bubblies | before it was homestuck day, it was reno day

before it was homestuck day, it was reno day

𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐈𝐎

i. fuck, i blacked out on a tuesday. what am i doing my life?

ii. evidently i responded to every question they asked me when they put me under the conscious sedation to set my broken wrist with "no comment."

iii. i hope you remember pushing the girl off the stage because you said she was bad at pole dancing.

iv. it's not easy to sexualize brunch. work with me, babe.

v. nothing, i just wanted your phone to vibrate.

vi. say my name once during sex just to fuck with her. like when it gets rough.

vii. wildcard bayebebebeee

Edited 2024-04-13 00:42 (UTC)

You could have kept it simple! Said you wanted to butter my muffin or something! Scrambling my eggs just sounds – dangerous.

fair, but "butter your muffin" is too obvious. what about, like... flip your flapjacks? that's colorful.

Hmm. Okay! That sounds like fun! What part of me is the flapjack?

[ got a place to crash? good, because Reno shows up there completely out of the blue one night. out of breath and streaked with blood, it's hard to say what's his and what's someone else's, but it's clear he's injured and must be on the ropes, because there's no way he'd show up like this otherwise. the second his loud, hurried fistbang-knock results in an open door, Reno leans into it with every intention of helping himself to walking inside, a thick rivulet of blood snaking down the side of his face. ]

Heyyyy, buddy!

[ a big, bloody grin that isn't the least bit convincing to go with a fake-friendly tone that's strained by pain and urgency. he must realize it right away, right about the time he gets a look in return, because he instantly drops the facade—serious business, shiftier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and is he... shaking?

eh, it's just the poison status affliction. don't worry about it. ]

I need someplace to lay low. Lemme in.

_{[ At first he'd thought the source of the knocking was from dear Old Lady Crawford who had been primed and ready to lay into him over squealing the tires of his bike when he came home from a late-night shift some two or three hours ago, and so Roche was prepared to ignore it and go back to sleep. When the pounding doesn't relent and her shrill voice doesn't pierce his ears through the walls and door, he grumbles and slowly climbs out of bed with a few choice words muttered under his breath, one hand pressed against an eye as he works to clear the fog from his head and make his way to the door. He's geared up himself to tear the person on the other side a new one, but any and all thought of doing so flies out his ear the instant he opens the door and finds Reno practically wiggling in.

Reno, covered in... blood. A lot of it. Roche's nose wrinkles as the rich smell hits him, doubly so as he picks up something else in there, too. Blood and something... almost sickly sweet. It's not strong enough to taste but he imagines if he could, it'd be foul. ]}

'eno...?

_{[ Roche blinks slowly as he takes in the sight of him — as he steps back the low light from the lamp in the hall shows that it is in fact blood, and... Is he paler than usual? No, maybe it's the light, but... If the smell of him didn't give it away, this would've been the thing to tell him that something wasn't right with his favorite Suit. Wordlessly, he opens the door a little further to let him in but before he can get too far, Roche darts out to snag the back of his jacket while shutting the door the rest of the way. Ah-ah, not on his couch. ]}

Th'ell happened to you?

[ yo cloud ain't the only one who's got wheels and makes deliveries. he might have the Delivery Service market cornered, but you best believe Shinra has plenty of things that need transportin', and how you think they're gonna do that? chocobo? girl please.

Reno's just made a long trek back from Cosmo Canyon, oddly accepting of his temporary role as glorified errand boy. they're short-staffed, alright? and these were important supplies he was carrying, delivered in exchange for something even more important. the desert took it out of him, but it's the trip back that really leaves him wiped, so he makes a pitstop at Kalm, rolling in on two wheels and cruising through for a place to grab a bite and then crash a couple hours. Healen's not far, but a guy knows when he's just done, man, and he's donezo. once he's got his bike and its cargo situated, he hops off with a mind to head across town—what's still in shape what with the recently-eradicated 'stigma and the Meteor/Lifestream fuckstorm bonanza, anyway—when he's met with a familiar face.

he's a dusty sight and tired besides, but it seems like his spirits lift as he raises a hand. ]

Wasn't 'specting to see you here.

