If we met at midnight

[etcircenses]

Who| All those on the liberation mission and all those being made to fight against them.
What| The liberation of District 2.
Where| District 2.
When| This week.
Warnings/Notes| War, violence, death. Please warn for more in headers.

The hovercrafts fly in over the tall mountains of the Rockies, dwarfing the towering trees. From the sky, the scene is beautiful, all glittering snow, blue water, and green that never fades. The planes stretch on into the east, seeming never to end. Nestled in the mountains is a city that doesn't appear to have ever seen better days. It's worn and patched, and were the temperature a little warmer, one's first thought might be of the old west. The trains only add to this image, going all over into the various mining mountains.

Propaganda can be seen everywhere here in the city; posters of Snow, of Capitol supporting Tributes, things seeking to inspire District unity. If it seems to rebels like they're the bad guys here, that's because they are. District two doesn't want liberation. A District home to people loyal to the Capitol, to their District and the Peacekeepers, fans of the Games, and full of indoctrination, rebels are not only unwelcome, they're considered threats. Loyalty means everything to them and rebels are disruptions to this loyalty. There will be no help from the people here unless you're a soldier for the Capitol, in which case, housing and bed are offered, as well as munitions. Poster of Albert, Anna, and Felicity have been placed up, saying "The Courage Of Sacrifice!", "The Light Of Victory Shines Ahead!, and "To A Bright And Protected Future!", respectively.

If you serve the rebellion, however, it's off to the mountains with you. It's not exactly safe, but it's the best that can be managed until a takeover is made. The hovercraft lands upon a wider ledge of the snowy mountainside, sitting there rather precariously. There's no cave, and only barely enough room in the hovercraft. Resources are heavily rationed. Camp fires will need to be made outside the plane, and food hunted. Simply pulling in breath in the high altitudes may be difficult. Fight off frostbite may be more so. The moaning winds inspire all kinds of paranoia. Best stick close to one another.

Although everyone is lucky to find the sun shines during the day, allowing for some warmth, as the night falls, the temperature drops. The District shuts down all power, putting it all into heating and leaving the city in total darkness. This provides an advantage of cover for everyone, but if you're not a Districter used to the dark, seeing what you're doing may very well be a problem.

The war continues, and in the back of everyone's mind is a familiar phrase; may the odds be ever in your favor.

Comments

[foundafamily]

Caught off guard, Firo jumps when Roland does, and his head shoots around to look at whatever has his friend so horrified. With the intensity of the reaction, he half-expects to see something or someone there.

Nothing.

Regrouping, Firo thrusts himself in front of Roland--and in between him and the space he's staring at--and tries to grab both of his arms. He squeezes his fingers as tightly as he can. Even if it takes his full weight, he presses back to try to keep him from moving forward anymore.

"Hey! Just listen to me!" He doesn't bother controlling his volume at all--maybe the loud sound will help jolt him back. "There's nothing here. Whatever the hell it is you're afraid of, it's not there. Look." He risks letting go with one hand so he can wave it around in the general space Roland's looking at.

"There's nothing. Whatever the hell this door is, it's not there and you don't hafta worry about it. It's not there now and it won't be. And it wasn't there before, either--I've been here, remember?"

[ka_sera_sera]

"Here," he repeats, barely hearing, barely able to remember what he's just heard for all the other memories pressing into his head. He tries. His eyes never leave the center of the room.

"Here. But I smell it. The desert. I can feel the heat. The sand. The memories. About now's when they come. Here's the moment all the memories spill back into me. I remember. And Jake, and Susannah, and Eddie. Even Oy. To feel their love again - to watch them leave me one more time, and time, and time. Oh, I can't, I can't bear it, not one more time, Firo-"

Luck must be with Roland because for a moment, the sound of his own yelling - names, one on top of the other, all his dead, all his lost - and the sound of his own screams have gone dim enough inside Roland's mind so that he can hear, almost, what he says, can feel the shape of the name on his lips. One name he never sung on his way to the Tower.

