June 25, 2004
.06.25.04. - so. fucking. close. [tristan]

[riverfront]

(james)
23rd Street at the corner of Banner Ave
one nickle-arcade's pinball machine going bugnuts
100 points for hitting this target
1500 points for completing that mission
WhoopWhoopWhoop re-launch award!
lights and buzzers ringing some cacophany of victorious sound

fingers snapping buttons to keep the rocketship symbolizing ball in motion
beeps, blips, clangs, and other various sound effects spilling onto the street
concerted with the tumultous sounds clamoring further inside
brilliant display of fractious neon lights bounce off skin bared by A-line shirt
wifebeater clinging to the sweeps and planes of leanly muscular torso
every one in a while, the strobes highlight dark lines hidden by thinly white cotton
matching up bodymod patterns to the swirly inks tribalizing inner right arm

unfortunately, the guttermutt can't hear it
James' ears are covered by the phones of a discman
which, in turn, are covered by the long ropey strands of his dreads
but he's paying it no mind - it's ALL about "Space Cadet" and whateverthehell is on that discman

(tristan)
There’s a little garage, tucked into the backwater streets of the Riverfront, where one might remember a certain pair of gnawers made their first home together, complete with a corner set aside for their boy. It would seem that garage is occupied again, and it could very likely be by one lanky Gnawer stepping out of the door and stretching. It’s just temporary, of course, until they procure another little fixer upper house that hopefully will last more then a week before being demolished, but it still has the feeling of home.

Hell, it still has Kemp’s vulgar ‘addition’ to the paint mural along the back wall they worked tirelessly on.

Time to collect his stuff, and tell the boys – they’re doing their own fucking laundry again. (Who’s he kidding. he’ll do whomever’s is needed when he comes by to do his own.). Long strides eat the ground between here and there, and it’s not long before he’s turning onto 23rd street, heading toward the corner of Banner Ave.

There’s no mistaking that form firmly attached to the pinball machine, nor the rage that crackles around him. What is different is the fact that for a moment, a split second, he considers turning around and walking the other way. Whatever happened – he is not sure he wants to know. Whatever lecture is going to come from his little drinking spree (the second since Kemp plays a convincing mom when he wants too) or the attitude that flowed too freely from it, he’s not sure he is in the right frame of mind to hear it. And hearing ANYTHING about her is likely to send him right on over the edge, again.

But in the end, he does head that way, the pull of brotherhood stronger then anything else, moving steadily before he looses his nerve until shoulder finds the wall next to the machine, quick glance noting the earphones, negating the need for speech, as dark gaze falls to watch the. ahem. balls in play.

(decker)
"Fuck. That look ain't good on ya, Kemp."

Decker comes ... swayin' out of one of them ever-so-convenient alleys. The way he always shows up in or around 'em, you'd think Decker had his own personal wormholes to tunnel through, connected to each and every one of the alleys in the city.

He don't, of course. But he wouldn't mind if he did.

The Tacoma, all fixed up again with its semi-transparent rebel flag on the back, is parked a few blocks away, in front of the liquor store from which he got the bottle of Jack dangling from his fingers. Slumping his weight heavily against the wall, he passes it to Kemp. It's already half-empty.

(Pessimistic this.)

"Who's yer friend?" A careless glance razors down the chick. Decker swore the kid had more girl circling him than a pimp had ho's.

(kemp)
A quick glance towards Decker, then a snicker in accepting the bottle to take a look at the level before handing it back to Decker, untouched. "Some poor lost little girl from the Middle Kingdom with the name of Sarah, even if it don't fit. Who just got put on a plane by mystery people, and landed, to meet no one and got robbed and lost her memory and is sooooo lost." A glance towards Sarah and back to Decker. "Unless ya want her other story, which is, she's a fuckin liar and offers to suck ya for ten bucks."

(maxine bell)
No clue what street she’s pulled up on, she leans back into the vehicle and pulls out a map, cigarette between two fingers as she traces her route along it. Ash dropping onto the colored grid map of intersecting lines and tiny lettering.

Smoke replaced between the lips, jiggling as she attempts to fold up the paper and fails.

“Fuckin’ useless waste of money.”

It’s crumpled up into a ball and chucked carelessly over a shoulder, not particularly fussed over where the hell it lands. She leans into the car and pulls the keys, grabs a bag and nudges the creaky door shut with a hip. Turning, exhaling, sauntering across the street […it’s all one god damned motion with her…] she flips the bird and curtsies to a car that assumes to honk her jay walking. After lingering before the car a minute, long enough to give a full-fledged smirk to the driver, the Kin steps up onto the curb and drapes herself against a lamppost, finishing her cigarette and flicking it away. […Litterbug this one…] Saying through a haze of smoke to the guy with the chick.

“Hey. Where’s the nearest Hotel?”


