Etraya: Inbox

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

TEXT • VOICE • VIDEO • ACTION
USERNAME: HANK

Hank here. I probably don’t give a rat’s ass what you have to say. Leave me alone. How the hell do I get this damn thing to stop rec — [BEEP]

Comments

[instabilitatem]

[Connor has the painting off the wall when Hank stops him and Connor hesitates before replacing it on its hook.]

I thought about the colors I like to see in the world.

[He points to the yellow-creme color.] This is the shade of the stripes on your shirt when we first met. The blue here resembles thirium.

CN: Cole grief again ! !

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Well, what d’you know? Thirium blue, and... Hank yellow, yeah?

[He takes his hand back. Rubs behind his neck.]

It’s nice, Connor. Could really see the walls covered in stuff like this.

[Which makes Hank, predictably, think of Cole: how he has none of his drawings here, and how finite they would be even if he did.

His soft smile turns to a frown for a moment before he catches himself. Bringing the smile back because, really, he’s happy for Connor.]

Glad you’re having fun. Really.

[instabilitatem]

You enjoy it? [Connor perks up. He knows the purpose of art is to have fun expressing oneself, but hearing the positive feedback from Hank means more than Hank likely knows.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

I do. [And it’s a simple painting, sure, but there’s nothing wrong with that.

Because:]

It’s insight, y’know? [Hank playfully butts Connor’s shoulder with his own.] Into that head of yours. What you’re thinking. Feeling.

[And Hank might not understand, but... he is looking.]

[instabilitatem]

Would you like more? [Connor asks, wondering if perhaps the novelty would wear off after one of his paintings.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank tosses Connor another incredulous look, albeit brief.]

Obviously. And, I mean — hell. If we run out of room? We’ll figure it out.

[Connor could start giving some away, maybe. If he wanted. Although part of Hank is selfish and would rather hoard them — who knows when there might not be any more? — but if they manage to fill up a whole apartment...]

It’s homey, y’know? [The painting itself, as well as the thought of more.]

[instabilitatem]

[Connor smiles over at Hank, making a mental note of what Hank likes about the painting, including the painting itself.]

I'll keep painting. [He has another group of paintings he might hang at some point.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Good. That’s — [there’s that goddamn smile again, which Hank stares at for a few seconds] — real good, Connor. Happy to hear it.

[He pats Connor’s shoulder before turning back to the painting. Nodding.

Life here, or anywhere, can’t always be this tolerable — pleasant, even — but sometimes. Sometimes.]

And... shit. [Hank reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out the spare apartment key. Offering it to Connor.] See? I didn’t forget. Taking your list seriously.

[instabilitatem]

[Connor's smile burns brighter at Hank's response and even a touch of surprise tinges it as he holds his hand out for the apartment key. Now he officially lived in the apartment, there was no doubt.]

Thank you, Hank. I promise not to stay out too late.

[Coming from the android that goes to sleep at 20:00 sharp, with the exception of some extenuating circumstances.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank presses the key into Connor’s palm, pulling back to shove his hand in his coat pocket.]

You don’t gotta... I mean, you don’t owe me that, Connor.

[Multiple people have mentioned Etraya’s relative safety between missions, but Hank’s still not buying it. Especially with Connor here.]

I just, y’know — [Hank clears his throat] — worry about you, so I guess just keep me posted. If you’re out late, or if something keeps you — like weirdos fucking up the trolley again.

[Weirdos!!!]

[instabilitatem]

I understand, Hank. [Connor nods.] I did hear about the trolley. It's a shame, I enjoy that trolley quite a bit.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

Weirdos. [Hank says this for emphasis, arcing his hands like a rainbow.] They’re fixing it, right? It’s whatever.

As long as you weren’t involved. [Which isn’t an accusation, but it might sound like one. Hank’s just worried about Connor’s safety — again; always — but he imagines Connor would have said something if he were there.]

[instabilitatem]

I did nothing to cause the destruction of the trolley.

[He hadn't even been riding it and he enjoyed the trolley rides.]

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

I know, Connor.

[Or: it would be difficult for Hank to accept otherwise. They did have a nice trolley trip a while back, which devolved into their brand of bickering, but...

That’s just sort of their thing, unfortunately.]

What I’m saying is more... I mean, if you’d been on the thing when it happened, or something else like that — you’d tell me, right? Would tell me if you got hurt. You wouldn’t just suffer in silence.

[The way Hank does.]

[instabilitatem]

[That's a good question, actually. Would Connor tell Hank and risk Hank diving deep into a well of grief and guilt?]

I may have before. [Connor finds that the truth is the best response here.] But, no. I don't think I would tell you if I was hurt.

[He still remembers Solmara, being strangled and then tossed off the side of a building. He remembers awakening, missing plates. And then not long after, he arrived here in Etraya.]

I wouldn't want you to worry.

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

[Hank is slipping out of his jacket, tossing it onto the couch: still a slob. Sorry, Connor. Some habits are hard to break.

He isn’t sure what he expected Connor to say, but it isn’t that. Even if the answer doesn’t surprise him.

Part of Hank thought Connor might lie to comfort him.]

Well, now I’ve gotta worry about you extra hard, don’t I? [It’s not as if he can blame Connor — he really can’t — but goddamn why can’t Connor go along with the whole “do as I say, not as I do” thing?]

I’d do the same, y’know. Two stubborn fucks here, I guess. I wish —

[Hank squints as he stares up at the wall. Gaze sliding back toward Connor’s painting.

He wishes a lot of things. Most of which he has little power over, but Hank can still try.]

[instabilitatem]

[Connor stares at Hank, eyebrows raised as he listens to him. He follows Hank's gaze back to the painting and then to Hank once more.]

You wish what, Hank?

[bootyshortsforoldmen]

You want an essay, Connor? I’m like a broken record over here. [Said not unkindly, although somewhat dismissive.

Hank has said this all a million times, and he isn’t exactly a fan of repeating himself — especially when it’s for things like this, things that make him feel vulnerable.

But it’s Connor, so:]

You know I want you to be safe. Which is why — [a little side glance toward Connor] — I wish you’d tell me if something happened. If you got hurt. How am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me?

[Not that Hank has been great at helping Connor, anyway. He’s been so focused on the here and now, Connor right here in front of him, that Connor had to go and make that list of Hank’s failures. The guy doesn’t even have bedsheets or spare clothes, for fuck’s sake.]

And I want you happy. So I like that you’re, y’know — [gesturing to Connor’s painting with a nod] — like that you’re painting. I like that a lot.

[instabilitatem]

[Connor, at least, looks sheepish for asking again. It's nice to hear, he's not sure how else to describe it.]

I will reach out when I need help.

[And another nod.]

I enjoy painting. I hope to share more with you.