"Why did I say that name? Were you saying... I don't recall. The memory must have gotten lost, buried under all those others. It must have been important."

Roland's eyes never leave the center of the room. There are hands on his arms. It may be a lucky thing for Firo that Roland is too focused on what's ahead - and behind, and here, and time, and time - to mind the grip. His voice is faint, a breathless murmur, barely there but the words come out, nonetheless. "You've been here, you said. I remember. I remember all of them. Which here were you? There're quite a few of them."

[foundafamily]

"I--Here?" What the hell does he mean 'which one'? Well, Firo's gathered that Roland seems to think he's elsewhere, but how the hell does Firo convince him of the right 'here'? "Panem, I told you! There's no desert--that's somewhere else right now! You don't have to worry about it!"

He's on the verge of panic as he watches for any sign of recognition. Could any of his words get through to him? Maybe it's time for a different tactic.

The words that come next are a mark of his respect--he wouldn't bother for most other people. Soberly, Firo tries to meet Roland's eyes, even if it's hard when when the guy's staring off into space. "I'll apologize to you later. For now--wake up!"

He maintains his grip with one hand and reaches up with the other to try and smack Roland's face.

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland's hand is gripped around a wrist. Roland's hand is next to his face. He can see the large welts there and frowns, raises his other hand to poke at them.

Roland's hand is gripped around a wrist. That wrist is attached to an arm, a shoulder. A face. A familiar face.

"Firo, you have to leave. Now. You must, you must, before the end- the start- the end-"

Roland's hand is gripped around a wrist. That wrist is attached to a hand. He stares at it. The palm faces toward him.

"The end, the start," he murmurs to himself, absently. "It never took you. It'll never take anyone. Only me, I think."

He shudders. The wind blows heat out through the doorway, that heat.

There's a hand attached to the wrist which is gripped in Roland's. He stares at it.

The door, Firo's hand, the door. His eyes can't settle on one. The wind blows heat out through the doorway, heat and that acrid smell. He shudders. There is a wrist under his fingers, skin. It's warm.

"Firo." These words come slow, slurred. Forced out of a mouth - surely not his - from a great distance. "Were you trying to slap me?"

[foundafamily]

The directions to leave send an immediate jolt through Firo’s body. “No!” He wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing, and he wants Roland to know it. Leaving him alone right now seems like the absolute worst thing to do. Firo sees those shivers bolting through Roland and, without even thinking about it, adjusts his free hand to give a comforting squeeze.

From last time, he’d learned that there wasn’t much chance of the blow even getting close. It’s not the smack he really wants but the reaction. At first, he’s not sure he’s even secured that… but then he hears the question.

“Yeah, I was, and I'll do it again if I have to.” He answers quickly and without shame, only a hint of wary hope. Roland doesn’t sound completely lucid right now—not by a long shot—but could this be progress? “You kept talkin’ about weird stuff, so I thought it’d snap you out of it.”

He clears his throat, “Do I have your attention now?”

[ka_sera_sera]

"Attention," he slurs, slow. "No. No, I-"

Wind blows out through the door. It carries heat with it and it carries a scream, a faint scream. His hand pushes against the ground, trying to push him backward. The metal tips of its first couple fingers shriek against the floor and he pushes back desperately, the heels of his boots push against the floor. The door hangs open. His hand tightens around a wrist. Bones, muscle, skin warm under his hand.

"Firo. Firo. What you have to say you'd better say quickly, I- I won't be, I'm not, I wasn't here for much longer."

He shudders. His hand moves from Firo's wrist, slides up, curls itself clumsily over Firo's palm and winds a couple fingers next to Firo's own, trying to grip. "The door hangs open. If you'd have spoken, if you'll speak with the rest of them, speak, quickly, quickly."

His boot heels push back against the floor to the tune of distant shrieking, his own. He recognizes the voice. He remembers. His fingers curl up against a palm, someone else's palm, and he hardly notices. The door hangs open.