(sarah)
"WELL!" she exclaims in a raised voice.
"I was hungry. Thought maybe the ignorant damsel routine might work.
Guess I was too dumb to think you'd fall for it."
stormcloud eyes roll up towards the Heavens.
the girl pivots on the front soles of her boots.
swinging the lean, petite frame of hers in Decker's direction.
she was small... petite even.
and shorter than Kemp.
an inch shorter than five feet, no wonder you'd think she was a child.
bound in fishnet and pleated vinyl.
fashioned in corset, skirt and stockings.
lanky tendrils of black hair sweep around her face.
skin like porclein.
eyes slanted.
feminine curves almost hidden in the lean frame.
And Chinese to boot.
"I could kick your ass for ten dollars is more like it.."
she huffs at Kemp,
lifting up thin arms to fold them tightly across her chest.

(decker)
Decker takes the bottle back with a shrug. He don't want it? More fer Decker. Ain't no skin off his back.

Snorting, his careless gaze skimming sideways to glance down the street - sempre vigelis, or whatever. "Don't suck fer less'n twenty." That was the going rate in Jersey, anyhow. Maybe Midwestern whores got paid less.

His gaze snaps back to Maxine as she comes up outta nowhere. It's a gaze so fraught with tension you swear you hear the air crack. Then, wordlessly, he jerks his thumb at the big MOTEL 6 sign just up the street.

(kemp)
"Oh ho! She wants to lick my ass now!" Starting to laugh. "Oh wait!" Nodding to Maxine. "I betcha this girl here knows where all the motels are. Just ask her." Pointing to Sarah with that one. "But watch out for lies."

(james)
ball in play
little silver meteorite zinging around the confined galaxy
weapons upgrade, refuel, hit the DAYUM target to choose your mission
and..... glance up (the pull of brotherhood stronger than anything else) with forever crooked grin

"'ey Tris....."

a little louder than necessary since the discman's throwing his perceptions
dingdingdingCRASHBONUS
ball........out of play.

d'oh

the Ahroun's grin slides waywardly sheepish
hip leaning against the aged pinball machine
breif interlude before the subsequent launch
headphones pulled off his ears and Rammstein offered to the world
(woah..... he can hear again)
hands slipping into his pockets to dig out pack of Camels

"S'up?"

(sarah)
gloved-hand palms her face.
"Boys...." muttered behind leather fingers.
'Sarah' clears her throat, splaying the fingers away from her eyes to peek around them.
her head tilts up to regard the adults.

(maxine)
“Hey man, whatever gets you off.” Is the response to the ass licking comment. She reaches into her bag and fishes out a fresh smoke, placing it between her lips and flicking back the auburn hair from the eyes.

As for the chick Max barely graces her with a look as she snorts, leaning her curves more fully into the pole and returning the gaze Decker casts her. Absently scratching at her bare arm as he jerks his thumb. She follows his thumb back past him. The way she just came and there’s a husky laugh. She rolls her eyes.

“Well, fuck me. Thanks.”

(kemp)
Fuck, the entire city smoked. A nudge to the kick stand and he was rolling the Honda several feet further from Maxine's location.

(tris)
Glance up, catch of gaze, and slight nod. Up, of course, one of many bad habits one picks up hanging with the eagles. Hand digs into pocket as the pack of camels appears from his brothers, battered bic pulled free and offered of long habit. Gaze slides over the machine, then back with a negligent shrug, free hand tucked into pocket. “Not much. Moving out. Again.”

Nothing like dropping the bombshell right off. Mixed emotions about the whole thing play over his face. He’s glad Dustin’s home. He’s more then happy to have him, and a place, all to himself again. He desperately needs the break from the constant barrage of the whole Eagle Rage Machine Montage and all it’s little external dramas.

Hell, he needs a damn vacation. Gonna take one too. Disappear with the boy, and just remember what it’s like to live again.

(james)
he's found his own smoke, Camel long pulled out of the pack
but the lean guttermutt's stretching to kipe his brother's lighter
bic flicked behind the sheltering cup of hand
exhaled plume drifting off towards Chicago's latenight sky as he's handing it back

"Dus'n home 'r......"

James is letting it disappear along the lines of that lungful of cancer that'll never affect him
remembering clearly the last time the two Gnawers crossed paths
(that entire night wasn't pretty, from belly wound to..... well....ahem)
knowing there's an amalgum of reasons that would make the prettyboi kin move out yet again
head tipping in curiosity that sends his dreads cascading over a scarred, muscled shoulder
discman and Space Cadet currently put on the backburner of his attention

(decker)
Awareness of his packmate(s)' presence is never an uncertain thing. He knows without looking that Kemp's rolled his Honda away, escaping the fumes of certain cancerous death.

Him, he was running on fumes of his own. Alcohol. Stone drunk. His back to the wall, slid down; the bottle balanced on his thigh, his hand gripping the neck. "Shit makes ya taste bad," he says, nodding at the cigarette, some private amusement quirking his mouth.

(kemp)
"Got that fuckin straight. And it makes ya stink." Adding his two cents to Decker's. Whoa, he was saying what Kemp thought and that was a little freaky. Watch your pockets man, don't know about the leather girl there, lied too much already. Sending his thoughts to his packmate.

(decker)
Hell, got two bucks in my pocket, Decker's reply comes over the totemphone, wry, 'n a wallet chain ta keep'it there.