_{[ Some days he still can't believe it's over. Sure, Roche knows it's not over-over — nor does he think it ever will be, at least not in his lifetime — but he'll take his blessings wherever and however he could get them after the last two and a half, three years. Against all odds he'd survived the collapse of Midgar and the hardships that came with being a (former?) SOLDIER in a world that no longer needed them. Reeve was lucky enough to catch him before he'd skipped town entirely, enlisting him into the WRO and giving him purpose again even if it was acting as a courier from town to town like so many others. Part of him suspected it was simply to keep an eye on him given how much of a renegade he was already known to be, and maybe because of the rumors that still floated around about degradation. Like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for him to turn into a mindless beast.

Whatever their true intentions, Roche didn't mind. The WRO gave him purpose again and kept him busy. He still had... whatever it was with Reno and the other Turks, and that odd rivalry-slash-friendship with the old members of AVALANCHE, but he couldn't stay still for long.

Especially after he'd wound up catching the damned pox himself. To say he'd distanced himself from people after that would be an understatement. He'd started taking more and more work from the WRO, jobs that took him far away from Midgar, Edge, and Kalm. Anywhere he could go on the back of a bike — killing monsters, delivering medicine and supplies, searching for those still lost — he always took it. Anything to keep people from knowing and looking at him like he was something to be pitied.

He'd heard enough of it when the sickness brought him to his knees in Kalm some six months ago. Poor bastard. First you hear 'bout 'em falling apart and this one's got the pox. Makes you almost feel sorry for 'em, doesn't it?

That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst came when he'd been caught black-handed by Reno of all people, hunched over the sink in their shared bathroom with dirty, ichor-stained bandages half-unraveled from his arm in the middle of the night. Neither of them said anything, not even when Reno had helped clean up. Did Roche want to tell him about it? Gods, of course he did. If anyone deserved to know surely he did, yet... He could never bring himself to. Not when there was already so much else weighing on his shoulders. How could Roche add himself to his never-ending list of burdens? The last thing he'd thought the man needed was a sick and dying SOLDIER lingering in the back of his mind, so he'd kept his mouth shut about it until, well, obviously until the truth had oozed out on its own.

In truth he's glad nothing had been said that night because even now Roche isn't sure how he would've handled it. Experience told him that Roche would've ran like a kicked dog to lick his wounds in private, only... he might've never come back that time. The shared silence had spoken volumes and was probably the biggest reason he didn't slip out in the middle of the night. That, and knowing Reno always knew how to find him, and he'd never forgive himself if he took away resources (even Shinra resources) from those who needed and deserved it more. It's the whole reason that instead of taking on the more dangerous jobs the WRO had to offer, Roche took the ones that always kept him near Kalm, Edge, and Healen.

It was an unspoken promise and an unuttered plea, because Roche knew if he were to be confined to a hospital bed the sickness would claim him. The 'stigma could have him when it earned him — he never took much stock in the whole ooh-rah SOLDIER schtick like so many others did but he still had his pride as one. He'd go out fighting if he had to, so long as he didn't waste away like so many others.

Luckily, he never had to.

Even now he didn't understand it. He'd been hightailing it to Edge as soon as he'd caught wind of the commotion from Kalm, remembers his body seizing up on the bike and wiping out in some ditch some ten minutes out and then... nothing until he'd come to in the midst of a rain shower with a few broken ribs, a concussion and the sight of those terrible black patches adorning his arms washing away under a green glow. That had been weeks ago, though Roche still had some lingering effects from how severe the disease had gotten. He'd been forced to stay in Edge to recover while Reno went off doing whatever people had him doing, restricted to Healen at the farthest if only so the other Turks could keep an eye on him lest he go trailing after the redhead like a stray puppy. Turns out even they had trouble keeping him on a leash because two days ago he'd slipped his collar, hauled his bike out of the storage unit they'd put her in, and took off towards Kalm. Just for a few days, he'd pleaded with Rude over the phone. I'm going stir-crazy.