[foundafamily]

He'll try to twist his fingers around Roland’s hand if the man doesn’t do anything about it; it’s just a hunch, but he wonders if touching directly and not just through his clothes does more to bring him back. What harm can it do at this point? Things have already come to a head.

His heart sinks when Roland seems to go back to that goddamn door so quickly. And then he moves again--that's even worse. “Oh no you don’t!”

This time, Firo doesn’t go for just a paltry slap. If he has it, he tightens his grip with the hand that’s holding Roland’s. And then he hurls himself bodily at the other man, aiming to bowl him over if he can—at the least, he wants to cut off any advance towards this “door” Roland thinks is in the room with them.

Whether his efforts are proving to be ineffectual or not, he calls out as close to Roland’s ears as he can shove himself, “Listen to me! Just cut it out about the goddamn door and listen to me!”

[ka_sera_sera]

Listen to me says the voice of his friend and Roland's hand stops on its way to the throat of the man who'd shoved him down, Firo's throat. Listen. Listen, listen to that wind and the way it pulls at him, it'd been such a relief to stop fighting that pull and just walk, walk toward it, even to set his gun down at its foot, a relief because he hadn't known, hadn't remembered-

Listen to me.

"I'm trying!" Roland cries out, and even now that old, gritted voice of Roland's greatest teacher scrapes at his mind, lie there all night if you're going to keep puling about what you can't do, so Roland stops cold that puling about what he's trying to do and looks at what's in front of him. He only realizes his eyes are squeezed shut when he tries to do it. "I'll listen if you speak again Firo, I'll listen."

His hand, so near his friend's throat, tries to wind its bony fingers around Firo's collar instead, tries to pull him close, close enough to drown out that wind, that dry, awful heat. He remembers that heat. He'll remember it. "I can hear them, the voices of my dead. My damned. I hear my own voice, a dozen times over, a hundred. Listening to one is-" stand with the rest of us when you've found those balls you ain't dropped yet, maggot, "-tricky, quite a trick, holding just one memory in my head at a time, so you'd best make it quick. Quickly, Firo. Tell me what- Tell me. Help me."

[foundafamily]

Firo's eyes stay straight ahead, fixed on Roland, but there's a fleeting moment where his breath catches in his throat. In the very back of his mind, Firo notes that hand and just how damn lucky he is--maybe this is another sign that they're on the right path. Or a sign of how close they are to veering off the edge. From their past encounters, Firo'd had the impression that Roland's reflexes were always impeccable but that his control over said reflexes wasn't quite perfect in this mental state.

He doesn't flinch when Roland moves again, determined to take whatever he's dishing out. He doesn't even worry about the increased proximity; he only hopes that Roland knows what he's doing and it'll somehow make Firo's words travel faster and louder than those other memories.

"I will. Come on, I swear to you, wherever the hell you think you are, I couldn't be there. I'm not from your world. But I'm here. With you. Do you need me to tell you something I didn't say before?" Like last time? Will Roland even hear all this? Firo doesn't know, but he keeps talking.

No time to think. No time to look back over their conversations and see what's been said and what hasn't. The easiest way--made easy only by the sense of urgency--is to reach into that area he doesn't often talk about. "Maiza Avaro--you remind me of him. He's smarter than the rest of us and he always tries to keep me outta trouble back home. None of the other associates knew it, but he's deadly too. With a knife mostly, instead of a gun, but I bet you could still carve somebody up good, huh? He's the one I fought for my initiation--I know I told you about it, but I didn't tell you who it was, right? I never knew he was so tough before that, but I found out."

[ka_sera_sera]

"Maiza Avaro," he says, because long habit has trained him to remember things like that and, even in this state, he tries to seal one more memory away with all the others. He thinks about what it is Firo's said. The latter, then the former. He tries to make sense of it. "It's like a logic puzzle, isn't it? You're here. The Tower... Oh, I feel it calling to me still. You speak as if it is one; if one is here, then not the other. But Firo, it's all here. I feel it here. If one is here, so are all the others. But if-"

Roland thinks. It's difficult, thinking past all this, but he gathers up his will and works over all of it, anyway. "Maiza Avaro. The Tower. Oh, Jake, oh, my son, I remember-" Roland's breath catches, as if he's about to weep. His thoughts move on, and it passes. Now that he can remember Jake, he's in no state to focus on him for long.