(maxine)
Actually, she’s yet to light this one. It’s still just sitting between the red glossed lips. The dark eyes follow the movement of the bike and then quirk upward, curling into an amused smirk as she pulls it from between her lips and gestures with it instead. Straightening, uncoiling the limbs with a rustling of leather and boot. A toss of the hair back over a shoulder.

“Fuck yeah it does. But hey, way I see it, I’m gonna die anyway. Only a matter of time. And either way I intend to go bitchin’ and hollarin’ so cancer isn’t my largest concern. I plan to have gone down in a blaze of glory long before I’m some old broad with no lungs and saggy tits.”

As she says this she’s turning so that her back is against the pole, bag dropped onto the pavement.

(kemp)
"Whatever, it's your stink." A shrug. Most of his attention on making sure he was out of possible stink range.

(sarah)
conversations carry on around her.
her attentions seem to wane on the boy.
his dominance forgotten.
he is just a boy in monkey-skin.
lungs expand to softly breathe out warm air.
her head turns to the left, angled, watching nothing.
her eyes large and vacant once more.
lean, petite frame rolls back and forth from toe to heel on scuffy boots.
and then simply stops.

(tristan)
He takes the lighter back, his own pack pulled free, cigarette lit, and both pack and lighter disappear while he exhales around an amused smirk. “Both.” There’s a drag of fingers through corkscrew curls, gaze fixed somewhere on some set of flashing lights that seem to have his attention, but in reality have absolutely none of it. More introspective then anything, perhaps, or maybe, just maybe, he can’t quite put it into words.

Start with the good shit, then. Always better in the long run, right? “Knew he would be soon, he called a couple weeks ago. Back in the garage for a couple weeks until we finalize a place with the pay he got while gone, what’s left over after paying for Kemp’s bike repair.” and a lot was left, to be honest. We’ll just gloss right over the fact he had to force her to take the money and the ‘conversation’ that came after it. In fact, we’ll skip that all together.

inhale.
slow exhale.

“and it’s just time to go.” little snort of amusement. “again.”

(james)
"Jus' time a go, huh?"

there's a little wry amusement in the Ahroun's expression
smoke clenched between his teeth allowing some freedom to his hands
they're occupied in figuring out what's the STOP button on borrowed discman
(and it takes two tries and pulling it out of his pocket to damn well find it)
piston pulled to shoot the last ball into play

ashes filter down onto the machine's scratched and scuffed top
juggled loose by the Full Moon's attempts at keeping said ball. in. play.
dark brown dreads haphazardly bleached by summer sun almost long enough to brush them away

"An'thing a do wi' las' week's blow'p?"

smirked, this time
partial distraction to the TotemPhoning going on with his packmates
it's an open line after all
but attention mostly remains on his brother kin and the game
(moooostly)
remembering well Tristan's witnessing of the little event between himself and Decker

(decker)
"Whatever," apparently unimpressed by Maxine's rebel attitude, Decker's attention wanders down the street again. Always scopin' shit out. Always keeping an eye out. Even whilst plastered.

He unscrews the cap and takes another pull. Then slouches another inch or so lower, giving Maxine a once-over. "Fuck you lookin' fer a hotel for?"

(sarah)
"Monkeys..." murmured absently to neither of them.
'Sarah' sidles away from the males,
pivoted on her boot heels, she turns away completely.
walking. prowling. consumed.
elsewhere.

(maxine)
Max chuckles. Shrugs. Tucks the cigarette behind an ear and crosses her arms over her chest. Whatever indeed. Like she gives a damn what these guys think anyway? She’s got more important shit to think about. Like how much those watches’ll fetch at the pawnshop. Cancer can kiss her cute ass, as can her breath.

She eyes Decker a moment. Tossing over whether to even respond. As it is she just smirks after a minute and glances after the chick. Eyeing her much the same way she does everything apparently. No apparent concern, just vague interest that wanes almost as quickly as her ability for small talk.

“Well I’d sleep in the car but it’s a piece of shit. Hotel equals bed an’ all.”


(kemp)
Keeping his thoughts to himself for now. And holding his tongue; not an easy task considering everything. Merely rocking back and forth on the bike.

(decker)
"'N fuck is you sleepin' in a car for?" His question chases her answer. Ain't nothing like small talk in Decker's world. When he asks a question, he wants an answer. When he wants an answer, it's usually a thing best avoided. "New 'round here 'r what?"

(tristan)
Wry chuckle in answer to the amusement writ in his brother’s expression, though at first, all that seems to be coming in reply is the little half shrug as arm and gaze fall, the latter watching the fingers at the end of the former flick ashes to rain scattered to the cracked cement of the walk under scuffed tennis shoes. other hand automatically slips from pocket, reaching out to slide quickly and gather the rain from scratched top of the game, scooping it off and over the side before hand brushes over muscled thigh, and tucks back into pocket.

Lift of cigarette to lips, slow inhale, and exhale again, before answering. “Partly, I suppose. Probably the straw that broke the camels back.” not that, you know, he’s a camel. but if they’re going to bring him down and tell him to quit trying to pick up the pieces, he’s not going to stick around and watch the destruction happen.

