for the fire

you're not loved and neither is your sin. multi-indie/oc blog.

[sputtertricks]

 'You're my guest of honor tonight, if you must know.

If you know what’s good for them,’ and you do know what’s best for them, is the prime unstated lead but he’s not bold enough for that.

Not yet at least, by a poor strike of serendipitous touch it just so happens that he barely knows the man. He could be a total risk, if it really ate at him that much then he could delve around to figure out where his whereabouts once were, and. Maybe, to some extent what he was running from. 

But that’s not the type of advance he wishes to seek on the man, and that’s why he’s opened up his dinner table, his services, a standard hospitality that comes with all guests that blow through but this one see, is special. So special, he’s not sure if he’s ready to let him go that next morning. So sure, that if he doesn’t keep an eye on him the boy and his father in all the bulk of his charm and darkness would off, that night. 

Without even saying goodbye. It had happened before, once he wasn’t so keen on closing in on the man in question but it was heartsinking enough. That time, he’d discovered nothing could make him think straight for half a passing season sans, maybe his son. His beautiful, beautiful son. And that’s the only thing that can snap him back to his senses.

It’s the one thing that they hold in common, it seems. 

‘since you’re the boy’s father after all.’ he corrects himself. Emphasis on the word father, ‘You’ll let him live a bit. For all that it’s worth, they’re going no where outside these walls. Once they’ve been taken in by the perimeter, there’s nothing out of your reach and certainly nothing that needs to be protected. I’d prescribe, if I might be held high enough for you to retain my advice for just the while. 

You can take the night off.’ He reinstates

his way of thinking because it won’t carry without the canting or the repetition. It’s not a demand, because even if all four walls were built around everything he owned and learned to love, right here.  ’If you know what’s good for you, that is.’ Enclosed in this space, he was no general. He wasn’t anyone, for that matter the moment he took the other by the hand and led him gracelessly through the open halls.

It was shameless. And it was right, in every sense of the word because he didn’t just get graced with visitors of this kind. As clammy as his hands were, he reached around to grasp the steadier ones and tugged them out into plain view. He just wanted a conversation that would last, be it that it had to tide him over that many seasons. Something, anything, 

that would make this meeting a little more surreal.

' Surely you can't be that much in a rush? 

I know you don’t think I pay attention, but the way you just waltzed onto these grounds like just the other day.’ It’s because that’s how he clearly remembers, the real risk was. Letting something like this dictate what he woke up to in the morning. 

 ’You can’t expect me to believe that it was

just? Fortune’s hand that brought you here? No other intention?’

[iced-down]

With just a word, you could tell that the man was trained in the arts. Even in a place like this, he was careful with his words, picking each one up and examining it carefully before he let it loose into the world. In the ivory tower of wealth, in the world of high military and nobles, even speaking was an art -- and lesser people were as easily swept along for a ride as a flick of the wrist.

It was really something. Whether that some "thing" was bad or good... that remained to be seen.

They were walking through the halls of his estate, grand and beautiful as it was. He was being taken on the same footpath that, doubtless, many young women and their suitors had tread along, and the one future suitors would take, when the man finally directed his heir to do something right. He was impressed, sure. But his eyes weren't on the gardens or the solid architecture.

Twelve days had passed since he and his son had been welcomed into the man's humble abode. He knew because he had been counting. This time was different than the last, the genesis just the year before, when he had broken in to keep his son safe, and still been welcomed in spite of it. Nothing much had changed; it was warmer, and the flowers were more bloom than bud. The lines in the man's face were the same.

  But his faux-suitor seemed to think something was different. This time, it wasn't about fleeing to safety. Coincidence had not simply flighted them here and told them to stay. And on that count, he was right.

'You might not think it,' he started out after a second of silence, a smile stretching his mouth. 'but Lady Luck and I are actually courting. I take her to the nicest places I know, and in exchange...' He swept his hand off to the side, attempting to signal the entire grounds under the man's possession. 'she whisks my son and I off to wherever she likes. Sometimes inconvenient, but great fun. I intend to marry her soon.

'And what about you? Is there an engagement announcement in the works?' And there was where he broke off, smile becoming a grin as he pulled away.

One of the things he liked about the other was, despite his formalities, he was never so bad as some of the other nobles he'd intruded on.

There was no one there to see him, and that was what emboldened him, pressing him to draw closer and entwine not just their fingers but their forearms as well. If he did this with any noblewoman, he would be dead. And if any tactless person found them like this? He would be more than dead.

He'd been there for twelve days.

'My son likes it here, very much,' he commented, as it was true. He tipped his head towards the man's, making comfortable in his personal space. 'I don't imagine he's said as much, though. His temperament's poor, and unlike you rich craven, we poor people lack the means to hire teachers for schooling. So, you'll just have to forgive him.' That was where he offered another indulging grin. And what did he care if his son was ill-mannered? He was alive. They were alive, and that was what mattered.

He pulled them to a stop under some marble gazebo, a structure whose architecture he wasn't smart enough to admire. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and try to admire it as he spoke. 'He wanted to visit. And we happened to be nearby,' he explained. 'And.' He dropped his head to look at the would-be suitor in front of him, the noble with the wealth, the smarts, and the looks needed to marry a princess. And he smiled at the man who was too stupid to take a wife.

'I wanted to see you, too. That's without trying to warm you up, even.' He bumped the man's side in jest. Even he wasn't so low as to try to seduce him in the early morning. There was the rest of the day for that. 'So Lady Luck may not have been the sole worker in this case.

'-but. We leave when we need to leave.' Twelve days? That was pushing the envelope. It was lucky that he'd been able to keep the other in the dark for so long. 'The life of the criminal just calls to me. You'll just have to forgive me!' Not that it was necessary. He didn't care either way.

'But what of you?' he heckled, leaning the nobleman towards one of the support columns, almost as if he intended to press into him there. 'I know you missed my son. And your son missed my son.

'But what does the rich craven have to say about me?'

