sealed with LIES, tag ;; snake

[George Harris]

The moment that Snake had requested Chef’s presence at the unloading of the ‘special’ shipment at the docks, the taller man had known that he was going to be unable to decline. It wasn’t like it was an invitation, that you could R.S.V.P to, and make your excuses towards; and although other members of the gang might’ve complained, moaning about why others couldn’t perform the exact same job, to the same skill level, Chef knew it wasn’t simply because he was the first person who had come to Snake’s eye. The older man thought about everything, analyzing and examining even the smallest of details; Chef had been with him long enough to know there was some sort of logic behind his decision to ask the resident cook.
But, he also knew that it was impossible for the man to analyze something he didn’t know. Chef had been heading towards Veen’s room, a seemingly normal task, when he had been stopped; and under Snake’s steady gaze, he had been unable to explain the reason he so desperately needed to get to the other room. And, so, Chef had turned, moving out of the warehouse, and sliding into the passenger seat, with only the slightest moment’s hesitation.

The day had already been a ‘tough’ one, although Chef wasn’t entirely sure that that was the right description for it. It had been his own stupid fault, to be fair; he had gotten too cocky, and comfortable in his arrogance. He would’ve been fine, if he had kept to his normal routine, hiding in the shadows of the alley; but he had once again chosen to practically invite the drama into his life. And now Veen knew. She knew he was back on the drugs – and he hadn’t even been able to do what she had asked, going to see her as soon as he was ‘ready’. But Snake had asked for him; and Chef knew he couldn’t let him suspect anything. Deep in his mind, in the illogical part that had already ruled most of his waking hours for the past few weeks, he figured he could still keep it a secret from everyone else. Veen wouldn’t say anything, if he begged; and he wouldn’t have to deal with Snake as well then.

However, it wasn’t like he could contain everything, bottling it away from the older man. Chef had felt sick the entirety of the van ride to the docks, his hand holding tight around the door handle, the knuckles white with the pressure, trying to force all the waves of nausea out onto the small inanimate object; and it was only due to the journey not being of any great length, that the man didn’t simply lean out of the window to throw up. The moment they had entered into the all too familiar docks, the door had been flung open, the solidness of the ground under his feet a comfort that he had never realized he had wanted so badly.
Nevertheless, he knew he had to do what Snake wanted. He was his assistant, his second-in-command; he was his helper. And so when instructions had been given to him, as to exactly which boxes to be moved, Chef had moved almost robotically. However, already, Chef was steadily regretting it.

It was a relatively warm night, the usual for the summer months that they were slowly making their way out of. But tonight, the sweat that ran off his body seemed to be determined to practically drown Chef. His hair was already matted to his scalp, the light grey jumper that covered his torso gaining those dark sweat patches that seemed to not be appearing on the other man. The boxes seemed impossibly heavy in his arms, as he trudged forward and back; and yet, as his gaze flicked across to Snake, whenever they seemed to pass, he looked like he was finding it effortless. Snake had always been stronger than Chef – that was a given, and mainly simply due to the differences in amount of hours spent working out. But he had never noticed a difference like this before. “What are they moving in here, dead bodies?!” The feeble joke drifted across to the other man, Chef forcing the normal grin onto his face, as he deposited his load into the back of the van, his arms aching even after only a few minutes. If he had looked in a mirror, he would’ve easily been able to see the way the colour seemed drained out of his face, or the fact that his clothes seemed already a couple of sizes too big for him; the weeks had taken more effect on him that he initially admitted to. But right now, his mind spun with the effort the physical exercise was taking on him – and for the briefest of moments, Chef lifted his hand to lean against the edge of the van, his mouth sucking in the air that seemed to be working uselessly in his body.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” He spoke quickly, as he finally turned, his path taking him past Snake once more, as one hand came to fan at his face, desperate to get some cool air towards his skin. Chef’s cool green gaze latched on to the remaining boxes that clung to the edge of the ship, the numbers seeming to never reduce, despite the numerous trips they had already made back and forth to the van; and with a soft groan dropping through his lips, another wooden carton was hoisted towards his chest, his heel turning to bring him back towards the van. “No, screw that. I’m definitely coming down with something.”

[Adrian Silverman]

Chef's skin was paler than usual. It had become immediately clear when he'd stepped up in front of him in the warehouse hallways and had a quick-moment meeting under fluorescent lights, which he had, at the time, suggested to himself might be the reason for the uncharacteristic paleness he witnessed in Chef on this day, and that he had witnessed in Chef for a while now, but without paying it much heed. The art of paying attention to details was one Snake was particularly skilled at: He always knew if someone's shoes weren't tied after giving a room a once-over, and he could tell you exactly which painting was tilted fractionally to the side, and which of your friends was a smoker, based on the yellowing tips of his or her fingers, but while few details went unnoticed, plenty were deemed insignificant and simply ignored. Not forgotten, always acknowledged, but he did not dwell on every detail like he might on some - the ones he considered important, carriers of some sort of symbolic or practical value. Recently, the tone and vibrancy of Chef's skin had not been considered significant enough to be paid the attention required to make in-depth analyses of any given aspect of worldly life, but as they stood here now, the gloom lit by a very different light, a warmer light falling from overhanging lamps that shed a careful, gentle glow onto their skin and made even Snake's skin - exposed by the white wife-beater he wore unaccompanied by other upper-body garments - seem less than ghostly pale (fractionally so), it occurred to him as he glanced over the edges of his dark sunglasses that Chef's pale skin had not been a trick of the fluorescent light.

He noticed it between rounds of fetching crates and moving them to the back of the van, catching a glimpse of Chef's now-glistening skin as he heaved a box from one side to the next, seeming to be handling their task with rather more difficulty than Snake was. Certainly, the boxes were heavy, but nothing out of the ordinary; no heavier than what he was used to carrying and transporting, and he had the work-out necessary to keep his body prepared for the sudden orders that might descend down the chain of command and land in his ear at the drop of a hat. Perhaps Chef had spent too much time slaving over hot pots and pans and too little focusing on his brawn and build - a matter Snake would have to personally oversee in the future. He couldn't have his second-in-command falling victim to the frailties of diminishing musculature. More importantly, he couldn't have Chef falling victim to the same frailties; of all the boys, he was the one whose furthered life was of the highest importance. Higher than his own, he would say, as he knew, without a doubt, that his own was past its expiration date.

“What are they moving in here, dead bodies?!” He stood by the crates still to be moved and cast a look over his shoulder at his sweat-stained friend, noting to himself that it was unusual for Chef to tire so quickly. "I didn't think to ask." It wasn't entirely accurate: Rather, one could say that Snake thought not to ask, knowing that if he was meant to know what was in the crates, they would have told him when they asked him to pick them up and transport them to the location he had been informed of. As they hadn't done this, Snake had deemed it none of his business, and accepted his appointment without demand or disappointment, as always. Of course, if he'd had the sense to consider the possibility that this was, potentially, one of Chef's many jokes, he might have recognized the lacking necessity of pointing out that he didn't know; rhetorical questions we a helpful device, that had always been Snake's opinion, but when it came to verbal communications, devices often failed to serve their purpose when faced with his literal understanding of utterances.

