowly.

"Thank you. Again."

Lucas opens his eyes and looks at Leif curiously, his hand falling away when he sits up. In the absence of something to do with his hand, he lifts one of his knees up and wraps his arm around it. As he repeats the song, his eyes remain open but he does resume inspecting the ground beside his boot.

Leif mimics the position, apparently heedless of how this pulls at the wound on his back, causing it to bleed more. He looks calmer than he has in days.

When he finishes, he looks at Leif. Leif who seems calm, while Lucas is finding it more difficult with time not to rage, tear, cut. The situation is too similar to his own and it is painful to watch from outside. Perhaps it is not the same and he is wrong about Leif's future, perhaps he will not be broken at the center for all of his life.

He would like to stop this, either way. It is a shame that Lucas has never fixed anything. At best, he is a stopgap. Far more usually, he is a tool for taking people apart. These are not the things he might wish to be for one in pain, but it is what is left.

Leif exhales, slowly, then frowns a little, reaching out, automatically. He's off in his own little world, but he's returned to the real one long enough to realize that something's amiss.

"Are you all right?"

He does not move away or toward Leif, allowing whatever his movements mean, simply quiet as he chooses his words.

"... Not often."

"...do you need me to do anything?" He's trying, in a way, to "return the favor" as it were.

He looks around the room, wanting a cigarette but unwilling to seem cold if he reaches for one now. Irony again: he is addicted to the numbing routine of smoking as much as he is the nicotine.

"Speak when you wish for anything. That is all. Honesty in this is necessary, yes? Anything."

"...okay."

He's quiet for a long moment, only moving to shift a little in apparent discomfort. Then, softly-- "You...mentioned healing, at one point?"

"Yes." Lucas looks about the room. "There are things in my place. Are there here?"

Leif offers a wan sort of smile. "What you see is what there is. Absolutely nothing."

"Then we must return." Lucas reaches across the ground and picks up Leif's shirt, hands it to him. "Carefully."

Leif looks quite like he'd rather do anything else, but he'll pull the -- mercifully loose -- shirt over his head, letting out a soft whine when it brushes against the open and still-bleeding wound. Then he'll get to his feet, amid much stumbling, arms held out for balance.

He stands easily and, without allowing argument, loops Leif's arm over his shoulders. He begins to walk them slowly back into the Room, then to a door across the way. It opens into a room that is sparse and more than a bit dirty. There are black stains on the walls and stone floor, the one light is dim, and the mattress currently is without sheets, showing several large splashes of blood stained in. There is a bathroom with a shower and a kitchen through a door near the back corner, along with a single chair by a small circular table. The chair would not be comfortable so, sorry Leif, you are taken to the stained bed and deposited carefully.