Boredom

So let's escape the murder together -- shall we?

[sputtertricks]

'you ever get that feeling that you're not all sure a street will lead you but you'll go down it anyway? like it seems pardonable, or…' Shoes off and already he's chattering away, flicking the hallway light on. 

Well I did that tonight. For us. And I found us a new joint. really sweet, really quick, speedy, friendly service and I thought I heard someone mention a place that does their italian,-fusion right.’ He eases in on one arm of the couch, pass-presses the takeout, still warm wrapped in a paper bag against the snoozing(?) He has the remote close to him, any way, partner sprawled out. 

 ’Hey, hey. I’m later than I should be, but. I got you something. ‘ 

 ’How are we doing?’ He asks, taking him by his knee and, just for the occasion. As if to shake his favorite man awake. 

[itsakiller]

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he flipped the TV from the season finale of his cartoon to some celebrity talk show. That's the first thing he sees when he cracks his eyes open: two ugly, made-up women clutching at each other, bawling their eyes out for reasons unknown.

And then he looks to his left. What he sees there is a much more welcome sight.

'You're late,' he agrees, taking the bag and digging through it immediately. He pulls out the two take-out boxes that his roommate's procured, setting them down separately on the coffee table before them. The plastic utensils come next, and, dubiously, he extracts the pamphlet-cum-menu the place included before finally setting the bag aside. 'Was it expensive?'

He doesn't really care. It's obvious in the way he puts everything aside to reach for the other first, framing his face with his hands and none-too-gently pulling him towards the couch.

'If you're going to get something, leave work earlier,' he advises-- commands, basically. But his mouth quirks up in a lopsided smile, and he settles his arms around the other man in a show of thanks.

'So I don't have to wait.'

[itsakiller]

He shifts Avi in his lap again, drawing his knees up to give him something to lean against. It's just for a moment that he pulls away, releasing his hold on the other's arms and pushing away himself. He hauls a hand through the back of his hair, scouring his fingers upward-- and then he reaches forward again, doing the same to his husband's bangs.

He's all out-of-sorts, but that's no surprise.

'I was thinking,' he starts. Of course he's been thinking. And if he's doing his job right, then his spouse isn't.

'That'd we go out for dinner or something. Nothing fancy,'--he scoffs at the idea--'but something kind of special, you know? Since you're all about "gestures" and "making things special."' There's an overbearing note of condescension in his voice, like always... but there's affection there too, something tired and almost exasperated. 'But this.' He runs his hands up and down Avi's sides, grinning lopsidedly. 'I think this is better.'

They've been inside for a couple hours at this point, and it hasn't been much else but this: having his spouse close, closing the gap between them and making something of it. There's a low hum under his skin, an itch that protests against the four walls around them, but it's silenced again when he pushes up with his hands and kisses Avi another time. He threads his hands through his hair and tilts his head just-so to make things easier.

He's getting to that age where he can't just call himself 20 and get people to believe him. Twenty-three, twenty-five, those are still safe bets, but... he's getting older. Something else lurches in him at that, and he drags Avi that much closer, kisses him that much harder to make it go away. It doesn't work, but it does distract him.

He pulls away when he's almost entirely out of breath-- which means his husband's got to be in a lot worse of a place. He pats his shoulder consolingly when they part, hooking his arms around his neck next and leaving them there when he lies back against the couch. He has to strain to keep looking at him, but he doesn't break eye contact.

'You know. We could just not make a big deal out of it, too.' He smirks hopefully, but there's no real push in his tone; he gave up on that battle years ago. His hands go to ruffle Avi's hair when "years" crosses his mind. 'But I guess you've got your choice. We could do whatever you think is a good idea. We could do what I want, which is stay in and take this a little further...' he trails off hopefully, and so do his hands, going to the kid's left hand to fiddle with his ring finger.

'Or some third option. Wow me. What'll it be?'

[itsakiller]

It's cold. That's the excuse he's got prepared for anyone who wants to ask why he's smoking so much. He's no chain smoker, but this is his third in as many hours, the ashtray he's got outside on the apartment's balcony already pretty dirty. It's a good thing it's not a school day, or he'd probably be in a lot of shi-- 

... trouble.

The third time he needs a break, he grabs his pseudo-cousin's wrist and pulls him along outside, a vague guilt eating at him for interrupting their show so many times. He lets go to get his lighter out and get the stick burning, but after that, he goes right back to winding their hands together, not really thinking.

It's only a couple of minutes that he tries saying anything.

'You can go back in if you want.' There's been a decided release of tension since he came out and lit one up, no longer leaning away or bouncing his foot like he was doing inside. So there's that, at least. He backs away a little, putting some distance between them, but not letting go of the other's hand. 'Just figured you were getting sick of having to pause the show.' Because outside was so much more interesting.

He scuffs one of his shoes against the sturdy wood flooring -- when neither of their guardians-per-se are home, he's a lot more carefree.

'-how've you been?' he ventures, like he doesn't see the other every day, like they don't sit together in class 3 out of the 5 days in the school week. 'When I don't see you.' For that 10% of the time they're actually separated. He cracks a smile at the thought.

'How's that music thing going?' he continues, deliberately vague at this point. He chooses that moment to blow the rest of his smoke out, too, just to make it seem like he doesn't really care. 'Are you still playing guitar?

'Or were you on drums?'

[itsakiller]

He slides his hands over the other's shoulders, feeling the rich, soft material that's currently passing for his clothes. He drags his fingertips down the sleeves, both to test how real it really is (it is) and to drive the man into fits of discomfort (does it?). When he gets down to his hands, he works the ten fingers open and slots his own ten in between them, pressing gloved hands against the other's bare palms. He drops his head to the magnate's shoulder, inhaling a deep breath.

And he laughs.

They don't really know each other, save for glances from across the far side of the court during the season. He doesn't know the man's name, or his hailing family, or even if he's a wife (but he probably does). All he does know is that the man is an advisor of some sort, one of a hundred, kept on not for royal decisions or battle strategy, but to help decide what trivial action would offend the noble families the least.

All he knows is that, despite the man's unimportance, he's important compared to him -- and most of the people here are, lords and ladies that far outrank a simple mage like him. This man might even be a lord himself (and he probably is). He knows that. But he also doesn't care.

He has the advisor backed into a corner, in a hall so deep in the castle it has yet to be named for a king's brother (yet). He's physically ensnared him, because this just isn't important enough to use magic. When he lifts his head, his eyes are bright, and he looks like he's enjoying what he sees.

For some reason, he always goes after the boring guys.

'You know, I never introduced myself,' are the first words out of his mouth, the first he's said since the rushed Come with me! when he grabbed the man out of the courtyard. 'Aaaand. I don't think I want to. It's not proper custom, I know. But I don't even know your title!

'So you should introduce yourself to me,' he continues cheerfully. 'I mean. I would bet you've heard of me.' No, he wouldn't. 'But me? I haven't heard a thing about you! See, that's the thing: you hear about us lowly drones all the time, us soldiers-on-hand, but you never hear about the important guys, the advisors. I think we should change that.

