ALL YOUR SCREAMING — WHAT’S IT WORTH?

HE WAS JUST‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎‎A PROBLEM DOG.

[pinkman]

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[pinkman]

how i start acting whenever people talk about making brba/bcs verses

[preveils]

"we'll always be connected, no matter what. like a fucking invisible string." — @pinkman, as jesse pinkman.

there ain't no damn angel above 'em that could save him from himself, but that's a thought lucy thinks is better spent on someone living. maybe if he'd been warm-blooded, hot-headed, swarmed with the sort of life she could respect, she might tell him what she thinks— and maybe if she was more sympathetic, empathetic, cross-hatched with the kind of peace 'n love she used to believe in, she might give him a lil' more grace. but she ain't, and he's not, and no god or monster alike could make either of 'em anything more than what they are, so she takes it for what it is. doesn't pretend that they're anything that they aren't.

he could be cryin' rivers and she'd still think the same. he's a killer. he's a monster. he's a stone-cold, blood-thirsty, vamp with a fate she can't help. no matter how she spins it, his existence depends on death. his survival relies on murder. in only a second, jesse could drain her dry. ain't no use in trying to save someone who's already past saving— ain't her problem if his guilt eats him alive. —serves him right. the eater gets eaten, the snake swallows its own tail. same ol' story, even if it's a different playbook. everything comes back around eventually.

lucy exhales a mouthful of smoke through her teeth, and resists the urge to make a face. (truth is, the pity party he's throwin' makes her wanna hurl. even so, she's tryin' to be tactful. at least a lil' bit decent.) "alright." she says, mild, and flicks a scatter of ash to the side. her features are all screwed up like she's got somethin' to say, words kickin' in the side of her cheek like a bubble blown twice its size, but she bites it down ... for at least half a minute. "sounds self-made, t'me." a glance at him, brief. "he's dead. you're—" also dead, she thinks, and swallows it back. "—still here." a beat. "move on."

[pinkman]

salvation is a scam. forgiveness is a fairytale. the bouncers at the gate of god’s swanky-ass club aren’t interested in giving second chances. go figure. (the only time his parents took him to church — back when they were toying with the possibility of fixing him, vainly searching for a cure to some unnameable disease — jesse conked out twenty minutes into the service.) these days, he sleeps very little. feeds even less. 

mr. white wouldn’t be happy about it. you’re wasting your potential, he’d grumble, standing at his bedside while jesse would try and fail to muster the wherewithal to protest. you don’t understand how lucky you are. because luck tastes like bitter black cherries, coats his throat like molasses, pries his jaw open and tersely commands him to drink— and yeah, he doesn’t understand it, but mr. white isn’t around anymore. his happiness shouldn’t matter. jesse shouldn’t keep looking over his shoulder, expecting to be sundered into a thousand tiny pieces by the sight of him. by the rhythm of his footsteps.  by his withered hands.

the angry vortex of lucy’s thoughts tells him that she’s not a forgive-and-forget kinda girl, either. he’s a killer. he’s a monster. no shit, sherlock. he’s dead, decaying in stop-motion, apologizing to the gaggle of rats residing in his aunt’s medicine cabinet. it’s disgusting. he’s disgusting.

“you’re right.” jesse says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. flicking his lighter on and off, on and off, until the flame starts to nibble at his fingers.  “i had it coming.” his lips curve into a mirthless, eerie smile. “you looking forward to burnin’ my body after we’re done with this?”

[rydalkeener]

THE STORY OF JESSE refuses to yield itself whole , only in fragmented scenes scraped down rydal's back , bitten into his skin , crashed between lips : a scattered scripture , never enough to know , but always enough to return to again and again .

how easy it had always been to close a book , indulge in the next / just another name folded into another entry , pages turned with the practiced indifference of someone who understands that permanence is synonymous with captivity (...) yet somewhere along the way , jesse has become a dog - eared page , a margin crowded with notes and sentiments , sentences underlined so many times the paper threatens to split ; he is enshrined in rydal's journal , photographs tucked between entries and subject of paragraphs spilling across pages long after they should have found their period , and [god help him] it is almost the end .