"Use your brain, maggot!" he murmurs at himself, squeezing his eyes shut and, for once, echoing the advice of his old teacher out loud. It helps, as it always does. What Cortland Andrus has ordered, Roland will do. There's something here. Something he can use. He needs to find it.

"If you say none of the rest is here, you must be seeing something differently. Describe it to me. Everything. Every detail. Describe it to me. What do you see, Firo? What do you see, and hear? I see... I see the field. The red field, waiting for me." Focus. Use your brain, maggot. "I need to hear what you see. Quick- quickly, if you please."

[foundafamily]

Firo jumps; he doesn't think he's heard Roland talk quite like that, even when he's stern. He takes the 'maggot' comment as directed at himself. "I'm tryin'!"

So try. Something else, because he doesn't think what he's doing has quite worked. Definitely not, with the way Roland's carrying on about the field--whatever the hell that's supposed to be. He shakes his head. "No, no, it's not--"

Pointless to keep up with such general denials. 'No' doesn't tell Roland anything.

"The walls're just plain white--really clean, there's no dirt or dust anywhere here. There's no door--it somehow closes up at night, but I don't think you or me know how." His eyes move from object to object in the room, carefully cataloging it all. But frantic too. "You've got a bed, just the standard kind they have in the prison. White sheets, a pillow, a blanket. There's a chair, too. Metal."

Slowly, very slowly, he tries to move the hand that's entwined with Roland's to the ground. The intent is to guide his friend's hand to feel the floor of the cell. If that works, then he'll move it to the leg of the nearest chair or the bed.

[ka_sera_sera]

The floor under his hand is hard and cold. The air blowing out from the door, the center, it's warm and dry, and the floor is cold, and the leg of the bed is cold, metal and just the right shape that his fingers fit around it, gather it into a tight grip. "The prison. The most well appointed prison I've ever been kept in. Only Panem- but Panem was never a part of it."

There's his grip on the bed, it is here and under his hand, but that's not enough. His other hand tightens, loosens, moves from Firo's collar and onto his shoulder and Roland tries to focus on his face. His eyes. His own screams howl around his ears.

"These welts on my hand," he murmurs, looking at the spots where the stings from those creatures had, unbeknownst to Roland, started it all. "While I can remember they're there. Those are important, I think. But Panem. Panem. Is that where we are?"

Roland's eyes flicker over Firo's shoulder, back at the door, and fear slips onto his face, widens his eyes even as he forces them, for a second or two, back onto his friend's face again. "Panem. A prison, isn't it? A prison. How did we come here? No, that's not the question. How long? If I'm here, how long have I been here? Trace my steps, that's the way."

[foundafamily]

Firo’s eyes widen as they land on those wounds; he hadn’t paid them much mind before, but they’re too regular to be random wounds from battle. “Those…” For once, Firo curses himself for not paying attention to all those Arena broadcasts. He should know what these are, if only he can remember all those voices and little details he tried to block out.

There are some things he can figure, though—maybe he should’ve realized it way before, but there’s no helping that now. “They’re makin’ you see all this. They—the Capitol—they drugged you or something. With those bug things.”

Damn it. How long were those supposed to last? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think it’d even help. Hadn’t Roland already slipped down this path before without their aid?

Firo tries to move to follow Roland’s eyes, hoping that maybe he can block at least some of this imaginary door from view. “A long time. You got here before me, I think, and I was here for…” He tallies them up his head; he’s never bothered to before. “3 Arenas. Those all took months. And then the war’s been goin’ on for months too—about 7—you’ve been here more than a year. Maybe closer to two.”