Another crate in his arms, and he held it steadily, turning without difficulty and walking back towards the van, finding comfort in the pressure put on muscles and joints as he moved crates over the asphalt distance separating boxes from van, but finding no comfort in watching Chef's back as he stood leaned against the vehicle, catching his breath. He furrowed his brow, listening to Chef's words about coming down with something, and nodded his head in agreement, maybe even acceptance. It would explain it. It was the only logical explanation. Their paths crossed, and he peered above the edges of his sunglasses at his pale friend. Yes. He was definitely coming down with something, and it was almost a relief to know that the mystery had been solved. He could, without worry, slide the latest box into the back of the van and turn around, leaning back against the vehicle as he watched Chef with difficulty maneuver another box back around his way. “Perhaps an overwhelming bout of weakness?” he stated coolly, arching a brow at him. His hand reached up, plucked the sunglasses off his nose, folded them and slipped them into his pocket, before his arms crossed over his chest and he turned his blue eyes in Chef’s direction, looking him over. He tilted his head to the side and shifted a little to his left, leaving the back of the van open for Chef’s arrival, and moving him safely out of the way. His eyes were busied with studying his friend as he approached, again allowing the furrow to form in his brow, concluding to him that the mystery was not entirely solved. “It must have lasted a while,” he stated quietly, his eyes dropping along the length of Chef’s body and climbing again to find his eyes, “You’re very thin.” His neck straightened, lifting his head again. “Very pale.”

A hand slipped back into his pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes with a set of matches tucked safely inside, and he leaned heavier back against the van, crossing one ankle over the other as he got a smoke out for himself and popped it in his mouth, before offering Chef one, too. “We’ll take a break,” he announced, no-nonsense, and nodded towards Chef’s sweater, “Before you soak yourself to the bone.”

[George Harris]

The rather serious reply to his joke was met only with a flicker of a grin from Chef’s lips. Normally, others may have felt that Snake was purposefully stating the obvious, trying to make the person who was performing the joke feel stupid; but Chef had spent far too many years by his side to take any offence in the slightest. It was true, his jokes were rather wasted on the other man; Snake just didn’t seem to have the sense of humour that most normal people did; and here was yet another prime example where there wasn’t even the polite response of even a forced chuckle, but rather, a comment that sucked the humour instantly out of the air. But still, Chef allowed the grin to grown on his own face, Snake’s reaction being more comforting to the tired man than anyone else’s could’ve been. He at least spoke how he saw it; there was no skirting around the edges, nor hiding behind false pretences. Chef knew exactly where he stood with him, and it just so happened that it was closer than anyone else... excluding Veen, perhaps. And yet, although their relationship was something he clung to, like nothing else, it was also the reason why he knew he couldn’t tell the older man about this ‘unfortunate problem’. They had both been through it before – Snake had been the one who had helped clean up his sick, and to cool his aching body, when Chef had gone through his forced rehab; Snake had in fact been the only reason Chef had even attempted it, let alone succeeded. And so now that he had fallen back into the spiral that seemed to suck the very essence out of his soul, Chef knew Snake couldn’t be allowed to know. He couldn’t let down his closest ally, like he had already let himself and Veen down.

Chef could already feel the box slipping in his fingers, the cool coat of sweat across his fingers causing him to find it almost impossible to find any grip – but with a slight clenching of his jaw, the grimace pulling his teeth together, he forced himself to continue, clutching with as much energy as he could muster. The box was more dropped than placed into the van, before he turned, this time allowing his body to fold in the middle, dropping heavily onto the edge of vehicle, his arms falling uselessly to his sides. He could’ve sworn that never in his life had he ever felt this tired, from such a simple task. He had felt exhaustion before; that was part and parcel of the job, especially in the earlier years, when there had been fewer men around to help out; but he certainly couldn't remember a time that it had ever felt quite like this. Every fibre of his body was already aching, and they were barely even halfway through the task. It had to be some kind of illness; he surely hadn’t let himself get this out of shape!

At Snake’s words, basic sentences stating out loud the whispers that had been flying behind his back for some time now, Chef simply nodded, his hands pulling up to his face, allowing his head to bury into them. It wasn’t like he was going to be going anywhere soon – it was clear that this break was definitely needed for the younger man, if there was to be any chance that he was going to be able to do any more loads. Silently, he reached to the hem of his jumper, pulling it up over his head in one smooth action; having the heavy cloth on was certainly not doing anything to help the overheating business.
His bare torso was revealed, as the grey jumper was pulled away; and as it was pulled away, it becoming apparant that the normal wife beater not present, it was only ever more evident the weight Chef was steadily losing. He had never been wildly muscular, and his frame certainly had never been one that screamed power; but he had certainly always had some form of strength. Normally, he would work out every day, if only to make sure he was prepared for any fights that seemed to forever fall near him – but it seemed that that was yet another thing to have faded into oblivion for the past few weeks. His routines had been completely thrown off; he did only what he had to do, trudging from deal to deal, before finding a quiet place to perform his own rituals. Even his cooking had been suffering – although meals were at least still being made, the flavours never quite seemed to be as vibrant, nor the food as imaginative as they had once been.

But even as the jumper was pulled away from him, it might not have been his weight loss that first sprung to an onlookers view. Perhaps it was the way the blood seemed to have flushed away from Chef’s skin, leaving a pale complexion; or maybe even it was the way the boxes had been pressing heavily against his skin; but as the sleeves were pulled away from his arms, the all too haunting red marks that could only mean one thing were revealed, dancing across the crook of his elbows. But Chef’s green eyes barely fluttered past them; his head was swimming with exhaustion, all he could do was simply place his head into the sodden jumper, desperate for at least some comfort. The thought, or even realization, that he had once again flung himself into a situation he certainly didn’t want to be in, for the second time today already, didn’t even cross his mind; instead, the sigh pushed through his mouth, his shoulders slumping, as the sweat gleamed off his bent back. “We should’ve got someone else to do this...” came the soft whine, as his eyes fluttered closed, his chest steadily rising in and out, each breath practically an effort. "We could be doing something much more fun right now.. like going to sleep..."

[Adrian Silverman]

He tucked the packet of cigarettes back into his pocket; it was clear that whatever state Chef was in - Snake hadn't quite decided which it was, but by the colour in his cheeks (or lack of such), he almost seemed anaemic - a cigarette would probably do him no good. He was made of different stuff than Snake was, obviously; city exhaust had always seemed, to him, more preferable than clean, fresh air, and directly inhaled cigarette smoke even more refreshing than that. Chef's smoking habits were the least of his concerns, however, and for a moment, even Chef himself was of little concern. He was pulling off his damp sweater, giving his skin some air, and Snake took a moment to look back at the boxes they still had to move, considering the option of attempting to back the van even closer to the merchandise. It was risky, at best; the reason they'd stopped where they were was the clutter in the alley they were loading from, and if they backed up further, they would doubtlessly hit something. Still, the thought of performing this task at less speed than what he had anticipated...