〝 i'm not doing it just for you , 〞a truth wrapped in gentleness that feels dangerously close to confession , yet they refuse to lessen the quiet , sharp satisfaction gathering at the corner of his mouth as his hand stills at the hem of worn denim . there is greed in haste ; but memory asks for something slower , and rydal wants every detail to survive him .

[pinkman]

well, that doesn’t really help. rydal sure knows how to rile him up. under the magnifying glass of his attention, jesse’s restlessness kicks into overdrive. he’s subsumed by it, itching everywhere — the stretch of skin between his thumb and forefinger, the bend of his knee, the kiss-slick jut of his collarbone — and it feels nothing like crystal, but it’s got him hooked. furnace-hot and flailing. so much for no strings attached. 

jesse huffs out a weak, unintelligible curse, raking his nails over rydal’s scalp. come on. come on. get with the fucking program. (the program in question typically goes like this: they meet up, they swap cigarettes and oddly intimate anecdotes, jesse convinces himself that it’s not, like, a gay thing... and winds up straddling his lap, rocking to a soundless beat, eager to please.) impulse control has never been his strong suit. 

“so ‘s this what turns you on?” he cants his hips, intractable. “is this doin’ it for you? you’re just so psyched to sit here for i dunno how long, blue-balling me?” still, something vicious coils in his stomach at the mental image of rydal coaxing him to the brink. that’s new. “yo, word to the wise: if you wanna get in my pants, you’ll have to take ‘em off.”

[anthologicals]

“ That was a close call, yo.”

calloused  digits  bleed  bone  white  as  soon  as  the dust  settles,  crooked  around  the  leather  of  the  steering  wheel.  his  gaze  is  a  wasteland  of  tragedy,  peering  bruised  underneath  a  horde  of  shadow  beyond  the  matching  indigo  of  the  new  mexico  sunset.  he  could  reprimand  him  for  his  foolish  actions that caused this,  sensing  the  broiling  heat  rising  off  his  skin  that  steamed  off  the  seats.  the  minute  twitch  of  an  eye,  the  slightest  tick  of  his  lip  curling  so  close  he  could  now  taste  the  anger  rising  like  bile  in  his  throat.  kid  or  no,  he  had  a  lot  left  to  learn.  but  he  couldn't  do  it.  it  was  always  something  in  the  way  @pinkman  looked or  pleaded  that  stopped  him  in  his  tracks.  stopped  him  from  bunching  a  fistful  of  his  shirt  collar  and  yanking  him  forward  towards  frothing  clenched  teeth.

maybe  it  was  the  ghost  of  matty  or  nacho  that urged him.  .  .  that  somehow,  god  bargained  for  a  third  chance  to  set  him  on  the  straight  and  narrow  path of guidance,  and  by  whatever  grace  was  left  inside  this  shell  of  a  man,  he'd  been  given  it  to  try  yet  again.

hazel  orbs  diverge,  steeling  control  of  his  expression  and  tonality  enthusiastically.  ❝   . . . the  next  time  you  wanna  take  a  drive  like  this,  you  give  me  a  call  first.  ❞

[pinkman]

a week before his seventh birthday, jesse tried to climb a particularly imposing tree and fell flat on his face. it hurt like a bitch, but he took it in stride, quickly gearing up for another go. (and another, and another, and—) once jesse’s mom saw the evidence of his recklessness, his childish aversion to common sense, she heaved a heavy sigh, ushered him into the house, and began scrubbing the residual streaks of dirt off with a washcloth. the scrawny, snot-nosed boy blinking back at him from the mirror had the same ugly stain on his cheek that mike does. 

if there’s a point to this story, it’s that jesse was born a screw-up. his flaws are congenital. whatever value gus fring hopes to extract from him, whatever loyalty he’d like to cultivate — sooner or later, he’ll have to reckon with the stone-cold truth. some dogs can’t be muzzled.

“jesus.” he blurts, eyes wide as dinner plates, heart hammering wildly. “mike, that was badass! you totally— totally owned that shit. like, gta-style. y’got us outta there in seconds.” the words tumble out in a manic rush, silencing the soft click of his seatbelt. he sneaks a glance at mike’s injuries, and his excitement shrivels up. “uh, sorry. i won’t do it again.”

