Day 40: Greenhouse [Fourth Shift]

[toxicspiderman]

Most days, fish and chips (and a cold beer or three) was pretty goddamned high on S.T.'s list of perfect expense-account lunches. Today, the idea of picking at greasy hunks of unidentified bottom-feeder odds-and-ends (politely known as scrod, to the delight of teenagers all across the Northeast) didn't appeal.

He begged off and collapsed into his bed, after using his damp shirt as an excuse to surreptiously check the contents of his closet. Bingo. His nurse watched his little show, unimpressed but (more importantly) unsuspicious. Not that his hairy chest was much of a catch today, pale and sweating from fever. At least she didn't tuck him in.

The intercom woke up up right on schedule, and pulling the sheets back over his head almost won. But a handful of unanswered missives and a vague sense of duty dragged him out to the bulletin, and from there it was easier to stagger over to the greenhouse.

It was warm inside -- a deep, humid warmth that actually penetrated to the aches in more joints and muscles than he could remember the names of. Like a sauna, without the hassle of finding someplace to look that wasn't a mound of pasty middle-management cellulite. Or a sweat lodge, without the opposite hassle of being conscious that he was the only white guy in the room. In fact, besides the nurses in holding patterns, he was the only person in the room.

He located a tray of tomato seedlings going rootbound in their tiny six-packs, and a potting bench whose location was a quick-and-dirty approximation of equidistantly far from anything blooming. He assured his nurse he knew what he was doing, and after a couple of successful repottings, gently sliding the little seedlings out and loosening the tangled roots, she seemed to agree and backed off. It was, by far, the most fucking theraputic thing he'd found in this hellhole so far, and he let himself sink into the rhythm of the task.

[Free!]

Comments

[stringless-doll.livejournal.com]

He'd been afraid at first that his touch would be rejected, but then Homura placed a hand over his and Nataku tightened his grip just a little bit, standing close enough to feel a little of the god's warmth. Or maybe he was imaging that. He just liked being close.

He knew what Homura meant about Shien. It was impossible not to notice the graceful flow of his movement, the way he spoke... Nataku remembered. He didn't think he would ever forget now that memories were all he would have. Shien had not died as a slave to the gods, but as a free man fighting for what he believed in, and he deserved the kind of fierce pride that Homura had when speaking of his death.

Now Homura came to the part of the story he'd asked to hear. He didn't release the hand clutched between both of his but he had to make a conscious effort to keep from tightening his grip. He felt he had no right to judge Homura's actions one way or another and he doubted the other god would care if he did. However, given the choice between Goku's happiness and the restored balance of heaven and earth... without thinking, he would choose Goku, because those places didn't matter without him.

If you hurt him... He didn't let himself finish the thought. He didn't want to hurt Homura. Goku had fought against him and won - had killed him, in fact. Though Nataku doubted he'd done so without pain... He was still happy and free. His friends would have been there to comfort him. He didn't have to worry about Goku.

When he squeezed Homura's hand, injury was the furthest thing from his mind. He shook his head and looked up at the other Taishi after a while, voice soft with contemplation. "Thank you for telling me."

[screwthegods]

"Of course." Homura almost chuckled when Nataku thanked him for the honesty. How could he offer anything else to the boy, when his goal was to help him come to terms with this new life they'd been given? Yet at the same time, Homura could understand better than any one how important that honesty was. The gods who had condemned them both often didn't think twice of lying for the sake of their ambition. Certainly they'd rarely tell a heretic something he didn't want to hear, and then leave him free to make his own choices afterward.

Homura didn't release Nataku's hands, letting the younger god take whatever time he needed to come to his own decision. Regardless, he'd already put in for Nataku to have a sword made; it was one of the rare instances when he would ask for nothing in return, or make no bargains. The similarities in their past and of their origins bonded Homura and Nataku in a way that few could understand. Even Son Goku, their heretical brother, had had his memories sealed away by the gods. He would know the pain of his own imprisonment, certainly. But Son Goku couldn't understand the true suffering he'd been caused by the Heavens.

[stringless-doll.livejournal.com]

Nataku didn't look away from Homura but his features softened, belaying his uncertainty and the tangle of thoughts and emotions he'd kept to himself while Homura spoke.

"I don't know what to do yet." He admitted. It was only fair to trade honesty for honesty, even if the other Taishi thought less of him for it.

"In Heaven it was enough to want freedom for the sake of freedom. I never thought..." That he would outlive his father. That his death would have meaning to anyone, even himself. "I never thought ahead until I met Goku, and even then I only wanted to be by his side for a little while longer.

"So I'm not sure what I should do here." Nataku frowned, unconsciously setting his jaw with almost childish stubbornness, as if he expected his next request to be argued. "But I want to do something. It just feels useless wondering around, and I don't have any interest in the other clubs." Well aware that he'd waited until the very last minute, Nataku pressed on regardless. "Is it too late to sign up for the History Club tonight?"