☆ ZENITHSPAN :
If an executive board member of some congolmerate somewhere was seeing these two picture each other as the enemy now, they’d have gone back to swimming in money. A musician fading into pretentious obscurity in some local bar, and the geek critic fading into also pretentious obscurity, albeit after attacking some major franchise.
The way Sid takes his words– admittedly mechanical, administratively issued as they were, and mocking him doesn’t go unnoticed. There’s no verbal response. Just a moment where he reached up for his glasses as if to put them away as if he knew just what Sid was getting at, expecting to take a hit before he could dish out. But when he saw a familiar head of red approaching out of the corner of his eye, he lowered his hand.
“Wh–”
The near bump of heads has Clark gritting his teeth. Fortunate then that it would not be interpreted as fuming but as a really weird grin to their mutual alien friend. The thought does occur to Clark that maybe Sid’s outward attitude isn’t so far off– Clark’s had his share of venomous reactions. He doesn’t blush as deeply though, 683′s showered him with such affections he’s gotten used to it. Another reason to be frustrated. And it’s also starting to click for Clark as to why exactly his presence earned that much ire.
“I can stick around on the sidelines for a little while. At least until I’ve bought dinner to take with me back to the studio lot.” said Clark, coming up with a halfway compromise, glancing over to Sid and nodding towards 683 to get some kind of a brief, unspoken truce going for the sake of their mutual friends. “Boss called me back in for some script re-writes on one of their movies. Then I gotta fix my own stage lights before I can go home.”
Once plans were hashed out and feet were moving. Clark hung back. 683 and Priscilla could take the lead. Clark wanted to speak quickly.
“You still really wanna hash this out? We’ll pick a fuckin’ time and place. But not in front of them: They don’t need the grief. Play along, keep personal details sparse.”
Clark started walking along. Hands in pockets like he was a cowboy holstering weapons. Making light conversation to sell the false peace that had been assumed.
“–One or two sound guys back at the studio. They mostly do editing now, but some of them still play various instruments. Dedicated stuff. Respect to ‘em, and to you guys. They were in the crowd earlier too. Told ‘em to swing by and I guess they did.”
That was the truth. It took a little bit of honesty to sell a ruse well as he described his co-workers. Clark kept most of his opinions regarding music to himself and left real critique to those specialized in the medium and its genres.
683 AND Priscilla are talking -- or one assumes they are, as they just look like they’re taking turns shaking each other and giggling. There’s whispers, furtive glances aimed at Clark and Sid, pealing squeals of delight ( mostly from 683 ) and mockingly suggestive hand gestures ( entirely Priscilla ). Sid grumbles under his breath, trudging along with his teeth clenched -- it’s like something always goes wrong, no matter how well they play, and he’s not ready to admit that it’s often times his own fault. Infuriating himself when he spots an old band member in the crowd -- criticizing his own performance to the bones -- picking a fight with 683′s new buddy. He startles when Clark addresses him, bristling at the audacity of some -- putzy nerd.
❝ HEY ! ARE you talkin’ to me, you fuckin’ four-eyed twat -- ❞ Sid hisses, reeling his hand back as if he intends to grab a fistful of Clark’s hideous polo, and a glimpse of 683 standing under the streetlamp with a petrified, warbling expression like he’s going to explode into a thousand tiny shards of 60′s themed glass makes him clench his fist, but otherwise drop it to his side. ❝ Chill out, 683. Man, it’s just a joke, ❞ he strains, and 683 lights up like a solar flare, satisfied all is well in the world. The intricacies of Earth’s social cues will eternally mystify him; who is he to question if calling Clark a twat isn’t somehow actually a compliment ?
BUT THE bassist isn’t through; peace and love might be stitched onto his jeans, but he sometimes has a hard time abiding by it. And even if Sid isn’t aggressive, he is almost irrationally defensive. ❝ You think you’re such a tough guy. You’re lucky you got your little girlfriend here, or else -- or else I’d, ❞ he stumbles, because he isn’t really sure what he’d do. No one really ever tries to actually fight Sid, because he is an adult man wearing a fringe jacket.
❝ LOOK. ❞ HE tries again, putting another cigarette between his teeth, ❝ I’m not starting shit. I just don’t want you -- messing with our vibes, do you get me ? He digs you, you tolerate him, whatever. But you aren’t with the band. We were fine without you, and we don’t need you cramping our style. And -- and I don’t care what 683 says, we are nothing alike, ❞ he grumbles, the perfect standoffish portrait to mirror Clark’s standoffish tendencies. No lighter -- must have lost it. He mutters under his breath and tucks the cigarette behind his ear.
683 GLEEFULLY holds the door open for Clark -- because of course he does -- and he’s instantly glued to his side the moment he passes through, clinging to his arm and chattering about how much they’re going to have the best time ever, yeah yeah yeah yeah !! The pub door slams close on Sid, who loudly exclaims on the wrong side of the wood.