And, well, Kalm was a great deal better for his heart anyway. He could only look at the ruins of Midgar for so long before it got him feeling some kind of way he wasn't entirely comfortable with and beyond that, there was a package he'd been meaning to pick up for the past two weeks just sort of. sitting there. It was long overdue and was something Roche had been itching to get his hands on, so once he'd gotten himself situated and slept for the night, he set out first thing in the morning to pick it up from the shop. He just didn't expect to step around the corner with his prize tucked under his arm to find himself nearly face-to-face with Reno.

If he looks as sheepish as the kid who'd got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, no he doesn't. Shut up. The still-fading scar left behind by the 'stigma wrinkles a little as he laughs softly, shoulders slumping. ]}

I, ah... I could be saying the same thing to you.

Decided on a little pitstop. You're supposed to be resting. Slipped your leash while Rude was dadnapping?

[ Wouldn't be the first time. They all do it. Hell, even Rufus did it when he was still good to walk around, before the pox got him. Out of everyone, you probably wouldn't expect Rude to be the one saying "where are you going? What are you doing?" all the time, but Reno's got this theory that Meteorfall made him... clingy. Or maybe it was the 'stigma, hard to say. Either way, it's mother hen hours at the Healen lodge, and he knows when he calls Rude to let him know he stopped in Kalm he's going to subtly, nigh-imperceptibly, sulk about it. So yeah, he can't exactly blame Roche for giving him the slip, even if he is supposed to be resting. In the same vein, the fact that he's well enough to travel, even if it's just over to Kalm, is reason enough not to give him too much shit about it.

His gaze travels to the parcel under Roche's arm, then back to his face. They've been through a lot, the two of them. They're as entangled as they are content to leave each other to their own devices, and besides that, he knows Roche ain't back to a hundred percent just the same as Roche will undoubtedly be able to tell Reno isn't, either. He's dead on his feet, you just need to know where to look to find the proof. ]

Well, good. If you're up, you're workin'. Carry this.

[ He shrugs his oversized backpack, stuffed to the absolute gills and nearly a head taller up top than he is himself with the supplies he was sent out for, off and onto the ground. It lands with a concerningly heavy thud, but at least no delicate clinks, so it's probably not overly fragile? His nostrils flare when he lifts it up again for Roche to take. Heavy. Tired. ]

Leash, collar and boot. What's the point in keeping an antique if you're just going to keep it locked up, hm?

_{[ What matters the most is Roche didn't slip out the gate without some form of tracking or ID. His tags still hang around his neck — a habit born out of a promise made one night after Meteorfall — and of course his phone which could no doubt be used to find him should his disappearance stir up what was left of the hornet's nest. No doubt it would've if he hadn't bumped into Reno out here in Kalm, and for the first time in a very long time Roche finds himself thanking his shoddy luck. Best to be caught by his "keeper" sooner rather than later, right? And, well, getting busted in a place like this was better than getting caught somewhere days away. Nothing would've been worth the telling-off, not even...

Shifting his own belongings around, Roche wedges them under his arm and reaches out to take Reno's bag with a slightly exaggerated whoof as he swings it around onto his shoulder. The fuck was in here, huh? Rocks? Boulders? His mouth opens to question it too but at the last second he changes his mind and offers his parcel instead. Tradesies? Tradesies. ]}

Don't shake that around too much — it's delicate. Anyway, where's this going?

_{[ With both hands free it means he's able to pull both straps over his shoulders and... yeah, that feels better for his still-tender sides. His body won't feel any less stiff if he stays in one place and though he knows he'll feel it later, Roche feels a bubble of energy growing under the surface. Just like a damned working dog— ]}

[ Antique, Reno mutters and then shakes his head, fortunately too busy with the exchange of parcels to jab him with his elbow. Probably shouldn't, there's a good bet he's still a little delicate, but like he said: if Roche's up, he's good enough to work. And to handle a little bit of ribbing. He'll just have to save the literal kind for later.