Again, he wishes he’d paid enough attention to learn these things—the announcers on TV probably mentioned how long Roland had been in Panem many times.

in which roland is a bit silly

[ka_sera_sera]

"Two years. Two years in the same place. Can you credit it? Not since I was a child..."

He's woolgathering. Isn't he? This isn't relevant, is it? "Drugs. This isn't, it isn't quite like mescaline, or like those others. Similar. Similar. It could be."

He looks over Firo's shoulder. The fear slips onto his face again, but alongside it this time is fascination. The door waits open. "My worst nightmares, Firo. The ones I could never remember on waking. All the worst moments of my life - and that is saying something. They all begin with that door. That place. I wish I could explain, Firo. You'll be wanting an explanation, and I don't think I'll be able to give it to you. I may not even be able to think on it."

"The center of everything. The legend. The one I followed half my life. Other men sought it too, other creatures, thinking what was at its top would make them into gods. I crossed time, and worlds- I gave up everything- I gave up everyone. But it never gave me up. Not when I begged, not when I screamed."

"But the end I was used for is past now. It's difficult for my head to hold all this at once, but I remember. For now, I remember. The light, the sound of the horn- just once, I only remember it the once. It was the end. My end."

"You say drugs. That I've been here all this time. Here, with you."

"I say that Panem could not send me back if they wanted to. It won't take me anymore. I've seen the end, and it has seen the end of me."

He looks away from the door. He hears it creak. He hears it shut. He pays it no mind.

"I say that I am FREE!" Firo's face may be too close to take a shout but Roland shouts it anyway, face breaking into his wide, widest grin, and he lets go of the leg of the bed, and he lets go of Firo's clothes and he moves to try and press his palms to either side of his dear friend's face. "For the rest of my life, however long or short that it may be. And after, whatever clearing awaits me at the end of my path. I am no tool of Gan, no servant of that which Is, and Was, and will be Again. I have no more part to play in the world's destiny than any other man. Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. Childe Roland is dead, and it was you who woke me to his passing. You, Firo Prochainezo. You've done me a great service."

And here is where Firo had better hope he isn't too baffled by the world's most confusing speech to quickly act. Firo had better hope he can quickly act, that is, because if he does not, Roland might be about to kiss him. On the lips. Gently, briefly, with gratitude and love that is not intended to be in the slightest way romantic. This is the way of Roland's people, at times like this. Probably not, though, the way of Firo's. Roland is currently too moved to remember that. Perhaps someone ought to remind him.

Just a little bit

[foundafamily]

At first, Firo’s heartened. It sounds as if Roland is stepping closer and closer to reality, even if he still seems to see the door. He grasps the time, and he seems to grasp the drugs.

The more he rambles, though, the more Firo’s hopes flag—none of it makes sense. Such volume and so close—he’d flinch at the sudden shouting if he weren’t too busy watching it with wide, maybe even fearful eyes. He doesn’t move away when Roland goes to grab him; he’s too afraid to leave him without someone solid to hold on to. Firo doesn’t see it as such an occasion for the joy he seems to show. In fact, he’s pretty sure that he may have accidentally broken his friend and set him off in some sort of maniac fit. How is he going to bring him back from this? Think, think, think—

He’s still struggling to understand what’s going on when their lips touch. Firo’s hardly ready to draw away or ward it off—he hasn’t the faintest clue what’s going on or what’s coming to him until it happens. He’s never kissed or been kissed until now, and it seems so out-of-place in this moment that he can barely believe it just happened.

He tries to throw himself backward. “Wh-what the hell’re you--?” Normally such a gesture would have him screaming and probably trying to strangle someone. It takes a lot to tamp down that urge, and the only reason he can is because he’s so worried for what may have made Roland go even farther off the deep end.

Focus, damn it. He whips his head from side to side as if he can rattle the embarrassment right out of his head. Predictably, it doesn’t work, but he can at least force himself to look up at Roland.

It’s more important, anyway, to figure out whether or not the speech means he’s back to reality or not. Firo can’t wipe the blush off his face, but he can marshal his courage and soldier on to the more critical issue. “Wh-what’s goin’ on?! Are you—” What word can he even put there? “…Are you okay?”