(maxine)
She slides down the pole, crossing her legs and effectively blocking the footpath should anyone really want to stray close enough to try and pass by. Hands lift and scratch her scalp through the thick hair. She glances at Decker and lifts her shoulders in a light shrug.

“You ask a shit load of questions you know?” She lifts a hand, ticking off the answers on her fingers. “I sleep in the car cause I ain’t ever round no where long ‘nuff to find a place. And I guess you’d say new but I dunno if I even wanna stay in town. This city got anythin’ to offer?”

(james)
the answer's summation comes in the form of a grunt
not the typical conversation one would have when trying to keep little Space Cadet alive
....or at least on board
it doesn't last long with the subject at hand
shorter of the two Gnawers turning to leverage himself to sitting onthe pinball machine
the owner of the arcade would probably frown at such a move
but since the machine's sitting under the awning out at the front of the joint
and the owner probably wouldn't say much to the Full Moon anyway
James gets away with it
smoke finally pulled free to ash with an absent wave

"Ya wan' clarif'cation.... 'r jus' gonna let it simm'r."

one of Gaia's claw-decorated Warriors he may be
but the Fostern isn't daft when it comes to people skills
he can tell the issue is, well, gnawing at his kinsman

(decker)
The Modi cocks an eyebrow at her. The eye beneath is grey as a storm, fierce.

"'N you answer 'em."

A sniff, then, shoulders stirring restlessly against the brick wall. He doesn't slur his words any more than usual. If he'd swayed on his feet, when he leans against the wall like that, casual as ever, you can't tell. One hand idly sloshes booze around the bottle. Another sweep of the street. He's been watching his back for so long he wouldn't know how to stop. Nothing paranoid about it, though. His confidence is implicit in his strength and posture; he's physically as close to perfect as few have ever been, and few will ever be, now that the last of Fenris' children have already been born.

Eventually he looks back at her. She might think he'd forgotten her question, but answers - backhandedly. "Fuck d'I know? Find out yerself." And he tosses the bottle at her suddenly, underhanded.

(maxine)
The bottle isn’t caught. In fact, Max doesn’t even make an attempt to catch it. She simply watches. It lands, breaks beside her leg and the cool trickle of alcohol touches her hand. She lifts it and shakes it off, shifting so that it doesn’t touch the leathers.

“Watch the leathers man, this stuff ain’t cheap damnit. Fuckin’ throw your bottles in ‘nother direction will ya.”

She picks up a shard of glass and tosses it away with a muted clatter. A flicker of the dark eyes toward Decker, a mixture of annoyance and amusement in her gaze. And then she’s rummaging in the bag again for who knows what.

(tristan)
The leverage of shorter man puts him a bit closer to the gnawer kin being, well, gnawed on but a conglomeration of thoughts. His closeness doesn’t help much in the matter either, but it’s also not something he’d ever shy away from. Shoulder remains against the wall, ankles cross, and it’s through another long inhale that he contemplates the question. Finally. “Not sure I want to know.”

For many reasons, that.

Finally, however, there’s a soft, rueful chuckle as he shrugs a shoulder. “suppose you’ll want clarification too. So – you start. Since you brought it up and all.” Glance up, slight grin, before he watches the careful flick of cigarette but into yonder gutter.

(james)
there's an expression collection on the Garou Gnawer's face, one that speaks of We have always been honest with each other, you know, and I feel I owe you at least an explanation since I totally ignored you that night and you've never strayed from my side no matter the cost without actually surmising the admission into verbal communication

and in the true habit of one constantly trying to find something to do with his hands
James pulls out the pack once more to light up another smoke
fingers waggling for bestowal of the almighty bic
dummer's agitation habit quelled by the routine of habitual actions
even if he's not quite at the point of total, fiending addiction
(.... yet)

"Well.... " the smirk is self-depreciative, if anything aside from forever lopsided by the notch in his jaw "Fig're you go' th' gist a what me'n Deck'r yell'd 'bout. 'n ran inna me'n Rox makin' a beer run coupla night' lat'r af'er th' raid." a pause here, filled by the zipping light of his coffin nail (James is a Garou, he won't be lucky enough to die in a way that warrants a coffin) and first lungul of smoke "'n we hadda talk 'fore th' night w'z out."

attention's caught by the sound of bottle smashing block or two down the way
dreads crawl over wifebeater bared shoulders when the raggedyman's head turns
calculating the spine-tingling feel of pack proximity in production of amusement's chuff
(the boys are out in force, tonight)
following words slightly absent as chin lifts towards the effort of focus
(totem bond impression of one Eagle PR Man checking in)

"Hones' talk. Dunna if Deck'r un'erstan' how'n why I c'n turn s'm'ne like her down." brevity this glance, boy does James understand Tristan's occasional foray to The Other Side at the peroxide fox's request.... good golly..... "But she does. Leas'..." laughter here, soft, fingers scratching through jungle-vine 'do and throwing ropey curtain infront of the rather sheepish moment ".... gave'r clear 'nuff reason f'r my bailin' outta th' Nova."

idjit that makes the Full Moon, of course
remaining question is if that was the final act of this seductive play
(..... and you should know better than to make assumptions as to how far a woman will go after what she wants, Jamey-boy)

(decker)
So his eyes track the arced trajectory of the bottle spinning lazily end over end over -- CRASH. He aims well, surprisingly. It lands just behind her, the course it had taken easily within her reach.