Delays were never a pleasant idea to Snake, whose every task on his to-do list was so carefully mapped out and timed inside his head that even the slightest delay would shift the timing of his entire day. He needed that control and coveted it even more, and even though Chef was one person he was willing to take an unplanned break for - it was Chef after all, and not some newcomer in need of discipline - their pause gave him cause for worry. Surely he hadn't misjudged the time it would take them? Hadn't Chef worked at a quicker pace, in the past? It wasn't even that long ago that they'd performed similar work at a much higher pace...

"Sleep isn't fun." He shook his head and tapped some ash off the tip of his cigarette, turning his head back to regard his pale friend, who seemed, now that his chest was exposed, even paler than he had earlier. He seemed thinner, too, and Snake's brow furrowed at the realization, travelling over the bones that seemed to protrude just a bit more, and comparing them in his mind to the way his own bones had always seemed to protrude just a bit more than what was healthy. Chef had always kept an eye out for that - what would they do if he, too, began to slip in the ways that Snake so easily slipped? If he didn't get sun and he didn't eat food, and his collar bones kept growing, and his elbows got more angular, and in the crooks of his elbows, red marks that...

For a moment, his mind stopped working, but it kicked into overdrive a second later. He knew those marks, he recognized them. Flashbacks from earlier occasions haunted him, showed him another time when Chef had been paler than now, and thinner than now, but the marks were the same. He stood up suddenly, pushing away from the van and lowering the cigarette away from his body as he advanced on Chef with a quick series of steps. He reached out and grabbed his arm by the elbow, lifted it and pushed it to the side and stared down at the all-too-familiar marks, eyes not wavering or blinking. For a moment, he was quiet, and needed only to rearrange his thoughts to fit this new setting he suddenly found himself in. After a few seconds, however, his thoughts had arranged themselves, and he saw them clearly, vividly, and they infuriated him. His jaw clenched hard and his blue eyes lifted, darting up to find and meet Chef's with the same unwavering, unblinking stare that he'd observed the crooks of his elbows.

"You're pale. You're thin. You're using." He practically spat the words, and a sneer tugged at his lips with every word he spoke. His jaw clenched again, harder than before, and for a moment, all he did was clench harder and release, clench harder and release. His lips finally parted, and he lifted his cigarette again, holding it up where Chef would see. "I have half a mind to put this out in your eye. Give me a reason not to." His brow arched to accompany a challenging look that filled his eyes. On some level, he knew that he wouldn't perform the action he'd threatened to perform. On a different level, he knew no such thing, and refused to acknowledge the level that knew better.

[sooo sorry for the delay!!]

[George Harris]

Rather unsurprisingly, Chef was still resolutely uncomfortable. The jumper was doing nothing to help the ache in his head or body, and although he longed to simply just lie on his side, and close his eyes briefly, he knew Snake would be even more unimpressed at that sight than he even was now. He could already practically feel the older man’s gaze sweep across his body as they took their ‘break’. Sure, perhaps he wasn’t demonstrating second in command strength right now – but he was ill. Everyone got ill occasionally; and it just so happened that it was Chef’s turn today. So Snake could stare all he wanted. Chef was still going to try and find some comfort in this break anyway.

But it soon became clear there was going to be no relaxation for the tired man.

He didn’t even hear Snake push away from the van, nor his footsteps coming rapidly towards him; and so, he had no time to prepare. Instead, the first sign that Chef got that anything was even remotely wrong was the sudden wrapping of fingers around his arm, and the sharp pulling of his limb. His head dropped briefly, as the stand that was holding it up was taken away; but it darted back up, as quickly as he could manage without having the world swim in front of him, the frown now firmly present on his face. Snake’s fingers were tight around his skin, and as Chef’s green gaze briefly dropped down to stare at what he seemed so fixated on, his heart quite literally seemed to stop in his chest, his green eyes widening. They were blindingly obvious even to him; the thin red lines tracing angrily across his pale skin, calling out to be noticed, screaming for attention. It would’ve taken an idiot to have missed them; but it seemed, he was that said idiot.

Momentarily, the idea that he could try and protest, and think of some excuse raced through Chef’s mind, as his gaze stared down at the unfamiliar, and yet oh so familiar sight on his arm. Maybe he could blame the boxes, saying that they had rubbed across his arms, and left the marks – or perhaps he could claim that he had given blood, and the person doing it had just been utterly useless. But as his gaze slowly lifted, coming to meet the stare that he could’ve already guessed would’ve been on Snake’s face, the words faltered in his throat. Of course he couldn’t lie – Snake wasn’t stupid. If it was even possible, the blood drained even further out of Chef’s face, his eyes darting away from the solid gaze of his gang leader, and his best friend. He wanted to hide, to get away from all this, from the sudden blow of reality; but he was practically frozen in place, his arm dropping back to his side as it was finally released, turning over, the sight hidden once more, as if maybe it would just simply be forgotten about.

Words were spat towards him, falling heavily onto his body; but Chef didn’t even flinch. Instead, he seemed almost like a man not even listening – his gaze was on the ground, his body stiff with the shock of the moment; but it was clear by the slightest tightening of his brow, that he had heard everything Snake had said. He couldn’t even look up towards his friend, to see the cold stare that he had only ever seen once before. He had been found out, not only by Veen, but also by Snake, in the space of a few hours. It seemed incredible to think anyone could even be that stupid – but seemingly Chef had managed to achieve the impossible.

“We need to load the boxes.” It was hardly a reason at all; but even as he spoke, Chef stood, his gaze still unable to meet Snake’s, his feet pulling him over to the dock they had previously been so engrossed on. His hands reached down automatically to grab at the nearest crate, turning, and moving back – but he had barely even made it halfway, before the wooden surface slipped between his shaking hands, crashing to the floor, and filling the area with the sound of the splinters. Silently, Chef stared down at it, almost incredulously, unable to comprehend how only moments ago it had been in his hands, and now it was laying on the floor; and finally, his gaze lifted, coming to meet Snake’s, his mouth opening to speak once more, as he sunk to the ground beside the box, his head falling back into his hands, as his legs folded. “I’m sorry.”

An apology – perhaps for the box, or maybe for the revelation Snake had just found out. Chef wasn’t even sure himself..

[Adrian Silverman]

Suddenly, his schedule was irrelevant. Over the course of few moments, timing went from being of absolute concern, to meaning absolutely nothing. Time itself meant absolutely nothing as he stood there, staring at his friend and incredulously taking in his response. We need to load the boxes. He stared harder, inwardly attempting to will Chef to look at him, to meet his eyes and offer him some sort of explanation - not necessarily one that took the shape of words. Something, anything, to make it seem less like the world was suddenly unravelling. Why would it do that? Why? It struck him as a wave of tension, the possibility that Chef was the glue of the world. Of his world, at least; if nothing else, he had to accept that.

He let him go, let him walk away, and simply stood there, staring blankly ahead with wide eyes, lost at the very least. He turned slowly and watched his friend move, watched him reach the crate, watched him pick it up, watched him turn and start moving towards him again, where he stood by the truck. Watched him fail and falter, drop the crate and send splinters shooting across wet asphalt. He clenched his jaw, wincing a bit and turning his eyes away to avoid the sight of Chef sinking to the ground. He was a fallen man. Chef, of all people, was a fallen man, a sunken man, a broken man, and it seemed impossible, all of a sudden, that anything should then stand, float, stay together, survive. If he couldn't make it, neither of them could. He closed his eyes.

