March 15, 2004.03.15.04. - wonder if i'll lose them, too [tristan][riverfront[
(tristan)
Some hole in the wall rat trap (....heh.) motel room bed. A lot of alcohol. Carton’s of cigarettes. A violin. A jacket and sweater shed and tossed haphazzardly over that way, boots kicked off over another, and a pretty boi kin propped up against a battered headboard, with one open bottle in hand, lit smoke between his fingers, ash tray balanced on leanly muscled belly.Silent. Watching. Just... being there.
(stupid.fucking.fang.)It’s all he can do, so that is exactly what he does. He hasn’t broken the silence since watching (Let’s face it – in complete awe) the flurry of beat down between the two Ahrouns, simply offering the silent support of one who understands, who knows. James will speak when he’s ready. Or cry or scream or take it out on pretty boi skin and apologize later. And he’ll take it – however it falls. He knows James has (and will) do the same for him.
(james)
some hole in the wall rat trap motel room
the door kicked in and "locked" again with propped with remaining chair
the other, sadly, is little more than an explosion of splinters beside the bathroom door
the television smacked on for some semblance of mindless background noise
the kinfolk spread deceptively lazily across the length of one bed
the Ahroun sitting at the foot of the otherhis back is turned
offering Tristan nothing more than the view of warwround scars
ashed black clawmarks stark silhouette over darkening bruises coloring ribs
(you can bet one or two are cracked, good shot, Deck)
deep umber eyes staring at the puddle of blood between his boots
a line of crimson follows the crooked line of his jaw
dripping from a split highlighting the curve of cheekbonethe rate's slower now
skin pulling together at the amazing rate Garou heal themselves
nothing near as fast as if he shifted
but at least he's not soaking his shirt anymore
that's sitting in a forgotten pile at the base of one wall
splattermark of water and blood precisely four feet abovefinal lash out of ebbing Rage
now he's just smoking the remnants away(tristan)
His back is turned, and it affords him a chance rarely given. To simply look at his friend, his brother. Eyes trace those scars, the blossom of bruises, the splatter of blood, the curve of spine and the fall of shoulders that slump in something like defeat, the steady drip that is slowing finally with the amazing regenerative powers given to Gaia’s warriors.Reclined as he is, his own scars cannot quite be seen, in the dim light, the lastest set pressed against the headboard. Aside from the exit wound of a well aimed bullet on shoulder, the hint of claws that wrap around his side from a Dancer’s grasp along his back, a matching set – if from a different set of claws – along the other side from an ill timed lesson on good vs. bad to a stupid kin who still hasn’t learned the difference. Bruises are gone, his skin faded back into pretty boi perfection but for the map of stories laid inside his skin.
Cigarette is lifted to his lips, a slow measured inhale, followed by a slow exhale that follows his hand down to tap the ashes out into the carefully balanced tray. Again, a few moments later, and the butt is stamped out into the tray, long arm stretching to set it on a far from sturdy nightstand, as muscles crunch to pull lean form upright. Bottle joins tray, and he’s standing, still silent, to move to the bathroom. Water flows, shuts off, and he returns again, this time sitting on the bed next to James as he folds the damp hand towel in his hands, and then simply slides it into James’ line of sight.
(james)
silence affords the mind a chance to wander
perhaps he finds a distant recollection of better times past
though more likely, James thinks about the fight just endeddeep down, he's actually amused by it
for as horrendously ANGRY as he is (was) for what his packmate said
he can understand why it is that Decker said it
and there might even be an affectionate fondness in the knowledge the Modi made the effort to do sothe train of thought ammends itself in a huffed snort of humor
that sends a fine spray of blood towards the now offered towel
in the collective throb that creates his skull - he hadn't noticed the broken nose
(thankfully he never was the prettyboy)
a brow arches in slight surprise at the sight
but the towel accepted anyway
and the angle of his head changed to stem the newest bleed"Thank'."
(tristan)
Nope, the pretty boy position is taken, thank you, though his skin affords a road map of attempts to render him other wise. But the curls remain, the nose remains unbroken, the lips remain full and just as easy to spread in a smile as ever. Just as it does now with that huff of humor, the amused fondness that slowly seeps into the set of James’ shoulders, lights in his eyes.“Welcome.” That’s all that’s said in return first, though he’s looking at the puddle on the floor, and gaze wanders briefly toward the other things he’ll clean before leaving at some point. Looks like a crime scene, to be honest, and one they’d be lucky to have Imogen cover up. Fortunately long association with the woman and Tristan knows what, and how to clean up and alleviate suspicion that would doubt the sound mind and body of the two Gnawers when they eventually vacate the premises.
Then, almost amused. “So.” where to start. Where to get him to start. Missed you at Sunday dinner? Btw while you were lost we got beat to shit and the fuckers broke our house? Oh and guess what, my long dead mate is back and the hell am I supposed to do now? Or, D – none of the above.
D. “y’alright?” So what if he already knows the answer.
(james)
above the curve of the towel soaking the blood off his face
deep umber eyes swing to his left
glancing up at the prettyboy from frame of white and dreads"Depen' y'r def'n't'n a 'righ'."
from behind the folds of cheap-ass motel towel
the words are filtered by what may be cotton and residual alcohol
coupled with the fact his jaw's clicking again
that.... may, at some point, have resembled Englishtension sweeps out in soggy sigh
shoulders relaxed by amusement fall in acceptance
and his weight pivots at hips to take the Gnawer back onto the bed
towel removed for a breif drag off the Camel
replaced again as brows furrow in thought
dark eyes now facing only the ceiling
rough fibers of the comforter scratching the scars over his back"Thou' I w's."