"Don't shake it" makes him want to do precisely that, for no other reason than it's what his gremlin brain is hardwired to respond with, but fortunately he's reached a point in his life where abstaining from chaotic impulses is at least partly possible. That doesn't mean he doesn't give it a tiny rattle just to listen to what kind of sound it makes (clinking? clanging? coins jingling? metal stuff jangling?) before he secures it under his arm. ]

The inn, or wherever you're staying if you've already got a spot. Save me the trouble of paying for a room'a my own. They're out here fleecing us Shinra folk for even basic supplies, yanno. Turnabout's fair play and all that, but god damn... if the balls on these fuckers weren't so impressive, I'd make 'em eat that extra gil.

[ Literally, shove it down their throats. But those days are over, and now bullying people who were lucky enough to live through Shinra's decades of atrocities and Meteorfall is strictly a faux pas. It's a line him and his temper are constantly struggling not to cross, but it just goes to show how privileged he really was as a Turk. Still technically is, what with all he knows and has access to, but boy-oh-boy do the normies like to make it difficult if they see him in uniform. ]

They're not fleecing all of us.

_{[ And Roche hates it, truly. His eyes linger on the package long after Reno had jostled it a little — a weighted kthunk being the only giveaway that it was solid metal — as if he were going to remind him that it was fragile before deciding against it and instead choosing to jerk his head towards the Inn at Kalm. As restless as he was back at the lodge with the other suits, he couldn't deny that there was still a tired sort of weariness to his body despite the want and need to tear a dusty road to pieces that he'd been doing his best to ignore. On bad days he wonders if he'll ever be back to his old self, but... He knows he doesn't do himself any favors thinking that way.

Everyone else was managing, he'd tell himself. You can too. It's just a bump in the road.

It didn't mean it didn't suck, though. ]}

They gave me the room with the fireplace and the big bay window this time. I'd be lying if I said I didn't appreciate it, but I could do without them looking at me like I'm still...

_{[ ...something to be pitied. They never say it like that man had, but they don't need to when it's written all over their faces and in their eyes. Maybe that's why he'd fallen in so easily with the WRO and the remaining Turks — they still treated him like he was a person rather than something that had managed to outlive its usefulness. Shaking his head, Roche reaches to pick a stray piece of dirt from Reno's sleeve and brushes it off on his own jacket as they make their way down the streets. ]}

Nevermind. Maybe they'll give you that same look since you look like you've gone a few rounds with a den of dragons. Are the roads out there still that bad? Or does Reeve have you running my routes since I've been out of commission?

Tch. You're just a special boy.

[ A special boy with a sick room to crash in, so is he complaining? Absolutely not. Reno, for his part, never dared do anyone with Geostigma the disservice of pitying them, at least not where they could see it. But that's also just him—sympathy and give the guy a breaks are tall orders. If you can walk, you can work. If you can breathe, you can still get shit done. Just... never mind the sleepless nights he spent fucking tortured wondering if everything he touches really does die or not. Kicking himself for not being able to do more—

That nudge to Roche's side finally comes, less a jab with his elbow and more of a light brush, as they make their way to the inn. His eyebrow twitches, but it isn't any wonder that Roche can smell the fatigue on him, found it tucked away in the various secret-keeping places in his face. They've known each other long enough by now to be able to read each other to filth, for better or worse. ]

It wasn't a Reeve job, but yeah, it's rocky out there. That's not really the problem, though; it's me. I'm the problem. Can't push sixteen hours behind the wheel like I used to. Shit's even worse on a hog. Not looking forward to the next time I gotta eat, bit my tongue so many damn times to stay alert it fuckin' feels like I gargled bleach.

[ That fireplace and bay window has him clinging onto life, though. This is why dying ain't worth it, man—because then you'd miss out on that. ]

_{[ It's telling to Roche that it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it could. He remembers a time not that long ago where he could hardly stand to have blankets touching his sides at night without feeling a dull, uncomfortable ache and now? Nothing. There's no doubt in his mind that he'll feel something when he has actual weight pressing against himself, but a harmless little nudge-n-brush? Psh, easy.

