finding nemo {tate and nemo}

Its been about a week since I spoke to that guy on the bridge. I've been keeping an eye out but his body hasn't washed up on our shores just yet. I think it's safe to say that he didn't jump which I've gotta say I'm pleased about. It'd be such a waste to lose a good booty like that, really, such a waste. Unfortunately, I haven't really had much time to think about him. I've been pretty busy.

Last week when I left him there leaning against the bridge railing I hit a rubber stamp factory. I got in pretty easy but ran into some trouble when I literally ran into a large looking man who was probably hired just for his particular burliness. He got in a good kick to the side before I was able to pull up my shirt and give him a look at the bombs that were sure to blow us sky high if he jostled me too much. Well, not really. My bombs work on tabs and are specifically designed by me to be jostle-proof. But he didn't know that. Anyway, I was pretty damn sure that he broke my rib for me but when I had Old Nel look at the bruise later she said that's all it was, a bruise.

Well I ended up getting my hands on a stamp mold that is used to mark official documents in the Capitol. I almost didn't give it back, thinking of all the fun I could have with it I got a bit attached. However, when they offered me the sum of three thousand dollars I couldn't really refuse. It was a good hit.

I kept four hundred dollars for myself this time because Christmas is coming soon and I want to be able to afford something good for Old Nel. She's always giving stuff away to us Slum kids and I want to give her something back to us. Especially because the other night when I was being a little bitch about my ribs she gave me nearly half a bottle of her moonshine. Nel's moonshine is famous in the slums and probably even out of it. It's well known for being the kicker that will get you landed in that ditch you'll wake up in sometimes later. I've even heard that Nel's moonshine is so strong that when people meet it the just hand over their wallets right away.

I was happy anyway. I hadn't gotten so much in a long while and the relief on Mrs. Jenning's face from down the street made it worth it. She's got three kids to support, all just little ones. That extra cash makes her able to spend time at home with them too instead of just working all the time. I like that. Kids should get to see their Moms sometimes, y'know? I think I would have really liked that when I was little. Most times Mom's shifts were sixteen hours and began at two in the afternoon, ending sometime around six in the morning. I can't recall her ever tucking me in at bedtime, not even once.

Today I was waiting for something. I'm not sure what. Generally I just wait for something to happen and then it does so I don't have to spend much time guessing what it is I'm waiting for but today, I had no fucking clue what it was. There was a weird tension in the air at home so I couldn't stay there, I had to get out. I took some building supplies and I left.

Now I'm here, in my workshop. My workshop being the old rock quarry that I used to play in when I was a kid. Other people used to use but thy respect my space, they know that I use this area for building and I've often hinted that there's more than one land mine set and ready to go even though there's nothing like the sort. I just don't want anyone coming down here while I'm working, it's really not safe. It's not even safe for me. Half the time I don't know what the hell I'm doing, I'm just trying something new. The bombs could blow up in my face and there would be nothing I could do. I could die.

Today is a safe day. I'm just building one of my easier bombs, that being a hand sized pull-tab. Directions are as follows: you pull the tab and fling it as far away from you as possible, then you duck and plug your ears and it goes kablooie. Easy peasy. I just need to build sometimes, sort of like releasing the cork on a bottle, it gets rid of the pressure a bit.

I've got my scarf wrapped loosely around my neck and it's pulled up to my ears to keep out the cold. Cold weather makes the scar itch weirdly, the skin is thinner there and more sensitive. Otherwise I'm just wearing jeans and an old jacket that used to belong to my brother. It's a jacket he got for being on his school's soccer team. My dad used to hate me wearing it but he's too whacked out now to notice. I haven't even brushed my hair today, brown tufts of it are sticking up all over and it doesn't help that I keep running my hands through it as I concentrate.

I'm scratching the side of my head absentmindedly with a screwdriver when I hear his conversation opener nearly directly behind me. I'm not going to lie. He's caught me off guard here. People tend to listen to the rule of 'don't disturb me when I'm building' because usually people have common sense. Surprising a person who's literally making a bomb has got to be at the top of the list of bad ideas ever had by anyone but this guy doesn't seem to care. Anyway I flinch in a stupid way and nearly stab myself through the head with the tool which would not have been pretty at all, also pretty damn tragic for this interrupting guy.

