singillatim | boogie wonderland; ota

Entry tags:

boogie wonderland; ota

Who: Holland March + open, Holland + Huaisang
What: March spends some time contemplating, talks distilling with Huaisang
When: Nov 2nd
Where: Community hall

Content Warnings: usual cw for alcoholism

i. Weapons cleaning + contemplation;

His supplies are running low. There's only so much you can scavenge in a place like this, but when you chain smoke like a chimney and drink like a fish eventually what you can scrounge up is going to disappear. He's got a little left, sure, courtesy of a gas station raid and the basement Huaisang's got, but supplies aren't infinite.

It gets him thinking. Makes him antsy. March enters the community hall like he usually does, a frequent visitor like most of the small little community they've all managed to put together, but he's never really done much. Drank some coffee, chatted. It's hard to tell if he even realizes he's the village idiot.

Today, though, he's set up in a little corner and is making sure his gun is cleaned along with sipping his morning caffeinated sludge. He's less animated than usual, less talkative, simply staring into space as his hands go through the motions. If not interrupted, he'll eventually speak.

"We're really fucked here, huh? Completely." Holland knows he should curve the negativity, but it's starting to get to him more than he'd like admit. He's been adamant they're all probably going to die within the month since day one but there's less of a joking tone towards it this time.

He wants to help sure. Pitch in, even. Mostly he's just worried about how tiny his booze stash is getting.

After coffee there's a far less depressing revelation, said just as solemnly.

"...Should I hunt?"

ii. Huaisang;

"We gotta do something."

March doesn't bother to announce himself when he opens the door to Huaisang's place, spending far more time there than he probably should. His scarf is taken off, the hat is dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Hey. Huaisang? Huaisang, we gotta do something. You know what I did today? Math. You know what that math was for?"

He's already flopping onto the nearest available surface, aviators still on.

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It's typical that Edward makes his rounds to the community center, perpetually clad in uniform, the same formal figure on patrol. He takes some time to check in on things there, chatting with various people, taking stock of firewood — making certain that things are running smoothly.

Coffee is also part of his routine, and only when business is taken care of does the lieutenant allow himself a (brief) moment to rest. Grasping a large mug in his gloved hands, he's walking around with every intention to finish the drink quickly and set off again, when he spots a familiar face off in a corner on his own. Edward finds himself heading that way instead, though it becomes clear the other man is quite occupied in his task (or perhaps his thoughts), and Edward lingers close-by, maintaining a well-measured distance that he means to convey as "Polite But Close Enough to Be Amicable."

As soon as March begins to finally speak, the other man's brows are lifting, head turning that way, ready to greet the dialogue with mannerly attention, but what comes is.......... Well—! Unexpected vulgarity.

Sadly, the particular meaning to that use of the curse word doesn't develop for several years after when he's from. Little only knows one association, and it's very much of the sexual activity sort. He startles, eyes widening, visibly stunned. By now, he's somewhat used to March's colourful way of speaking, but this....

"......Pardon?" he finally offers, after a lengthy silence. "Did you mean to voice such.... thoughts, aloud?" Perhaps he overshared something quite personal.... God, Edward hopes nothing happened out here in the community center; it's public.

March is vaguely aware of someone in his periphery in the sense that there is a dark sort of blob just around his line of sight while he cleans his pistol. He doesn't think too much about it--everyone sort of blends in when he's zoning out--but when Edward finally says something his whole body tenses as he jumps, shoulders so high that for a brief moment he appears neckless. A little squeak that is entirely too high pitched for a grown man leaves his mouth and March closes his eyes, scrunching them as hard as he can to try to stop his heart from bursting out of his chest.

"Jesus--hi, Eddy, nice to see you, too." An exhale.

"What'd I say?"

The other man is clearly quite out of sorts, Edward blinking in polite startle as March jumps like that, and even gives such a sound of surprise.... The Victorian is lifting his free gloved hand almost placatingly, brows raised in concern. Is he quite all right....?

Ah, but then he asks that.....

Edward looks immensely uncomfortable, physically coiling a bit. How to.... answer this.... He quickly adjusts his voice to a low murmur.

"Ah, you were speaking of your.... er, intimacies. Relations." This is so horrifically awkward! Can you tell he is cringing with his entire body, here. "Though you said we had all..... had them...? Completely."

'We're really fucked' does not quite translate into what Edward is saying, but he doesn't know how else...

Sick? Is Edward sick? March blinks at the sight of him very clearly looking Not Good, and it absolutely does not occur to him that it's about what he's saying at all. The Victorian gentleman leans in and March leans in too, wildly confused.

He's bunching up. Is he shivering? Is this the flu?

"Huh? What did I say?"

...................Mr. March, please. Please don't ask this of him.

There's a long moment when Edward just stands there, face tight, locked in some inner turmoil.

He's going to have to directly repeat it, isn't he. There's no way around it; he can't just refuse to answer.....

Edward Little sighs, with his entire body. Preparing himself, though when it comes, it sounds as though someone is holding a gun to this man's head, which drops down to hang, eyes fixed to the floor as he murmurs with as much discretion as possible—

"You said........... 'we're really fucked', Mr. March."