'Your name's probably boring. And I bet you're seven times removed from the throne, but.'

He squeezes one of the well-to-do's hands in his grip. 'Let's hear it!'

[sputtertricks]

So it’s about that time of night, isn’t it. 

     Doesn’t matter what happened earlier today, doesn’t remember whatever happened earlier on that week. It’s not that hard a concept to wrap your head around. 

 Ask him what he had for breakfast, shoot. Anything, anything. On a good day, he could probably remember that. 

 Today was not a good day. What ever had transpired, or so it seemed, to make him completely devoid of the events of that day, had been blocked out. 

That’s what home was for. That’s what crashing in with your next best man in line, favorite person ever, hands down, you’ve got that right. There’s still 

one thing, that could turn this day around. Wasn’t even a dealbreaker. No see, that’s not it. What for sure he wasn’t was a make or break dealmaker. 

But today undoubtedly could still be salvaged. Give it time, give it a good bath, don’t tell anyone, if he hears you passed that on, the future will hold a dark one for you. 

Besides, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if that story leaked anyway. Probably the only ones who knew were relatively harmless folk, you know. The type he really loved and, wanted to keep in his life. Aka his mom and his flatmate, muse, boycrush of the century. Don’t try to convince him otherwise! All deals are off.

This guy right here, infallibly the best thing to happen to a scummy, crummy, could-be bummed out have-been, at least. That’s what circled around the staff from time to time. 

 He never paid it too much mind, though. The favorite contribution to his day, after all, was right here. He can stress this no harder than he does on a daily basis so what he does, is wind his arms around his guy’s waist, tug him in by the reel. 

‘So, how’s my baby, my baby one and only been doing today?’ 

[itsakiller]

So, let's get it straight: he's a simple guy, with simple needs. He wants a l of things, sure! But the only things he needs are A) not a lot of homework; B) change for the vending machine, and C) time with his working guy. He's not picky, either: he can do homework online, find change in the couch, and that time? He can take it anywhere, at home, school, work... anywhere's good, as long as he can see him.

That means that by the time arms wrap around him, he's already pretty much set for the day. He settles his hands around the ones pulled against him, and he puts on his best annoyed face, which isn't very annoyed at all.

'Just so you know, I don't know any girl called "baby."' he leans back for just a second, and then starts tugging his guy forward, making them into a weird hug-train inching its way towards the couch. They're only a couple of feet away, but the journey is long and arduous. 'And it might be just me, but I don't think it's a great idea to call your boyfriend some girl's name. I mean, that MIGHT just be me, but.'

And he can't help it. He breaks out into a grin.

'If you're asking about me, you should use my name! I've got one, you know.' As he says that, they complete their torturous journey. He frees himself of Mr. Working Man's hands and sets in on him, turning him around and walking him into the couch. He crashes into the seat right beside him, making the sofa creak a little under their combined weight. They need to fix that. But, first: his guy. 'If you're really serious about this girl thing, though, we're gonna have to have a long talk.'

 He pauses to reach over his boyfriend for the remote, switching the TV on before he tosses it to the floor. It's on some talk show about weight loss, but he doesn't really pay attention. 'This guy - not girl - was doing homework all day. I mean LITERALLY all day. Math teacher ran us over 15 minutes because he wanted to do a pop quiz. Can you BELIEVE that?' He sighs.

'So then my Sociology teacher got mad at me and like 3 other people for being late. And then I had to stay over to go to the library, right? I wanted to study -- keywords, "wanted to" -- but then some chick brought her kid and he threw a tantrum. So, then I came back HERE,' and here he gestures to the coffee table, which is full of books, and then to the floor, which has a bunch of papers scattered all over it. '-and I've been busy ever since.

'What about you, tough guy?' he says smugly. He drags at the other's collar, trying to get his tie off. 'Did you make any executive business decisions today? Fire anybody? Become a millionaire so I never have to study again?

'If you did, now's the time to say.'

[sputtertricks]

 He’s not one to ask. He never questions, not his brother, not really, other than save for 'when are we getting there?'/'didn't they say that it'd take ____ __ give or take an hour ago?'/'do you know who's in charge? 

I’d like to talk to who’s in charge. this is ridiculous. can’t

be treating their members this way.’ And all that set aside, the announced good twin used his set of talents for one thing, and that was complaining. He could complain a storm up for the both of them. 

   But right now, there’s nobody else inconveniencing them. No one mixing the two up, asking them to differentiate their spots and go over their names one more time, because they’ve got it this time. The one who plods around, the quiet one’s where it’s at. He’d like to tell them, 

if it wouldn’t anger his brother. But it always rubbed him the wrong way, and he’d learned this lesson before, one that he’d not repeat again if it meant his brother sitting tight and not bailing when they were out there. 

   Just the two. And that’s how he’d preferred it, not immersed in back-to-back situation. ‘sleep escaping you again? what is it that’s messing up your schedule, cutting it a bit close don’t you think? 

I could put something on real quiet.’ he gestures noncommittally towards the stack of vinyls half-slipping out of their cases, and their player, their pride and joy even when they skipped. ‘on second thought, I want to hear you talk. 

talk in a whisper.’ he winds an arm around his brother’s head, mutters into his hair. ‘even if they’re down,’ he taps the floor beneath them with his foot, grinning ear to ear. ‘there’s no telling.’ It won’t carry sound, he’s not looking to get them into trouble. it’s just an example. 

 ’you act like it’s all one big fling, like we were divvied up into the beginning with our assigned 'roles'. they only do that in casting to feel out people’s strongpoints, see if they can’t pull off something out of their comfort zone. 

you’re good. parents aren’t ever as pleased with my report card when I make back with it, you’re never putting on something unreal. 

I don’t know why you insist in doing that either. You could have a line of admirers, just lining up, too,’ It’s an argument he’s pitched a countless amount of times. ‘I just don’t see what you’re doing with it.’

[itsakiller]

Whoever decided they were going to be born as twins obviously messed up in the personality department. He tries not to, but he can't help sighing when his brother's stubbornness comes to a head, exhaling deep to pass it off as something else. They've had this conversation before. If he were in charge, they wouldn't have it at all, but.

C'est la vie.

'And where do you think those admirers would come from, hm?' This is the same counter-argument he's given time and time again, but give it he does anyway, urging his twin down as he does so. 'They'd see you, try to win you over, and when they discovered that you're not as friendly in real life as on stage----' he raises his hand up, and then rolls it down, like a director motioning for a bow. 'Inevitably, they'd move on to your lookalike. It's the curse that every pair of twins must go through in the entertainment industry.'

And you know what? That's the truth. There's no way around it. For every set of twins, there has to be the one who takes the step back from the limelight to let the other shine. Every other combination just makes for disaster. So, if one were to think about it, he's doing them both a favour -- even if his brother can't see it that way.