[ka_sera_sera]

"Okay?" Roland frowns. Firo has seen every kind of frown that Roland's face can twist into, but this is one of the less frequent ones, one of the ones which come when Roland is honestly confused. Hadn't Firo heard him? He frowns and pulls back a little. Not much, but a little, just enough to draw Roland's hands down from the sides of Firo's face to instead cover his cheeks. "I'm free, Firo. I think..."

His gaze goes distant, not looking at anything that is or isn't in the room, only trying to remember. "I think I must have died. I met a man once, Firo. I think on him here, sometimes. On a question I asked him. I asked if he believed in the afterlife. He told me he thought this was it. 'This' was a desert, at the time. The desert. The Mohaine Desert. West of Gilead, or was, once. Many a failed gunslinger was sent there in Gilead's day. Some must have even crossed it, and I went in willingly. I don't know if I ever left. Firo, I think I might be rambling."

He thinks on that for a second. Considers it carefully. Thoroughly. If Firo wants his hands to move he'll have to throw them off on his own, because Roland seems perfectly content to leave them where they are. He blinks for a few more seconds at the door, still standing there in the middle of the room. Still closed.

"I feel fine. As fine as I ever have. Fine as I've ever felt sober, anyway. Quite fine, for a man who's just realized that he's dead. I'd thought the end of my path would be..."

He looks around at the white walls, the white sheets, the steel bedframe and the steel table. "Suppose I expected an actual clearing. At the least, I expected it'd be obvious when I was about to arrive there. If there was one at all. Guess I never thought much on it."

"I'm not sober, though, am I. Am I? Firo, are you doing okay? You look as if you've seen a ghost. There are none here, I don't think, don't worry about that. None of the usual type, anyway. Curious, isn't it? Almost makes a man wonder just what that makes us." That's probably important. The ones he's been trained to deal with can be tamed or banished, with the right siguls, with the right words in High Speech spoken from the right tongue. So it's less a philosophical question, and more a practical concern. If he is dead, if he is a ghost, perhaps he can be banished, too. Ought to watch out for that.

[foundafamily]

“Free? That’s—“ That’s good, Firo wants to say, beginning to smile.

Oh, fuck, not this death shit again.

As Firo listens, he twitches, about to shake his head. He only stops when he reminds himself that he needs to keep Roland grounded, so he shouldn’t mess with his hands. Even if having a conversation like this is a little awkward, it’d be more awkward when Roland’s completely bonkers. So Firo holds himself as still as he can for now.

“No! I already told you, we’re not dead. You’re not dead—they just fucked up your head. You’ll probably be fine soon. Yeah, you’re not sober at all right now, but I think this stuff wears off eventually…” Better not to think too long on what would happen if it didn’t.

“We’re both humans. Not ghosts—I didn’t…” He knows why he probably looks shocked, and it’s certainly not from seeing a ghost. He sighs; does he really want to get into that now? Or ever? It’s embarrassing and better off forgotten. At the same time, Roland could be in trouble if he never learns not to kiss other guys.

“…Look, it’s fine what just happened, but you really shouldn’t go around kissin’ people for no reason.” He frowns harder. That just sounds stupid in the middle of this conversation. "Anyway, the important thing right now is that we're not ghosts or dead. I'll punch you to prove it, if you want."

Firo doesn't believe in ghosts, but he knows that most people who believe in them think they can't touch things. So this is probably a good way to prove it to Roland.

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland blinks, looks away from the middle of the room, blinks at his hands a moment and then drops them. He raises them again quickly, sitting up straighter and leaning back against the bed, grasping at Firo's shoulder a little tightly, a little desperate for the contact in a way he'd only realized once he let go of it.