Edited 2023-11-08 20:33 (UTC)

"Sorry?" March leans in a closer, face void of any emotion sans knit brows, both hands comfortably on his hips, solid whereas for some reason Little looks like he's made of the same stuff Gumby is.

"Didn't catch that."

SIR, PLEASE—!!!

Edward goes very still, hardly even seeming to breathe. It's not a term that anyone of his standing, his social circle, would use. Certainly not on the ships either, not those proud vessels serving Her Majesty.... Perhaps some of the older, seasoned sailors might use such indecent words if they'd been drinking too heavily, it wouldn't be unheard of, but....

He swallows, fists clenched a little. Breathe, Edward. Remember your training.

"Fucked. You said we were fucked. And I'll ask you not to speak of.... having amorous congress too openly again, please, sir. Not in this place, which is meant to be a safe one."

Oh.

Oh.

"Oh," he says, figuring he may as well vocalize the thought out loud. He has another thought almost immediately--dangerous--and leans his whole body back a little, speaking at a normal conversational volume.

"Do you think I'm saying I've had sex with everyone here?"

Edward startles at the volume increase in the other man's voice, quickly holding both his hands up almost placatingly as he whispers.

"Mr. March, please—"

Stomach ulcers! He is feeling his stomach ulcers!!

But, well.... all right, yes, the way Edward is thinking it definitely makes no sense, and he knows that, but... He is so confused.

"I can't imagine what else you might've meant by that.... term."

"You can say fuck without looking like you want to sink into the floor, you know," March says bluntly. Maybe it's a little mean, but the way a full grown man with more facial hair than Holland could ever hope to grow curls into himself over such an innocuous word is astounding. He decides to plow on before he feels too bad about the situation.

"Fuck is an extremely rich word now. It's like a catchall for anything you like. Or don't like. Or are neutral about. In this situation--" he swirls his finger in a circle, motioning at the entire room.

"I meant 'we're fucked' as in 'we're all probably going to die so there's no point in doing anything.'"

Probably he should stop saying fuck. It's just crammed into his head now and he can't help himself, like how anything by Earth Wind and Fire never fails to get stuck in his head for days every time he hears them on the radio.

And yet, as March continues to say the word, Little does, in fact, continue to look like he wants to sink into the floor. He's wincing with each "fuck" that the other man unleashes upon the world, glancing around nervously, as though expecting someone to be within earshot even though literally no one is paying them any attention.

But as he's listening to the other man go on to explain, the lieutenant pauses, looking back to him, brows furrowed. The word..... has a different meaning, for him? That fact in itself is highly unexpected, but the explanation to come leaves him extremely confused. Something one likes, doesn't like, or is neutral about..... It's all those things???

Edward opens his mouth, but finds himself at a complete loss for what to say for the initial moment. March's more detailed explanation — 'we're all probably going to die so there's no point in doing anything' is certainly something to discuss, but first, he just. He just has to clarify something. Asked very seriously—

"So it doesn't have anything to do with having amorous congress?"

Edited 2023-11-20 03:26 (UTC)

This is way too much fun and March is suddenly extremely glad that he's capable of being deadpan at pretty much any time where his life isn't in danger. It's a gift. It's a terrible gift, but when there's a beardy victorian guy who doesn't know how vast the word fuck can be, he's got to.

"Oh, no, it absolutely does, but I don't think I'd fuck anyone here." Or more accurately: March is aware he has a zero percent chance with anyone due to the inherent fuck-up schmuck aura he apparently has around here. Moving on:

"Alright. C'mon. We gotta--you got a pen? You got a paper? You got a pen and paper?"

One more wince as March drops the word yet again—

—but Edward is almost comically obedient at the other man's request, even if he doesn't know what March is about to utilise them for.... The pens and paper to be found in this place are extremely different from what he's used to, but he does know where some can be found (because of course he's taken stock of nearly every item in this Community Center).

"Excuse me for one moment, I'll fetch something...."

He does wonder if he will regret this, but he makes his way to the small office near the front doors, where he picks up a few sheets of paper and a pen (imagine not having to dip them into ink bottles...) and diligently returns to hand them to March with all the severity of a man used to carrying out tasks.

"There we are."

Oh man, this guy's a schill. He's almost immediately shuffling off before March can say 'nevermind, I've got one in my breast pocket.' It's kind of sweet. The lack of swearing, the concern for manners, the go-fer attitude of it all. The San Fernando valley would eat him alive.

Hell, if he called up March's agency, he's pretty sure he'd milk as much cash out of him as possible. Just seems like kind of a schmuck. They'll work on that.

The paper and pen has been retrieved and March grabs it with a quick 'thank you,' immediately jotting some very important words down.

"You're killing me, pal. Okay. Hang on."

-Groovy
-Foxy
-Freaky
-Boogie
-Dig
-Far out

"Hmmm." There's something more. He's missing things. Think. What's the most relevant for this hellhole?