If she'd bothered to try.

"Waste'a good booze," he observes, snorting -- too drunk, himself, to care overmuch. The totemic impression makes him look down the street. The reply doesn't come in words, but in the simple feel of acknowledgment, welcome -- whatever.

Kemp is, presumably, still nearby; still avoiding cigarette smoke.

(tristan)
Snorts.

To what, he doesn’t quite say just yet, as he hands over the lighter, and then patiently waits for it back. there’s a meeting of dark gaze with soft umber [I know] before letting it fall again, watching the bit of cracked cement sliding under the edge, away from his vision beneath the pinball machine, idly wondering what configurations it splices into in the hidden darkness. (Pretty introspective there, boyo, if one delves deep enough.)

He listens. Always does. And hears perhaps more then most because of the way he listens – completely. There’s nothing in the world, not even a broken bottle, that would tear that attention away. Finally, a smirk. “Fuckin’ bitch pushed anyway. Knew she would. Fuckin knew it.”

And now we know where quite a bit of that ire is pushed, don’t we? “It ain’t over. She won’t stop till she gets what she wants. She’ll push and push and push and hell, finally crawl into bed with you and come at you while your asleep, and by then you’re dicks already buried and you’ll figure why the hell stop now, might as well. And then she’ll fucking drop you like you never existed, as soon as she finds someone else, or decides to run off after something that gets her killed, or whatever. Swore we’d always be close, clicked right away, and the only one left hanging hopeful to some thread of friendship is me.” Shrug. “Ain’t saying she ain’t a great fuck. Even gay I know the good shit when it’s riding my ass. But it ain’t worth it. Not in the long run.”

He’d asked. He’d yelled. He’d screamed. Didn’t matter. She pushed anyway. It’s rather amazing all of the above is said flatly, rather evenly. There’s not any real anger behind it, just.... resignation. A breath, held and exhaled while he lights another cigarette, the inhalation repeated, then very, very softly on exhale. “She was right about one thing, though. I gotta quit hoping for what I’ll never get. I care far too much about who you fuck if it ain’t me. Stupid hangup to have for a straight boy.”

How’s that for honesty.

(maxine)
She pulls out a lipstick and uncaps it, making a slow process of applying it over first the lower lip, then the upper. Pressing her lips together and chucking the silver object back into the recesses of that fucking huge bag she treats with about as much respect as she does..well, everything really.

She rises after a minute, pulling the cigarette from behind her ear and jamming it between the now vibrant red lips. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she begins to move away, leather-clad hips shifting in a sensual rhythm that may or may not be intentional. With her, it’s fucking hard to tell. She lights her cigarette as she begins to cross the street. Her acquaintances treated with her backside and a catcall over a shoulder.

“Been fuckin’ touching hangin’ with you boys. Really. Let’s keep in touch.”

The black car door is pulled open. Bag thrown in, torso slips in after it and the door is slammed shut with a hand. Engine turns over […miracle…] and she’s taking off with barely a minute’s pause to check for traffic. Swinging around in a wide U-turn and heading down to the Hotel.


(james)
there's a soft sigh as James stretches
allowing his weight to fall back on the pinball machine's scratched and graffiti's plastic top
scuffed boots dangling freely in the breeze
wifebeater pulled up enough to reveal the new scar marring his belly's six-pack cut
crawling mangle of skin peeking from between BDU waistband and rolled white cotton
the impression of a totem phone response to his packmates - Not just yet - crawling notion of hesitation substituting words
he'll make his way down the block soon enough

"Yeh." another lazy exhalation of smoke formed into word "She did..... 'spect'd her to, really. Pretty clear 'bout wantin' a fuck buddy, but..." deep umber flicks over towards his brother kin, wry if.... something else as well "... I ain't 'bout one nigh' stan's... 'n you know it. Regar'less a wheth'r not she' a whirlwin' in bed." amusement back in the soft sound rolling a growling chuckle from his throat, he bets she's a storm, allright "But I'll.... keep th' res' in mine."

and then the Ahroun pauses for the length of one quarter Camel
idly flicking the ashes off to his right
dark gaze flicking to the prettyboi on his left

"Think you would'n' be th' firs' I turn to th' day I fine out she' really dead?"

the words just as soft as brutally truthful confession that inspired them
levels of meaning left to ponder like the path of cracks in the cement below
a brow lifts in studious silence.... but the answer isn't found in his gaze
that's gone in flex of abs hauling one guttermutt to sit
weight sliding off the machine and boots making a path towards his pack down the street

(tristan)
He’d expected her too, as well, but doesn’t mean her blatant disregard for his feelings didn’t hurt like a bitch. The last straw that lead to the drinking spree that lead to the beer run that lead to the whole episode, so on and so forth and...

......what did he just say?

