Muttered from lips that chewed thoughtfully on chopped tobacco, stout and sturdy men who had seen more conflict than ever deserved, who paraded and marched around Fort Bragg with precision, the boarders of bootcamp. Screamed from mouths that hadn't the chance to clean the cruor, adolescence that hadn't even sprouted hairs on their chins, bruised and battered from battles in Vietnam, Ben Tre to Bau Bang. A simple command; the most sacred oath to be sworn, pledged in honor of the allegiance united to, stars and stripes. Proclaimed loudly, until the voice became hoarse and the throat too sore, known better than name or kin. Branded onto the hearts of so many, America's good boys, the sons who couldn't break the hold. Enslaved to it, despite the years, despite the efforts to move on, John unable to forsake the bond of his devotion. Hand removed from a knife's handle, slow, a jacket repositioned for the purpose of cover, to have none else see the decision almost taken. Unspoken but forever true: to protect and serve, to keep safe the innocent and vulnerable.
Drunk beyond what was good, what was sane, the pout elicited from Lestat's companion did little to ease the tension within John. Shoulders raised, spine straightened, the posture that became synonymous with a soldier who couldn't release the past. Fists heavy at his sides, hung loosely like chains but nevertheless clenched, knuckles shaded white. A deadly marriage of love and lust, eyes were glossy from pure emotion, the linger of sweetened drinks lined in salt. Gazed upon Lestat - deemed an angel, a savior for the misfits, so beautiful - worshipped the ground he walked on, wished for the chance of kisses and warm embrace, faithful homage. Damnable was it to have been so rudely disrupted. An offense of the highest order, the shame that John would be forced to carry, would be reprimanded for. A disheveled spoiler, appeared like a villainous ghoul who sought to ruin any and all fun, a jealous lover dressed in stained shirt and frayed shoes. A cold regard was all that John was given in appreciation. Morbid dismay, eyes critical, grasp to Lestat pulled ever tighter, closer.
Disappointed but not defeated, John remained where he stood. Looked between Lestat and the man who should've been anywhere else, with anyone else, expression controlled but not free of feeling. Compassion to be noted in the brown of burdened irises, brunette that shined sepia. Amicable, even when partnered with the seriousness of brows furrowed, mouth pinched to a frown at the corners, gentle. John couldn't leave. An impossibility, fate had always seemed to intertwine his life with that of Lestat's. Gold and bronze, natural opposites, coalesced for the benefit of a humor unfounded, undiscovered. No matter where he ended up, the states and towns explored many, John always came face-to-face with Lestat. Painted like porcelain, barely clothed, the child of excess and decadence. Intoxicated from fame, the hunt for fortune, to be loved and adored as was believed destined. It was futile to try and outrun. Miles wandered, hopelessly, Lestat couldn't leave John alone. He wouldn't.
An unmistakable scent, metallic, the earthiness that was man, what pooled beneath veins and was ached for. Blood, spilled for war, selflessly given for the sake of love. What colored cheeks - rounded, youthful - what could lure the most monstrous of people. Nurtured blush to the companion who still clung to Lestat's muscled arm, frustration brewed over the fact that John hadn't acted on instruction. A drink, to mind his own business; to allow for Lestat and all else peace, the freedom of choice and happiness. Shackled no more to expectations, the wishes of others, a society that didn't acknowledge them and family that couldn't care. Independence ignited passion. Liberation scorched it, from the tips of toes to the tops of heads, brains that didn't think nor wanted to. Wasted sense, generations doomed by the yearn for emotion, a world that was perfect and uncaged. Blood was shed for the dream. Crimson, warm, much to the obvious delight of Lestat. Features clouded by a nature that John couldn't comprehend but could detect, observant disposition unsettled, always on, blood burned. John knew that there was more than music within him. Somehow.
Attention followed to the bar that Lestat mentioned, the muted glow of its signs and surroundings encouraged an undesired dizziness. A twist of the stomach, filled by a simple dinner, a cheeseburger and fries, more stimulation than John was ever comfortable with. So noisy, so full, an environment that was too much for a boy born in a smalltown. An invitation that was proposed for reasons other than kindness, John remained stubborn to his spot. A stance on the sidewalk, what flowed into the darkness of an alley, of gravel. Brightened by pale light, the streets home to the creatures who couldn't sleep. A lonely cat who nibbled at an overturned garbage can. Moths that flew near exposed bulbs. Impaired strangers, who stumbled to their cars, their apartments across the way. A look, for Lestat should've known him better, John's exact intentions for him to welcome. Inescapable - figurative arms outstretched, the challenge started - the force of personalities bound to clash. Opinionated, hardheaded, the same cloth sewn together.
"You've made it my business."
Rumbled in the throat, not a shout but just as intense, John made a suggestion of his own, to be read between the lines but safely understood amongst he and Lestat.
"He doesn't need to be here for this."