"I think I've stopped screaming," he mutters, sounding distracted. "Harder to hear after the door closed itself up, but now it's gone. What was it you were saying, Firo? You'd rather punch me than kiss me? No, I don't think that was it." He focuses, thinks back. "That wouldn't prove much, as we're already touching, but for one who's never learned much of ghosts past old wives' tales, it's not a bad thought. The kissing, now. Did I have no reason for that? No, no I think I did. I think I've seldom had better reason to kiss anyone. Wasn't that clear?"

It's an honest question. Roland knows as well as Firo does that he may be making very little sense, just now. Perhaps not so much as he'd thought he had. Best to check.

[foundafamily]

Softly, "Yeah, you're not screamin'. You're just talkin' normal now." Aside from the content of what he's saying.

Firo reaches over to lay his hand over Roland's. He could be relieved that his face isn't being touched anymore, but he's not; he doesn't like seeing Roland so scared and needy, and that trumps any physical discomfort or confusion by far.

"Uh... Well, no, not really. I mean, you said you were free and that you were grateful, and you seemed happy, but..." Happy. That's what really matters, doesn't it? Weird as the whole thing was, Firo trusts Roland and knows that he wouldn't do something like that for a bad reason. So just let it go.

"That's not important. We--we can just forget about it." Roland needs him now, he's pretty sure; Roland needs him to focus on what's important. To make sure he's okay.

If only Firo knew how to handle it. He huffs out a breath, frustrated at his inexperience and the slowness of his mind. "How do you... how do you feel?"

[ka_sera_sera]

"Forget about it?" He gives a brief laugh, more breath than noise and desert-dry. "I've forgotten so much already. Alright. If you wish it. I feel..." He takes a moment, assesses. "I feel high. Not like mescaline but close, I think. If my Touch weren't closed to me, I do wonder. I wonder if I could touch your mind now."

His free hand brushes against the side of Firo's head, briefly. "Hm. Probably for the best I can't. How do I feel? Suppose I feel nothing which won't pass. Because of you, you know. Think I'd still be caught in the Tower's grip, if it weren't for you staying here, with me. That's why I kissed you. When a man of my station's been done such a great kindness by a man of yours- Are we forgetting that part too, Firo? I'm still very grateful. Very grateful. That's how I feel. Grateful and high. And you? I can't quite tell. I think my reasoning isn't, ah, what it ought to be. I can't read your face, or your voice. I can't focus."

His grip tightens on Firo's shoulder, and he finds his other hand coming up to twist itself in Firo's clothes some place. He can focus on that. Those feelings are real, they are here, and he can focus on them very well. "How do you feel? Tell me your truth wholly, now. No holding back, though I know you might want to."

[foundafamily]

Firo’s eyes flick sideways to watch Roland’s hand going by his head. He doesn’t exactly know what touching a mind means, but he’s pretty sure he agrees that things are just fine right now without it. Maybe not fine overall, but they’re better off without weird brain-touching. And whatever the hell mescaline is. High? Well, he supposes Roland would’ve seen plenty of people high when he’s arresting them or shooting them or whatever it is gunslingers do. Still, he’s surprised at the comparison, but now’s just not the time. Stay on track, damn it.

Roland’s saying important things, after all, because gratitude can be a very solemn and serious affair. Firo blinks, touched. “Oh. It—“ It was nothing. Probably not the right response right now, he realizes, even if he was only doing what he’s supposed to. “Then that makes sense, I guess.” See? He knew it; there was a reason. A weird one, but once again, now is no time to dwell on culture clash. It’s all Firo can do to keep up with where Roland’s mind is moving.

Firo glances down at Roland’s hands and then back up to his face. He tightens his own grip on Roland's hand just a little more. Is he serious? He really can’t tell anything from Firo’s expression? In that case… he could get away with anything right now.

God, it could be so easy.

…But that would be taking advantage of a friend in need, and that’s just not right. “You’re not supposed to ask about me right now,” he huffs. Because, all things considered, he’s pretty damn fine, relatively; he’s not ‘high,’ he’s not raving, and he wasn’t just tortured like he’s pretty certain Roland was.