[rydalkeener]

𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐌𝐀𝐍 【 @pinkman 】 : 〝 why should tonight be different ? 〞

A BORROWED NOWHERE , dingy motel room exists to be left behind . another time (the other times) were all urgency and fracture : a desperate hunger trying to outrun itself in the rare moments it was allowed to surface [...] tonight is indulgence , attention and submission to appetite , unhurried / [why should tonight be different?] in the way one savors a last meal . there is no tenderness in it that knows its own name , only the quiet suspension of consequence , the world held at a distance for just a few more hours . the threat of rydal's father , the promise of reformation and disavowal , looms just behind and creeps ever closer through albuquerque / a locked room he refuses to enter , and in this refusal [in his moments with jesse, spent like this] was the impulse to spit in the face of his father and in the face of the world attempting to write his ending . jesse is not escape nor salvation , but stands as proof that rydal is allowed to choose the direction of his own disappearance (you have to keep moving) tomorrow is already forming , and in hours he will be gone : a state , a city , a road . but before then ... the perverse need to be remembered by someone who won't follow , someone who has already been - and will continue to be - immortalized in his own private writings ; it is not attachment , but a sort of depraved fascination , an unintended and unexpected connection destined to be severed but forever lingers . the slow drag of his lips finds a temporary fleeting place of belonging against the bones of jesse's hips , answer easy and unconcerned , 〝 i'm leaving tomorrow . 〞

[pinkman]

rydal’s the dictionary definition of cool. he rolls into town like a lawless drifter — snatching cash from unsuspecting strangers, chumming it up with the locals, speaking in gentle, reassuring tones — and doesn’t linger long enough to attract any suspicion. doesn’t leave a breadcrumb trail of public scandals and petty charges. jesse respects the hustle.

but respect isn’t synonymous with what’s been clawing at his ribs for the better part of a month. it’s a classified secret. a shameful, unrelenting want for more. (more midnight joyrides. more rumpled sheets. more ways to keep his pretty mouth occupied. more idle discussions about the stupidest shit he can think of, ‘cause rydal listens to him so intently, watches him so devoutly, that he almost deludes himself into believing it’ll last.) the startled, heady sound that slips through jesse’s teeth is as transient as everything else they’ve shared. enjoy it while you can. 

“okaaay, and?” jesse groans, patience wearing thinner with each shaky exhale. “look, man, you don’t gotta give me the whole—” his sweat-damp hand darts to the nape of rydal’s neck, snagging a fistful of dark hair for leverage. for purchase. “nice ‘n slow thing, alright? i’m good.” 

[gimmeaknife]

[f1sts]

𖥻 │▌ 𝙰 𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙿𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙼𝙰𝙽, 𝙹𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴 : ❝ 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙰 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙶𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 '𝙲𝙰𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺 𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙱𝙰𝙳'𝚂 𝙶𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙰 𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙽? ❞

𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 .. or, well. maybe not funny. you shift beneath the weight of suddenly feeling a little too seen; too exposed. a twitching nerve, completely separated from your own body. behind you on the porch, the apparition of your father leans against the exterior of the house with his arms crossed. watching you. ready to guard your response with either a shake of the head or a fond nod.

the longer he'd been in the ground, the less he had to say [ ... ] however inconvenient the feeling was, you dreaded the day you don't see him anymore.

lashes flutter as you take a long, deep drag of sin and cradled it like an infant in your lungs. when at last you breathed out a cloud of smoke, you shrugged and passed it to @pinkman; bated silence indicative that you were taking your time. thinking your answer through. ( on the contrary, you knew what you were gonna say immediately .. ) ( just took some time to actually get there ) ──── somehow, it almost felt like defeat.

vi cards a hand through cropped hair. then, she glanced over at jesse and forced a joyless little smile into one side of her mouth. the expression fell distinctly short of her eyes, somehow expressing a great deal without actually saying anything at all. after a few more agonizing moments, she managed to find her voice again: ❛ ────if you ever find out, let me know. ❜