-Bummer
-Bullshit
-Trip
-Bogue
-Vibe
-Dibs
-Icky

"Alright. Here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna take this list, and every day I'm gonna give you the definition. Word-of-the-Day style. My partner does this all the time."

He hadn't the faintest idea what this man might plan to write out, but Edward will give him the chance to do it, proper and patient as he watches him jot down what appears to be a list. A list of terms that he....... does not in any shape or form understand (apart from "dig", maybe, and of course he is thinking of digging graves for dead men, the most recent association of the word— ....March probably doesn't mean it that way.

The rest, he doesn't have a clue. Boogie? Vibe? Icky? What language is this)

Edward takes the paper into his gloved hands and holds it up to his face, re-reading the words. ....It makes him uneasy, but he's perpetually earnest as he looks back to March, giving a bit of a frown.

"Are all of these associations with our harrowing circumstances?" March did explain the whole 'we're all probably going to die' thing a moment ago, Edward hasn't forgotten... his frown tugs deeper, but with more empathy now. Even concern.

"I understand things here are very dire, but please do not lose grasp of your hope. I believe it can be that difference between life and death... We must stay resilient."

(Notice he hasn't said he'll refuse to go do this List thing with him.... because he will do it...)

"Oh yeah. Some of it is just so I can have a conversation, though." March is genuinely unsure as to whether or not Edward actually has big eyes or if it's just the way he constantly looks like the world is assaulting him with new information and he's trying to absorb it.

Or maybe that's just March's inability to shut up butting up against the fact that he's from where hoop-and-a-stick was the hot new child's game. Whatever. Edward may be a deer caught in headlights but March minds himself oddly excited about the prospect, putting his hands on his hips, confident unlike where he'd been sucked in hopeless almost moments before.

What he's not expecting is for genuine earnest to come out of the other's mouth. There's a distinct lack of anything he's used to so far--annoyance, irritation, the like. Like this guy actually cares beyond wanting March to shut up.

Huh.

His brows knit, relax, and he brings a hand up to smooth out his mustache in a motion he hopes comes across as self-assured rather than sheepish. Maybe the guy wasn't bullshitting him before, either. Maybe he's sincere.

"You really think that makes a difference?" March is surprised that his question is equally sincere when it comes out of his mouth.

Edward pauses at the question, head dipping down just a little, eyes grazing the wooden floors below. He takes a moment to respond, because he's giving it his complete attention, unflinchingly earnest here, too.

"...I do," comes the quiet reply after a moment or two. His heart feels an odd ache; in the end, hope had done little to save him, or any of the men he cared about. The men he was responsible for.

....But holding onto that hope meant that along the way, he did not become like Mr. Hickey, or the mutineers, or the men who had become worse than animals, turning on one another. Doing horrible things, atrocious things. He had stayed Edward Little. Surely that mattered... didn't it? It had to matter. And it had kept him going through the horrors of it all. Perhaps it can help others in this place to keep going, as well.

"Before my arrival in this place, I was in a situation not dissimilar to this. The ship I was serving became trapped in the ice, for some... years. We became low on provisions, supplies." He pauses for a moment before continuing. "Men became.... frightened, angry, and desperate.

...I understand why it is easy to fall to those things, but... there are people in this place relying on us. If we can help ourselves not to fall to despair, then we can help them. We can do good here."

Now he's echoing Goodsir's words to himself, words that helped Edward immensely when he was feeling his own despair so strongly.

March isn't quite sure what to expect. There are a lot of schmucks in the world, the kind of frou-frou 'never give up' types that make March roll his eyes. At his core March isn't exactly a pessimist, but he's long since given up. What's the point, anyway?

But there's a sincerity to Little's words, an earnestness that's hard to fake. If the whole scphiel about his crew turning on him is true--and why would it be fake?--then the guy's gone through a lot and still has the balls to be hopeful.

March tries to bury down the ugly feeling of jealousy by reaching up and scratching at his facial hair, as if the touch can somehow jostle him out of it. It's fucked up to be envious of someone who from the sounds of it went through hell on earth, but the guy's got gumption. Moxie, even.

"You're crazy," March says bluntly. He means it, shaking his head, and then speaks again.

"I think we kinda need that sort of crazy here, though."

Being called crazy definitely strikes The Victorian off-guard, but more confused than truly offended — especially because he's certainly garnered by this point that so many of the terms March knows are... either unfamiliar to or used differently than Edward's own associations....

And being called "mad" can be meant teasingly. Perhaps that's... how March means it...? Little isn't one for teasing, joking around (what the modern folks might affectionally call 'a stick in the mud'), but even he understands that concept, at least.

So he's awkwardly pausing for just a moment, gathering his thoughts before he offers a little smile.

"I'd like to do what I can, for the people here. And you can, as well — already, you're teaching me some new things, after all."

Words like boogie and icky... the meaning of which he'll look forward to, in the coming days... but he recalls that listless look to the other man, clearly bothered before.

"...But if anything in particular about our circumstances is troubling you, you may always have my ear."

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