He closed his eyes and thought, for a moment, that he might be praying. What he was praying for or who he was praying to was unknown and unimportant; he didn't concern himself with those questions, nor did he have the time to, as he was distracted from all thought by Chef's words. I'm sorry.. There was little Snake hated as much as those two words.

Moving was like standing still, as he rapidly advanced that handful of steps that separated the two of them, moving at a hasty stride, taking long, controlled steps. He was outside himself and within himself - decidedly beside himself - and unwilling to accept that this was Chef, now. This was Chef, as he had been when he met him, returned now to the gutter, and sinking to his knees. His Chef didn't indulge in such actions, he told himself, and suppressed any indication of Michael attempting to bubble to the surface and swarm him with unnecessary sympathy and the urge to shield and warm. He pushed him down and away, further with each inch he got closer to Chef. By the time he stood in front of him and could lower himself a little closer to where he sat, he was completely buried under his determination to be stronger, and to force Chef to be stronger, as well.

He grabbed him by his arms, utilizing the strength he'd spent his life building as he forcefully pulled him to his feet, practically snarling as he did so. It was no secret side of Snake, this snarling, vicious side; it was, instead, the side that most frequently manifested, but rarely directed at Chef. He got him, now, the snarling one, lifting him up and pushing him back, ramming his back hard against the wall to the warehouse.

"Fuck the boxes!" It was like a whispered shout - though by his volume, it was a stage whisper at best, and nearer still to normal speaking volume - and accompanied by a fixed stare, going straight to Chef's eyes. "You do not kneel on the ground and say sorry. You are not a kneeler, you are not sorry!" He released his arms and redirected his right-hand grip instead to his jaw, sinking his thumb into one of Chef's cheeks and his index- and middle-finger into the other. No doubt he looked mad. No doubt he was a little mad, the man who found comfort staring down the barrel of a gun, and concluded that the end was nigh from a daisy growing through a crack in the concrete, and madder still for the revelation that had just struck him. Chef was using again.

"You do not have the liberty of failure, George." His demeanour softened just a bit as he spoke the long-since-familiar name, and he faltered, barely, for a moment, letting the grip on his friend's face get a little less rough, and the look in his eyes just a little more pleading. "You will come back." He demanded it.


[OMG I SUCK. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!]

[George Harris]

The damp of the floor was already soaking through his bottoms, the coldness ebbing through his thin clothing – but Chef didn’t yet move to get away from it. That was the last of his problems right now; instead, he had to focus on exactly what had just been revealed to the two closest people in his life. His mind was swirling, reeling from the fact that he had been exposed so easily; there hadn’t even been a fight to conceal it.
His blue-green gaze didn’t dare to glance up from where he had sunk to his knees, towards the man that was both his best friend and idol, all rolled into one. But even though he purposefully kept his sight down, the image of exactly the expression on Snake’s face, the way his mind would be racing around all of what had just happened, couldn’t help to but imprint on the ground in front of him, taunting him even despite his best efforts to ignore it. Chef knew him too well, they had been through too much, for him not to be able to at least hazard a guess as to what the other man was thinking – and it most certainly wasn’t good. Not for him at least. It was like that old saying, when you were a kid; it was worse, not when your parents were angry, but disappointed. But the thing with Snake, was that once he had forced his way through that stage of disappointment, it took a whole of two seconds for him to flip back to the angry... and with him, the anger was strangely, but most definitely, a hundred times worse.

Steps echoed towards him; but Chef didn’t have the chance, or even the willpower, to try and back away from the tornado he was sure was going to hit him in approximately three... two... one... zero. His arms were practically wrenched out his sockets, his body being lifted up off the ground as easily as if he weighed nothing – and before he knew it, he was on his feet. His legs felt like they had no form of energy inside them, his torso yearning to simply lie back down on the solid floor; but Snake was quickly making it clear that that was no longer an option. He no longer had the choice to bury his head in the sand, to pretend that his life wasn’t falling apart in his hands; instead, his body was slammed back into the wall, as easily as a rag doll, fingers pressing deep into his cheeks. Chef wanted to complain, to scream out in pain; but Snake was holding him so tightly, his jaw was locked, the breath knocked out of him from the throw against the wall.

Words were spat towards him, and this time, Chef had no other choice but to keep his gaze skittering across the older man’s face. Although it wasn’t particularly rare for Snake to show this kind of levels of temper that seemed to burn within him, it was rare for it to be directed towards his second in command. Normally, Chef was tugging at his elbow, stepping in between whomever he had chosen to throw up high, calming the situation down; but there was no one to save him now. He had allowed himself to become as worthless as any other man Snake could’ve found on the street, slipping back into the role that he had first found himself in all those years ago. He was unequal, because of his own decisions; he was simply another junkie, hiding in the shadows of the East Side.

But he wasn’t. Even as Snake spoke the name that had once been the only one he had responded to, Chef’s back bristled, his blue-green eyes filling with a flash of fight... of life. An anger that he had never felt before bubbled through his veins, at the thought that it was all going to be taken away from him again; that he would have to go through something he didn’t need. He had it under control; he wasn’t addicted. Could Snake not see that?

But of course, Snake couldn’t even see the half of it. The other man had no idea what it felt like. He didn’t know the agony that Chef was forced to go through, the way everything was so painful, so vivid without the drugs. When he was awake, he was forced to watch his two closest companions swirl about each other closer than he could get to either of them – he was reminded how poor his life had become, how he had nothing he had ever dreamed of. And then, with the simple insertion of a cool liquid, all those worries disappeared. All the pain disappeared. And everything was fine again. He could continue on joking, forming smiles on others faces. It made him feel better; what was so wrong with that?!

However, even as the fight seemed to flood into Chef’s body, his mind catching on the arguments he could throw back in his friends face, the anger seemed to pool back out just as quickly. Even as he thought about it, he knew he was wrong. He was addicted. Even the other day, he had thrown a undercooked store-bought pizza in front of the men for their dinner, simply so he could scurry off, and pick up the delivery that would stop his hands from shaking, and his stomach from rolling over in those nauseous circles. That wasn’t him; even the thing he loved doing most, had fallen behind in the wake of the drugs. And now, his two best friends had joined that list. But the thought of what he had to do, the nightmare of the rehabilitation... it scared him to his very bone.

The grip was loosened only slightly on his face, the blood and feeling finally rushing back into his lips – but there was still not enough leeway, nor did Chef have enough strength, to completely rip his face away from the grip of Snake. Instead, his gaze swept across the older man’s face once more, searching for the weakness that he needed to find, that he wanted to see, so that he could pretend like this had never happened. But Snake was strong; he was invincible. He was perfect. He would never been caught in a disgusting swirl of drugs like Chef had... of course not. And he would be able to pull him back out. But even as the trust swept through his thin body, the words that fell out of his mouth didn’t connect. “I.. I can’t...”