[ruthelinse]

 He knows what’s coming, don’t think he …does. They had parents, sure they did, but they weren’t as stringent *as* they should be or were they around that much to project it. It never bothered him, not really. Not much. But he did know who was going to be on his case, and how much explaining he’d have to do to this concerning figure in particular. 

Oh, he had nothing to hide even if his other half could be bothered to pick through the niceties, interrogate him with some onslaught of slight detailed questions. It would go on and on, if he didn’t stop him. 

 And he could stop him, he thought with a sinking sigh with many an idea brewing behind the dull, pounding headache just short out of range to his powerhouse, that he wasn’t using. His brother did the thinking for both of them, except when he had to make the grades to appease his wonderful, well thought-out finely crafted god honestly, honestly spent a few more hours on you. 

And I wish if you’d know that. 

It was difficult, being bullheaded comparing the two on one hand, left his brother with the airy and flighty freedom that he wished upon himself sometime, but no amount of wishing would grant that nature on someone that was stuck to assurance and stability, and positively no change 

at all. 

Aside from curfew, all but that, maybe.

[iced-down]

The hours have trickled on down, 9 and 10 passing away in full buckets of winding-down activity and seeing their parents to bed. 11 and 12 have come and gone, disappeared before he could really get a grasp on them, lost in schoolwork and steadfastly not checking the clock.

1 has him descend from the attic-cum-bedroom, taking his seat at the foot of the stairs to the first floor, just a room away from the front door. He brings a book and his watch, but it's not the words he pays attention to.

2 sees his brother come in, the rush of air from the front door opening jarring him awake. He doesn't stand or make a big show of ceremony, only waiting for his twin to creep towards the stairs before he finally acknowledges him.

He lifts his head and shuts his book.

'You're back late,' he says mildly, an obvious statement made only to mark the start of the chewing-out session. He's not mad; he's not even too concerned, actually. He lifts to his feet, one on the stairs, one on the floor. He pauses and shifts his weight, almost like he's feeling the leverage he has right now -- whether it's the leverage of how he's standing, or the leverage this situation gives him, it's not clear.

He thins his lip to a hard line.

'I don't think they mind you going out so late,' he comments, but "they" he stands for him here, not their parents. They both know their parents aren't devoted enough to care. 'But it would behoove you to let them know where you'd be off to, I'd think.

'Considering you're not the most cautious person in this house.'

[kaigyaku]

It’s hard to say where this all started, but no one can be that oblivious about how they raised their own kind. Surely he can find a way around that, if he exerted himself more than he normally does. but is that what he really wants to leave in the lights of his son’s eyes? 

No he doesn’t. The standard crop of fear that comes with parenting, thinking, wondering, is it too late. Have I done him in wrong. 

And the answer is, yes he has. Many a time.

But even the worst of parents can be salvaged when their own kind is meritable standing on their own, which his son has done up til this point the whole time. Even without steady hands to wrap about, then support him, he can do without that. It’s been proved, time and time again. 

Much like the steady truth that he will never budge, never ever budge from his spot in the sky. At least, not forever, he would never retire this for the entire fate of this and their little kind dependent on it. It’s his unassuming stoop, it’s his watching place. Not for the benefit of his own, but it’s only place in this world that he can ensure that his son is safe. 

Was he willing to give that all up for more closeness, a little more involvement that’s been long due; he’d like to think not. This was his responsibility, in the sense that what he carried on his shoulders belonged to him and him only. 

He could not hand the duty off to just anyone he didn’t fully know through insideout, and he could not share this umbrella task with his son. It was the one thing keeping them apart, and a while far apart, but from this view his son looked almost in reach. He was being approached, he was approaching him. He couldn’t go anywhere, and he knew as well that his son could go about anywhere to the ends of the earth if he so pleased, but he was 

here. Of all places. And that could make him light up, in an instant. Take him off his chair once and for all, if anything could do him in then that would do it. 

And only if it could. 

We could’ve gone. Tell me next time. 

If he could project now, the thin smile wrung across his face would have been the only telling thing that conveyed the gaze he’d give his son. In person, the actual thing, he said a great deal less than he did when he was set apart. Like this. 

You know where to find me. As you know, I don’t know where you are. 

He lets that satisfaction sink in, pray tell his son was very bright.  The most concerning thing was, come a few passings of seasons there was no telling, maybe he really would outsmart the man. 

[iced-down]

He does his best to keep a straight face, but honestly, it's kind of hard. He turns his back and goes back to pacing for a second or two, just to keep the smug grin away. Sure, hearing that makes him feel good. But there's just,

'-so much wrong with what you just said,' he points out. He lets his stick skitter across the ice instead of gliding across, the sound of old-wood-on-new-ice loud in their glen. 'It's not like I can tell you when this stuff happens! It just-- happens. Kid stuff is out-of-nowhere! That's what makes it fun, and not adult stuff.' He frowns at that. "Adult stuff" -- yuck.

'And plus!' he continues, voice rising, tirade just getting started. He flips the staff from handle to end, the curled top now bouncing against the ice as he walks along. It sounds almost hollow. 'How am I supposed to tell you? It's not like you go home every morning after your job's over.'

'-right?' He knows. And he knows that he knows. The man doesn't even have a home, unless a giant disc in the sky counts. He would wonder how he had a kid, but he doesn't like thinking about stupid things like that.

But he's not always sure that his dad doesn't have some other place he goes to every dawn.

He changes direction suddenly, flipping his staff right-side up, and then swinging it to the side to invite the wind over. He doesn't go far -- all he does is coast over to his tree, the special one, the one coated in frost. Despite its age, it looks young.

'Anyway. You've gotta be able to do something up there, so I'm not convinced. You probably just get your kicks watching me having fun, like an old geezer. You're so old that you have to live vic-, vicar-, vic...' His face screws up as he tries to get over the word.

He heard it once, a long time ago, but he never remembers back very far.

'VICARIOUSLY!' he finally gets out, looking simultaneously frustrated and triumphant. He looks up, and then away, almost as if he's embarrassed. But he's not. Kids don't get embarrassed. '--through me. Because you're old. Yeah.