I turn to confront him about this when I take in the appearance of the jumper from last week. I smile, despite the danger of him being down here with me. He's got two things to worry about down here. There's the danger of the bomb going off and now the added danger of me jumping him. His butt is hopefully as cute as I remember it being. Quickly I shift in front of the bomb I've been working on, hands behind me, pushing the various wires and bit of scrap metal out of his site. "Yeah," I answer him cheerfully, "I am hard to find. That'd be because I don't want any pesky peacekeepers finding me." I flip the screwdriver in my hand and rest it on the rock behind me that I've been using as a surface.

I wasn't expecting him to find me either. Usually the key to meeting cute boys and keeping them is refraining from telling them that you're from the slums. I'm all too aware of the gaping holes in the knees of my jeans and the patches on the elbows of my jacket. I don't even want to think about what he saw on his way down to the quarry. (I hope he enjoyed it and I also am furiously hoping that Rhonda was being a nudist inside today.)

I feel a tiny bit bare without the armor of my black clothing and the black skull cap I wore as well. My scarf doesn't even hide my face today at all, I'm an open book. I reach up, flattening down the tufts of hair a tiny bit in an effort to look just the tiniest bit more presentable. "Who wants to be arrested anyway, am I right?" I ask him with a wink.

I've obviously said something wrong. I can tell by the way his smile disappears and how he suddenly looks like I've shoved a lemon in his mouth. I probably should have been more careful with my words seeing as I don't know what got him up on that bridge railing in the first place. It might have paid to ask him. Which I did. I did ask him didn't I? About why he was going to jump off a bridge? I'm sure I did. I'm also sure he didn't actually answer. Well if he had answered then I could have been more careful with my words. Not that it's his fault.

My smile flickers and falters as I take in his obvious discomfort. This guy really is an open book, a dangerous thing to be really in these parts. Look too weak and you're going to get yourself in trouble. The only ones who can get away with weakness are the children and even then they are tough little buggers. You don't want to find yourself lost in the slums with a pack of wee ones on your tail. Still, I don't think anyone can think that this kid is weak looking. He's got eyes dark as coal and a stillness about him to suggest a predator. The other night, when his hands were raw and bleeding from the railing of the bridge he barely seemed to notice it. He's got a high pain tolerance, better than mine.

If my hands got that bad I'd be crying and asking Nel to put me out of my misery.

He looks me over, taking his time and I spread my arms wide as if to invite him. I know that the other night wasn't so great for looking, due to all the black. I like the blacks. I think I look edgy and awesome, nothing like right now. I'm careful with the jacket but oil stains my hands and I know I scratched my cheek at some point, staining that too. My scar is very much visible, especially in the daylight. I see the moment his eyes land on it. It's impossible not to be drawn to it. I don't see the reaction to seeing it without the night to shadow it though. He keeps that to himself.

He looks away from me, clenching his jaw so tightly that his skin goes white. I have definitely struck a nerve. That's not the best way to kick things off, specifically when trying to romance a cute guy like him. I'm doing a bang up job so far I suppose. He's definitely falling in love with me, I can tell by the angry look in his eye and the fact that it looks like he wants to punch me. That doesn't scare me, it's a regular reaction that folk have when speaking to me. I have a way with words, such a way with them that most of the time people don't understand what the hell I'm on about.

He seems to get over it and I'm happy about that. I don't mind pissing people off, if it was an olympic sport than I would win gold every goddamned time. It's just been a bit too long since I've had a good conversation partner that still has all his teeth in and isn't blind as a bat. However, he's doggedly investigating my activities. I guess I would be suspicious too if I walked into an abandoned rock quarry and found this kid building something 'dangerous'

"Yeah! yeah," I say airily, waving my hand about in a dismissive gesture, "Me, I'm fine. Never better!" My voice is stubbornly cheerful and I shift slightly against the rock. I feel my work shifting too, "Just building this uhhh," the bomb begins to slip, "this thing," I manage. The bomb slips, falling off the side of the rock. I twist my body, hands reaching out to catch it before it falls and hit the rock floor. It's not like it's going to explode upon impact, I don't think. At least I'm pretty sure.