Now, even more than any of the moments before, Chef wanted to tear his gaze away, to hide from the onslaught that was sure to rain down on his head. But Snake’s grip was still too strong, and he was still too weak. But all Chef wanted him to see was that he was fine; albeit full of drugs that were sure to wrack his body with problems in the future; but otherwise fine. He didn’t need to stop them, they were helping him.

It was almost impressive how he managed to delude himself so well..

---

[ my apologies for the delay ! ]

[Adrian Silverman]

His grip tightened, fingers once more digging into his friend's cheeks while his eyes dug into Chef's. He didn't know who he was. Not Chef; Chef was as clear as he'd always been, as familiar to him as he'd been the first time he'd seen him, battered and broken, ready to succumb to the streets and lose all trace of life. The first look had revealed him to Snake - he was Michael, then, for a moment - as a familiar, more than anyone had ever revealed themselves as a familiar to him. Perhaps Veen was the only exception, but was she? He'd seen the weakness in Chef's eyes in eyes that looked mysteriously like his own, before. The mirror had given him away, in a different life, like a mirror would give Chef away, now. He was slipping away, back into those familiar haunts that he'd once lost himself in. It was clear as day, seen it before: This was George. He knew George, his weaknesses and strengths, and knew that this was, of his weaknesses, the most profound.

It was himself he didn't know.

On some level, he could feel them bleeding together. If there was blood, there was a wound; if there was a wound, there was a cut, and he had been cut deep enough by this that he could feel it stirring. The blood was stirring, moving together with the blood from a different self, and he couldn't tell, in that moment, where one ended and the other began. The brutality of Snake was in the tips of his fingers, digging mercilessly into Chef's skin, and the gentle concern of Michael was in his wrists, displaying an increasing tremble as it threatened to give in under the weight of Snake's rage. He could be simultaneously disgusted with him and fond of him. He could be simultaneously defending him and attacking him. For this, this growing moment, it became impossible to see which was which. His grip tightened. His fingertips dug. His heart raced. His mind quieted.

He wasn't in control of himself.

"You can't?" Wasn't in control of his words. Thought he could hear Michael weeping for him and pleading for his forgiveness, knew he could hear Snake snarling at him and promoting his destruction. He was caving in, anyway; what was there to protect? What was there to forgive? "You give up before you try, like a fucking junkie, you disgust me." The hiss was Snake's; it had to be Snake's, and he knew it had to be Snake's, but the wide-eyed panic that gripped hold of his normally dispassionate face was Michael's - all Michael's. They were bursting through his skin, refusing his commands and his categorical separation. They wanted theirs and they wanted his; they wouldn't wait for his permission or orderly arrangement. Filthy hands; they were all over him, wet and cold, grabbing and clawing, wanted the skin away. The skin wanted away.

"You have to stay. You have to stay." The desperate plea was beyond him; his voice felt different, foreign to him and belonging to a different entity. It became clear to him that he was under the influence of some other being that could make his moment of confusion advantageous to itself, and while he found himself in the clutches of this unidentified force, his limbs weakened and his hold on Chef loosened. His hand slipped lower, brushing from his jaw and cheeks to place a loose grip around the base of his throat, resting on his collar bones. "You..." The sentence got away from him, and he shook his head, shook himself, pushed back - for a moment, there was pressure on Chef's throat - and pulled away from him. A quick turn, faced-paced movement, five paces in all; he was circling around himself, and then he came back to him. Came back to that close position and moved closer still, until he almost had his nose pressed against his cheek. He'd escaped that unidentified force; confusion was still wreaking havoc in this vessel, but he knew how to defend himself against weakness, now. There was strength in this wound. There was strength in the movement of his blood.

"You can't!" he continued in a growl, and it was Snake again, all Snake, with Michael whimpering pitifully in the background, only present in a fading softness in his eyes. Not his place. He'd accomplish nothing, here, but he insisted on mixing his blood with Snake's blood, still, stubborn little shit, you'll ruin everything. They were battling, but Snake was stronger. Snake was stronger than everyone. He was stronger than his body. The skin wanted away. He wanted the skin away, and his hands reached for it, reached for the skin covering his abdomen, reached to rip it all away, but found only fabric. Found the battered beater and gripped it tightly, knuckles brushing against Chef's skin. He realized he was standing very close. His eyes dropped to the gap between them, but become focused - fixated - on the tight fists clutching fabric, pale and fading, fading away. "You're turning him translucent..." Michael's voice, weak and trembling and concerned. Afraid.

His eyes lifted rapidly and fixed him with a stare of enraged accusation. "You're turning him translucent with your petty failures," Snake's voice, strong and bold, never a doubt offered in moments of hesitation. He grabbed him by the neck again, his hold firmer, but not attempting to restrict breath, and one hand still clutching his shirt. "I gave you this. I gave you this second life, I moulded it with his hands, my hands! I never gave you leave to throw it away!" His grip tightened on Chef's throat, but Michael was there, carefully loosening it and stroking the back of his hand with gentle, soothing touch. Careful, you'll break him. He let his neck go, decided it was for the best; they made the decision together, and he was pleased with this, this display of cooperation that they'd never before mastered. Instead, both hands cupped his cheeks with the combined firmness and gentleness of their cooperation, and he whispered to him, soft as raindrops, "If you want to give it back, it's mine to take. You can live or you can die, but your death is mine."

[George Harris]

Almost the moment the words fell out of his mouth, Snakes fingers were tightening again, pressing deep into his cheeks, and a small dart of a flash of pain swam across Chef’s face, his jaw now locked so tightly it was almost impossible to even grunt a complaint of the rough treatment. But this was what he deserved, right? He should have expected this – because, he was a junkie... and they certainly didn’t deserve any kindness. They were the lowest of the low, the scum that crawled across the street, the ones who everyone crossed to the other side of the road just to get away from – and yet they were the ones who needed the most help. He needed help... and the only person that had managed to do that the last time he had found himself in this devastating position, had been the man who was now standing in front of him.

But even as Chef’s gaze scrambled across Snake’s face, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in the air that his mouth had been closed to, he was met with a rather disconcerting sight. Chef had once thought he knew everything about the other man; or at least, as much as you could unravel after years of standing by his elbow. But the softening in his eyes, the almost weakness that seemed to be present on his expression... that was something new. Never before had Chef seen anything other than the solid wall of anger, or confusing intelligence in the other man that was present normally. Never before had he really seen anything so... human.
For that was how he had always thought of Snake. Inhuman. Not in the sense that he was robotic, nor like a machine or even completely heartless – but rather, inhuman because of his levels of complexity, hisintelligence. They were so high, that no one else could compete. Chef certainly couldn’t at least. And that was why Veen loved Snake, why everyone did – no matter what run-ins the various men had had with him, Chef doubted whether there was a single one that wouldn’t lay down their life for their leader. He contained a view of the world that no one else saw, spoke words of such intellect that they practically should be written down and taught to high schoolers for the rest of time, as examples of great words put together to form even greater sentences. He was a supreme being, better in every way than Chef could ever force himself to be – and here was yet another example. Here Snake was, being perfect, as usual, and Chef was left floundering in the gutter. He needed Snake’s help once again, to get him out of the mess that he had made purely by himself – but something was different. Something was wrong.