When he's negotiated the other to lay back, so does he, keeping them pulled close. Obligingly, he continues in a whisper, but that doesn't stop his hands from moving in slow, animated fashion, filling in the gaps of his speech. When he needs to pause for thought, he stretches his arm up and grasps at the bars of the upper bunk, running his fingers over it in thought.

But he doesn't need to think for long. Even if they mostly do drama, one thing they've had to excel in is improv. If they were bad at it, how could they ever pull off the twin tricks that everyone expects of them? 'You're better suited for it, anyway. Being the popular one. You're prettier.' And he is, even if they mostly look alike.

He starts playing with his brother's hair instead, for want of anything better to do.

'I don't want admirers looking to settle for the knock-off version -- and your admirers shouldn't have to deal with that.' He keeps his voice light here, even though he's being (pretty) serious. 'No one wants the second edition of Sinatra. They're always looking for the first.

'--and, you're not one to talk, anyway.' he smiles, and then draws his twin in closer, tucking his head into his shoulder. 'You've been on, I believe, three dates?-- and two of those were with cousins. So I doubt you know what "admirers" really like!'

And he quiets down some, and when he speaks again, it's back in a whisper.

'Either way, it's better with just us. Right?'

[itsakiller]

For once, it's not late when he slides his fingers over his brother's sides, pulling him back into a hug. This isn't his 3 A.M. entry into bed -- in fact, he's (fairly) sure that they're both wide awake, as it's only just begun to encroach on the later hours.

He takes a seat behind his twin on the bed and fixes his glasses up against his head, pressing his face into the other's back. He sighs. After a second, his eyes flick up, and he blindly tries to read the digital clock on their nightstand.

It looks like a "1," but he's not sure.

He sighs again, and then he tilts his brother back some, resting his chin on his shoulder instead and fixing his glasses back where they belong. Now that he can see, he can see that it's just after 1. To their parents, they've already in bed. But he's not ready to surrender to sleep just yet.

'Don't you ever get bored?' he asks conversationally, and he stops there for a second, leaving the question open-ended. Does his brother ever get bored with -- life? being in plays? having a twin brother? It could be any of those things, until he opens his mouth again. 'With sleeping early. Being "good."' And he doesn't hesitate at that, because his brother is definitely the good twin.

'Or just, you know, being admired.'

Again, he lets the statement hang, but not for long. He locks his arms in a hold around the other's middle. 'If it were me, I'd have been bored a long time ago. Aren't you?' he asks, like he should be bored. 'If you ever are, I can help with that. We can get you parts in foreign plays, philosophical stuff... kids' plays, if you're up for it.' He leans them to the side, even though they're sitting.

'I'm not saying it doesn't suit you. But being a star probably gets old, right?'

[deprayvity]

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t just call, it was never completely out of the question. He could send a card if he wanted, drop a message. Come by with gifts from one family to another, nothing not normal, not out of the ordinary.

But one thing led to another, like when you invited yourself along and your friend drank too much, got a little too borderline friendly, they were friends right? Friends did that, right. Exchange light touches, keep one arm wrapped around the other’s waist. To make sure they wouldn’t slip, of course. Don’t question it. You just don’t, question it. 

Unless you wanted them to stop. Unless you really, sincerely had a problem with it. These things do happen, and if he wasn’t the sick hormonal fuck albeit a li’l attached, a little shy. Too shy to say no, never in his right mind would he ask for an inquiry that begs for a 'yes.' 

These things could be misinterpreted, the smallest of gestures if you let it be. if they came across the wrong way, by the wrong person. It could turn into a wreck. Here’s the bottom line, he definitely was not the right person.

   But he’s spent too much of his break, (give or take the last 48 hours being hung up (not over,) around an answering machine and he just wishes he could give it some time but he’d rather not. 

 He was never really one to wait for anything if the situation could still spell out instant gratification, so right. Please hand it to him, he was. …going to do something about it. Right. 'Alright, tough guy.' He mutters into the mouthpiece, letting the dialtone eat away at his stellar hearing. The only way he could tell anyone wasn’t already on the line is if they knocked something over. 

Probably. And so he dials, the moment he hears a hitch on the other end forwarding to an inbox ‘When are you coming over? I thought we were on for that marathon right up until the 1st.

You know what you said, fly through all those sequels. Never leave the house. Ah, uh, I’m getting ahead of myself though aren’t I.

Ring me up if you come to. Seeya.' 

[itsakiller]

It's with a lot of annoyance that he lets the call slip through to voicemail. What's he annoyed at? Not his fellow nephew, that's for sure -- it's the two girls in front of him, two could-be-sisters who've been chatting him up for the last half hour because who-knows-why!

He gives them another minute to make their point (which isn't anything other than "thank god for break, right?"), then waves them down, putting on an apologetic face and handing them a "so sorry, that's my mom, she wants me home for dinner." And girls love a guy who respects his mom, right? right?

He doesn't actually know, but they eat it up, and they let him off the hook after a couple more minutes. He waves his goodbyes, ducks around the corner, and only then does he sigh, pulling his phone out and dialing through to his voicemail, the one message he's got that's from the person he actually wants to hear from.

He listens as he walks, and he makes a face, mostly because he's late. How can he be late? They're supposed to be doing things! Together! Once it's over, he taps through and starts dialing his punk pop star, wasting no time.

He's pretty sure it connects -- the annoying dialing tone stops. And he doesn't give the other a chance to say anything before he starts talking. "Patience is a virtue" and everything, but he's just annoyed.

'Sorry,' he snaps into the phone, but it's obvious from his tone he doesn't mean the other. He sighs again, smoothing his hand down the back of his neck and his shoulder. 'There were these, girls,' he continues intelligently. He motions with his free hand like he's got a cigarette in it, but that's mostly because he could really go for one. 'They wouldn't stop talking. And they didn't even offer to do anything!' He laughs a little at his once joke, but then he stops.

'But, um.' he rounds a corner himself, which isn't that far from where he thinks he's supposed to be. 'Your house, right? Because you've got the shows and stuff?' Correction: he's got the laptop which isn't restricted by parental controls. 'Is now okay? I mean, I can stop and get some snacks and stuff, like popcorn.' He cringes and mouths a "why" at himself, because dumbass, what else could he've meant? Drugs?

Of course not.

He fishes through his pants for his wallet, and he's got like maybe $20, tops. So. He can get some stuff. Hopefully it'd last them. 'You just tell me what you want. Beer, smokes, hookers, speed. You name it, oh captain.

'And um,' he hesitates again, just because he feels bad. 'Again. Sorry.'

[sputtertricks]

He does not mean to be late. 

He clocked in, he checked out, all of his to-do’s, even showed up with a crisp tie and was that a powdered shirt for once? Why yes it was, above all things today was the defining point of a weekend to be had and he was not, he was not. Going to be ran overtime, he’d done his share of workload earlier on that weekend to amend such a mishap, happening, perhaps. 

But they’d sent him on an errand. An out of-office, intern type of errand. He’d been with these people for five years now! At least show some allegiance! But as the fun boss (not), that he always is, (but it was Friday), they drew straws (which is absitively posalutely, no excuse). 

