Chico had removed himself to the background, prowling the shadows, because he’d found as many apples as he could find and the added Volterra factor to the mix. He didn’t know what to expect--but he wasn’t put off by his presence, either. Chico planted himself some ways away, in his largest, snarliest, clawiest, fluffiest form he had just in case. More than that, though, Cheek wanted to see what was gonna go down.He didn’t know what kind of thing Volterra was in my head, and this was the best moment to find out how without being outright nosy and asking me directly (not like I knew anyway, hell).

"Well, I was on the hunt for some eligible women to pleasure, but freezing my balls off in a piss-soaked clearing with a giant pile of dodgy apples sounds far more fun."

I decided, in that moment, that Volterra was chill. That whatever tension that remained with Kis’ drama and his heartache was easily brushed aside with an honesty I could dig; at least he admitted to trollin for ass when he could’ve just as easily placed himself on a pedestal above me, morally and physically. I rolled on my back, chuckling, not sober enough to let his comment slide. “An’ what kinda fuckin’ test you been passin’ out?” I accused him, feigning hazy indignation. “Eligible women. Hmph. Wha, I ain’t whatchu lookin’ for? I dun make the cut?” I rolled back onto my side with a hiccup, tickled at the thought. “You don’t like juiciness?” The polite way of calling my ass fat.

"If this conversation is going to get as deep and meaningful as our last one did, then I think I'm going to have to have some of your special apples to help me through it."

I shrugged again, sloppy and weird, reaching for another apple myself just cuz he had reminded me that they were there. “I mean, you got any deep shit t’ say? Cuz I don’t.” It wasn’t quite a lie, because I didn’t remember if I had any deep-seated scruples in that moment. “I’ll lis’n if you gotta confess it,” I said from where I lay twisted on the ground, “ain’t like I’m runnin’ off tellin’ stories anytime soon.”

And then I was immediately contradicting myself, because that’s how an intoxicated brain works; it wanders through weird thoughts and silly shit, resting on whatever idea it finds, logically or not. For some reason, I remembered in that moment that he lived down south. “The Throat,” I muttered, as though thinking to myself, because I actually might’ve been at that point, “my Ma an’ lil Sis lives there, now I think on it.” Once I would’ve thought it dangerous to let that kind of thing slide, but I knew Volterra’s face enough that I could find him later to beat his ass if I needed to. “I’d visit more but the Pa’s a rat bastard ‘n I hate sand anyway.” I was numb enough to the implications of what I'd said, too blurry to be able to linger on it. Another apple, and this one actually tasted good. I cast a sideways glance at Volterra. “Don’t be tryna fuck my Ma, man.” Three-quarters of that was a joke.

"talk"