'If you really cared, you'd pop down here right now and say "hi." None of this beaming, or going special colours, or that weird magic thing that lets you talk. And you care, right? I mean, I'm pretty sure you don't, but you do, so you have to prove it.'

He leans away from the tree and opens his arms, clearly taunting.

'So. How about it?'

[kaigyaku]

 Ah, it would seem ——- that the only audience he cared for in question hadn’t turned in after all. 

Which would have been ideal, knowing that his son was taken cared for, tuckered out and, tucked in, had tucked himself in. 

…No, but maybe not, he didn’t want that, that - wasn’t very ideal at all. That’s where he’d be, that’s where he should be. That is, if his son had climbed in prematurely. Felt that all was done in a good day’s work, called it a night. 

Time went by fast, when you’re busy making up slip hazards, trivial and then maybe not so trivial injuries. Creating brand new, but legitimate excuses for people to board up in their houses and stay close involuntarily, or not to their families and most importantly stay home. Close and safe. Most importantly, in the company of each other. 

Had you stepped outside of the safety of your haven, you would know! You would definitely have taken that plunge. It would be made clear to you, — Why only the bravest and eager would venture out in those conditions. 

It was a lively ordeal, with the winter sun blaring down on the worthy that had come out to test the extents of his son’s work. Snooty fellow, really. Blinding once it came in contact with the snow; it was always up in the air whether winter’s playground casualties were truly responsible within the slip’n slide landscape itself, craftwork of a young architect. 

Or just the pompous loudmouth that blinded these brave scouts temporarily for a living, got his kick and a hoot out of that. Nasty fellow, if you didn’t keep him in check. Someone ought to keep him in line. 

That’s why there were two of them, though this particular season with the diva’s stagetime cut shorter than usual he was …a little shorthanded, no matter how you saw it. But this was his job. 

So long as it called for him, he’d show up. And on a lucky night like this, where his post aligned just right with the glitz in the sky he’d catch a glimpse of the mischief maker he loved telling grand tales about. 

He’d like to get to know him more, the hero to this story. He knew him quite well, up front, more than most could say. But this wasn’t because of anything meritable he himself was doing, his son was quite honest. 

He valued that, he’d try not to laugh at the cutting-edge honesty but that proved to be a challenge when he was right in front of him, it wasn’t as if he could just look away.

Couldn’t go anywhere either, but he was truly content to look upon the final product of his caring. Though that had been moderated from an early age, he remembered every last inkling of when he’d been able to hold him with no qualm, without him putting up much of a fight. 

But he liked this too. Any time with his son, for that matter, whether it was filled with throw and bite, or intolerably long stretches of silence, the rare instance his son would drift where he’d be fond just to gaze upon his work. His one doing, lasting impression on this earth. 

Even now, he just wanted to give something, lasting back. 

I’m listening.

[iced-down]

He hangs around other kids, sometimes. Actually, he hangs around other kids  a lot of the time, just because they're the ones who can appreciate him best. Throw a breath of icy air at an adult, and they'd curse and swear, vainly rushing around to try to get their papers back in order (and they never, ever stopped to think: why did they have to get mad?).

But, throw the same gasp at a kid, and gasp they would, digging into their hoodies and jackets and maybe even smacking into friends. That's what he liked best: if he could muster something strong enough, kids would just drop everything and go play. They got it. They could understand it. But adults? They were always too caught up in themselves to even begin to understand.

But, kids. There are rare times when he's not causing trouble, and when he just hangs where he'd be unwelcome if he could get noticed. He just sits close to them, watches them play, tunes in to their conversations. And you know what kids are like? They're self-centered. Every time he stops and listens, Kelly or Ben are complaining about their parents, their curfews, how they can't stay outside to play. They wonder and wish, pretend how amazing it would be if their parents just didn't exist. And that's what kids think.

Kids don't need their parents. And him? He's no different.

But when he hears that not-statement from his dad (it counts, even if he isn't really talking, right?), it's kind of relieving. Something inside him loosens up, and the silence that hangs itself afterward isn't that bad.

But: he's a kid. And even when he tries really hard, he can't keep his mouth shut, not for long.

'You should be!' he throws back, a new life to his voice that he tries to pass off as offence. He clambers to his feet and throws both his arms up, like almost every kid tends to do. 'I know paying attention is hard for old people, but this is really important.' His arms relax, and he twines his fingers behind his neck, finally looking away and starting to pace. He's surefooted on the ice, a smirk working its way onto his face.

Kids don't need their parents. But having their attention is -- nice.

'Today was really, really cold,' he reports, voice loud and excited. He exaggerates his footing, taking big steps, voice rising mid-stride and falling whenever he puts a foot down. It's comical. And that's the point. 'I did stuff. But a lot of stuff just happened on its own. It was great.'

He spins on his heel once he reaches the center of his lake, doubling back.

'There was this one point!' he continues sharply. He skims his stick-rod-whatever against the ice, sending spirals through the otherwise-undisturbed surface. 'When these kids decided to have a snowball fight, right. During recess. Obviously, I helped,' he looks particularly smug here. 'And they got really, really into it. I guess the adults didn't like it? Because this one guy came out and started yelling at them. He looked really dumb.

'So I threw one at him. And then it got crazy! They kept playing for, like, an hour.' And it's obvious that that was the highlight of the day. For visual reference, he brings together a snowball, holds it aloft, and then chucks it towards the moon. It makes it far, but not that far.

His smile fades, but not that much.

He comes to a halt at the edge of the lake and wraps his arms around his staff-thing, leaning into it and turning to look back up at his dad. He doesn't look that bothered.

'You'd know that, if you bothered to pay attention. If you had,' and he stops there. He wants to say, "we could've played," but he doesn't. '-then even you would've liked it. It was fun. But you're no fun.

'What makes you so boring, anyway? Are you like a vampire? Is that why you never show up, except when everybody's asleep?'