So how had he drawn the shortest straw? Over this particular errand. On a Friday. On an anti-glum and spirits high, high day. They had overcome the slump. They had climbed this whole mountain. 

Or had they? 

He was lost. On the construction site that they’d sent him to, they hadn’t forwarded any extra direction, and he was very, very lost.

It was 5pm, just bordered along rush hour really if you weren’t careful, and was he ever careful, so how was it that he had not already rounded up his day, hadn’t made it back to the office. He hadn’t even began to think about dinner, assuming he was the one who was supposed to cook — were there even fresh ingredients at home? But it was Friday. It was the weekend and he could show a bit of leniency for making fun loving times with the only person he wanted to see in the world right now. 

What was even more concerning was that the last text he’d fired off was come around 1pm earlier that day, which meant that his stay at-home beau had only covered (maybe) his first meal of the day. By now, he could be suffering. Could be famished.

By the time the smalltalk and the mutual points and the shoulderslap exchange and the 'heeey,'

‘that’s my guy. this is my guy.’ had wrapped up, and he’d packed up, came back to the facility (why had he headed back to the building) to clock out. Nobody at the office was there.

What a day to plod through, you know. 

So by the time he’d made it back to his lovely, beautiful and unique, one of a-kind clunker the first thing he was to do was jam in a ‘be home in 15’ to his first entry on speed dial. 

Make that 5, make that 8. Including the stair climb to the familiar apartment complex, and he’d have lost his shoes down the first flight of stairs if he’d kicked them off any sooner, but unlike anywhere else. 

Unlike anywhere else in the whole wide world, someone’s home and you don’t need a car, or a key, or to go through some shoddy intercom to grant you entry. He peeks in, double taking at the rearrangements and he has to rack his brain for a second, are they having guests over? Do they ever have guests over?

Not that he can recall. Leaving his briefcase at the door and with just socks across the wooden floor he stealthily makes his way to the kitchen because somebody has been busy, and is nowhere in immediate sight. 

 So careful, careful, and he’s not the slickest mothertrucker on the block, but moving fast he wind arms around his waist and he glances over the stay at-home’s shoulder, ‘What’s cooking, good looking?’ 

[itsakiller]

He doesn't startle easy, and honest, it's hard to be startled when your roommate could have "bumbling" as his middle name. But he's not the one to think that, and that's not on his mind now, especially not when he gets arms around him and the other makes himself known.

He reaches for the pot he's kept the macaroni in, dragging it closer and gesturing vaguely at it. 'Dinner,' he answers simply, and after a moment, he reaches for the spoon also stuck in the pot, stirring the pasta back up to make sure the sauce doesn't dry out. It's only after another moment that he even feels the need to specify, pulling a little closer at the pet-name (which is lame, but he won't say that).

'There's this.' "This" is, of course, the macaroni. Right next to it are the hot dogs he's blanched, cut up into little pieces, dished in one of their fanciest china bowls. They're from a friend's engagement party (the one that got called off, way back when they had just graduated), so he's not too concerned about ruining it.

'Then there's that.' he turns, and nudges his guy's head with his own, pointing towards the island off to their left. There's nothing actually on it, but there's the remains of a vegetable battle, thin slices of carrots, lettuce, and red onion a mess all over the counter. There are some especially heinous places where he accidentally spilled dressing and forgot to wipe it off, but the point is, he did it. The salad itself is cooling in the fridge. But he doesn't say that.

'And there's this.' he pulls the other's attention back to the table, indicating the wine bottle, on its side, finally resting still. He taps the back of the spoon against it a couple times, a dull thunk that comes from smacking plastic against glass. He reaches out and rolls the bottle to face upward, trying to read the label. '--white wine,' he manages, ignoring all the other important details, like the kind or the year. That stuff's not important, anyway.

'And that,' he says finally, waving his hand towards the fridge. He pauses, then elaborates: 'Cake.' He doesn't go into further detail. In actuality, it's not so much "cake" as it is tiramisu -- but when he went down to the store, he didn't pay much attention to the name or the label. He just bought something that was sort of expensive.

Expensive things were good, right? That's what he'd learned.

He surveys everything again without much care, and then he taps the butt of the spoon against his fellow uncle.

'Today's special,' he says. It's not an accusation, or a guilt-trip, but just a casual reminder, delivered in the same tone you might say "we need more milk" or "I need to call my mother." 'So I made stuff.' And he did his best, with the ingredients and the energy he had. It's not extravagant, but he tried.

He dips his head back wonderingly, looking at the ceiling first, and then the family breadwinner. He pulls out of the embrace, and turns, and then subjects him to one of his own -- he slides his arms around his roommate and sighs deeply, trying to stifle a yawn.

'Happy birthday,' he continues, as resolutely as he can. He does his best not to tack on a "right?" or "I think," even though he wants to. It might've been last week, or last month. He's not sure.

But either way, today is special.

[sputtertricks]

It’s hard to keep a straight face on but his father’s got it down to a mastery of it, and though the ever-assuring smile reappears (what was so funny? Had he done something to be funny?) it’s enough to push down the nervousness, keep that at bay. 

'Mm -Mm.’ He thumbs over the small pouch and its drawstrings, nodding once that he heard him, nodding twice that he absolutely understood and under no circumstances was he to divert from the plan. 

He understands, because they could only afford just what they need and past that, well. Things might occasionally land in their lap, possibly from leading such an unquestionable lifestyle, what did anybody know? but they never surrendered anything, to suddenly turn serendipitous for them. Things did not just transpire that way.  

They weren’t quite a cog much like everyone else, to keep the wheels turning on …whatever it was that everybody was boarding. They earned what they took, and what they took they sometimes gave back.

That did matter, right? They weren’t bad people. There was a certain crop of people that had no problem with take, and take, and take. They could still be set aside. Dad would make sure they never fell so low. 

He sucks in air quietly as he’s sure they’ve separated, the flow of the crowd isn’t as obscured as it was before. As far as anyone else is concerned, he hasn’t set foot in town at all. ‘Don’t -don’t settle.’ He whispers just under his breath, and it’s not that he doesn’t like the people, but the more they frequent places like this (because they have to) and the more he’s involved (because he needs to learn sometime or another), the more he gets why the less time they spend seen, in towns like these the better. 

'That much for two?' The purse is out of sight and for good reason, he looks worried thumbing through the number coins you can count at first glance. ‘Mother only gave me this much and she said it would be enough to cover,' He fights down the urge to glance about just in case he'd already wrapped up, and could he be in earshot. …That all depended on how quickly he finished up here, so he keeps straight-on eye contact with the seller, adamant not to back down. ' said not to come back or go to another, nicer vendor.

Just these. We’re in a rush, so it can’t wait.’ …Well it couldn’t. His father hadn’t raised a liar.

[itsakiller]

His son is still young, still new to the world, especially the open, crowded worlds that villages and boroughs have to offer. When he spies him at the vendor, standing his ground, he finds himself as surprised as he is pleased. He keeps expecting to find the boy overwhelmed and rooted in place.