He reigns in the rampant thoughts that slide like water over rocks in shallow creek, constant trickle sound ruthlessly pulled to a stop as he lifts dark gaze to meet his brother’s, naked emotion for just a second, just a moment in time.... starting a whole other cascade of thoughts ranging from please don’t, thank you, that’s not fair, please don’t be lying, don’t make me keep hoping to a sudden careen of hope that is ruthlessly stomped down [of all things, he does not wish her any ill, even if it sends his brother into his arms to mourn.], quelled beneath the darkness of his lashes that fall, leading gaze back to watch the ground as one Gnawer pulls upwards, and starts down the street.

walking away.

It helps. it doesn’t help. it’s twisting him in two. (Never ever fall for a straight boy who’s mated, boys and girls, it only leads to heartache.) before with a frustrated sigh he pushes from the wall, turns, and in a few steps catches up to match strides with the meandering gnawer heading toward his pack. Silence, for a while, and then. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it, because I swear, if she came home right now, I’d cheer you on. And if you went to Roxanne on your own without her pushing you into it, I’d cheer you on too... I just...”

yeah. he just...

Shoulders roll into a shrug. “don’t know. just need to get out for a while. I can’t watch her try and take you down. I just can’t. Even if I’d lay my bets on you, if pressed too.” slight grin.

(james)
walking away - two wolves playing the game of cat and mouse
maybe it's James' way of adding levity to such a serious subject
steet performer at heart - the both of them - the Omega Tribe must always rely on humor
help get them through the worst of times
whether it's facing an avalanche of Wyrm Spawn, or the deepest aches of the heart
or... maybe it's just giving James a moment to get himself back in control

"I doubt she's comin' back if she hasn' by nah, Tris." murmured confession when the kinsman catches up "But I mate f'r life, 'n promise' her she'd nev'r have a share me..... no matter how many col' show'rs I gotta take waitin' roun' f'r th' Apoc'lupse a kill me 'n fin'lly get th' mess'ge through."

how's that for honesty

"S'all tha's hol'in' me back fr'm..... an'thing." Everything. "Really."

silence between them is broken only by the sound of strolling footsteps
the Garou's scuffffwhmp boot
the kinsman's swishtap sneaker
and finally, James looks over with one of his trademark, award-winning quirky grins

"Y'r jus' tryin' a be muh Knight'n Shinin Arm'r, tirelessly defendin' th' integr'ty 'n honor a m' heart since muh han's 'r full keepin' th' nasties a' bay."

(tristan)
He knows when that promise was made – right after the first (and last, and always, often, dreamed of) kiss. Damn Mexican Tequila. Stuff will kill ya, for sure. And he know it holds him back, and he doesn’t even try to hide the wince at the thought of the War tearing James from him. Family by blood, brother’s by choice. It would kill him, it will kill him, when he has to finally pick up his own pieces when they’re gone. James. Kemp. Hell – he’ll even mourn Decker, asshole that he is.

The worst thing a kin ever deals with is the reality that he is –just- a kin, left at home, wondering, hoping, praying that his loved ones come back, and dying inside a little more each time they do more broken then the last. When she was here, there was always the chance they’d fall together. Tristan Tristan has well (and very recently) learned his place of being left behind. Even the Wyrm Weekly has not called for a new centerfold layout for months. While that might make some rest easier, it leaves Tristan.... listless. feeling as useless as he’s been told he is by those so uncouth to point out his many shortcomings.

He meets that gaze, and lips even curl into a slight grin in reply, followed by a more natural soft chuckle. “Well, you know me, always doing the dirty work. From Decker’s nasty ass socks, to defending your heart until it’s my turn to take it...” a wink, that is much more the pretty boy style....

There’s a few more steps, silent, contemplating, before. “fortunately for me, Dustin knows and understands my folly when it comes to you. Though he’s told me to just blow you and make you smile for chrissakes, more then once...”

There. there is the wicked grin that is so much more at home on the pretty boy’s lips....

(james)
kinfolk will forever deal with the fact they will always be nothing more than kin
left behind when the battle calls
picking up whatever pieces are left - if there are any
James has seen his share of hearts broken by the harsh reality
he's watched cousins proudly die bunking expectations of the system
(Lexi was a helluva woman, she shoulda been born Garou)
he's abandoned those beaten down by the role carving weakened housewives out of integral parts
the Full Moon has, after all, always considered kin just as important as the provebial Chosen
sometimes wondering, himself, which specie got the better end of the deal

for the Warriors have an equally hopeless and tragic fate awaiting them
destined to give their lives for the greater cause
hoping to live well enough for that bestowal of a good death
and have their victories live on in song and memory
instead of simply fade away some forgotten, nameless soldier

"Dunna how you han'le Deck'rs socks, man." distaste twisting his features beneath dreads shaken loose by chide's mock shiver "I' been in s'me vile places... but even I dun' go there. That's guts."

then brows lift through a courage-instilling breath
guttermutt raggedyman pulling to a stop not quite abreast of packmates over..... yonder....
flicking those deep earthen eyes towards his brother
with a smile that would be bashful if he weren't so confident in himself
(face it, Jamey-boy, it's bashful)

"Think I ain't been tempted a letcha?"