When I straighten back up I'm holding it in both hands. The wires sprawl out of its half built shell and a little display flashes haphazardly on the front of it. "A bomb," I admit, a little sheepishly, "I'm building a bomb."

He looks like a puppy when he tilts his head to the side like that. Curiosity paints his features in an adorable fashion which is a lot better but a lot stupider than what would be expected in a situation such as this. Only crazy people happily stay near a sixteen year old kid building a bomb. If I were him, I'd be getting the hell out of this quarry but also if I were him I'd be talking to myself which most agree is pretty insane as well, so I guess I'm on pretty equal footing with myself right now. I want to step backwards as he steps forwards but I've got nowhere to run to, the rock I'm standing in front of is blocking my path extremely effectively.

People don't normally get this close to me, unless it's Nel, pulling shrapnel out of my ass and legs for the umpteenth time. My body is a network of scars from bombs gone wrong and my father's loving touch. Otherwise I've had a slew of one night stands and a girlfriend for a whole six months once before I came to my gay senses about a year ago. Other than that, people don't really touch me unless I'm letting them. It's a sort of survival instinct I guess. I can be jumpy, he was spot on about that but I've got a hell of a good reason for it.

When he brings up his thumb to wipe away the oil, I flinch. I can't help myself. It's slight, barely there, I hope he didn't notice it. I don't want him thinking I'm some pathetic geek who's afraid of his own shadow. It just tends to leave a scar, in more ways then one when you get a knife stabbed into your cheek, y'know? I'm better with it when I know it's coming, like the other night when he pulled my scarf away. Today there was no warning, and I moved my face back a fraction of an inch, cheeks warming slightly with the raising of his hand.

I guess it's sort of weird too, someone caring about anything being on my face. The last time my own mom lifted her hand up to wipe away a speck of dirt is coming on seven years ago now. It leaves a dull ache in my throat and confusion makes me blink too fast. In seconds, his hand is gone and I balance the bomb in one hand, lifting the other to brush at my cheek, a nervous smile crookedly lining up my face. Smiling looks weird on me. It stretches too far on one side, and not entirely smoothly either. I look a bit like a happy gargoyle muttation from a games twenty years back or so.

He quirks the corner of his mouth up briefly in response and it's so attractive that my hands shake. It's stupid how hot I am for him. You spend years reading stupid young adult books about love at first sight, laughing about how much bullshit it is. You keep reading, unable to stop anyway. This isn't love at first sight, not at all. For one, this is second sight and for two, the dick wants what it wants. This is entirely lust based love and I am fully aware. It isn't fair that his shoulders are so broad with that small waist. That half smile thing. That should be illegal. I am going to make that thing illegal one day.

At his comment though, I'm back on solid ground. My nervous smile turns back into one of my trademark smirks, the left side of my mouth raising far too high up, my ugliness turning the sly grin into something nearly horrible. If I was more self-conscience that might be a problem but the lucky thing for idiots like me is that we don't have to be attractive, in fact we are expected to be unnaturally ugly. I pull it off well.

"Actually," I say, hefting the bomb in one hand, "It's quite light really." I stare at his face for a good long moment before I crumble and I'm laughing at my own stupid joke. I have to put the bomb back down on the rockface, the laughter is getting too intense. It's not even that good a joke really, it's just stupid. I love the stupid simplicity of it more than anything, I love the feeling of watching other people feel embarrassed for me and my stupid jokes. Jokes are important. If you can't laugh at something so small, then what can you laugh at?

I point at him accusingly, nearly bent double from my laughter, "That was a good one and you know it!"

"Why not," I say with a shrug, "I'm pretty hilarious." I turn my attention back to the little bomb I'm working on. Today's work is entirely pleasure. I've got a whole box full of bombs buried in the backyard but sometimes a boy just has to build, you know? It's easier looking a bomb than it is looking at that perfect grin, the one that stretches his lips out and makes the ends of his eyes crinkle up. Sometimes I wish that my own smile was half as pretty still as the strangers I come across. If wishes were pennies I'd be rich.

I listen intently for a lie when he tells me his name. Almost everyone lies about their names, especially here. People lose themselves down in the slums, they become someone new. Tate sounds just like how a name should be, nothing like some of the codswallop you can get. Tate sounds like a name from a comfortable home that never loses electricity because it's bills are always payed. It's a safe name, a 'there's always food on the table' name. Not a name that fits with the likes of me. I've got a nothing name, a made up piece of junk about an old sea captain. I don't even think the ocean actually exists. It's a nothing. Something made up too.

