[Caesar could almost scoff at Joseph's poor technique now; does, in fact, open his mouth to laugh, but nothing comes out except a quiet, hoarse, frustrated sob that he wishes he could swallow back around the lump in his throat - and then Joseph's there, fists flying, and it's all he can do to keep up, blocking most of the blows and hissing at the ones that connect to his jaw, his cheek, his chin.]
[He isn't afraid of getting hurt, not like this, just - afraid of Joseph thinking this is a joke, that he's a joke, that he wants to be doing this, much less for the ratings. Because he knows where the money came from now, all the money after the beach, and it makes him sick, and he wants to give it back and just keep the memories. Those are his.]
[There's a wrench just a foot away from him, hanging off a steel shelf. It'd be easy, so easy to reach for it, to just break Joseph's fingers and be done with this whole stupid thing. But he loves Joseph, damn him, damn both of them, and he wants to show him off and show him up and touch him and make sure that he never, ever knows - and he doesn't want to hurt him. Not like that.]
[He grabs Joseph by the front of his shirt, throws him back against the shelf, which rings with the sound of metal on metal. His chest is heaving, there's a darkening mark on his forehead and his cheek, but all he does is shake Joseph a little in impotent frustration, not sure whether to ask him to stop or to hit harder.]
spam;
[He isn't afraid of getting hurt, not like this, just - afraid of Joseph thinking this is a joke, that he's a joke, that he wants to be doing this, much less for the ratings. Because he knows where the money came from now, all the money after the beach, and it makes him sick, and he wants to give it back and just keep the memories. Those are his.]
[There's a wrench just a foot away from him, hanging off a steel shelf. It'd be easy, so easy to reach for it, to just break Joseph's fingers and be done with this whole stupid thing. But he loves Joseph, damn him, damn both of them, and he wants to show him off and show him up and touch him and make sure that he never, ever knows - and he doesn't want to hurt him. Not like that.]
[He grabs Joseph by the front of his shirt, throws him back against the shelf, which rings with the sound of metal on metal. His chest is heaving, there's a darkening mark on his forehead and his cheek, but all he does is shake Joseph a little in impotent frustration, not sure whether to ask him to stop or to hit harder.]