[kaigyaku]

There are surprises laden to be found in the intricate designs you will find in clusters at your windowsill, so long as you take the time. If you look closer. 

There’s also playfulness, in the nip that makes you lose sensation shin down if you’ve been out too long in conditions too great for you. What you’d call a bad stroke of luck, maybe a mischievous sprite. Just because you need to be a little more in control of the happenings that touch, whip, and embrace you — but with a brush of the hand, it could be gone. Just like that, and it could be so much more. Blame goes everywhere, if you allow it, and anywhere you want it to go. It will stay. 

Who else were you going to blame it on, your bad day. 

But have you seen him? Sure you have. Of course you have. You’ve seen his handiwork. You’re welcome, you didn’t have to go in today. This one’s on him.   but, 

If you catch sight of his boy, not just his trace prints. Please without fail, send him some sort of desperation. Show us a sign. 

That’s what he’s accustomed to hearing, but he doesn’t see any harm in abandoning his station for one night. He’s been on the clock, on the dot on the hour, meticulously to make his appearance without fuss. 

But that’s more time away from home. For an all surveying beacon, there was little that was kept from him, but there was also little that he could see. [ ] would have it that he could reach into the smallest of cracks and pierce through, but not when something was so light on its feet and no one could hold to their name and testify that what they’d seen right there,   yes just a second ago,

had been there at all. 

And nobody knew where it was headed next, and that. That was his son. 

[iced-down]

He's not the kind of guy to share much about himself. You see him? No, you don't. And that's the point. But if you've got to know one thing, know this: the moon. He doesn't like it. Can't stand it. If he had his way, it'd be daytime all the time, and they'd never have to deal with that white, spherical jerk.

It's not like he has anyone to tell that to, though. Here he is, middle of nowhere, 10 below zero and with only a frozen tree to keep him company. And he's fine with that! Honest!

But there he is. And just like that, his party's over and ruined before it ever really started.

'You know, for as much as you show up, you're not all that welcome.' He's lying down in the ice, one leg kicked up, looking for all the world like he's just chilling. Get it? Chilling. He tucks his hands behind his head and sighs, shuts his eyes, but it doesn't really do anything. 'There are some people that like you, sure,' he allows, 'but if we had a choice, I think everybody'd just prefer you went away.

'There's nothing good about you, anyway.' And does he mean to ramble? No, but he can't help it. Just like the jerk in front of him can't help but be there. 'You make people go crazy. You cause really big tsunamis. And, you do that whole werewolf thing. Scary stuff.'

He stops there, letting that thought hang. If he were dumber, he'd be expecting a reply. But he's not.

'I know you're supposed to be super-big and everything, but down here, you're really tiny.' Here's where he stretches out his hand, and his palm is enough to eclipse him, fingers splayed and deflecting his rays. But does it solve the problem? No. 'If you ask me, I think you're actually really tiny. People just think you're big because you pretend you are. But if you were big, you'd be more important. Better.'

He lets another silence descend, and this is where he starts to lose steam. He drops his hand, and winces briefly at how bright his dad really is. The seconds tick and tock, and...

Nothing.

He sits up wonderingly.

'-are you listening?'

[ruthelinse]

 ’I’d like to trust you. But, seeming as I’m the only one who really cares about damage control around here. Just because they have their lights off, and aren’t bothering to make a peep does not mean that they are tuckered out, they’ll be up for another two hours at best. 

Do you know what this could possibly entail for us.’ He’s careful to not scuff his shoes while kicking them off, marching on up the few shallow steps it takes to get to the main room. 

 'Now, on contrary as to what you'd like to believe.' He sets his briefcase down and readjusts the lapels to his suit, why it's still stuck on him, unbelievable. Cannot believe. Not a true story. Source your things next time. 'I too, am a healthy male, man. And I’d like my specially alotted time,

just as much as the next man.’ He closes the distance between them, propping the overly imposing (by not just height and stature,) man and props him up against the wall, noses bumping — there’s no question who’s the bigger man here. And more importantly, it’s in no way blossoming its way into becoming some true and competition. 

'But mommy and daddy can’t go to work when all their babies, give or take one or two are still awake. Can they.' 

[iced-down]

Ugh. Bore. The guy isn't even two seconds into the house and he's already bitching, offering a lecture that nobody asked for. He looks the part, sure: the most he's removed is his shoes (which is a huge disappointment), and he's got on his suit, which makes him look like a lecture-kind-of-dad. But, newsflash: he's taller. He's older. And he sure as hell doesn't have to apologise for doing something to his kid, thanks.

He was just playing the music a little loud. Can you blame him? He just wanted to unwind some!

'I'm gonna do the nice thing and assume you got brain damage, and not that you're actually trying to lecture me.' Such is what he offers, even after he gets cornered, a fact he takes in with the best nonplussed face he can offer. He doesn't look very impressed. And immediately, his hands dart out, pulling at the guy's tie and starting to unwind it automatically. They've been through this routine enough times that he knows how.

So, the man before him should know when to shut up and just take his clothes off.

'Music's already down, and it's the first day of break -- do you actually think they're gonna be up at this hour?' You'd think the guy had no idea what kids were like, or that he'd never been one.

Ohhhhh... right. He hadn't. That was right. And it was his job to enlighten the man when he fell short of having all the eggs in his basket! Ohhhh. Riiiiight.

'See, there's this thing kids like: it's called sleep.' he sounds as sarcastic as he can get, which is pretty fucking sarcastic. Trust him. He's had practise. Tie done and discarded (more like hastily shoved into his pocket), he moves on to the rest of the suit, unbuttoning the coat with only a little impatience. 'But that's something they don't get when they're in school. So, what do they do first day of holidays? They sleep.' He takes on a wondering tone, all but saying, What a concept.

The suit jacket is summarily unbuttoned and disposed of, thrown towards the couch in a semblance of respect. Next up comes the vest, because the dude is a freak.

'So, sure -- tomorrow and for the rest of the week we'll have to worry about them staying up until fuck'o'clock in the morning. But for right now, I bet you anything they're asleep, and lost to the world. So, no, my music isn't bothering anybody.' Which is a damn shame, since that was the only reason he played that crap in the first place. But look what it won him!