From a distance, there's little he can hear, but from the expressions on the man's face, he's not certain it's going well. His son is doing the best he can, but this man seems to lack sympathy for the young. His eyes leave the pair and scan the town again. It's not in bad shape, but there's no saying whether its free of orphans and thieves, thick in the shadows.

This wouldn't be the first place he's seen to have a permanent settlement of criminals.

When he looks back, the transaction is still ongoing, which unnerves him in a bad way. If the man truly did have any sympathy, he would have loosed his inventory long before this point. But, his lips are thinned, and though he can't see his boy's face well, he can't imagine he's doing too well. That's not his fault: he's a victim of circumstance. That's the tale they've been living for the last 7 years.

He steps forward and hardens his expression, unpocketing his hands so he looks less like the thief he is.

The first step he takes into the open-air stall is curious, innocent, painting him a mere browser interested in purchase. He makes a point of walking noisily, making the stolen coin tied at his belt jingle, the siren call for any merchant worth his clout. He drifts one of his hands over the wooden fixtures hosting the man's mediocre merchandise, and it's only after a long moment that he bothers to look up.

Up close, the situation looks no different. He has the merchant's attention, but his patience is still feather-thin; he's making an effort to appear friendly and interested, but his irritation with the boy in front of him is more than obvious.

'Where are your jars of...' he starts, and then he pauses, like he's surprised with what he sees. He stays silent as he appraises his son, and then the vendor, confusion plain on his face. He starts to approach the front. '-is this boy giving you trouble?' he amends, doing his best to sound sympathetic. His initial offering is more than enough to prompt the man into sharing his story, which is everything about the boy being "shady" and nothing about him and his mother.

He stays tacit, and then he looks at what his son is actually trying to by -- and his expression tightens, frown in place, brows drawing together. To everyone else, he looks like he's confused, but for a different reason than he actually is.

That's all his son is trying to get? Honest?

They would have to work on that.

'You think a boy would try to steal that?' he questions, voice edging on incredulous. 'Although I'm sure what you have to offer is very good,' he allows, 'if this boy was truly trying to steal from you, don't you think he'd go for something more... colourful?' He sweeps his hand towards some of the candy the vendor is offering, which is meagre, but much, much more bright.

The man's expression falters, just slightly.

'And he has money,' he observes, the same money that he plucks from his son's hands and sets on the counter, sliding it forward. It's not all of what they had, but it's a fair amount. And, if he were to be honest, it's probably all that was worth, anyway. 'It might not be my place to say, but if it were me, I would be inclined to believe that his family will come by to pay later. It's nearly the hour for supper. This one was probably just sent to buy food for dinner.' And he pats his hand on his boy's head condescendingly, just begging for disagreement.

And that's how they (sceptically) got away with their food.

He starts escorting his son out of the village limits, having met up with him only when they were a good ways away from the merchant. As proud as he is, he's a little disappointed. He trades his son his day's earnings for one of the things he got, a foodstuff that looks as tasty as it is vibrant. For the record: it was a very, very dull brown.

'Was this all you could get?' he complains, wrapping his free arm around his son. He doesn't really feel like chiding him, and it shows in his voice. 'As soon as we can head somewhere else, I'll show you what to get,' he continues glumly. 'Not trying for the candy was surprising of you.'

[sputtertricks]

He grapples at the wall for support, though he’d rely strictly on his husband to see to it that he didn’t wear him down— that’d kinda defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it. But it’s really not fair to let his husband do all the work. Tilting his head back he’s made a little more pliable, hands flying up to his shoulders and tugging him in to deepen the kiss. 

He’s panting as he’s let go, but it doesn’t seem that his spouse wants to let up and keeps them coming. All the better to keep him quiet, so he lets him have his way — one thing he’s so used to doing. It’s not out of reluctance, rarely does he rise to anything he does with objecting, it’s just something that goes without questioning. His husband takes.

It was like another law of the universe. But as breathless as he is now, how was he going to see anything he was doing? Was his husband going to let him do anything, more importantly. He wants to return the kiss in full, but it’s a little hard to initiate when hands that know what they’re doing are working down there -

and how could he, it just had to be a testament to how much experience he’d had. How skilled he was, that is. Because Avi could never pull this off. 

The loud clink is distractive and he hitches up his hips, making a noise when the answer that he gets back is less than decisive. Sure, he’d gotten the signs, come-ons all wrong before. But he’d gone out on a limb! He wouldn’t have opened his mouth in the first place, and as far as he were concerned all green flags were ‘go’. 

But he needed to squeeze it out of him, didn’t he? 'The worst. You're what they call the worst.’ But he’s not upset. It makes the blush rise and his neck feels flush, but that’s not the worst thing to happen. He dives back in and bites down on the other’s lip, sucking thoughtfully as he conjures up an answer, which he’d thought he’d given, and grinds back, particularly forceful with his hips. 

‘—- That’s, not fair. We both know that.' He pushes him back at the chest, just far enough that they have a gap in between them so that he can snag at the belt that'd given him difficulties earlier. Tugs it into shape and just hard enough that it'd escape the notch that keeps it intact. He'd no sooner like to put their hips back together and reel back, but it's not right that Shinju is the only one doing the servicing here. 

He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he’d made it clear that he’d first milk an answer out of him before he acted on anything. 'If you can't think of any place better in the next few moments, then I want you here. As in I’m fine with here.

Please,’ His fingertips drift over his sharp cheekbones and applies a kiss to his jaw, ’please.' 

[itsakiller]

If he's not shoving a tongue down his husband's throat when they're getting intimate, he's pretty much subject to a steady stream of complaints -- how awful he is, how he's evil-slash-unfair, and on and on. He's more than used to it (and when they're really into it, it actually keeps him going). But, it's what he gets at the end, those gentle touches and hushed pleas, those are what really mean something.

Maybe the way he smiles is a little nicer, but he doesn't pay any attention. It's about what's in front of him -- and even with all his hemming and hawwing, what's in front of him just gave him a decision. So, his decision it is.

He dives back in and catches his spouse in a deep kiss, dragging his fingers away from his belt. While he busies him with playing romantic tonsil hockey, he undoes his own belt and pops the button on his jeans, leaving the zipper up for posterity's sake. He makes sure Avi's is completely down before he starts up another grind, now rolling their hips together, encouraging Avi's forward with a hand at the small of his back. It's pretty nice.

The hammer of his own pulse in his ears (and the sounds he can wring out of the kid) keep any of the wariness, the self-awareness, and the city noise at bay.

Honestly, when it comes down to it, he can be a pretty chatty guy during sex. Once the working up's done and they can just enjoy themselves, he pays more careful attention, either running his mouth for his own entertainment, or trying to communicate. He's not a man of change, and marriage hasn't done much to change him; but, even when he pulls away and grins, the desire to be a douchebag is pretty far away.

