Both of these characters are so horribly homophobic and (at least in taym’s case) afraid of human contact that this will never happen so just imagine them saying “no homo” under their breaths repeatedly
for lurks-beneath too lazy to link
rage&sorrow&fear wrapped up into one explosive fit, ugly sobs & snarling. breaking things and bruising knuckles and so much screaming until taym just fucking stops him in his tracks & leslie fists his hands into his shirt and sobs once, ragged, low, arms shaking, teeth grinding, eyes shut tight. he can taste his tears and blood from his bitten lip.
leslie ur such a fucking primadonna
The yelling was mostly wordless, just rage-noises hung on a skeleton of meaningless and targetless curses, and he watched the rampage dispassionately, exhaustedly. Like watching a reel of himself, a decade removed.
"Leslie," he said, gently, irritated.
Table upended. Glass shattered, tracks gouged in the wooden floor, and crunched under Leslie’s boots. There was blood on Leslie’s lip now and he wasn’t sure whether it had come from the glass or his teeth or from whatever had set off this round of explosives. He’d once seen a frantic dog breaking its teeth on the bars of its cage.
"Leslie," he said, patiently, warning.
He’d have blood on his fists too, if he didn’t stop. It was too easy to feel and too hard to watch and when Leslie hurled some broken thing across the room and he ducked to the side but it clipped his shoulder anyway, his mouth narrowed into a hard line and he crossed no man’s land for the enemy trenches, over the glass and the hurled furniture, and with one hand he caught Leslie’s upraised bruise-knuckled fist and with the other he pulled him in, drew his face to his chest, and the yelling dissolved into a single sob trembling out from between gritted bloody teeth.
"Leslie," he said, quietly, tired.
He felt Leslie’s hands curling into his shirt, felt the fight run out of him as he threaded his arm over his shoulders to restrain him, felt the shudder of his ragged steadying inhale. He didn’t tell him it would be OK, didn’t tell him to calm down. They had traded the wreckage of their lives for the wreckage of the end of the world and screams and broken fists and tears were only the gifts he would have given himself if he were less afraid.