He takes a second to admire his fellow parent, looking much better now that some of his stuffy clothing is coming off.

'So maybe just shut your mouth and let's "get to work," huh?' he finally pushes the guy off a little, giving him at least the chance to start taking off his own clothes. He's not a babysitter -- at least, not at night. 'Which is a really creepy way to say it, by the way. I know it goes against your delicate sensibilities, but here, we call it fucking.

'So, let's get on with that, maybe?'

[ruthelinse]

 You know what to be fair he loves treatment like this but for any normal cue receptive human beeeeing, an intro like that was bound to throw off some alarms and if it didn’t, god were you not in sync with yourself or what. If he didn’t know better, that kinda lead-in belonged to somebody ready to trounce you. Ready to fuck you up. Right up. Pony up was more like it, but. 

Oh man. Yeah, he could take some getting used to this! It wasn’t new, not necessarily, but the sudden lurching come-on was uh, well, always surprising. Like a grab bag of surprises, where every day had to be a surprise; he was never in the top ten percent, and he’d be surprised if he’d make it out of the bottom fifty. Why do homework when your gpa was on the suicidal side, like literally Bomb Tokyo In One Night status, when we could always cook up something that was a surprise. 

He’s grateful his backup plan, the comic book layered on top of his textbook has done his handiwork for him. Couldn’t let his senpai know that he was getting his studying on, getting all studious on him. He snorts lightly and tips his head back, rubbing his head against the shoulder it lands on. 

"What. Are you telling me, you’re gonna try and tell me. That

    I’d be doing something as lame as homework, c’mon are you my upper classman, senior prefect or what. 

I’ve got no time to waste on grades, you think I’d be too busy for you! Well you are down right out of your mind.” he sets the book(s) off to the side. 

Turns around, sort of shimmies into a now face-toward hug and tug, tugs at his senpai’s bangs. "Why. You need a wingman or something?

 Another double date? Is that it?

I’d say that I’ve had it with being your second man in question, but oohcan it be, you’ve finally got your head on your shoulders, thinking up a storm! 

Because a real tough man has got to always have a plan B, plan C. Runner up whatever trying to ride up on the D. 

— Like my last report card, don’t deck me. S’il vous plait.” He chortles, running a palm through his own hair. "I’m good. But don’t keep me waiting. What’s the good news?"

[iced-down]

One thing you have to admire about this kid -- and only one thing, don't think he didn't notice that sweep of books off to the side -- is that he can talk up a storm! Literally! Sometimes, he thinks he's probably going to need an umbrella, just to stand against the onslaught of words that talking to his kouhai invites.

Talking a lot's not a bad thing, per se. But it does make him go quiet, doing his best not to be overwhelmed, which basically gives the other free reign of the conversation until he's decided he's bored with not talking. That's what happens now, with his only contribution being to squeeze the boy every so often, and invite him closer when he decides to switch the hug from behind to a full-on frontal hug instead. Which he appreciates! Really!

It's not his fault if it makes him miss maybe 40% of what his kouhai is saying. Really.

There's something about double-dates, and being a prefect or something (seriously? have you seen him), but most of what he gets comes at the tail end, the younger boy talking about his grades, and how homework is so lame yada yada yada, which is totally something he can get on top of. Which is totally what he's going to do.

'You'd never do homework, right? Especially not when I'm around.' he looks especially enthused as he says this, his own suggestive way of saying, "don't you dare fucking do homework in my presence." In a nicer way, definitely! He'd never be that mean. To his guy right here. 'You should take that D and be proud of it! I'm failing, like, half my classes. But do you see me caring? No.'

And there's another important point to address in there, isn't there? He thinks on it for a moment, squeezing the other close again while he scours his brain. Something about... double-dating, wingmen, or something. He's 60% sure that's what it was about.

'But you know, bad grades don't exactly attract the ladies,' he notes, massaging at the boy's shoulders for good measure. He's trying to emphasize the "ladies" part, so that his special person will get it through his head, once and for all. Not even he's that oblivious! Most of the time. He thinks. 'They care a lot more than you think. Especially when you get to be my age. Actually, it's kind of offensive. It's like they're saying: what you look like or what you're like isn't important. All I care about is knowing whether or not I can borrow your study notes!... or something.

'They're lame. You're not.' And that's about as blunt as it can get, isn't it.

He lets another moment of silence hang, leaning back and taking the other with him as he does so. He openly eyes the bed, both because he's tired of being on his feet, and because he REALLY wants him to know that he's not going anywhere special. Fall is here! And it's the weekend! It's best to spend time with special friends, on special days, doing nothing special at all.

Some more silence. And then...

'- I don't actually know why I came over.' And with that, he sounds very unsure. Because heck if he's just going to give "it's fall" as his reason. And they haven't exactly breached affection yet, besides the strange pull-and-tug they'e got going on, exemplified by what they're doing right now. Hugging isn't always romantic. So heck if he knows what to do.

'-but no big deal, right?', he continues, waving it off as he is wont to do. Fall is here! It's the weekend! Whatever they decide to do, as long as it's not homework, it should be fun. Somehow. 'You and me can think of something. That isn't homework!

'It's the weekend, you know.'

[iced-down]

Fall is in the air. Children and dogs alike are jumping into leaf piles; crotchety old men are complaining about the colder weather; and everywhere, students like himself are bustling about, trying to get their acts in gear for the mid-semester rush or, for some, getting a head start on those pesky end-secondary exams.

If he were normal (and if he cared), he'd fall into that latter category. But as it stands, he seems to be the only one who isn't running around like a chicken that's had its head chopped off... more or less. Everybody just needs to slow down! Not in the druggy way, and not in the apathetic way, but... they should take a load off, you know?

Especially during the weekend.

And so! Here's his mission: get the one person he cares about to shed any actual care he had for school life (he's hoping, optimistically, that it's basically none). The guy's one year below him, so there's no way he has more to worry about than he does. And it's the weekend, the weekend! Nobody should be thinking about work on the weekend.

