Teeming from stress and swamped by his family’s concerns for his brother’s disappearance, the vitriol that constantly broiled in his bloodstream was starting to come to a head in recent weeks through aggressive remarks, the weight of his emotions bearing down on him like he’d burned himself a new asshole with extra hot spicy wings that he didn’t fucking eat as a vegetarian. Though he loathed the heat of the Nevadan summers, he could tolerate it with the Brazilian heritage that thickened his skin against the dryness of the desert. Olive skin glistening with a thin coat of sweat from an atypical morning at the gym of all fucking places, beating the shit out of a punching bag in desperation to alleviate stewing tension in his muscles, the musician had found himself staring vacantly at the Warhol Estate that towered over the square when he had exited the smoothie shop. Lingering near the opulent fountain that equally loomed above him in its center, one knee was bent and pushing his weight off to his other foot, mismatched eyes scanning the mansion’s intricate architectures and thinking on the New Year party held in its lavish halls that he had succumbed to a fucking roofie– again. Something hadn’t sat right with him since the ball had dropped whenever he passed it by, looking over his shoulder when his back was turned, suspecting that eyes would be lingering on him, peering around the corners the way that Orion had described so intensely of his hallucinations. Fucking relax, you’re not losing your fucking mind. Tired circles marked the underside of his eyes, the sullen thought crossing his mind that for all he fucking knew, Orion could be stuffed in one of those hallways, lost for many years by underpaid staff members who would ignore a wretched scent in the air. It was liberating, oddly, to stand outside of its gates knowing that he was not one of the poor bastards arrogant to the money that lined their pockets on the other side. Cyrek might be poor, but at least he was free, separating the idea that money led to true freedom. He’d tried that once, bailing from Manchester back to America and grasping for those golden streets, to find that paying for it gained nothing at all. Turning away from it, his gaze connected with skateboard teenagers causing a familiar face to splatter smoothie on her person. Unable to restrain it, a crooked smirk warped one side of his full lips, laughter failing to reach his sternum on account of the hollow void in the center of his chest, that agitated hole that allowed the path for marauders to clamber in, barricading him to feel TRAPPED ( LIKE THOSE SUFFOCATING WALLS ) in the intensity of his turbulence. A part of him was hungering to force his way out through any means necessary, whether that be drugs or sex ( now all he needed was to solidly get back on track with the rock-and-fucking-roll ), but the former was implausible. At least, logically. You fucking little bastards. “That was my nickname when I was their age,” he teased as he approached, voice incredibly raspy from being fresh off of the beginnings of touring alone, “Y’know what they say… run, little bastards.” Smirking secretively, the male lifted his hands to the back of his neck, undoing the bandana after a hesitating pause, averting his eyes when it inevitably unveiled his scarring. He held it out like a flag of surrender, biting down on his lower lip. “Take it. You good?”
After taking a moment to stand there dumbfounded -- like nothing bad had ever happened to her ever -- Bella was seething with fury that her heels would keep her from catching up with on of those little punks and grabbing a patch of hair at the risk of the charge that would no doubt come from kicking a minor’s ass. Her arms shook as she attempted to dispense some of the beverage from her sleeves, spattering the ground in the process but stopping when someone got close. There was no need for both of them to be covered in her drink. “ Yeah well it’s a nickname well deserved for vandal little shits.” She bit back in spite of him getting a mild chuckle out of her with his comment. “I get that teenagers get bored but for fuck’s sake, how immature can you be?!” She grumbled as if in anger she hadn’t keyed an ex’s car for what she deemed mistreatment. “I was no saint either but did I take it out on innocent fucking strangers?” Had she thought back hard enough, the answer might have been yes. When the hand extended Bella took the bandana without hesitation, thinking it not to be precious since it was offered to her and hastily attempting (albeit in vein) to salvage her ruined outfit enough to at least walk home without shame. “Thanks.” She offered genuinely even though her tone could suggest otherwise. “As good as someone can be when her day and hundred of dollars of an outfit are ruined by some mother fucking losers!” she screamed out after the brats that faded in the distance, little care given to how crazy she looked cursing and screaming in the middle of the sidewalk.
