His hand? Carmine's methods and motivations were so strange. Charlie was almost entirely certain their relationship was based on mutual dislike, though he couldn't really call it a relationship either. So the food-making, the cleaning, the inquiries into his hand almost like it was an obligation-- why couldn't he just leave, go away? Find someone else to bother? Whatever he might say, Charlie was certain he had someone other than him. Everyone did. Otherwise it was just sad.

"My hand is perfectly fine, I assure you." Charlie didn't move. "Didn't I tell you to go away? Go find someone else to bother." Even as he said it, he winced trying to pick up a pen. Fingertips were blistered, for sure. The mona really liked to taunt him, didn't they? His life was in his hands. He could feel frustration mounting already. How was he supposed to work when he couldn't even hold a pen, let alone--?

His fingertips were given a calculating stare. Blisters, he knew, were easier to deal with when they weren't so... puffed. It was the pressure he didn't like, he reasoned. The tip of his pen was sharp. Charlie contemplated this, too, resigned blue stare at the steel tip.

Couldn't hurt to try, could it? With a wince and a sound somewhere between discontentment and disgust, Charlie buried the tip of the pen experimentally into a blister at his ring finger.

“Shit, Chuck –“

Carmine’s boney hand flashed out and gripped Charlie by the wrist. He paused there, shocked at himself and unsure. Afraid to hold on, afraid to let him go.

“Don’t be like tha’…”

Don’t be like me, was what he really wanted to say. Spoken quiet, as if he were worried the downstairs neighbors might hear. Why was he even caring, why was he insisting on acting like this damn golly’s mother? Well, a mother that could summon an ounce of concern for him. Carmine’s hands were shaking just barely, sqeezing reflexively. “..it’ll get infected. Ye can’t work on th-things if’n ye’ve got an infected hand.” Or something like that.

He tugged his hand closer, trying not to relinquish his grip. He was pressed flush against Charlie’s shoulder, the curve of his clavicle, his shoulder uncovered by the potato sack sweater. It was dark. He didn’t bother readjusting it for once. Who cared anymore.

Huddled close and breathing heavy in the dark, like a couple of damn schoolkids. What the fuck was this.

With as much grace as his shaky hands would allow (which wasn’t much), Carmine slapped the cool, sopping rag onto Charlie’s open palm. He neglected to move or let him go.

The rag on his palm was unexpected, along with the proximity. Admonishments to take better care of himself, who did Carmine think he was? Charlie neither needed nor wanted anyone to remind him of that. He was fine, it wasn't going to get infected because-- because it wasn't. The muscles in his arm bunched and he jerked back. Strange, contrary little creature. Charlie wanted no part of him.

"I can be however I wish to be, thanks." Stiff all over, stock-still. This wasn't the kind of closeness he was used to, being in contact with someone with no prurient interests in mind. He didn't like it.

"Don't-- don't do that." Tugging against the bony hand at his wrist, wanting to step away.

“I’ll fuckin’ do whatever I wish, thanks,” he growled into the dark. It was too soft to hold any weight. Stupid dark. He was so anxious about being loud in the dark. Or being loud at all. The blisters on his face throbbed, the burning still real and tangible. Tiny passive heart tweeking like a hummingbird.

“An’ it so will get infected. I took a hot poker t’ my –“ faltering there. Heaved a sigh, caught his breath. Reign it in. Slow down. “—my arm. Got all white an’ puffy an’ I scratched it open and it was. Um. Awful ‘n’ shit.”

The warm-wet cling of the night’s drinks lingered over him. The two flasks of whiskey swallowed down not too long ago. He was hazy and tired and not really here; else he would have ran away like pussy the moment the mona was brought into this. Carmine’s fingers had slackened their grip on Charlie’s wrist, only clinging now because he was too fuzzy on his feet to move away.

A slip of silence, heavy breathing. Swaying like a heavy breeze just rolled in. Not quite willing to admit that he was leaning his chest against Charlie’s shoulder the way a golly student would prop their bicycle on a kickstand. He’d probably end up curled into himself on the floor again. Carmine was used to it.

“My ma…my ma collected hats. In Muffey.” Electric, that word. His body tensed, though he wished it hadn’t. He’d poked at Charlie’s personal little words. A trade. “Big hats with..with…feathers and things. She so many dresses I could never ever count that high. And…she could sing real pretty ‘n’ things. Her name was…uh. It was Estelle. Y-yeah. She was kind of a dick.” He blinked, cow-eyed, into the dark. Squeezed Charlie’s hand like it was a dead fish.

That clutching at his hand twisted his stomach. What was Carmine doing here, leaning against him, clutching his hand, telling him about his mother? Charlie didn't want to know about Carmine's mother. He didn't want to know anything about him, if he could help it. He was just a filthy scrap, what did Charlie want to know about his mother for?

Still, he couldn't help wonder. What was the family of a person like Carmine like? Respectable, he imagined. Families with worthless sons almost always were.

"Estelle, huh." Soft words in the dark. It was possibly as close to an apology as Charlie could get. It made him uneasy, even that little bit. He pulled his hand away, though he didn't step back.

“Yeah. Estelle. Estelle Lis--”

Breath against Charlie’s ear. Leaning in, tentatively brushing his nose into all that sleek hair. Oil and the salt of sweat, a thick scent. Charlie probably needed a bath, too. The golly was warm and the radiator was warm. Carmine slid a jittery hand down Charlie’s waist, the brief fluttering of a bird, and laid it on the jut of his hip. Light, ready snap away at any moment. Barely there.

Carmine’s stomach felt the way a gutted fish looked. He could remember, once long ago, when being close in the dark with handsome boy was something he liked. Now it was nothing more than anxious muscle and sundry motions he knew too well. But he was drunk and jittery and everything was cold-wet. Obligation, self-preservation – these things fueled him.

This wouldn’t have happened, this wouldn’t be happening now, if it was summer.

“I want some sunshine. The rain makes er’ybody go crazy. Feels like…feels like it was rainin’ always. I can barely ‘member the sun. Can you?” Mumbled blearily into Charlie’s hair

Summer seemed so far away. His birthday was in the summer-- Charlie Ewing would be three years old then. (Charlton would have turned 23, but this wasn't something Charlie wanted to dwell on.) This clocking rain stopped in the summer, too. One didn't pick up as many strays, in the summer. Nah, nah, summertime every living thing was content to drift outdoors. Life was all vibrant and jostling against itself.

Charlie always did hate Loshis.

When that hand came to rest, soft as the touch of a moth's wing, against his hip, Charlie just didn't have the willpower to step back. Volatile moods and the last traces of malt liquor in his blood made him want to curl around and take him, drift into dreamless sleep right after. Pathetic Charlie Ewing, couldn't be out at the bar all night and come home to nothing but his cold machines, could he?

"Sun doesn't matter much to me." Dark or light, what did it matter? He was still the same either way. He hoped it stayed Loshis forever. Decidedly casual, Charlie turned to face Carmine properly, hand snaking out to capture the one Carmine held on his hip. The gesture was dripping with meaning, but just in case Carmine had missed it--

"Is that offer still open?"