[pinkman]

in retrospect, asking google might’ve been a less embarrassing move. but embarrassment is practically his default state, so jesse tells his inner critic to stick it where the southwestern sun don’t shine. it’s no big deal. they’re just talking. debriefing. besides, vi wouldn’t subject him to a lecture about coping strategies and silver linings. she wouldn’t dial nine-one-one and disclose the sordid details of her childhood friend’s career. 

their philosophy is simple: fuck pigs, fuck snitches. fuck anyone who’s never dreamt of torching every cop car in the city. “yeah.” jesse nods, taking a couple of much-needed tokes. the strange, staticky buzz under his skin shows no signs of abating. “it’s not that i want somethin’ bad to happen, you know? i mean, we’re like, leveling up.” he passes her the blunt — slow and uncharacteristically cautious, as if he’s handling a precious heirloom — then makes a vague, sweeping gesture. “we’re out here cornerin’ the market, yo. stackin’ more paper than a printer.”

forget the coin flips. the sawed-off shotguns. the shapeless mass of liquefied human remains sloshing around inside his bathtub. forget the chorus of cicadas in the boonies. the dense, noxious fumes rising from the rv’s vents. (forget the irreplaceable sensation of finally, finally cracking that goddamn code, getting it right, proving his worth—) “but he’s, um... he’s kinda intense ‘bout this stuff.” that’s putting it lightly. “guess that’s what i get for cooking crystal with such a hardass.”

[pinkman]

she’s wrong. of course she’s wrong. and jesse resents the implication that he’s anything other than a gutless scumbag, heisenberg’s closest confidant, heisenberg’s bitter opponent, heisenberg’s loyal acolyte— but he won’t fault her for it. mrs. white wasn’t there. she doesn’t know how it went down. she doesn’t know that the smallest fucking speck of her husband’s approval would hit jesse like a shot of dope. (junkyards, beakers, fifty-fifty partners. you want it just as much as i want it. drew sharp’s sneakers dissolving in a barrel. you’re every bit as good as me.) he had plenty of chances to quit. to sober up. he squandered them all.

“you should be more selfish, like i am.” — @encharms as skyler white.

this time around, nobody’s gonna check him into rehab or cradle him in their arms while he weeps. nobody’s gonna protect him. “you’re not.” jesse murmurs, scarcely above a whisper, rummaging through his glovebox for a pack of wilmingtons. he notices the way she grimaces, pressing deeper into the passenger seat; that visceral, full-body spasm, survival instincts working overtime. his own instincts are out of whack.

“you didn’t—” he stutters, fiddling with a cigarette. the distant cry of a hawk overhead sounds like a death knell. “he didn’t give you a choice.”

[pinkman]

it’s a notable upgrade from the dirt-cheap motels they used to hunker down in. no waterlogged ceilings and condom wrappers on the floor. no spiders scuttling across the bathroom tiles while jesse made a valiant attempt to dry himself off with the world’s nastiest towel. no neighbors who’d run into them in the corridor, belch out a gust of whiskey breath, and ask if they’ve met before. (oh yeah, he’d bite back, abandoning any semblance of self-restraint — two weeks ago at your mom’s place.)

that shit can’t hold a candle to the suite they’re staying at. the velvet armchairs and oak-framed oil paintings are straight out of an interior designer’s wet dream. jesse isn’t too fussed about the cost. since it’s the last stop on their tumultuous road trip, he’s hoping for a grand finale.

hotel.  the sender and receiver rent a room for the evening. — @lieability as mari dai.

mari’s got the same idea. she lounges at the foot of the bed with the indulgent languor of an empress on her throne. spreads her legs, belt buckle glinting in the waning light, and gives him a spellbinding once-over. ever-diligent, ever-needy, he rushes to kneel between her thighs.

“damn, baby. that’s wassup.” jesse leans in, mouthing at the exposed sliver of skin above her waistband. he wants to kiss her senseless. he wants to spoil her rotten. he wants to be beside her in sickness and in health, wake her up with buttermilk pancakes and mind-blowing head— “you think they’re gonna complain if we, uh, make some noise?” 