(tristan)
hopeless and tragic – that’s what makes the greatest heroes, of course. It’s a story writ throughout time in countless ways, in stories too numerous to count, yet they all pale to the realization that you live in such a setting and it’s far from the fairy courts in the stories you grew up with. Here, people don’t always, in fact they very rarely, live happily ever after.

You take your happiness where you can, you do what you need to do to carry on.

Like now. There’s actual laughter at the shudder of big bad wolf who’d travel into the lair of the wyrm itself rather then deal with his packmates clothing. “Well, someone has to do it. He’d just let them sit there and fester until everyone would be driven out by the evil stench... Kind of pretty boy maid would I be if I let that happen?” tsks, even.

He pulls to a stop, and tristan does so automatically, not quite meeting that gaze, focused on that smile that is indeed bashful... brow quirking... “Probably wouldn’t be very nice of me to mention that I’m really really good at it, hm?”

Part of him wishes he were as brazen as Roxanne, as determined to get what he wants no matter the cost, and that part of him is already shoving him into the alley and falling to his knees in worship of dreams that likely would never come true, tearing at fastening and pulling him deep into his throat. Fortunately (or not) that part of him is also pretty will under control, long time practiced, and the only actual movement is a reach up to tug on dreads, playful. “So, you know, I won’t mention that.” wink. “again.”

(james)
humor addresses itself in a snorted chuff
slivered interlude (relief!) taken in the laundry commentary

"If yeh di'n't.... it'd fester 'til it got jump' by s'me bane then' th' stench'd crawl out fr'm this pile a wriggly socks movin' cross th' floor a smoth'r 's inner sleep!"

yes, big bad wolf afraid of a pile of socks
then again.. these are Decker's socks
and the mighty Fenrir also comes with might Fenrir BO
one guttermutt happy the Modi has created his own space behind the mostly empty factory
saves sneaking to put abandoned workboots out.side. when stormy eyes isn't looking
then playing innocently ignorant during the tirade search for missing boots that must have walked away by themselves
powered by the Energizer Sweat Bunny

then the stop
then the tease
then the following quiver that's worked its way down James' back
tickling tighten of muscle beneath the ashed clawmark scars
hidden, gloriously, by the thin blanket of wifebeater cotton
and the fact he's switched balance to throw shoulder yoke against the wall
depending on the mane of dreads to cushion his skull
(deep breath, Jamey-boy, collect yourself)

"Yeh... s'mean." delayed snap of white teeth after tugging fingers, lips pulling back into the most seditious of smiles that matches the obscene glitter darkening already deeply colored eyes "S'like my pointin' out I gotta 'nother sexy scar." smirk deepens.... dangerous.... (two can play this game of cat and mouse) before a wink "Which you'd only see if y' were inna position a prove 'ow good y'are."

(tristan)
Laughter, at the thought of some swamp dwelling bane dressed only in the Modi’s BO riddled socks, creeping across the floor to smother them all. “Fucking hell, that’s the best reason I’ve heard yet to move out...” chuckled, as he shakes his head.

Then the stop. The tease.
The tease returned.

And it’s his turn to catch his breath, though he’s a bit more vocal about the reactions that pulls to fore, exhale coming in the form of a soft, breathless moan...

And both of them are showmen. Both make a living on the street corners, one with rebar and (skulls) plastic or barrels or anything that has a nice resounding tone, the other with sweet melodious notes pulled from the depths of wood and string. But most of all, they make the cash with the sheer force of personality, the ability to blend in, to make themselves at home in any situation, to < I>connect with people no matter their walks of life, their troubles, their triumphs.

And it is that showman that right here, right now, as that tease slips through and shoulders are pressed against the wall, it is that man who drops instantly to his knees before the raggedly gnawer, arms spread wide, grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he arches that brow... tongue sliding out to gather imagined dreams from his lips... gaze shifting upwards to meet that evil, evil grin...

and for the first time since the night it happened. “I’ve knelt before you in the shower, you couldn’t possible begrudge me a little peek....” he did warn he’d bring that up at some point in time to tease....

(james)
there is the connection of personality between showman's teasing
each capable of dancing around the other as if verbally sparring an audience out of their change
but there's something most definitely, decidedly, lurking behind the Garou's glittering gaze
(....hunger)
he was mercilessly teased last night
almost to the point he gave in beyond the singular action
and no amount of cold shower can extinguish a simple fact:
James. has been celibate. almost. one. year.
and even though it is by his choice and faith in vows never spoken
he's not fucking dead below the waist!

and as much as the playful drop of kinsman to his knees inspires growly laugh
furthered by the eternal SUFFERING he will endure as the shower is brought up again
(you swore you'd never speak of it again, you wench!)
slightly quirked lift of brow may speak a story that isn't all fun and games
(well, it would definitely be fun.... and think of the games that tongue could pl-....)
packmates thankfully having fallen off the face of the earth ((HOURS AGO!!)) and dismissed to their own activities
(yes, Jamey-boy, you have been granted a lack of witnesses)
the queried notion slips a little further into the actualization of contemplative expression

lower lip sucked between his teeth to nibble in thought
fists settling on his hips in mockery of some post both their mothers have surely struck
save this one's topped by those eyes darkened in far more selacious consequences

"Yeh.... y' have." hip pitches, allowing the pull of shoulder to prey on the limited stretch of wifebeater cotton, low rise of belted BDUs hanging on iliac crests allowing just the merest peek of the vertical scar disappearing beneath both shirt and pants, chin lifting an almost haughty brow towards shaggy dreads "But dunn think tha' buy me droppin' my draw'rs right here'n th' stree' corn'r. Duzzit?"