It's his job to make sure this transgression never happens again.

'You,' he starts, and normally, you'd expect such a rough greeting to be intimidating, or at least mean. Not here. It's excited, and full of hope, like his kouhai is the best thing he's seen all day. Which he is.

He slings himself over the younger boy before he can say anything else.

'How're you!' Muffled as the continuation might be, he makes up for it by sounding as bright as possible, which is pretty, pretty bright. He's happy! 'Good, right? You've gotta be good. We're both good.

'So you're good, right? Not doing homework, or anything boring, right? Am I right.'

[ruthelinse]

 ’When are you going to teach me how to navigate these halls before some overly friendly guard totes me back to the lost and found. 

S’getting old, don’tyou think !? -Pretty sure that the whole staff thinks that you have a hidaway son you’re not share, and telling about. 

And you don’t even look that old.

Why you gotta go and hide me? Do I look that bad to try and pass as if not your offspring, kin.’ He bumps her shoulder. 

‘Hey. 

- I’m talking to you.’

[iced-down]

Oh wow, there's an insult! Stellar! Absolutely. What is it this time? "22 is the new 35?" "Should've married while you were still hot?" She can just hear it now.

But she doesn't have to act like she does.

Junko's pulling the "sunglasses in doors" deal, which is tres fashionable if you're a douchebag or an insomniac. She's a bit of both. It helps her look like she's purposefully ignoring him, too, while she's really just biding time for a proper insult for Squirt Central to her right. She clears her throat and fixes her hair, all nice and lady-like, and then she inclines her head towards him.

'No, really? I thought you meant the other bitch with big tits in the room.' She makes a show of glancing around. 'But that's just you and me, right?

Figures. I'm such an airhead!' She knocks herself on the forehead (gently), removes her sunglasses, and then roughly shoves him away.

What a dork.

'With how often you hang out here - for no reason - you sure look like somebody's bastard.' Junko grins as she assesses him, fixing the sunglasses into her hair. 'It's not like I ask you to come here or anything. You just kind of show up. Unwanted, not asked for.

You're like a really shitty Monday morning.' And he is! He can be! He's a little prick is what. There's a pause, and she kicks back on her heels for a turn.

'But seriously, what up? Whose dick did I suck wrong to get your sorry ass to come here?'

[ruthelinse]

 ’Why don’t you let me get a better look at that,’ He reaches as far as he can go while still remaining seated, — Nope. Still lacking. The likes of her relenting were rapidly disappearing off the chart as it were, so he let his head drop off to the side on one of his shoulders. Usually means he’s given up, but she is just wound so up-tight tonight! What had gone wrong? 

And Terrence couldn’t be seated for that, not when he knew how hardworking she was as strict. This was the weekend, already! Yes, there was always an agenda but there was always room to squeeze in some unplanned recreation. 

Most times than not, this would be a miss, and he’d have to let up. But when it was a hit, it’d be jotted down somewhere — yet another notable thing that actually passed with his bundle of gorgeous and wisdom. 

He makes a point in looking positively defeated, tutting a little under his breath while an arm makes its way around her waist in fine time to tug her into a both-armed, crushing hug. 

 He hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingertips at her side. ‘Now what was that? Let’s go through it together. 

Slowly,’ His chest heaves evenly against her back and reverberates at an unsquashable chuckle. ‘You know how much of an inching learner I am. 

Learn me some.’ He beams, pressing his cheek into the side of her head. 

‘And other than the staple list, you can go over what else has been added. Jolt my memory.’ He bounces his knee just a bit, but stills it and leans into her instead. 

‘I’m listening.’

[iced-down]

He's fussing. And when is that ever a good sign? Clara tenses, initially, letting him sway her but refusing to return any form of affection. This is recreation when they should be going over the week's chores. Instead of hard work, they're engaging in idle time -- and idle time is the Devil's hands. With that thought in her mind, she steels herself again, but there's really so much you can do with a man like this.

'By now I'd expect you to know better,' she judges quietly, though there's not much malice in her voice at all. It's been replaced (or shoved out by the permanent resident) by the stern, get-down-to-business side of her personality, which is the only thing that compels her to open the list again and hold it in front of them both. She, of course, knows everything that's been written on it; she is the author. And so far, in tiny script, there's a numerous list of chores, all assigned to the various tenets of the household.

There's no chores on the list for her. That's not, of course, because she's slacking. It's because she can remember them all.

'You need to clean the gutters,' she begins, her voice never quite lowering enough to be a finished statement. There's a lot more where that came from. 'And get more firewood, come with me for groceries -- and that's every day this week, not just once.' Clara sends him a look, then, a silent warning. She hates to cook with anything but fresh ingredients. Clearing her throat, she continues going down the list. 'Give our donations to the Deacon, come with me to Summer Mass, have your rosary fixed --' Big pause here. '-- and clean the attic.

Is that clear?'

[iced-down]

Generally, this time is meant to be for relaxation (or even better, prayer; and even better than that, sleep), but she's willing to let that slide. There are other pressing matters to deal with, and he is, at least, relaxing, or at least staying seated in the one sofa she's permitted in her household. She, on the other hand, is standing straight on her feet, and now she's taking herself right over to him, stomping if not for her curtailed steps.

Clara pushes an itemized list in Terrence's face for half a moment, and then snatches it away. She takes it up between her fingers and looks down on him icily, folding the list into squares and tinier ones still. She doesn't look happy.

Does she ever?

'And do you know what you'll be doing for chores this week?'

[linderia-blog]

 ’Now this is a surprise.’ Her voice stays at more or less of a deadpan, shaking her head disapprovingly. ‘No one accessory, hanging off of you. ‘Course if I looked like that, don’t think I could stick to just one.

Doesn’t look good on you, for anyone who told you that it did. 