[pinkman]

like any other nocturnal parasite, jesse returns to his humble abode with a dribble of blood on his chin and the dawning awareness that he’s irrevocably ruined. fucked all the way up. as mr. white’s aztek pulls out of his driveway, seamlessly blending in with the squeaky-clean suburban landscape — if only they saw what jesse sees, if only they felt what he feels, night after night after night — he counts to a hundred and slides the deadbolt shut. entombs himself in the darkness of his living room.   

except he’s not home alone. what begins as a desperate scramble to get away from some quiet, bambi-faced freak ends with jesse on his crumb-strewn futon, caught and confined, furiously gasping for air. yikes.

grill. the sender stands before and looks down at the receiver, who remains seated. — @lamourstre as the vampire armand.

the intruder looms over him, unreadable. his flesh isn’t sloughing off in ribbons. his throat hasn’t been slit. he doesn’t look like a reanimated corpse. but then again, neither does jesse. neither does mr. white. 

“yo, if this is supposed to be, like— a pizza delivery or whatever—” the thought of greasy pepperoni nearly makes him gag. “you shoulda just left it at the door, man.” jesse grits out. (you’re a drug dealer, a stern, gravelly voice instructs him. negotiate.) “maybe we could, you know, call this thing off? sun’s ‘bout to come up. bet you’re getting hungry.”  

[sisyphuse]

didn’t you say you had a crazy story?  ⠀@pinkman for ava daniels.

" well, i like to think all of my stories are crazy but - " she stops herself momentarily. and god, she really needs to stop talking about herself. but …………. she really thinks that every story she has is worth telling. and if she thinks people will enjoy the story … what’s the harm in recounting? especially when she’s trying to impress people — get them to befriend her. [in hindsight, this is probably why she only has one friend.]

" you ever go to a casino? in vegas? " she crosses her legs, leaning back. a cool, nonchalant gesture. or … something of that sort. it looks sort of forced. in an uncool, awkward way. " i used to live at one, you know. " ava tries to play it off as an anecdote that makes her cool and mysterious, but her delivery always betrays her, making her sound like a college student in a mostly-empty comedy club getting pity laughs. " not by choice, i’ll tell you that. " said in an forced comical tone. " casino food? not that great. " (that’s not even a punchline????)

[pinkman]

punchline or not, jesse’s lips quirk up regardless — an easy-breezy, boyish smile, summoned to ward off her doubts. he ain’t in the business of picking favorites, but ava daniels is one of the better customers he’s dealt with. dealt to. at this point, the distinction has lost its meaning. 

his nimble fingers don’t stray from their duty, rolling a little somethin’-somethin’ that’ll leave them both loose-limbed and gigglier than a pair of class clowns in detention. jesse won’t charge her a cent. maybe it’s a result of his eagerness to provide a five-star service. maybe it’s the novelty of meeting a person whose hunger for company matches his own. maybe a smoke sesh could postpone her eventual departure.

“seriously? like, a real casino? dude, that’s awesome!” he pictures slot machines and poker chips. pictures a crowd of curious thrill-seekers, clinking their fancy champagne flutes while they line up to be deceived. (lady luck might pay you a visit next time, folks — and rest assured, there’s gonna be a next time. it’s inevitable. once a gambler, always a gambler. once an addict, always an addict.) jesse licks the paper, deftly sealing the joint. extends it towards her, as if to say, go right ahead. “what were you doin’ out there, anyway? kicking ass at blackjack?”

[flmed]

ROLLING HIS EYES FLIPPANTLY WITH THE CIGARETTE IS DANGLING BETWEEN HIS LIPS⸺he doesn't say anything to counter @pinkman whilst he is hiding inside of the stall behind him whilst johann is washing his hands instantaneously after relieving himself . . . the unprecedented connection shared inside a run-down gas station's bathroom with the goods are being taken by jesse to the stall, which naturally makes johann become apprehensive because it is indisputable he knows that jesse is still a user &. there is a possibility that he is doing it right now. JESSE MAKES A QUIP ABOUT IT, & for a second johann stops his relieve to hold his cigarette to raise his voice; threatening because the stuff is for a client ... and at some point, he worries about the man's relapse, of which laughter arises from the other man. staggers him; should've known he merely jokes about it thus abruptly taking out the disposable tissue near him as his back is facing to the bathroom sink, he listens carefully to any suspicious sound coming from the stall before a question arises from him, with his nose is scrunching to smell the stench, ❝  are you kidding me? are you shitting right now!? ❞ pacing to the bathroom stall as the thunderous knocks are blaring against the door, the man raises his voice to make his annoyance to be known, ❝  give me the goods, don't you dare flush them out down the toilet! is it on your pocket? don't you dare lose it ! ❞