For once in his life, Chef had no idea how to react to Snake. Indecision seemed to flit across the other man’s body, and dance within his words; it took only seconds for him to dash between words that sent shudders of fear darting through Chef’s body, to ones that were almost pleading with him. His hands were moving to his throat – but almost the moment they touched at the skin, Snake had pulled away, moved away, and Chef briefly took the moment to suck in the air that had been denied to him earlier. His body was still taught, pressed against the warehouse door, as if there was still pressure forcing him back towards it – he couldn’t yet relax. This wasn’t over; if anything, the revealing that he was using again was going to be the easiest bit of it all. It was what came after; how the other man chose to react to it – and right now, Chef had no idea exactly how it was going to pan out. His gaze stayed firm on Snake’s retreating back, watching as his feet pulled him back, facing him once more; and it was with barely even a flinch, that he felt the man storm back, his face practically pressing against his own.

Warm breath trickled across his cheek, the two men’s eyes mere millimetres away from one another – and silently, Chef kept the gaze firm, his mouth glued shut for the moment. There was nothing more he could say, certainly nothing to rectify this situation; and so for now, he said nothing. Hands were moving down his front, pulling his shirt away from his stomach – but still, Chef kept his gaze connected to Snake’s, searching for what he was meant to be doing in the other man. If Snake was full of such indecision, flitting between one emotion to another, than what in the world was Chef meant to be doing? He depended on the other man for more than a friendship – he was the only person who knew everything. He was the only person who kept him sane, other than Veen perhaps. But maybe that was when you truly knew you were going crazy; when you depended on Snake, of all people, to keep you sane...

Words were still being flung at him – but ones that now were making less sense than ever before. He was turning him translucent?! The words were repeated, still just as confusing; and with a sudden dash of fear, Snake’s hands were lifted back up to Chef’s throat. Was he going to strangle him right here and now? It would be easier for everyone surely; just get rid of the weakest link within the gang, of the junkie and everything would be fine. No one would know, and it wasn’t like no one had ever ‘disappeared’ in the East Side before. It wouldn’t be too hard to find a new chef for the men at the warehouse... and surely, the only person who pass more than a fleeting worry about whether he turned up at home at night, would be Veen. But she would move on; she would find solace and comfort in Snake. He would protect her, and dry her tears, because he was really the one perfect for her. But even as the thought crept into his mind, it disappeared straight away – Snake wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t... could he?!

His mind felt like it was jumping from one ridiculous scenario to another, a whirlwind of thoughts that made no sense any more – but thankfully, the momentary worry of death was released, as Snake’s hands lifted, cupping his cheeks, a much gentler action than before. The other man’s voice had lowered to a whisper, and Chef’s whole being strained forward to listen. And one again... the words made no sense to him.
Chef had heard hints before, words that he had normally batted away with a casual shake of his head, that Snake truly believed that he had mapped out his life. He certainly didn’t seem to have done it to his own, but rather, focused on Chef; and although at first he had found it slightly odd, Chef had come to accept it as yet another one of Snake’s quirks. But now – now it was something further. His... death was Snake’s?! What did that even mean?

Chef almost wanted to utter the words of confusion that ran though his mind, question Snake as to what he meant – but his mouth stayed shut for the time being. That would only serve to aggravate Snake no doubt; he couldn’t show further weakness, For once, the tables had been turned; Chef was the silent one, whilst Snake filled the quiet with words. Normally, it was the younger man who was yabbering away, cracking jokes whilst the other simply stared, or glared, or both. But today, none seemed to want to form in Chef’s mind, let alone be released from his lips. He needed to find the right ones to say, ones that would stop this uncomfortable view of a Snake that was dissolving in front of him, one that was never seen by anyone. He was destroying his best friend, as much as he was destroying himself, forcing both of them into a situation that neither had ever wanted to see again; but one that they could no longer avoid.

But he had to say something. Snake had clearly said what he wanted to – and the two men were simply left staring at each other, the silence yawning between them, hands pressed against his cheeks. Chef wasn’t entirely sure whether they were there for comfort, or as a threat – he had seen Snake kill before, with his bare hands, as easily as he did with a weapon; and it was rather a disturbing sight – more disturbing than simply seeing someone die, even as it was. Many almost definitely thought the older man had something wrong with him; but for Chef, it had always come back in a swift circle to what he had figured before; that Snake was inhuman.

However, Chef was perfectly human – a shining example of all the faults and flaws that came with normality. And there was not a chance in hell he was ever going to be able to grasp back some form of strength; at least, not while he was facing Snake. And so, finally, his mouth opened, his gaze slowly dropping from Snake’s, as he admitted the words that he knew he needed to ask. “What do I do?”

A cry for help. A final acceptance that he needed to change. And once again, Chef’s body pleaded to crumple to the ground, to hide away from the world once more – but slowly, he drew a deep breath in, bringing his blue-green gaze back up to meet Snake’s, the shimmer of desperation flickering like a dying flame. And softly, he whispered the only words that were true to him anymore; “... I don’t want to die.”

[Adrian Silverman]

His descent into madness had been gradual and long-lasting, he knew that. Fascinated, he had observed his development with a scientist's precision, accurately plotting the course already taken into the chart in his mind, planning the course still to take with history-conscious predictions and correcting his predictions whenever he strayed from his estimations. For the most part, he had found himself to be predictable, on occasion almost dull, but there were bursts of qualities that surprised even him, at a time when he'd lost faith in his ability to be surprised. It had troubled him as much as it pleased him, and like with anything he received with such a conflict of emotion, it had, for a while, engulfed him.

This, he reckoned, had been one of many mistakes.

It was Chef's madness that needed to be put on a pedestal now; there was no room for indulgent narcissism when those pillars that you rested your existence on were beginning to crumble. Yes, crumble and fall; the end seemed inevitable when he looked at Chef, now. Poor, suffering Chef, adrift and astray, so unlike the character he'd sustained for these years they'd spent together, but so much like the character he'd found when they first stumbled upon each other. They were both astray, then. Perhaps they were both astray now? They would find each other again; it struck him, all of a sudden, as the work of romantics. These ships without sailors, set adrift amidst reefs and deep-sea monsters, not passing in the night, but settling alongside each other and battling these demons together - and their demons were profound. Respectable demons, you could say; Snake acknowledged this with an abrupt nod, perhaps out of place as he stood staring into Chef's eyes, waiting for the words of response to present themselves to him, prepared and readied for expression.

Chef didn't know what to do and he didn't want to die; Snake didn't know what to do, but he did want to die. They were oddly mismatched, but it was only appropriate: unlike him, Chef still had life in his bones. Even now, Snake could see it, a golden fissure that stretched across his eyes and crept onto his skin, threatening to rapture and shine this insufferable light on every nocturnal creature in the near vicinity. He was one of these nocturnal creatures, but he had seen this particular golden light enough times to know that it wouldn't hurt him.

Still, it was inappropriate to stare.
He dropped his eyes.

"Good, good." His eyes were on Chef's bare torso, a hand dropping away from his face to land on his chest, right above the heart, and find solace in the sensation of its continued beating. The other hand remained on his face, even when his eyes didn't, and stroked the man's cheek with the kind of tenderness that surfaced in bursts, that had always surfaced in bursts. He was subdued by gentleness; Chef didn't want to die. It was a relief; it put those stirring innards at rest and gave him room to draw breath. There would be no need, then, to force a premature end on his companion to avoid a far more disgraceful finish.

