#bumblebeeindie

[multimuserps-blog]

⁂

“Great, you’re here,” Gunner said, opening the door with little fanfare before turning his back to Felix and heading back into the apartment. “We need to do this fast, Bellamy’s watching Charlie, but I have no clue how long they’re going to be gone.” If Gunner happened to notice that all of the visible space in his living room looked like the kind of thing a Rose Bowl parade float might dream about, he made no mention of it.

Leading the assassin (and his son’s favorite babysitter, his life was a fucking mess) to a table covered in flowers, Gunner sat down and surveyed the scene like a general preparing for war. “Sit down, I’ll explain while I work,” he said, gesturing to the empty seat next to him.

“Charlie’s birthday is next week, you know this,” he started, looking at Felix intently before his hands reached out, pulling a handful of the flowers closer. “What you wouldn’t know, because I just got told last night, is that he wants a ‘Save the Bees’ birthday party. Fucking five years old, and he wants to change the world.” He was grumbling, but the look of pride in Gunner’s eyes couldn’t be written off.

“Anyways, since we’re saving the bees, he wants everyone to wear flower crowns. And they have to be made with real flowers, so that the bees might want to come get pollen from them. Shut up,” he said, before Felix could say anything. “You and I both see the flaw in this plan. My soon to be six year old does not, and we are not going to enlighten him. As far as he knows, this party is going to save every goddamn bee in the tristate area. That being said, I have no clue where you buy real-flower-flower-crowns, so I’m making them. For everyone.”

He held up a daffodil, pointing it at Felix threateningly. “You, however, have to have a special one. Charlie wants all of his favorite people to match him, so you can’t just get one of the run of the mill ones I’m making. Which is why I need you here, because if there’s anything you’re allergic to, I need to know now. Also, I have to measure your head. Now, Charlie’s crown has forget me nots and marigolds, because he’s a spoiled child and I apparently feel like giving myself Carpal Tunnel. You have to pick one or the other. Go.” 

[hydralois]

@bumblebeeindie

“Callum—”

“Please,”

“Cal, seriously, I don’t know abou—”

Callum, with all the conviction of a fuzzy blanket, took to his iconic puppy dog look. The one that involved clasping his hands together in prayer and batting his eyelashes. He stood there, bouncing from the heel to toe, before two folding chairs and a manuscript in bright red lettering entitled Moulin Rouge! with two exclamation points. One printed, and one hand-written in ballpoint pen by what had to be the most sleep deprived doctor in all of San Francisco. The bags beneath his eyes were concealed by way of frozen spoons—it was a life hack he’d read off some Cosmo article a while back. He liked to think it worked.

“But you’ve got experience with this stuff. You don’t even have to do anything, listen, just,” He held out the palm of his hands. “Stick with me through these last auditions. Please, Jerry? We’ve only got a few left. I know someone who’s perfect for one of the leads.”

He left out the part where he was perfect in general. Callum thought it best to let his coworker see that bit for himself.

The older man rubbed at his own temples. How the fuck the Ken doll managed to persuade Alcatraz prison of all places to go along with this whacked out shit was beyond him. A prison musical. It was a disaster waiting to happen. He gave him a pointed look before letting out a sigh.

“I hardly think my short-lived acting career in eighth grade counts as ‘experience’.” He grumbled, ass regrettably meeting the chair. His scoliosis was acting up. He grimaced.

“But fine. Get on with it. Go find your Satine. You’ve got ten minutes.”

…And that was the story of how Callum, winded and lightly misted with a sheen of sweat, managed to locate Zane amidst a crowd of inmates. It was the lunch rush. GoGurt packets were being traded for biscuits. Biscuits were getting traded for booty. Callum tried hard to repress his urge to stop and lecture the man about the dangers of prison prostitution—but his eyes were on the prize. The prize being a darling ginger beard and hands that surprisingly (or unsurprisingly?) felt really good on top of his own.

He tried to brush the thought from his mind. That’s not why he was there.

He was there to make Zane a star.

The moment the man was in reaching distance, Callum took hold of his shoulders and yanked. Maybe he was in the middle of a conversation. Maybe he was just minding his own business. Whatever the case was, Callum had five minutes left to get him to the casting room and—

“Zane, we gotta run. Like, right now!” He urged, tugging at the man’s hand with urgency. He pushed back a wild tuft of hair that’d flown over his forehead. He needed another haircut soon.

“Jerry gave me ten minutes to find you and now we’ve got five left! I told him you’d make a better Satine. He’s trying to give it to someone else but we have to go because you’re just so much better and—”

He bounced toward the hallway,

“I’ll explain more when we get there!”