Randy enjoyed entomology, linguistics, although it was something he kept to himself. He liked, when he spoke, to understand where and how his words flowed from, the way his tongue would curl or press against his teeth, the shapes his lips would form as he exhaled noises and formed vowels. He especially liked when he recognised the origins of words or phrases others spoke, it gave him his own sort of meaning he could latch onto, an invisible foothold, a pleasant, easy understanding he so scarcely was granted. It stood to reason that if he couldn’t understand the things people said to him, or why, he could at least know the words, the idioms and phrases, themselves.
What made him feel compelled to tell Benson about this was a little beyond him. But he had felt the itch to say something budding for a while, and Benson seemed to like when he spoke his mind. Even when he found little personal interest in the topic, Randy knew at least Benson wouldn’t shut him down or tune him out; and maybe that was just it, the knowledge that there was someone truly earnestly listening for once that had set his trains of thought running wild, scrabbling at the opportunity to finally make their way into the spoken world.
“You know when people say ‘hair of the dog’?”
Benson hummed, a low, easy noise. “Had my share of shit-awful hangovers.”
“Mm,” Randy replied, “well, it actually came from this theory, in early medicine. That if you got bit by a dog, you could rub some of its hair into the wound. And that’d stop it getting infected.”
Benson laughed, earnest and quiet, the way he so rarely did, as though a quiet laugh was a sign of weakness. “That fuckin’ so? They thought that shoving some flea-ridden mutt’s fur into an open wound’d make things any better?”
Randy gave the sort of vague, one-sided shrug he retained for when he felt compelled to defend something stupid and unreasonable, but knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere.
Then, with the same caution he had always extended, he cupped the back of Benson’s head, feeling his own skin vibrate as his fingers settled atop the limp strands and tugged gently until Benson’s moustache was settled neatly across the still raw bite mark on his neck. The course, scratchy texture barely brushing against tender flesh was just enough to sting. He wound them closer, tighter, and let out a quiet sigh.
“You callin’ me a fuckin’ dog, Randy?” Benson wheedled, his voice muffled against skin. Randy liked when he took that tone with him, teasing and in a slightly higher pitch, like they were friends. Randy liked when Benson spoke against his skin too, the feel of plosives and fricatives filling the hollow of his throat.
Randy let out his own laugh that teetered on a hum.
“Got any more of those fun facts knockin’ around up there?” he asked eventually, lightly tapping his fist against the side of Randy’s temple. Seeking payment for his services, his wordless compliance, in his favourite form of currency: Randy facts.
“Um,” he wracked his brain, and landed on his favourite. “After crocodiles eat, they get rid of excess salt through these glands under their eyes. So, some people thought it looked like they were crying tears of remorse over their victim. The idea came from ancient Egypt, actually.”
“Crocodile tears,” Benson muttered, carding a reverent hand through his hair, and watched it part like water at his touch.
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