[It's funny, the way Mickey talks: he can tell someone to fuck themselves a hundred times in a row and not especially mean anything by it, but his voice takes on a darker, more clipped tone now that sounds more like a warning than any filthy word he could come up with. He's talking now, but he didn't come to talk, and he's here just as much for himself as for Stephen.]
[ He catches the tone, but isn't sure what to do about it. ]
Came here to think about something that isn't - anything.
[ He's not sure if that really makes sense. He tips his head back, and closes his eyes. Gunshot-sounds hurt from this close, but at least it feels real. ]
[Now he falls silent entirely, something darkening, too, in his eyes. He takes a long drink from the can and sets it at his feet, both hands back on the grip when he straightens. Now, when he empties the rest of the chambers into the dune, he can feel the recoil through both arms, down into his stomach, and up into his angry, buzzing brain; it makes his teeth grind together in his clenched jaws.
Good, he thinks, for the same reason as Stephen. It's something that isn't anything but what it is: not loss, not shame, not worry or resentment.
He pops out the cylinder, lets the casings fall at his feet, and mutely holds out the gun for a reload, not quite looking at Stephen.]
[He gets right back into stance to shoot again, aiming at a fresh spot on the dune. Before he pulls the trigger, though, something swims in his head and suddenly, it is something else: a rooftop billions of miles away and a year behind, shooting a different target with a different person watching... But Ian was standing right where Stephen is, he's pretty sure, and Mickey was just as silent, and they were both miserable and angry then, too.
Today, the memory grinds enough on his nerves to make him want to lose it. He uncocks the gun and turns away, tossing it lightly into the sand, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eye.]
[He shakes his head and slouches down onto the sand, reaching for his beer. He sits with his arms looped loosely around his knees, staring at the tiny, pockmarked craters where the bullets hit the sand.]
You're-- it's--
[He shakes his head again.]
Had a visitor.
[There's a twist at the end of it, not exactly a question, seeking confirmation more than an answer: Stephen is, if not in the same boat, apparently a similar one. Right?]
[That's about as much as Mickey knows how to do, both in terms of offering comfort and in terms of seeking it. Stephen rebuffs him and he shuts up again with a slight nod, takes a long drink of his beer.]
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[It's funny, the way Mickey talks: he can tell someone to fuck themselves a hundred times in a row and not especially mean anything by it, but his voice takes on a darker, more clipped tone now that sounds more like a warning than any filthy word he could come up with. He's talking now, but he didn't come to talk, and he's here just as much for himself as for Stephen.]
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Came here to think about something that isn't - anything.
[ He's not sure if that really makes sense. He tips his head back, and closes his eyes. Gunshot-sounds hurt from this close, but at least it feels real. ]
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Good, he thinks, for the same reason as Stephen. It's something that isn't anything but what it is: not loss, not shame, not worry or resentment.
He pops out the cylinder, lets the casings fall at his feet, and mutely holds out the gun for a reload, not quite looking at Stephen.]
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Today, the memory grinds enough on his nerves to make him want to lose it. He uncocks the gun and turns away, tossing it lightly into the sand, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eye.]
Fuck.
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He curls up a little tighter. ]
You're not - wherever that was.
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You're-- it's--
[He shakes his head again.]
Had a visitor.
[There's a twist at the end of it, not exactly a question, seeking confirmation more than an answer: Stephen is, if not in the same boat, apparently a similar one. Right?]
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[ Short. He doesn't want to talk abut him. ]
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Whatever. You're up.
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Finally, leverages himself up, reaching for the rifle.
And he does one round after another. Load, brace, shoot. Mechanical movements. One after another after another. ]