JESSIE SAID, I'M JUST FUCKING WITH YOU, MAN FROM BLOOD IS THICKER THAN ... ; ACCEPTING.

[pinkman]

breaking news: the guy is a total nutcase. a walking, talking tinderbox. jesse knows the type. he was fully prepared to burst through the door with a whip-smart, scathing comeback, but the part of his brain that’s been trained to brace for impact takes the wheel. his irritation curdles into something corrosive. something perversely familiar. call it deja vu.

or call it a duet. (because mr. white is still here, still cowing him into submission, still nagging and hounding and banging hard enough to rattle the hinges— junkieloserimbecile— hard enough that jesse wonders if chemo could’ve given him superpowers—)  “the fuck’s your problem?” he hisses, zipping up his fly. frantically pushing the handle. the ensuing gurgle does nothing to drown out johann’s temper tantrum. “what, now i can’t even take a leak without you perving on me?”

okay, the accusations will have to wait. more importantly, he needs to get the hell out of this dump. jesse unlocks the latch. peeks through the narrow crack like a hapless horror movie character. “move, asshole.”

[5anctified]

» BOTH WAYS IS THE ONLY WAY I WANT IT. dialogue and action prompts pulled from and inspired by maile meloy’s short story collection, both ways is the only way i want it. change as you see fit.

dialogue.

i’ve never done anything so stupid in my life.

i wanted the job, i was so afraid of the loans coming through.

how come you never eat anything?

you could fly to hawaiʻi or france in less time than it took to do that drive.

i just knew that if i didn’t start driving, i wasn’t going to see you again, and i didn’t want that.

you’re doing that spacey thing again.

you think i don’t know who corrupted me?

i’ve seen the way they look at me.

no one can drink like that forever.

i don’t remember anything. it’s like a big eraser came through that part of my brain.

there are other ways to get money.

is that why you didn’t want me?

when you see her, would you tell her to knock that shit off?

slow down, you’re going to hurt yourself.

we’re not fighting, we’re talking.

there’s no gene for bravery that you have and i don’t.

you can bait me or you can protect me, but you can’t do both.

i think she’s always known about the bad things.

you act like i want to push you off a cliff.

you’ve done enough for one lunchtime.

you think you’re always right about everything, but you’re not.

we should do this every year.

i wouldn’t imagine it if it didn’t seem true.

there's nothing i can do to you to match that.

you have no heart, you're rotting. do you see that?

there will be enough danger in your life without you seeking it out.

are you going to ask me in?

i don't want to impose, but do you have room for me?

i'm going to rake them over their proverbial coals.

i've been so unhappy in your house.

what news do you bring me?

i'm very much alone, these days.

i know exactly how difficult my work is.

i'm not strong enough to be alone and hated.

oh, please stay for dinner.

you should be more selfish, like i am.

i never would have asked you to do it.

your heart's going crazy, i can feel it.

what do you do when you wake up?

you seem very calm now.

do you have to talk about this here?

say you won't go.

actions. switch sender and receiver’s places as you please.

squeeze. sitting in a car, the sender crawls into the receiver’s lap, squeezing into the space between their body and the steering wheel.

climb. the sender goads the receiver into following them onto a rooftop.

diner. the sender and receiver dine at a cheap restaurant for a late night meal.

last chance. the sender unexpectedly shows up at the receiver's place of work.

saddle. sitting on a steed, the sender helps pull the receiver up to join them.

respite. right before a social event, the sender and receiver take a moment to talk privately.