“I’m just… just worried about you. And I guess, uh… I guess I was scared you wouldn’t come back from this--that you'd be stuck freakin' out like that, I mean. But I’m glad to see you’re alive. I thought they might’ve killed you.”

[ka_sera_sera]

"I never thought they would kill me," he says, and his voice is heavy, heavy, and his gaze goes distant, his brow furrows. "When they took me, I knew. I knew before that. I remember. There only was ever one fate for me. Wheels and wheels and wheels and only one end."

Roland squeezes his eyes shut with a noise that starts as a moan and ends as something frustrated, impatient. "I remember this time. I remember the mountain. I remember that I knew, I knew what was in store for me. But not you."

His eyes snap open and he frowns at Firo, focusing. "I wasn't sure what they'd do with you. I thought I'd never find out. I thought I'd never remember you at all." He looks Firo over, making out what he can, trying to see any bruises or places Firo might be holding himself awkwardly. Evidence of something. "You said you were well, didn't you? Worried, but well enough, otherwise. Have I got that right?"

[foundafamily]

Firo thinks back to when the war first started, of the threats they all received. Or in his case and some others, the offers they were made. So this was what they'd used with Roland, he guesses. Or perhaps Roland simply thought his whole life that this door was waiting for him.

The groan startles him, and his eyes stay glued on Roland's face. Is he in pain? Or just annoyed with his dumb friend who decided to put a wrinkle in his plan?

He holds his arms up and out for a moment to show how fine he is. "Yeah, you're right." It's the truth; there's not a scratch on him. Firo, after all, had been a good little Capitol soldier trying to protect that very important Capitol man. At least, as near as the Peacekeepers could tell. Roland laid it all out for them so very nicely, didn't he?

Firo stares back at him as he thinks on all of this a little more. "You knew and you still went and did all that?" Here his voice rises, almost angry. It's not what his friend needs right now, and he tries to hold it in check but can only do so much. "No offense, Roland, but if stickin' around to get caught was your plan, that's a pretty shitty plan."

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland tries to read Firo's face, his voice, tries to read the emotion there but, as he told Firo, right now Firo's face is closed to him. He can't focus on it long, anyway. There's wind blowing from the door, from around and under it, and Roland can see sand, the dirt from the hard, cracked desert ground blowing past behind Firo's head. He watches it, he shudders, pushes down the same fear that pushed that moan a minute ago out from his lips and the way his grip slides off Firo's shoulder is what brings his attention back to it. He grasps for the boy's arm, tries to feel the sleeve under his fingers, takes a breath.

"Shitty plan. Is that what we were talking about? Yes, that was it. Was it one?" Walk through it. He remembers how it was up on that mountain. Lay out those facts, then decide. "They knew our faces. There was one way up that mountain and one way down, unless you'd like to try your own feet and spend a couple days lost in the snow. Or worse. There was no hiding the body. Not forever. Guards all around. Was there a better plan? High as I am, I may be missing it. You show it to me, Firo. What should I have done?"

[foundafamily]

Firo inches forward when he sees Roland shake, and now he reaches up with both hands to try and pin that hand to his shoulder. If Roland’s too distracted or pained or anything to keep it there, Firo intends to do it for him.

He keeps his mouth shut as Roland goes back through the plan; okay, so maybe Firo can concede a lot of those things. Still, there’s room for argument. “Well, to start, we coulda’ just cut his throat instead of shootin’ off a gun and lettin’ the whole mountain know. And we coulda’ dragged him into the hiding spot before killin’ him. That woulda’ bought us time.”

But perhaps not enough, he knows. Roland’s right that they would’ve been found eventually. This isn’t exactly like a gang hit, where everything would’ve been planned out and where nothing would’ve happened until escape routes were known and clear. They were working with what they had, which wasn’t really much.

There’s one big thing, though, that Firo knows didn’t have to go the way it did. He leans forward and doesn’t realize that he's almost yelling now, “Only one of us got in trouble for it, do you get that? They only needed one! You didn’t have to fuckin' stand out there waitin’ for ‘em to come get you!”