Maybe it wasn't sensible.
It was likely that he was overanalysing.
No matter. It was done.

The hand on Chef's chest lifted with his eyes to join the other hand in its gentle hold of his friend's face, as his eyes settled again on his friend's. He was certain, for a moment, that they had never seemed bluer, but concluded, mere seconds later, that it was a trick of the light. His eyes were the same that they'd always been. The time wasn't right for indulging in imagination; Chef's madness on the pedestal. "We've done this before." His voice was soft, falling in line with the tenderness of his touch as he faced his friend now with renewed self-control and a distinct taste of Michael in his mouth. "You and I; we've done this before. You remember." It wasn't a question or a demand; he was simply stating the facts as he saw them, and he assumed for the time-being that Chef's view of the world coincided with his own on this particular matter.

For a moment, he faltered, his eyes falling away from Chef's and beginning instead a furrow-browed inspection of his face, complete with a trace of every line and every feature that was compared to the earliest memories he had of this man's face. In that moment, he was at a loss. "You were over this; we were stronger, both stronger, better than we were..." His voice trailed off, lowered to inaudible ghosts of words as he studied the face in his hands and traced the lines of this face with his thumb. It was very familiar. He knew it well. Not all of the lines had been there before, but none of them struck him as particularly wicked. He couldn't blame this on the lines. "What happened, what happened..." Chef's madness on the pedestal; he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, forcing away this inclination to drift off into his own world and examine it from another's perspective.

He opened his eyes and was back, meeting Chef's eyes and forcing the semblance of a smile onto his lips. It was out of place, it felt misplaced and odd; his lips wouldn't remain in this position for long, and the grimace faltered after a few seconds. "It doesn't matter." Determination peaked in his voice; a course of action was taking shape. "This is useless." A hand lifted and gestured vaguely in the direction of the still not loaded crates, and he shook his head at them, feeling a surge of reproach at their presence. "We'll find someone else." He loathed handing off work of some importance to the lesser-downs (though he recognized the advantages of doing so), but at current time, this work, this duty, seemed inconsequential.

His eyes found Chef's again, and though the touch of his hands remained tender, his eyes hardened considerably and became unforgiving. "This stops now."

[George Harris]

It seemed the moment Chef managed to drag his gaze back up to meet Snake’s, the other man’s was moving away, roaming across his body. One hand dropped from his cheek, resting across his chest, across the place where his heart felt like it was literally about to explode out; and silently, Chef could only watch as Snake stared at it. For what reason, he could only guess. Perhaps his mind was exploring the ideas of how easy it would be to puncture that organ, and finish this off, once and for all for both of them. Or he could be thinking about the way that was the only thing that was truly keeping Chef alive anymore. His mind was no longer as strong as it had once been, his body weaker than ever before; but his heart was still pounding furiously, desperate to always be heard. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die. And surely that counted for something?

Chef wasn’t entirely sure whether Snake’s hand, which gently stroked across his cheek, was meant to be comforting for him, or for the other man – but either way, he didn’t pull away from it. This time, it was his turn to stare, gazing furiously across the older man’s face, taking in all that he could; and once again, he was reminded only of how complex, how intelligent Snake was. He was a enigma, a riddle that Chef had never been able to figure out, despite the years he had spent by his side. Occasionally, he would think that he had got him all figured out, that he would be able to predict his reaction to things; but still, Snake managed to surprise him almost every day. But even this, Chef was in awe of. How could a man possess so much to his character, that no one else could understand him? Everyone knew Chef; he was the dependable, rock steady person in the gang. He was not complex at all. But Snake.... Snake was something different. Snake was a supreme being.

Slowly, Snake’s gaze finally lifted – and Chef this time held it steady, watching as the silence yawned between them, a moment of composure felt by both. He had nothing else to say; nothing else could mean as much as the fact that he wanted to live; and so, he simply waited for his orders to be given. No matter what, no matter how others saw them as equals, how they could technically be classed as ‘best friends’, Chef was always going to be Snake’s servant. He would answer to his wishes, to his orders, and he would follow him to the death. But as Snake spoke of how they had gone through this before, slowly, Chef’s gaze dropped.

Oh, how he remembered. It was what plagued his nightmares, what kept him awake at night. The memories of that itching that couldn’t be itched, the shaking that refused to stop, the constant vomiting... Even know, the thought of it sent a jolt of pain through his limbs, a soft frown flitting across his brow. It had been hard enough the first time around, when he hadn’t know what was coming; but now he knew. He knew that he was going to wish he was dead, before it was over; and that his body, and his mind, would become full of strange aliens, taking over, forcing pain that you couldn’t even imagine. But Snake wanted him to do it again. It was the only way – he had to get clean again. That was the only way he was going to live.

Even as the older man continued to speak, Chef kept his gaze downwards. He knew these questions were going to come – of course, they had to. What happened? Why had he turned back to the drugs? Why had he become scum again, when he had been travelling so high?! And slowly, as he looked up, Snakes words were trailing off, his eyes squeezed shut. Chef wished he could tell, wished that he could explain to anyone, including himself... but there was no real reason. Others might’ve been able to pinpoint their own downfall, to a tragedy, perhaps, or something along those lines – but Chef had simply slipped back in, with no real push. He had become engrossed in it, before he had even really realized. And no words could make any excuses for that. Perhaps he had never been stronger, or better, like Snake claimed. Perhaps that had only been Snake who had grown...

But as Snake’s eyes opened once more, the image of a smile appeared on his face; and Chef’s blue-green gaze dropped to the other man’s lips, scanning across the curve of the flesh, almost incredulously. Snake was smiling? For a moment, his mind almost told him that he was only in the midst of another drug fuelled dream, that he was high, imagining things, because Snake never smiled; but as the voice was spoken again, words drifting between those lips that had just caused such disbelief in Chef’s mind, he knew he wasn’t. Snake had actually been smiling, at perhaps the time Chef would’ve least expected him ever to smile – and yet again, here was an example of his complexity. Here was another thing Chef was sure he would never understand.

His gaze couldn’t help but to keep focused on Snake’s lips, watching as they moved effortlessly, forming words that were meant only for him. Chef almost hoped he would see the smile again, that the corners would curl up just so – but steadily, the words were becoming harder again, as well as the force of the gaze that was practically tangible... and slowly, Chef looked up, meeting his gaze. ’This stops now.’ It had to. There was no other option. If he wanted to live, it had to stop now.

He just had to keep remembering that he wanted to live.

Slowly, although never letting Snake’s hand slip away from his cheeks, Chef nodded. He could hardly argue; there was only one way out of this mess, and that was a tall call as it was. But if Snake was willing to help him, than surely, he had to grasp it with both hands. Snake had been his saviour once before, therefore, they could do it again. But this time, there was someone else involved as well; someone who had been hurt just as much, or even more, than Snake.