afternoon tea. the sender and receiver prepare warm drinks after a long day.

hotel. the sender and receiver rent a room for the evening.

stranded. the sender and receiver can’t find the car they arrived with, a heavy snowfall coming down.

lecture. the sender stands in the back of the room as the receiver gives a presentation.

boil over. the sender and receiver end up tumbling down a hill together as they physically fight.

grill. the sender stands before and looks down at the receiver, who remains seated.

surprise. the sender shows up at the receiver’s residence despite the sender being dead on paper.

breakfast. the sender attempts to make breakfast for the receiver using the meager means of a motel room.

woodsmoke. the sender and receiver drink at a bonfire.

[rvolving]

given context clues, he'd figured as much. doesn't dampen his professional sympathy. ❝ i'm sorry to hear that. ❞ sure, cancer's a bitch. grief is too, as is loneliness, and abbot's personally aware some days it's easier to stomach than others. he assumes the broken nose doesn't help. nor would withdrawal, for that matter.

                   but he's merely hypothesising, not jumping to conclusions. all medicine boils down to is a sophisticated guessing game. while he's an exceptional guesser, he's no oracle.

                   abbot briefly wishes samira hadn't given up night shifts entirely. he's confident she'd have a decent guess or two, not to mention the means to get jesse to open up.

                   all abbot's got is prolonged eye contact and a questionable sense of humour. ❝ depends. anything else you need? ❞ frankly, he's loath to let jesse disappear back into the night. might as well: ❝ become somewhat of a regular round here, we don't get a lot of those. could throw in a tetanus shot on the house if you like. ❞

[pinkman]

the cacophonous soundscape of the ward makes it hard to concentrate. the sudden jolt of pain lancing through his skull makes it even harder. abbot’s condolences fall on deaf ears. crank-sick and shivering like a newborn foal, jesse grinds his teeth. wallows in his self-inflicted misery.

god, he should’ve gotten some of that morphine. he should’ve delivered an award-worthy performance, all downcast eyes and shallow inhales and expertly timed sniffles. (where does it hurt, an imaginary version of abbot asks, guiding him through the usual script. i don’t know, man, an imaginary version of jesse admits — ‘s kinda, like, everywhere.) but becoming a regular at the emergency department has its downsides. as far as any competent medical professional is concerned, he’s nursing a death wish. as far as jesse is concerned, he’s having the time of his life.

or he would be, were it not for the daunting prospect of medical bills. speaking of: “whaddya mean, on the house?” generosity, jesse has come to learn, is seldom unconditional. seldom reliable. “you’re not gonna tell me to fork over more cash for the premium package?”

[388s]

Micro-shift in his brows delineates a something;　nameless,　shapeless,　impelled only by the rigid structure’s wrinkling,　horizontal lines embedded at his nose’s bridge.　The act is juvenile,　perhaps　⸻　he is prepubescent the last time swimming is an act to find joy in and not another tick in the ledger of Father’s most brutal hopes　⸻　but he doesn’t anticipate the pushback.　It might even piss him off,　should the downturn of chapped lips offer any substance.　Not really,　no.　There is little to smile about and even littler that he finds worth it　/　you are a man,　son,　and you do not weep nor scream nor wax poetic.　

❛❛　Dumbass.　❜❜　Unimaginable.　Like they’re two dipshit progenies at a summer birthday party,　indulging in foul stench of over-chlorination after a long afternoon of decadent chocolate cake and tearing through the dinosaur-patterned paper embellishing the latest and greatest gifts.　This is no such celebration,　no.　Respite more than anything else,　hours after his blade-sharp stare has torn through soft tissue of his mind.　An ache,　throbbing,　exacerbated by the water too artificial in its coloration for comfort.　Action carries out in hurried motion,　its playback doubled in post-production of doubt and insecurity:　hand dips down into the pool,　with all the precision of robot off the assembly line,　and he scoops up just enough of the water to splash at Jesse.