(tristan)
Fortunately, he’s had practice deciphering what may or may not have been English at some point in time before filtered through such a menagerie of sound stealing circumstances. He nods, slightly, and when James fall backwards onto the bed, he shifts his own to more fully face his brother. A long reach to the other bed finds his pack and lighter, another cigarette lit before they’re tossed back again, and he just smokes in silence for a few moments.“Know the feeling.” And the snort that follows is amused, even as he shakes off that subject, and refocuses again on the matter at hand – namely, anyone else’s problems other then his own. If he had known what Tucker was up too...
(he didn’t trust him. He didn’t want to take his gifts. He didn’t want... fucking asshole. Next time there won’t be a turning away, there will only be a swing, no matter the beatdown that will inevitably follow. He wants that first hit. He wants the feeling of connecting solidly with flesh, he wants to hear the crack of bone. There is a long long line of grave errors made now... and he may only get the one chance to connect. You can bet he’ll put everything he is behind it, too.)
and in the end, he just leaves the continuation of conversation in the hands of the Ahroun.
(james)
"Jus'...... wa'n' 'pared a see a picture a how 'ppy we w're...."the admission (apology?) so very soft
it's clear by the underlying.... warmth.... in his tone
that he truly appreciates actually having a picture of her
obviously, previously, he did not
but the visage struck him like a slap in the faceit would have been easier to see a coroner's snapshot of her mangled corpse
at least he'd have a secure reason to mourn like he is
it's just a matter of getting past the grief and on to the nostalgia"Guess'll 'ave a get i' ma' wall't size t' put nex' a J's...."
not conversation, particularly, now the Fostern's just thinking out loud
(tristan)
he nods, slightly. It caught him by surprise too – though he holds vivid pictures of the two of them together in his mind, vivid pictures of everything then buried somewhere deep inside of Jersey, things that make him smile, that make him ache that make him... who he is.“Suppose so...” Added, just to have some sort of reply. However much it’s appreciated, its the motives behind it... ugh. Fingers drag through curls, and he stretches to find the ashtray again to tap the growing log from the end of his cigarette, remembering to take a drag afterwards, and exhaling slow. Whomever said absence makes the heart grow fonder, should have added that continued absence causes the heart to break, shatter, scream.
(james)
"Ev'r see't?"it must be the alcohol talking
for these are distant lands the Ahroun rarely, if ever, journies to willingly
towel removed long enough to put out his Camel in
wet butt flicked towards some random wall
the refolded and used to wipe the mess off his face
(tristan)
It must be, though he just nods, slightly, after a moment. “Once, quite a while ago.” He doesn’t remember exactly when it was, but he remembers the picture, he remembers the pain in umber gaze when he saw it, when he was forced back into memories journey that screams of more pain then any one man should ever have to bare.The same type of pain that visits his own dark gaze when he received the gift from Diego. The same that screams under his skin now that he’s seen him again. Didn’t he say that he’d be better knowing if his mate was alive or dead? That the not knowing was the worst? Funny how the mind can make you believe the oddest of lies.... and how Dustin aches now, wondering, no matter how many times Tristan reasserts his choice...
Sort of amused. “We were drunk.”
(james)
there's another scuffed snort of amusement
oh, that is novel news"Mean 'ere's a time w're nah?"
splatsmackthump the towel joins the shirt at the base of the wall
it's soaked up about as much as it cane handle
lips still stained with smeared blood quirk in bladed half-smile
lately, the Ahroun knows, there's few and far between times they're not
both drinking away some pain they're trying to forget the name of
convincing themselves it's finally time to move on
but no matter how hard you try, and how valiant your effortssometimes it's the the memory that won't let you go
there's a frightening similiarity between the pictures
each of his current pack at their prime
partying as hard as the night was long
rarest of occasions when the Wyrm wasn't knocking upon their door"Won'er if I'll lose'm, too."
hell, half of those in the picture are already gone
even keel with those in the folded Polaroid now dead and buried
James shakes away the thought (the chills raking down his spine) in situp and stretch
reaching for the recently discarded pack to snag another(tristan)
He chuckles and shrugs. “Damn good thing we’re cheap drunks.” Otherwise it would keep the Gnawers far too busy just to support the attempts at forgetting, to let go of memories that keep sneaking back to throw you once more into the pit of pain.The wonder brings his gaze up to his brother’s again, watching as he sits up and shakes off the thought. They’re always losing it seems, always fighting some battle that will likely never be won in their lifetime – as frighteningly short a span as that will be.
James snags another cigarette, and the battered bic is flicked to check flame, then offered to his brother for his use. Cheap drunks, cheap dates, cheap... The most expensive thing he owns he’d never sell, the most expensive gift he was given will remain perched on some pedestal to give to some future progeny he’ll never have. (...after all, he’s useless to the nation that way...)
Hand drags through curls, breath drags from cigarette, both fall again in some lazy disarray, a curl of smoke, the fall of fingers followed by slide of corkscrew curl. Finally...
An exhalation. There’s really not much to say to that. He’d report that his brother will not lose him, but then again, he’s come all too close all too many times just since moving to Chicago. Damn the Wrym Newsletter that apparently features the pretty boi kin as meal of the month. Someday his luck will run out.
Posted by james at March 15, 2004 12:00 AM
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