'You okay?' he prompts, not really expecting an answer. He presses intermittent kisses to Avi's mouth, smoothing his hands through his hair and smoothing his bangs down. When some of the tension is gone out of his face, he settles a hand at his hip, kneading a couple of slow circles with his thumb

It's not super-dramatic or anything, his free hand sliding down his husband's pants without much fanfare. He wraps his fingers around him, but he's more focused on kissing him again.

There are some times that this happens that he's just focused on taking care of himself. What Avi has to say or what he has to feel don't particularly mean anything -- it's more about getting off and fulfilling his own needs, pushing him to the floor and leaving just as quickly. But there are other times, times when Avi is actually important. Those are the times when he stays, takes it slow, cracks smiles and tries to make Avi smile and just make him feel good. He spends more time kissing him than he does worrying about getting away.

This is probably one of those times.

'-how about now?' he asks, this time actually expecting a response. He slows things down, peering into his husband's face, giving him what's supposed to be a cocky, assuring smile. He leans him back against the brick, but not too rough. Absentmindedly, he considers surrendering his coat over to the other, to make the impact a little easier.

'You gotta talk to me.'

[sputtertricks]

He knew that his husband wasn’t going to settle, which is a little hard on words considering at least one of them were wearing their wedding bands. But they’d had a fairly quiet evening, in a quiet town, with quiet people, and. …if he could just, get back control of his own voice and stay quiet.

Except he had no voice, not in this matter. Well he did, but with his heart racing and his head thumping. Light headed, was probably what he was experiencing, but it didn’t commit to the fact that his cheeks were heated

— And come to think of it? He hadn’t taken anything for it all day. Was that not an improvement? If only they could spend a whole evening together like this, it was a known symptom soother. Like the only, cure that worked without compromise. Although throughout their day, they’d make lots, and lots of compromise. 

When he wasn’t busy basking (and usually glowing) in the company of his husband while they were out, they had taken up to this game of keepaway. If you could call it that. When he started radiating this giggly, bubbly affection they’d no sooner turn into strangers and as he buzzed around following his ever step his spouse would pretend like he didn’t know him. It was the little things that totaled up, and counted.

Seconds down, and they’d almost be like complete strangers. Just a very, persistent one. Tailing him, throughout the store, and helping him put down his items on the conveyor belt during line up.

It was just something that couldn’t be helped, he couldn’t keep it off his face that doing even the most mundane things with his favorite person in the whole wide world? And he was, he could lie about any-thing else. 

Anything at all, but. Why would he have to lie about that. 

What had been the last thing on his mind, anyway. …Since their night out was, 'slowing down,' he’d liked to put it. Aside from the fact that when his spouse got antsy, suddenly declared to jump the gun at four in the morning, and was he jumping the gun now, it’s really a task to not try and crumple up on the spot.

He can’t remember, it couldn’t have been that important, but he greets him with a kiss that could bruise, fingers splayed at the back of his head. What they’ve been at idly for the last half hour, but with newmet fervor combing through his hair in frantic and starts raking his nails down Shinju’s front, toying with the zipper and tugging ruthlessly. 

He has to remember. To pull apart and catch his breath, above all things, but all thought of seems to be dashed from his mind when he tries to keep himself from keening, mouth falling open when his man starts leading the advances which don’t make sense, with a conversational overtone and he’s lost his touch, give him a few and he’d figure out if he’d lost his edge. 

 ’I -I do.’ He closes his eyes, groaning and lets his head hit the wall. Releasing the zipper he still hasn’t figured out because fumbling in the dark isn’t a forte of his, he’s not a pro. Not like this guy. If he’d let him down, then maybe it’d be different. Being on his knees and earning scrapes in the process wasn’t a new concept to him, but it’d be a while since they’d done this.

 He hadn’t known what to expect, but he hadn’t anticipated this. On second thought, he turns back to whip to him, thumbing at the sides of face, tracing up the defined edges. Screwing his face up, he purses his lips together, which have gotten puffy though they haven’t done really much of anything. 

They’re out in the open, didn’t this bother him? This usually bothered him. He eyes him scrupulously, kind of squinting at him because his vision’s seriously still blurry. ‘H —here? Or are you just working me up.' He swallows hard, trying to recompose himself. ‘I just need to know.’

'You sure you’re alright with this.’ Composure stays with him for about long as it takes to grate that out, flinching and as his face contorts he ducks his head into his husband’s shoulder. He couldn’t be pried off now. 

[itsakiller]

There's lots of things he wants to do, but only so much room in his head, at least at the moment. He lets his husband get the words out, basically fighting to keep it together (honest! that's how it sounds), and then he kisses him again, threading both his hands through his hair and tugging him up and forward. he tucks his thumbs behind his ears, and pries avi's mouth open with his tongue.

It's a long moment before he separates them, and when he does, he keeps the kisses up, pausing only to breathe. His hands ghost down, first to his spouse's hands (which he entwines with his own, restoring intimacy for a moment before he guides them to his hips), and then back to the belt, which he gets open with minor trouble. He's done this a lot -- plenty of times -- bt out here?

What about out here?

He thinks about it some. In the meantime, the clink of Avi's belt rises above the noise of the city, followed by the subtler brush of his pants' button being undone. His fingers flick over the zipper, and he plays with it, contemplative at the best of times. After a thoughtful moment, he speaks up, offering his conclusion: 'Dunno.' And then he gets back to kissing, pulling his husband's ace up same as before, bracing his fingers under the sides of his jaw.

Do they have to plan this kind of thing out? He's not a person of thinking -- he's more one of doing, especially when his thoughts start to skirt places he refuses to let them breach. Earlier was earlier. Brushing the kid off when he came to close felt right. And right now? Right now, what feels right is kissing him some more, especially knowing that right now, nobody really gives a shit about either of them.

He pushes Avi back and rucks up his shirt, pausing to start unbuttoning it. A belt he could do just fine, but with buttons? He wasn't so great.

He gets about halfway down before he gives up and leans back in, kissing him again. Belt out of the way, he feels more confident about starting up a grind, rolling his hips into the kid experimentally. He doesn't bother messing with his own belt.

'-How about we just see where it goes?' he suggests when he's finally pulled away, a little more composured, a little more relaxed. He offers him a smile.

'Pretty sure you don't care, right? Actually, I was pretty sure you were into this kind of thing.' It's him who's not into this sort of thing, but he doesn't think about that -- he's moreso focused on the way Avi fits against him, on his encouraging reactions. 'So you tell me.

'You want to, or no?'

[itsakiller]

He's got his partner backed into a wall, which is nothing special -- revisited scene, they've all been there before. He's pressed him into an alley just off one of the city's busier streets, bright blue lights spilling onto and over them, spreading its fingers as far as it can reach. People pass by, but their din is overshadowed by the wail of cars, speeding to and fro. Nobody notices. That's how it usually is.

They've done it all, but it's not very normal. He's not usually so public, especially when it's not even midnight yet, the city still breathing an early nightlife. He's got one hand pressed up above the space near Avi's head, and the other's sliding up his leg, in a subtle-not-subtle sort of way. He doesn't really care.