He doesn't even feel the usual stitch when he lifts his arm to throw it around Reno's shoulders as they round a corner onto main, his hand automatically seeking his hair out to ruffle it up and disturb the fine layer of road dust with a quiet snort of laughter. ]}

Next time I'll go and you can be the one waiting to greet me upon my return, how 'bout that? Sixteen hours in the saddle sounds about exactly what I could use. And the bath that follows.

_{[ Did he mention the tub? Not really, no. Mussing Reno's hair up one more time, he lets his hand drop to settle over the small of his back once they get closer to the inn. He tells himself it's for Reno's benefit but he'd also be lying if he said it wasn't for his own, too. Roche's excuse? He missed him, that's all. ]}

Which you absolutely need. You're not getting in my bed covered in canyon dust.

Fuuuuck, a bath. Yeah.

[ He doesn't know about the tub, but god is he going to be glad when he sees there is one. Before the goddamn apocalypse he was never a baths guy, but times change and bones get tired and every now and again a good, hot soak feels fucking incredible, alright? Especially after a dirty—dusty—job. ]

Can't believe you're calling me dusty. You're right, but still.

[ For once, he doesn't even bother leaning his head away from any offending ruffles, although he does bobble his head to one side and then the other in an effort to shake some of that dust off when it's dislodged. Quite frankly he's trying his best not to think about it because even though he doesn't have a thing about being icky and dirty, there's a level of cleanliness he's become accustomed to and right now he can practically feel the dirt and grit shifting around on his scalp and skin.

As they make it into the inn, the man behind the counter casts Reno a glance, and he casts one back—and then the man's gaze shifts to Roche instead, maybe to that hand on the small of Reno's back, and he nods ever so subtly in assent without saying a word. As if any innkeep worth their salt would turn a guy this dead on his feet away and miss out on his money, but you never know when it comes to who's willing to put up with Shinra and who isn't. Right now, even in his zipped-up riding leathers, he still has that look. No one not Shinra would dress like that.

But he prefers to think it's because everyone likes Roche (or feels bad for Roche, but whatever) and that's why he mutters special boy as they start up the stairs. ]

If you weren't still on the mend and lugging my shit around for me I'd make you carry me up there.

[ he's seventeen and he just got introduced to the clandestine black suit last week. best week of his life, even if it's been absolutely fucking grueling with the schoolin' and trainin' and long, long hours. it's ten times the undertaking than he even expected, and his expectations were already at a ten-outta-ten, but he'd do it all again double and then some for the love of what it gets him: a purpose. a place. people.

it's good times for this street rat, anyway, and today's his first day off since his initiation. only a week and some change ago, he'd been running these streets, a transplant from Junon to the Midgar slums, but now his old stomping grounds feel unrecognizable and foreign. makes sense: he never felt like he belonged there or anywhere before last week, but still, what's he supposed to do with himself?

get into trouble, obviously. some sector he's never been to? done. Wall Market? heard that. topside adventures? bet. no plans, only vibes. start some shit and totally get away with it because this suit means he can get away with anything. run up a tab. buy something nice. meet someone cute. sky's the limit (and when he gets his pilot license, even the sky won't be able to stop him).

k i met you halfway, you've got Teen Trouble in your area. what happens next? ]

ideas board:

- hurt/cumfort (AGAIN)

- u know i always wanna do post-plate drama baybee

- junon episodes

- beach episode? saucer? resort vibes? getting mega stoned at cosmo?