C’mon, tell me. You’ve got a squeeze in reaching distance, have to. Or what you misplaced back at home, oughta do like a.’ She flails her hands, flicking slender fingers in his direction as if to splash him. Who would of thought? Her being a chatterbox. Not a chance, and here she was. ‘Full bodied check next time, make sure you’re not leaving anything at home that should be on your person.

Gives off the wrong signal.’ She gives him a good, long stare from where she’s at and it’s only a matter of time, moments put more specifically that she loses it and sputters. ‘Wow. Wow, wow. Okay. 

Don’t put that past me, that I didn’t mean any of that? 

But that was just bad. Just null it all.’ She makes diagonal slicing motions in the air, in high hopes to dismiss it. As if. ‘So. All that put aside,’ She laces her fingers behind her back and extends her arms high up in the air, caving fingers the opposite way than deemed natural. She stretches, letting her lip quirk in a twitch and reopens her eyes, replacing that faint humiliation with a smile.

That oughta do it. ‘So? How’re you doing tonight?’

[iced-down]

So he's got this look on his face. It's not happy, not sad... but it's a teeny, minor bit, sort of kind of angry. His brows are scrunched, his mouth is set, and there's a certain tension to his posture as he turns further towards this -- random woman of the street, come to harass him about his...

Fashion?

Okay, he's not so much frustrated as confused.

He doesn't take his eyes off her while she's talking (and what a talker!), but her disparaging goes in one ear and out the other as he makes a mental checklist of what he went out in. Most of what he's got on is one-article accounted for: uniform pants, a shirt he'd left over at his kouhai's place (and may or may not have been laundered recently), a jacket from who knows where...

Does she mean his shoes?

'--lady,' he begins, conveniently right as she's finished off her spiel. He leans back, kind of defensively, but mostly to analyse her. Does she look mad? No. Does she look sad? Noo... But she doesn't look happy, or excited, or any of those things, really.

What's he supposed to do?

'Is it my shoes?'

Also conveniently, he's forgotten about the two scarves he's got thrown over his neck, one blue, the other a kind of neon green. Again, stolen from his kouhai, but can you blame him? It's a cool night out, and a man has to be outfitted for the journey.

Or maybe he thought it looked cool at the time. Either or.

'I hate to break it to you, but most people wear one pair of shoes. Even you.' He makes a vague gesture towards her feet, looking down on her with pity. Maybe it's a new trend? He's never good at keeping up with those. 'Sorry, but I'm normal.'

[ruthelinse]

That’s definitely not who he expected to be wandering about.

Life of the party? Yeah right. Without anyone to show off, he was just another ornamental decorative contribution. Without the promising headsup, provided they’d have something there better to do. 

What did he have much to do? Not much, but until he spotted the one in question he’d remain until beckoned on and mostly, that’d be the rest of his night. He drummed his fingers against the arm rest neglected from disuse and turned his head into the only innocent drink he knew of up to date, present at this appearance of sorts. 

Had to stay hydrated, right?

It didn’t phase him much, but the grin worn on his face was growing slack. 

Could he go home anytime soon? He’d just have to see.

[iced-down]

In life, there are certain statures one attains, purely by living. As one ages and walks the lone-trodden path down life's lane, one slowly shifts the burden from being on them to being on others. In plain English, the meaning is simple: the older generations get to relax, and the younger generations have to break their backs for them. It's the nature of things. It's just how life is. And respect isn't a two-way street.

That's more than clear when you have assholes like that brat, over there, hanging out with a drink and looking about like he owns the place. Relaxing. Taking a load off. And what has he done to earn it? Nothing. He's young, and he thinks he owns the world.

In fact, he's made life harder for the older generation -- namely, himself. This guy, over here, standing amidst the people with an expression growing sour on his face.

This kid was one of the worst of them.

He finishes off the last of his drink - taken only to be polite to the hostess, naturally - and makes his way over with a certain grudging air. It's not his choice, honest. But if he doesn't approach the kid first, then it will only be the other way around, and where will that get him?

"Two steps back" is the right answer. Falling down six times, if you will.

He carries his empty glass like a gentleman, but when he finds himself in front of the brat, he tips his glass towards him in a decided lack of manners. It's doubtful the hotshot even notices.

He takes a short breath that comes out a long sigh, and furrows his brow.

'Let the lady of the party know her drinks are wonderful, if you would,' he says, voice with its usual always-tired quality. He inclines his head. 'You can do that, at least? Even you must know the hostess of a party you pretend to own.'

[seichtartikel]

 ’You see this,’ He steps in. ‘This is me not respecting your curfew. 

See how that feels. Do you get it now, padre? See who’s in charge? you haven’t got that type of power.‘ 

Master bedroom or not, this particular rebel wasn’t dressed for his all talk rebellion, not exactly. He’d been in his pajamas for the past two hours, it was just. 

He needed a little change of scenery. ‘And this is me invading.’ He tuts his tongue while lifting the thin layer and starts to shuffle on in next to his dad. 

‘Tough.’ He thinks he’s done okay.

[iced-down]

'Ah...' Here's a sound of acknowledgement. Not only is it a sound of acknowledgement, but at the same time, he's managed to create a suspenseful pause...

Which gives him time to lean forward in the bed and stretch, planting a firm hand on his boy's chest to keep him from coming any closer.

Also, he sounds kind of disappointed. Like, really?, that "ah" said, Is that all you've got for me? 'cause you're coming across pretty weak here.

He is, in fact, a master of expressing himself through a single sound. With his kid, at least.

And his kid is NOT coming in his bed. Not until he's made a little more of an effort.

He lets another suspenseful pause come through, leaning forward like he means to say something...

But after that pause, he just bears his weight forward again, pushing his son back as far as he'll go.

'Scary. Totally shitting my pants right now, kid.' He sighs and settles back into the three pillows he's got propped up against the headboard, sending his sprog a meaningfully sarcastic look. It's kind of pitying, in its own way. This is what he spawned? Really?

'Can you at least, like, get one of the kitchen knives or something to make it look a little more convincing? Go ahead. I - will - wait.' He crosses his feet for dramatic effect, rocking his right heel back and forth just to show off his willingness. He's happy to cooperate!