'All things considered,' he starts, his voice riding a line that says he's strapped for air. That may be because they might've just been making out. They've been trading (he's been forcing) kisses for the last twenty minutes, so he's not all that sure. 'We haven't done much today, have we?' And he leans in for another kiss, just to make sure he can make sure. His hand keeps coasting the other's thigh, just to remind him he's there.

'Been kind of a,' he starts as he pulls back, leaning back some to appraise his spouse. A laugh leaves him, and he loses his train of thought. The height difference between them: it's ridiculous. And the way he still looks like he's 16: that's also pretty ridiculous. '--boring day, huh,' he finishes at length, fingers playing at the loops of Avi's jeans.

They'd only gone out to dinner, did some shopping, did some other shopping (stealing, for the less morality-minded), and so they'd been wandering around, until he'd had the urge to just slam the kid into a wall and go at it. He's a little scattered, but he's pretty sure they haven't fucked.

And that makes for a pretty bland day.

'You wanna fix that?' he suggests, and he tugs the kid's shirt out, mussing up his appearance some more. No reason for tucking clothes in, anyway -- not when it got in the way. 'Or are you,' and here finally comes his sarcasm, crisp where his other words are not. 'satisfied with how today's gone? You tell me.'

[sputtertricks]

'I never figured you'd had a problem with the hair. You know if you shampoo too much, like you neat folk do. You’ll ruin it. And with males their fate is inevitable, by 30 or so they’ll start losing it all. Aren’t you glad we’re still young.’ 

 This guy though, he could pull off just about anything. It’s what he saw in him, despite the crud that he was spouting. Didn’t know what half of it was, or he was trying to keep it dumbed down just for him. Either way, it was appreciated.

…And you know what was best about the whole ordeal. He couldn’t keep a straight face worth for shit, but that was like a grand 80% majority of his innate charm.   The only part that really sticks to him is the very beginning, the bit that sounds most plausible and he can’t keep the steeled expression off of his face. Because who couldn’t he get in the school, he could get any girl. If he tried, and he did try alright. Half the time? Not even, most likely. 

More than he could ever vouch or put his name up for, the only motivation there was not to fall a year behind him, just so that until they went and parted both their merry ways he could run the chances of still being in the same classes as him. Class placement was hard, understand. 

But they could at least share notes. There was that, and camping out, and staying up — mastering the many ways of lights-out so that they weren’t stripped of tv, of gaming console privileges. Go-out privileges. 

Which didn’t seem to be a problem, not really, the latter but you wouldn’t want to be caught dead going out with your fellow-nephew. Wouldn’t want to be caught going at their neck or open-mouthed kissing after they’d had one-too many shots from a daregame, but nobody asked about that. 

Nobody asked how many cousins you’d kissed, they just asked if you’d gotten lucky, or had you got laid, and the obvious answer was always the same. 

'She was coming onto me.'  And you'd get away with anything. 

 Just about, anyhow. ‘What -what do you take me for?’ He gives a hearty shove squarely to the other guy’s chest. He scoffs, doing his best offended knockoff and is it convincing? Is this working out? He wants to ask a slew of other questions, but they’re getting caught in the back of his throat. Another time, then. 

'I'll make what he makes once you get into an Ivy league school, don’t you settle for less.’ A subtle hammer of the fist to his ribcage, and they’re back in business again. ‘I’m always in trouble.

What’s new? Are you spending the night?’ He hopes he’s not keening, but he can never tell. ’ Come on, you’ve got to be spending the night. 

 So tell me, what’s she like? Blonde? Brunette? Strawberry-blonde, full-blown redhead? She could take styling tips from me.’ He’s kidding, but it’s all meant in good sport. 

Kinda. 

[itsakiller]

He makes an incredulous face and pushes the other back, a little more force this time. He's not being mean -- it's all in good fun -- but at the same time, he wants to show him just how weird he's being. The guy's a little kooky by default (that's one of his defining traits, actually), but this? C'mon.

'Styling tips?' he repeats sceptically, because that, that right there, that's insanity. 'Have you seen your hair lately? I mean, I know you look in a mirror every hour--' and he comes in close again, reaches in again, twisting some of the other boy's strands in his fingers. Before he can really retaliate, he's got both hands in and mussing his hair up, messing up a look that (probably) took hours to do (but hopefully not).

'But no girl would want to lok like you. And that's not a compliment!', he adds, smile creeping in again as he ducks away and out of the way of retribution.

He doesn't so much answer the hanging question verbally as he does physically. He drops down without any grace into the family couch, which is still covered in blankets and pillows from someone else's midday nap. The coffee table's been banged out of the way, but he drags it close, dragging the resident ashtray out from its position underneath the glass.

He makes himself comfy, and then lights up one, which is a REALLY stupid idea, but -- once one of his hands is free, he pats the space beside him, inviting his fellow nephew to experience the secondhand smoke for himself. If he really does get caught (and he would be SO dead if he did), he could probably just blame it on someone else's cooking disaster, or something.

So, yes. He's actually staying the night. And when wouldn't he be? He almost spends as much time here as he does at his own house.

'But no, honest,' he tries to prompt, tapping the cigarette out with an awkward hand, one that hasn't had the 20 years needed to get really good at looking cool. The only downside to looking cool? Cancer. No big deal. 'No girls, anything like that? Your pop-punk-rock thing is really taking off.' He pats his friend's chest, almost in this "you tried" sort of way. 'If I were a girl, I'd be really into you.

'No groupies yet?'

[sputtertricks]

This was a regular occurrence, nothing to lose his head over. He saw this guy everyday. Almost every day. Familiar ground, something he knew for years on end and probably if you let him get away with it, his oldest friend known to date. 

Friend. This should be comfortable. So jumping the gun every time he walked up on you, wasn’t an option. What was his fucking problem? 

'M -e? You're asking me. You know I'm tons less exciting than you,'He returns the gesture with a pat to the back and he wishes if he'd never done it because he’s paying for it in heaps of embarrassment. Right now. This was a defining peak in their exchange that just honed in that he was the problem, no matter what the case. 

It’s cute, actually. Watching him fumble, try to remember what he’s into, pretend like he cares about the hype. He’d involve him more, but out of the two of them? He hoped that at least one of them succeed.

Not the way that he was going. If they were born any other way then he might’ve felt something like a boyfriend trying to remember remember his girlfriend’s favorite color, her birthday. It’s the hassle of being in a relationship, and from the getgo he’s glad he hasn’t got the nerves to say anything beyond that. ’Pop, punk, same thing. Depends on how you look at it.’ 

Besides, it’s a hobby, not a statement, not really, not his career. Ask him where he wants to go in ten years. He couldn’t tell you. That’s another problem, he’s got many. 

'Don't fuss over it.' But for sure he’d like to be able to exchange less than substantial conversations like this with his guy, who —- give him props for this, it’s a hard status, feat to achieve. Is oblivious out of his mind, or going through a phase,

Just like him. He has to remind himself that come a year or two, his worries will have died down and he won’t even remember the last of this, whatever this was, but for now he was content to keep it that way. 