- john wick style revenge tours with sexy full body takedowns

- NO REBIRTH SPOILERS I'M JUST A LIL GUY STILL :/

Edited 2024-04-13 01:28 (UTC)

_{[ Sneaking into Cat territory was as easy as breathing with how often Roche has to sneak out of it before dawn. The hard part was actually going out of his way to keep quiet rather than shouting a hearty good night once he was around the corner, something that was proving rather difficult with all the junk strewn around his favored exit points. Recent events remind him that it's just leftover garbage from the yearly spring festival folks throw in Lower Junon to signify the start of the fishing season (or what little one they're permitted to have courtesy of the bucketheads and those who bark orders, but despite that he still can't help the way his nose wrinkles as his foot knocks into an empty beer bottle that rolls and bounces down the alleyway. On one hand it's not enough to wake the Cats — not at four in the morning, anyway. On the other... C'mon, guys. Parties or not this was the nice part of town!

He ignores it for now since the Cats weren't his Gnoles and thus wasn't his circus to deal with as he hefts himself up and onto a low wall, arms outstretched for balance as he makes his way along the top towards where their king sleeps. It's a little surreal going about this entire thing backwards yet he can't deny the rush he feels in his heart — if anyone catches him there'd be hell to pay even if he was a king in his own right, and maybe that's all the reason they'd need to bust out the claws. They could take it as an attempted hit on their boss even though there was an alliance of sorts, and then what? Gods, that'd be a fucking disaster and Roche can already hear Marcel ripping him a new one for it. Assuming they were able to A) catch him, and B) prove it was him skulking about.

Roche nearly whiffs the crossing from the first wall to the next, only just barely managing to catch himself on the fire escape that leads up the side of the wall and good thing, too. One wrong slip and he'd have wound up crashing into the old metal garbage can that has seen its fair share of beatings, and that would've woken everyone up for sure. Exhaling in relief, Roche shakes it off and scurries up the escape where he has to shimmy up the heavy drainage gutter connecting to the roof, only stopping halfway when he reaches Red's window. ]}

Psst. Red. Red. Red—

_{[ Roche shifts and drums his fingers against the glass, a short tap tap at first. Then when there's no answer, he taps a little harder. Taptaptaptaptaptap— ]}

Wakey wakey!

_{[ It didn't take much convincing on Reno's part to pull Roche from Midgar for an impromptu trip to Cosmo Canyon. He'd be lying if he said being in the city was driving him more than a little stir crazy after shit went south in Sector 7 and after the little fiasco-slash-reunion in Junon, he wasn't all that keen on going back. Not when they were headed across the ocean. All it took was that simple "yes" to be put on leave courtesy of the other Suits, and the next thing Roche knew he was in the birthplace of planetology with nothing but red, red, and more red as far as the eye could see. It was in the sand, the rocks, the sunrise, and...

Presently in Roche's field of view, at least partially.

He's not sure where Reno found the good shit, but he wasn't about to complain or ask questions — not when the man had actually found something that could knock a SOLDIER down, and certainly not when he was snug as a bug in an impromptu hammock set-up with said Turk leaning into his chest. Roche would be an absolute idiot of the nth degree to argue against it, instead shifting this way and that and wrapping his free arm around Reno's chest and squeezing once. Gently, even, because he wasn't blind to the lingering bruises from whatever fight he'd been involved in that night. He'd been curious about each and every one ever since he'd seen them when they'd arrived, but... it wasn't his place to pry. Something told him that was probably the smartest decision he'd made, too.

Roche exhales and with his free hand he plucks the rolled up wad from his lips and wordlessly passes it to Reno's waiting fingers, his head lolling back with a content sound low in his chest that rumbles against Reno's back. ]}

Mn... Shoulder feeling any better? 'member you were complaining about it yesterday.

[ it's his birthday and they're at some big bar that has all the staples: drinks, pool and darts, karaoke, chairs to hit people with, a bathroom floor to get white girl wasted and cry on, etc.

START SOMETHING ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

before it was homestuck day, it was reno day

mild: tfln

iv

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no subject

hot: some nebulous time during the canon

ur free for now bc i need the sleeps but points at

fire: post-acc

i told u i'm comin

MAMA HOLY FUCK

KICKS THE DOOR DOWN

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no subject

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diablo: an au of sorts

beans n cheese: the dollar menu

season junon episode borfday gird ur loins there's more

dad look its the good kush

dios mio, los enchiladas: the one where there's a bar party