[[hi i know this blog is dead but i dug up a drabble i wrote back in 2018 and i don't know why i never posted it. featuring judas @irlgrumpycat-blog ]]
Lawrence lowers his gun as soon as he recognizes the intruder’s hunched frame. The other man doesn’t seem to pay him any mind one way or the other. He holsters the pistol and follows a mismatched gaze out over the dunes. Eventually, he steps closer.
“You’re not due for two days,” he chides with crossed arms. “And you’re the one living on a planet with functional clocks.”
It takes a moment for Rhys to respond, more stiffly than usual. “If it’s okay with you, I’m not really in the mood to get dunked on.”
His shoulders roll in a shrug.
“The mood to get shot, then? You’re kind of a big target here on the roof.” In spite of his own advice, Lawrence settles down next to him and sets to scanning the desert himself. Probably noticing the hypocrisy, Rhys doesn’t grace him with an answer.
They sit for a while in that silence, legs dangling out over rusted aluminum grooves. The night brings to the Dust a cold breeze and a bright moon, its unobstructed light illuminating miles of sand. To their luck, the sole disturbance out beyond his camp is a lone buzzard, only visible above the horizon for a few minutes, and far too distant to bother them. His companion, however, seems less concerned with their safety than whatever is on his mind.
“Do you hate me?”
It’s a bit of a shock to hear that coming from Rhys. The only appropriate description of their initial meeting could have been “unbridled revulsion,” and even still, most days, it seems the only things keeping them from shooting one another are clearly scornful humor and their promises of exchanged debts.
“We’re not exactly friends, here,” he tries in an attempt not to wound anyone’s delicate pride.
That effort, however, stands to make it more of an issue.
“I didn’t ask if you like me.” Rhys turns his head to look at him, the intensity of his furrowed brows and deep frown giving Lawrence pause. “I asked if you hate me.”
More likely than not, they’ve both been unfair to each other. If their circumstances were different, they might have even been close. And they have been making progress, in their own ways -- not only to understand each other, but to appreciate the differences between them and their biases. At least, while arrogant and selfish in his own right, the ex-CEO isn’t the vicious clone Lawrence first assumed him to be.
“No,” he finally decides. “I don’t.”
Rhys seems satisfied enough with this answer, if rather surprised. His eyebrows arch before his whole expression slackens and he turns back to the landscape.
Lawrence doesn’t fathom why his feelings mean so much to Rhys one way or the other. For as long as feels appropriate, he studies the other man’s face, half expecting some kind of trick or joke. Just as before, Rhys is too wrapped up in his own world to take notice, and Lawrence lowers his eyes, falling quiet again.
“How long will it take,” Rhys soon after wonders out loud, “for my body to feel like it’s mine again?”
For a good moment, Lawrence sits there, trying and failing to absorb what must be a cruel joke, far more in line with his expectations. But Rhys jolts and looks over at him, eyes wide and lips apart. He seems fully aware of what he’s said, and guilty because of it. Lawrence realizes quickly it isn’t meant to be funny at all.
That just makes it all the more sobering.
As much as they tend to distrust one another, they don’t spend much time considering each others’ situations, mental or otherwise; at least, Lawrence certainly doesn’t. For the first time, he starts to understand. He may still look the way he does under his mask, but he’s long been free to choose the person he acts like.
Somehow, they couldn’t be more different, but also more alike.
“I don’t know,” he confesses. This doesn’t come as a comfort to either of them.