 ’I don’t know. I don’t keep track. You tell me. Do you keep track? You’d be much ahead of your game than I am if you did.’ He tries not to make such a big statement out of it, but he’s taken to knocking the bangs out of his face so he can squint and get a better look. 

'How have you been keeping afloat this last few weeks? You’re Mr. Responsible. I should take tips from you. As far as I know, I might still be repeating by the time you’re out.’ He bares all teeth at him, 

 ’I’d know better then to listen to You-know-Who by then, wouldn’t I?’ He means the more stringent uncle, the one that actually lays down punishment. ‘Wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my days playing catchup to you.’ And you know? If you took yourself a distance back, that’s all it was. Playing catchup. 

[itsakiller]

The closest thing he has to a sibling -- dodges his question, as usual. All he focuses on are the labels (which are basically pretty important to him, no matter how he plays it off; trust him, he knows, sort of), and then throws a question back at him. Typical... guy. His guy. His buddy.

He looks at him a second, then ducks his head, issuing the kind-of-sigh that boys give when they're not convinced.

'That's about as bogus as you not caring about your hair.' Which is? He almost decides to let it hang, let the other hang in suspense... but he doesn't. Because he's a good guy. 'Me being responsible, I mean. Did you see what I made on that last test?' He drags his fingers up and down the other's jacket, up and down his sides, in plain agitation. He almost got a C. An 82! Who gets that?

Frustration creeps into his voice for a brief second. 'If there's anybody you should be listening to, it's that guy. You and me both, actually.' He leans in conspiratorially, a lean that isn't so much conspiring as it is intimate. 'You know what that guy made in college? Do you know?' And he backs out again, secret unleashed unto the world.

Kind of, sort of.

'But you know, me? Been just fine. Got that girlfriend I was telling you about. Oh, and I'm rich. My awesome grades got me a scholarship to that, uh, one school. You know -- Harvard? I think that's the name.' His fingers drum against his fellow nephew's back. 'But I'm not sure if I wanna go for it. There's this other place that was asking for me right out of high school - NASA, or something. I dunno. And some Russian guy wanted to talk to me about secret service, or something. But you know. The usual.'

It doesn't really work out, since he's got a stupid grin on his face as he says all this, showing that he can't even pull sarcasm off with a straight face. He still slaps the other anyway, jarring him forward a couple steps, in that roughhousing way he sometimes still treats him.

'What's that even supposed to mean, huh? You know how I've been. I've told you about basically all of it. And what I didn't tell you, you were there for.' he scoffs, and he suddenly gets it in his head to tug at the other's hair, scoffing again at those freakishly long bangs. Guy needs a haircut, is what. 'I'm not an exciting guy. Not like you are.

'But you -- no cute girls or anything? No juvie records? C'mon.' he peers at him critically. 'Something's got to have happened. You're you!'

[itsakiller]

He wheels in from behind the other and takes rapport against his shoulder immediately, leaning against it like he's just run a marathon and needs the support. He doesn't, obviously. He slaps his hand against his fellow nephew's jacket and wipes his fingers against it, almost like he's trying to get rid of something inconspicuously. He's not, obviously.

So what is obvious? Maybe the fact that he's glad to see his brother-in-arms. He turns his head to him and throws a smile at him, clearing up any doubt that might've been left over.

'So,' he says, in that way that transcends all languages and creeds, that tone that, universally, conveys the same message: what's up, buddy? 'What's with you lately? Breaking hearts? Doing the rocker thing?' His hand slips forward, away from where it had been tucked into the other's lower back, to gesture vaguely. 'Or was it punk? --pop?' He obviously doesn't know what he's talking about, and he obviously doesn't give a shit.

His hand settles back where it belongs, a little too intimate for what they're supposed to be, but look if he gives a shit. See if he even notices. And does he?

He doesn't. Obviously.

He leans more against his favourite guy to kick up one of his feet, balancing it with just the toe of his shoe touching the ground. Super fancy, he is.

'What's been all up?'

[sputtertricks]

Dad’s in charge. You don’t ask questions, he’s a little too young for snide remarks, he hasn’t thought a foul thought about the man, not once. All he has is his pristine regard for the man, which won’t and can’t be changed by the sidelooks that they earn for walking too close to the curb. It’s like some type of currency, seems to be, fluid just as the people they’ll probably never encounter again. 

But everybody keeps tabs. They don’t know you, and while that can only come in as a benefit - for their kind, the two of them were a special kind. 

Otherwise people wouldn’t treat them this way. They’d be able to spend more than a couple of nights in one place, they wouldn’t have to acquire things (even if they paid for a fraction of them). 

They were fair people, they were good people. They just had to make a living, and the method they used it wasn’t conventional, it was not always right. But to make up for it, …not always did they make up for it. 

That was rare. ‘— - I use this.’ He unfolds his hand still obstructed from passerby’s, to show palmup he still had the coinsack looped through a few fingers to make sure the important package didn’t just happen to slip along travel. He feels he gets the instructions without having to ask for confirmation, but he doesn’t want to mess this up. He can’t mess this up, not when the sturdy adult is antsy to get out of this comfort hub.

What was resourceful and maybe something like an oasis to other travelers was anything but, to the only adult in his life to date. ‘I’m, -I’m going. I’ve got it.’ At least. He thinks he’s got it.  

[itsakiller]

There's his boy. Smart? No. Strong? Never in the slightest. In any other position, those would be faults. But, in the situation they've found themselves in (the situation he cultivated, pressed onto his son's shoulders like an old mantle not even before he could walk), other qualities take precedence -- qualities like obedience, which the boy has in spades.

The boy he had expected was not the one beside him, but that hardly meant he was unwanted.

His son's hesitance wins a smile out of him, quick as a flash, and he jostles him again, pushing him towards what appears to be the general merchant. Even in small boroughs such as this, no matter how many times they've gone through the routine -- setting his own flesh and blood loose makes him feel like he'll never see him again.

'Haggle. Don't settle.' he warns, advice duly needed from the last time they had approached a place like this. 'And nothing but the essentials.' No need to let him waste their money on sweets, after all. Things like that could be thieved, and very, very easily.

He steps away and towards what counts as a throng of people in this town. They've come on a good day -- someone is holding entertainment in the centre, some woman and her minstrel, singing tales about heroes that never existed and scoundrels who were never bested. Enthralled as they are, no one seems to mind him reaching for their cords and belts, emptying their purses out into his own.

They've come on a good day. It's almost never been easier.

He's almost tempted back into his old habits, of trying to steal as much as he can in as little time as possible. On any other day, in any other place, he might; there was nothing quite like the thrill of taking a serf's meagre lot for yourself. But, just like them, he has a generation of his own to take care of. And so he relents.

He snatches last a sweet from one of the children eagerly pushing to the front of the crowd. A few people notice, but not enough to cause a stir. He retreats and heads back for the shop, sticky fingers satisfied.

Even if his son has messed up, he won't mind so much.