"You should get out of here, Tate," I say, picking the bomb back up and tossing it lightly into the air. "Sometimes I don't always get it right when I'm building one of these guys." I've got countless scars and burns from the bombs I build. They do a good job of hiding the wounds that don't come from the explosions. If cuts and bruises could tell stories mine would only be horror.

I like the cocky look that lights up his framework like fireworks. That's what I've really always loved about boys I think, the reason I'm so unapologetically gay. I like the way they get when they're trying to be tough. How they get closer, shoving their chests out and pouting. I like the way they challenge things so easily. It's hot as hell. One time, this kid got like that with me and wanted a real fight I think. We ended up snogging hard out in some alleyway. It was great. I bite my lip slightly, blinking rapidly as he gets closer. I'm so into this, too into this. The reality is, I'm holding a bomb in one hand and there's a bombshell in front of me. I feel like I'm in one of those soft porn magazines that I found in my brother's room, hidden inside a huge bible a few years back.

'A young man who is dressed like a gangster enters the workplace of a sweaty young mechanic, covered in spots of oil. "Make me," says the gangster, standing far too close to the hot young mechanic. The hot young mechanic steps forward, sneers and says....'

"Of course I can die from being down here." How romantic. I say to him with a shrug. "I can die from being anywhere really, so what's the difference, y'know?" I laugh. As if it's a joke. I'm good at playing off facts as jokes. It saves a situation from getting serious but I never really have to lie either, it's a win-win moment. I step backwards, closer to my natural work top. Where it's safer.

"I'm Nemo."

"Well aren't you a charmer," I answer. I suppose if he doesn't want to leave then there's not much I can do to force him. The danger of being down here with me is very real, it isn't something to scoff at our laugh about. The fact that the first time we met he was sitting on a bridge railing, about to jump has not been missed by me. I reckon that he isn't as worried about Death as most are. It suits me fine. It can be a bit lonely down here. I don't mind much though, it's good to be able to focus on something other than my own life for a couple of hours. Don't get me wrong, I do love life. I love it very much, I don't plan to end up exploded and spread out in little bits all over anytime soon. I just don't know how much I'd mind if it did happen. It's a scary thought.

Something in the way that he said he knew made my nonchalance shatter like the glass my father threw at my head last night.

I focus on the half-smile he's got going on instead, and wonder about trying to get that half-smile to turn into a full smile. I've seen him crying, now I just want to see what he's like when he's smiling. When he's laughing, I want that too. It's like poking at the landmines I made last week, trying to figure out how what is going to set them off. (I had the neighborhood kids throwing rocks at them all afternoon last Thursday. It turns out a well aimed stone was rather good for it.)

"Fine," I say, fingers picking delicately at the wires inside the bomb, "Hand me that pair of pliers?" I point to the tool, lying on the ground beside my tool pag as I pinch the end of a wire with one finger, tongue sticking out in concentration.

He hands me the pliers and I clamp them around the end of the wire that I've been squeezing. With them on there, I'm able to attach a tiny piece to it that will allow me to connect it properly with this other little wire that's connected to a doo-dad on the inside of the bomb's shell. I know that it sounds extremely technical. I started off as a chemical bomb-maker, not the wirey type, with all the things going on inside. It's easy enough once you get the hang of it but I've never really mastered the technical speak for stuff like this, preferring the use of my own terms for the things that I'm doing. It works well for my image as an idiot anyway, so I've never tried to sound smart.

Sometimes I'll let it slip out by accident, the technical, chemical speak. People look at me like I'm an idiot when I do that. Which is dumb. They're the idiots, miles behind me when I'm flying high ahead, brain up in the clouds, always inventing. It comes natural, like breathing. Which is annoying sometimes but beggars can't be choosers I suppose.

"Woah, when did I tell you my parent's names?" I joke, tossing the pliers over my shoulder once I'm done with them. Not that I'd ever call my Father and Mother 'Shit' and 'Giggles' to their faces. It does fit surprisingly well though. "This relationship is moving too fast," I say with a grin, bending down over the bomb to focus on an important bit.