“Veen,” Chef softly breathed, the word causing a start in his chest, as he was reminded of the pain that he had caused her. Was she even going to be waiting for him, after these hours he had spent with Snake? He guessed he couldn’t blame her, if she wasn’t... He had lied to her, had hidden from her; and he had destroyed her trust. Never before had he thought he could destroy a person; but the look on her face as she entered to find him on the bed, had been one of a person on the brink. But he knew, if he couldn’t get her to forgive him, than everything done with Snake would be pointless, as he would be dead anyway. “Veen knows,” He finally spoke again, his gaze still firm on the older man’s. He wasn’t entirely sure what Snake would be able to do to help that problem as well; but if anyone could do anything, it would be him...

[Adrian Silverman]

Doggedly the breeze was blowing, brushing its feather-light touch across his nape with teasing inaccuracy. Panic was stirring in the depths of his chest, pinned down somewhere between his ribs and shifting mercilessly, at the conjectured supposition that it might also be playing across Chef's skin in this unyielding manner, filling his ears also with taunting whispers of days despoiled and strengths spoliated. His eyes closed and his jaw clenched, and he swallowed down that building tension that would have him descend into derangement and lose his capacity of constructivism. With reluctance, it settled back, shifting to a point underneath his ribs where it was forced down and away, pending its time until its next assault. His eyes opened and were blue again. (They had felt void and colourless just now, and it didn't strike him as sensible that it should simply be a trick of the mind, that abandon that had overtaken them.) They found Chef and Chef found them, and he spoke of revelations that had previously not been spared a thought.

Veen.

It was a subject that grated against his sensibilities - an unforeseen complication, newly uncovered, which made the plans he'd laid so far in his head (it buzzed away mercilessly, compiling string of thought upon string of thought until he'd built a house so half-formed it was doomed to fall in on itself when faced with the slightest breeze) unravel in his hands. Some unseen, but acutely felt, force tugged his lips into a sneer and alerted him to the impossibility of the notion he'd been presented with. That's these plans goodbye. Another level, another complication. Carry the two and add difficulty to difficulty - it's a new universe, now.

It was unlikely that Veen had learned this news in a preferential manner.
It was likely that she was none too pleased.
It was likely that this was a problem that would require more complex calculation than initially anticipated.

The emotions of his fellow man, no matter how dear to him, was not one of his strong suits.
They were at a loss of advantage.

His thumb shifted away from its place, no longer stroking Chef's cheek but instead pressing down on the middle of his lips, blocking off any words on the matter that might follow. "Shhh..." The near-whistling sound left him in a quiet whisper, tender and gentle and comforting as a mother on her sobbing child's bedside after a particularly upsetting nightmare. His eyes were on Chef's lips again, a warning look contained in the light blue of his irises though they too were gentle, now - he wouldn't have further mention of this factor that added unsolvable to unsolvable in an ever-growing equation. His brow was knitted, his lips tight and thin, slowly pursing as he began again his quiet calculations. His mind was moving as usual again, factoring in these added intricacies of their predicament - 'predicament' made 'tragedy' seem at once more surmountable - and moving towards the equated sum-of-parts to provide a solution to their misery.

"Veen will help," he concluded in his softest of soft voices, moving his thumb back to its previous placement on Chef's cheek and making it again stroke back and forth in what was no doubt a more comforting manner to him than it was to Chef. His other hand rose also, gliding up Chef's neck to rest on his other cheek, this thumb too brushing over his friend's cheekbone, but settling after one movement rather than getting itself stuck in a repetitive loop of comfort attempted. "She'll stand with us and she'll help. Hmm? We're at once stronger for it - you'll see we're at once stronger for it." The insisting quality of his voice made its way there without being prompted, and he wished it away on some level, couldn't face its insufficiency on another and wished more of it on another altogether. For now, he would deny the unquestionable reality that this insisting quality was for his own benefit - before he could convince another, he needed to convince himself. Even those pitch-black, deep-down parts of himself that would always question, never trust, never take for granted and never allow themselves to be easily convinced.

"I'll speak to her," the emphasis on "I'll" was premeditated, determined, stern - it would allow no deviation from the plan he presented, but was presented, even so, true to Michael-form, with reassurance going head to head with a more combatant spirit at the front of his eyes, "We'll go back, now. Home. And I'll speak to her." Because home was safe and near and sheltered. There was nothing he could do for him here, exposed as they were to elements natural and unnatural alike.

[George Harris]

Snake’s thumb moved to press across his lips, stopping him from saying more, even though he had only spoken three words. But even those three little words had caused a pounding in his chest; and one that was not of excitement. Instead, dread, and pure disgust was pooling into his stomach, the clammy sweat creeping out onto the palms of his hands. The memories of what had happened just mere hours ago – of telling the person that he craved the respect of, and whom he longed for the touch of with every bit of his being, the news that he had promised her would never happen. He had disappointed her, although that was much too tame a word – he had truly and utterly failed her. And right now, he didn’t even know if she would be back at the warehouse, waiting for him – he had no idea whether he would even see her again.

At these thoughts, his eyelids fluttered shut, his shoulders rising, as his chest took in a deep shaky breath. He couldn’t cry – he couldn’t cry. Certainly not in front of Snake – not in the situation that he was being held in right now. But he was on the very brink. Each moment that passed, each time his mind swam across the face of his beautiful, intelligent, perfect Veen when she had leant over him just so, it felt like his heart was being ripped into pieces, millimetre by millimetre. Snake’s words were floating towards him, futile attempts at trying to break through the mist that had been pulled over his brain – but even as he barely acknowledged them, his head still nodded marginally.

Could they get through this? And would they be stronger? Chef had no idea – or… he did. He just didn’t want to admit it to himself, and certainly not to Snake. The fact that he wasn’t sure he could get through it this time. Not for the second time – and surely… surely not in a way that would stop it from happening before.

He could feel himself crumbling. His knees felt oh so weak, his limbs almost like they were no longer attached. His eyes had still not opened from when they had closed before – and for a moment, he simply wished his body would just fall into a pile, sinking into the ground, where no one would have to see him again. It was what he deserved – he was a nothing. He was useless, and weak, and he was certainly not someone that anyone should care about anymore. He couldn’t stop the waves of self pity – and most of all, he couldn’t stop the fact that his mind still niggled, a voice calling out to him; he could forget this all, if he wanted. He could go home; and he could use the rest of what he had before. And he could carry on living this life of hopelessness.

They were going home – stern instructions given by Snake; but Chef wasn’t entirely sure whether once his hands left his cheeks, that he wouldn’t just fall to the ground like he desired. Surely the other man should just leave him – should just accept that he had taken on a lost cause. They had tried this all before, and it clearly hadn’t worked. He was back in the old position, haggard, and skinny; a mere skeleton of the man that he had only just worked back up to. What was going to be different this time?

But slowly, his eyelids opened once more; and he was met with the face of the man he loved most in the world. His best friend, his boss… and it seemed, once again, his saviour. His blue-green eyes stayed firm on the cool blue of Snake’s, trying to find the strength that he knew he needed to find – but there was only a flicker, not enough yet to light the dying embers within him. They had to go home; back to the place that Snake had dragged him up from the gutter before. They had to try again.

And silently, his head nodded once more in agreement.