Just give him anything besides that.

But clearly, this is too much to ask of his son. The kid's got as much intimidation in him as one of his pets does during mating season.

He sighs. Again. He's laying it on a bit thick, buuuut...

He has no son.

'If you think this is intimidating, I have no son.' He kicks one of his legs up, a partial concession to the idea of allowing his kid entry.

'You put your rats up and everything for the night, right? No unwanted pregnancies we'll have to worry about in the morning? "We" being "you", of course.'

[ruthelinse]

 He couldn’t tell which was cuter. The —skit of sorts that was playing out before him that he didn’t know the exact lines to, or that his super adorable somebody, did it show on his face? Nah, couldn’t be. He was a sphinx, devoid of emotion if he had any. Not a chance the other would figure, catch onto that. — was so knit in concentration, he was almost tempted to turn around and throttle him off balance. ‘- Can’t,’ He starts to speak then clamps his mouth shut as the same topic sentence arises without him having to ask for it. ‘Can’t expect me to know if you’ve lost a grasp on it, right?’ He reaches up to snag a few of his fingers and stamps a pursed lipped kiss to both of them. 

‘That sounds so unfun, you couldn’t possibly think of anything better? My job’s not what’s important here, it’s that we’ve got a serious emergency on our hands aaaand we don’t know it.’ He spins around in his chair and drags the other onto his lap, letting a set of keys swing infront of his face. ‘The kind of disaster that we’re going to have to move really, really fast to avoid lest you want us to both be crippled from boredom and tears.

Let’s get out of this place? You and me? And you’re mistaken. You’re the Mr. Cool here, I’ve just got the sorta kinda cool ride.’ He shifts the other onto his desk  and stands, shoving one arm into his suit sleeve and forget about all the rest. ‘C’mon?’

[iced-down]

There's lots of confounding and mysterious things about his Mr. Hotrod, but the most mystifying thing at that moment is how he doesn't know. Honest? He fully expects his guy to be able to remind him of things he loses strands of -- and most of the time, he's really good at it. He means to say something about that (something along the lines of How could you, without the touch of hysteria or grief), but the chance is plucked right out of his fingers when he's manoeuvred about.

And so something new arises to puzzle over.

'Do I look cool to you?' he wonders aloud. No, see, coolness is defined by two things and two things only: having a good job, and owning a sweet car. Right now, he's got neither of those. But his guy, he's got both. He drops down off of the desk and threads his arm through the other's unsuited one, directing them towards the exit without another thought. Wheels, transportation, anywhere they felt like going... it's not even a matter of thinking to him. They can argue about what's cool anywhere else.

'Me? I'm not cool. But you? You're cool. I'm pretty sure that was what I was going on about.' The more he thinks about it, the more certain he gets. What else could he be talking about? Nothing else is worth discussing right now. A smile spreads his face. 'Do you think that makes me cool by being around you?'

'--you tell me.'

[iced-down]

He's got one hand draped around the other boy's shoulders, and a second one diving all around, gesticulating in time with his words. He's not a fast talker, not by any means, and it's not like he's talking about anything important... but it's a habit.

His index finger comes to press hard against his temple in mock thought when he pauses, scrunching up his face for added effect. It's a counterbalance to his usual, mellow expression, and to be entirely honest, he's not sure what he's supposed to be thinking hard about.

'-- what am I thinking about?' he wonders aloud, and without prompting, he looks down at his working man, expression alleviating to something more curious. 'What am I thinking about?' This time, it's not so rhetorical. He lets out a little sigh and hangs his arms loosely over the other's shoulders, slumping against him like he's already given up.

'Your job, right? Right? We were supposed to be talking about that.' He's not so fussed about chasing a lost train of thought, though. He doesn't sound like he's in for the effort. 'Or did we get to how cool you are?'

[ruthelinse]

lady as she could be, there were just some things that someone so dense as himself couldn’t turn a blind eye too. Not that all these things were bad, well -by her standards he could never fully adhere to nor understand, maybe. But he liked this albeit, muted spunk. It was a small victory with each and every time, but that would go without saying! 

A lot would have to go without saying, for the points he’d lost from arriving unprepared. He’d behave if he must, but it was always a little rewarding to see her go about her ways without completely giving his requests the hack.

He worked to stifle a laugh when she padded down his knees, her soon to be seat. It was taxing, to ensure that he kept his tongue tied when she situated herself, with locked arms secure around her waist he helped her. ‘I do, and I think all you do is work at times so if this passes as what you call luxury, then it’s no skin off of anyone’s nose. 

 - A load easier,’ He remarks resting his chin against her shoulder and providing his chest for a better back support. ‘I can actually make out the text on the page now. 

Now the real question is, are you any comfier?’

[iced-down]

'I wonder if you heard anything I said.' There's a stoutness to her voice, now, but it's nothing sharp, nothing firm, and it's mostly just a comment to take away some of the face-value of her pinched smile. The gentleman of ceased wagging tongues he may be, but it would be vain of her to admit she's not holding anything back, either. She's thinking a little bit on how comfy this could be, if her pillow were any softer.

But this will do.

'Comfort breeds idleness, and idle hands are the Devil's hands,' she reminds him. She eases herself back against his chest and tilts the book towards the light, so they can both have a chance at reading it. Honestly, she wouldn't have minded reading it aloud, or passing it back and forth. She knows plenty of it by heart, as she should. And if this isn't something of a ploy, then she doesn't know which of her senses to trust any more.

But this isn't bad.

'There won't be any of this tomorrow, you know.' She says it in this distracted way, probably owed to the fact that she's honestly trying to read. It's the sort of book that just pulls you in. 'Not in the morning, either, since you wasted so much of our time forgetting things.' Oh, she'll cook them breakfast, surely, but some of his amenities are going to be taken away for this. He has to learn the meaning of suffering. A decisive note strikes in her mind while she tucks her head against his neck.

'--but if you go to confession proper, maybe afterward.'