Outlandish display warrants outlandish reaction.　He smiles,　at least an approximation of one,　and cranes his head to the side.　A switch to breath through his nostrils,　through barely-parted lips,　and he comes to no reasonable conclusion on which is more tolerable.　❛❛　You’re scared.　❜❜　Then the emittance of a scoff,　laugh with its layers peeled back and pared down.　❛❛　Bet you have to have to plug your nose underwater.　❜❜　Rough fingerpads move in over the breadth of his nose in a demonstration:　isn’t that just embarrassing?　(Audacious man with soaked fingers hauls the spotlight off of himself,　feels the stinging nettles dead-set on reminding him how he hasn’t swam recreationally in the better part of a decade.　It’s just not his style,　he rationalizes.　Those bastards on TV look like hairless chickens.　It’s stupid.)

[pinkman]

he’s starting to suspect that @manenuf doesn’t get out much. the playground bully act feels like a relic of a bygone past. most other dudes his size would have resorted to showing off their combat skills. their uppercuts, their roundhouse kicks, their chokeholds. “i ain’t scared of shit.” jesse gives him a reflexive shove and stands back up. shimmies out of his jeans. yanks at the collar of his t-shirt, tugging it over his head in a mockery of a drunken striptease. save your applause, amigos. his boxers aren’t going anywhere. but if one of jesse’s socks just happens to land in dae-ho’s lap, we’ll chalk it up to the inviolable laws of gravity.

cutting a small figure against the glimmering blue backdrop, he could almost be mistaken for a porcelain statuette. a thing that’s coveted precisely because it’s breakable. because noticing it on someone’s shelf is bound to spark a conversation. (believe me, this item is pricier than it looks.) to compensate for his fragility — his coltish limbs, his perpetual slouch, the mottled bruises circling an old injection site in the crook of his elbow — he levels dae-ho with a defiant glare. “watch me, bitch.” without further ado, jesse cannonballs into the pool.

and emerges seconds later, bolting to the surface with a breathless, shuddering laugh. it’s cold as an icebox. he’s a fucking idiot. “you really wanna go swimming, huh? wanna cross it off your lil’ to-do list?” he taunts between mouthfuls of chlorinated water, moving closer and closer to the pool’s edge. “so c’mon.” when he grabs onto dae-ho’s ankle and pulls, every single muscle in his body protests the strain.

[toeat]

it's an old wound. scabby at the edges but ultimately unhealed. if she prodded it from the right angle, really dug her fingers in, she wondered if he'd cry.

he looks away, gluing his eyes to the marble in that kicked-dog hang that probably stirred something in most women. olivia remains where she was, arms faintly tightening for every ounce of irritation she wouldn't permit anywhere else. it won't be much of a fight, not really, but even the performance of it is exhausting.

"I'm not your guidance counselor, jesse. I don't want honors, just results." it's a business deal. she studies him—the proverbial ball in what ultimately amounted to a daedalian game of keep away—and exhales an overcooked sigh. "can't say I'm not a little disappointed, I really see something in you... but if you really don't think you're up to it," she trails. lifts her shoulders in a whatcanoyoudo shrug.

"I won't force the matter."

[pinkman]

let’s be honest:   jesse’s behavior warrants a harsher sentence. a wwe-style verbal smackdown, capped off with a reminder to respect his elders. nothing he hasn’t heard before.   (is there a problem, pinkman?  have you been listening to me?  in that case, would you mind telling us what constitutes an ionic compound?  then, blocking his long-awaited exit from the classroom, adjusting those intolerably nerdy glasses, staring at him as if he were an endangered animal in captivity—   are your parents aware that you’re struggling?)   instead, olivia says she’s disappointed.  it stings worse than antiseptic on a freshly scraped knee. 

jesse wills himself to re-establish eye contact, somehow resisting the urge to shrink inward.   “i can, um, think about it.”   but the suggestion is followed by the humiliated flush in his cheeks.  the tense set of his jaw. the persistent tap-tap-tap of his foot, like it would kill him to stay still. 

“it’s just that they make you do all these tests ‘n stuff.  to get in. and they’re not even useful in the real world, you know?”   he sweeps a skinny arm around her living room. this world. this spotless, palatial prison.   “i mean, who needs to remember everythin’ that happened during the great depression?  it ended, like, seventy years ago.”