(tristan)
There is one, forever, difference between last night, and tonight, however. While both would follow through on teasing, Tristan harbors something close and dear to his heart, the total and complete love that he keeps tight under control, safe behind the rampant lust that works through soft moan at that growly laugh. (bastard. knows what that does.) And he would never. ever push. James would have to come (on/in - ahem) to him.

He has waited this long.

He will wait forever if he has too and if Gaia never smiles upon him to grant this one, tiny boon... he’ll have the little things, and he’ll have a lifetime of moments like these. Teasing, playing, good-natured, and open.

Free.

Fingers lift and just the barest touch slides across that tiny peek of sexy new scar bared in tease across tiny peek between clothing, and whimpered admittance... “no....” pause, glance down the street, then very pointedly to the ally closest to them, then toward the factory again... “But we could always shower together again.... assuming we made it to the factory first...”

wicked, that little grin.

(james)
freedom
when you're trapped fighting an endless war
living amongst the last possible generations of your kind
there is little that defines itself as a true freedom
it is only the little things such as this which remind Gaia's soldiers of the reasons they bleed

easy smiles
teasing play
good-natured mockery
and deepest love

"Yeh.... wi' you threat'nin' a drag me off inna tha' alley." head tips, scattering dreads across bared shoulder, James is doing rather well to keep the haughty expression above the smile obviously straining to break free (.... is that all... with willing mouth so near, those warm fingers caressing so freshly wounded skin....) across his lips (..... that quiver isn't just laughter, is it, Jamey-boy) "Startin' a fear a my hon'r, 'gain."

(tristan)
Wide. eyed. innocence. “threaten? no....” hand snatches back from the tease across that scar with wounded pout, even as the shine in dark gaze remains ever the same, weight rocking forward, slightly, hand suddenly needed to touch the cracked cement by James’s feet, bringing brush of curls so, achingly, close, as head tips, and face turns slowly, lifting that gaze upwards.

(...so...fucking...close....)

as he straightens, and using the brick beside James’ hip to further brace hand as he slowly stands, so very carefully not touching him, straightening fully, as eyes finally close, and that brow quirks toward fall of corkscrew curls... “promise.”

Oh. well. That’s different then, isn’t it? (not....really.)

But he just... smiles... and hands fall to rest against that tiny, teasingly exposed, bit of skin, just above those low-rise, belted BDUs. warmly spread across sides, before leaning in to whisper. “What kind of Knight would I be if I did not protect your honor from the worst offender of all....”

and with that, he pulls the raggedy man away from the wall, closing the distance..... “..me?” before hands lead James into pivot that turns him back toward the factory, and a little nudge starts him walking with a chuckle.

(james)
it's the touch that affects him most
beyond the verbal sparring
beyond the places imaginations run wild
it's the simple contact of hand spreading on his belly
(for that is the thing James has run from most)
sending chilling tremble racing up his spine

Tristan's hand platonically guides him away from the wall (.... so.... fucking.... close) and towards the haven of pack's factory..... James' fists, in contrast, reach and wrap in the prettyboi's t-shirt, hauling taller frame right. up. against. his. (... too close for comfort) holding his Tribesman near enough so that the low growl rattling behind the bars of jailing ribs throttles right on through the thinnest barrier of two cotton layers

"Th' kine who's arm'r's tarnishing....."

low. tight. care. fuh. lee. controlled.
internal thunder probably not all such close contact allowed feel
however the guttermutt is staunchly ignoring it
striding ahead towards distant building

(tristan)
So. fucking close.

There is no hiding the gasp as he’s grabbed and pulled tight against the form that dreams are made of, the stretch of muscle right there, begging to be touched, to be explored, to be devoured.

and that fucking growl. knees weaken, it’s clear, and it brings him closer by default as eyes close, and he near sags into the vibrating rumble through such thin barriers of skin and fabric, the aching throb that’s brings hands to tighten into fists, clenching hard enough to ache so as to not do what he wants so very much to... guttermutt may ignore it, but the pretty boy is hard (...ahem) pressed to do the same with not only that but his own reaction.

It is when James pulls away that he manages the breathless moaned chuckle, and he just falls to the wall so recently warmed by rage-washed skin, hands pressed against brick at chest heights as he, quite literally, bangs. his forehead. against. the. wall.

repeatedly.
(lightly, but repeatedly)

breathe.
adjust.
walk, again.

Again quicker strides catch up with the dreadlocked gnawer, hands tucked safely into his own pockets. muttering under his breath. “who th’fuck is teasing who here, brother mine?” though it ends in soft chuckle. “remind me to add armor polish to the shopping list, will you?”

[OMFG FADE *drags James away honor still intact*]

Posted by james at June 25, 2004 12:00 AM