November 19, 2005
.11.19.05. - JEEZUS, Tris'n, I'm fuck'n' impress'... [tristan]

[southside]

(tristan)
6am. Not a one of the eagles gets up at 6am - though they routinely are still up at 6am. Thus is the case with a certain prettyboi kin, who's out and about at far too late/early an hour to really be good for him. Naturally, he doesn't care, not really. In fact, he seems to be working on quite a drunk - or at least he has recently, if one were to guess by the rather... rumpled... appearance. He doesn't have his violin with him - which is the second clue, though there was some ragtag pub/bar that he borrowed one in order to jam with the band for a while.

But that was hours ago, and neither here nor there, of course.

So - jeans he's worn for at least 2 days, a t-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, under a jacket. Dammit, why can't they ever winter someplace WARM? - a knit hat holding those curls in submission, sturdy boots on the other end. He's humming to himself, smelling like a day old brewery, but steady after grabbing a couple hours of sleep.. somewhere over...there. somewhere. Where, exactly, is anybody's guess.


(james)
in the grand scheme of social history
sometimes it holds quite true this notion that opposites attract
and within the Eagle pack this is no foreign matter
strange, it would seem, how some pieces of their great hybrid whole
are so damned opposite things become curiously similar
or the slightest idiosyncracies between things of common strain
seperate two entities much further than originally opposed

such is the case of two Bone Gnawers

prettyboi kin fits right in between the fermenting kegs
perhaps one or two that may be a decade or so beyond the borders of spoilt
rumpled clothing cast sloppily about a figure once so leanly toned
cascading ringlets barely corralled by the knit hat's precarious cling
trademark string song falling short to whistlyhummed substitution
in fact - seems Tristan fits right in amongst the dregs of Southside society
and not the soaped and polished neighbors of last, ritzy, riverside address

something is...... somewhat amiss

the primal half of familial equation prowls not the impoverished streets
the one within which jackal's muddy blood bred true strikes quite a contrasting portrait
dreadlocks hang in the neatest version of disarray allowed by pulled-tight-beanie
airspace insulation created by thicktwined ropes a scarf to patchwork trench
animal frame remains quite still where it's perched on long-neglected bench
boots propped on half-broken crate to avoid contact with sidewalk's near-freezing chill
heavily knitted gloves further warmed by the steaming cup o' coffee misting towards Luna's shine
the unmistakable scent of Irish Cream replacing a predator's pheromone cloud

comfortable a resident as James may seem
thoughts behind dark eyes on the horizon are probably as questionably distant as his brother's last bedspace

(tristan)
Primal. People say there are two sides to every soul and sometimes they reside in different bodies. On a different evening, perhaps, the always romantic soul of the pretty boy might waffle on endlessly about such things and how sometimes people just click because of such.

Well, tonights not that night, but none the less, there is no denying the primal half of his less then primal breeding that is sprawled out upon that bench comfortably drinking something that smells like irish crème covered caffeine.

As such - far be it for him to miss any stolen minute with his b(estfriend/desparateforevercrush)rother, and steps angle to move toward the bench, until finally he collapses on the seat next to James.

Fingers lift from pockets to drag over bloodshot eyes, before slipping back into his jacket to seek warmth once more. A but of a lopsided grin precedes the mild greeting. "Morning."


(james)
on another more romantic night
the prettyboi might wax lyrical about the bodyrockambiance
the guttermutt might fall to streetminstral poetry commenting this precious, peaceful moment

on.... another night
tonight? tonight James is avoiding reactive choke to his brother's rather strong scent
too bad animal senses don't shut off when the man decides to display less-fierce mask
grimace slides to grin easily enough - he is still a street performer after all
just as the steaming cup is offered to chillier companion on tails of salutory chuckle
even if heady curtain rising some insubstantial barrier of gourmet coffee is as much selfless kindness as self-preserving screen

".... sum fancy af'r shave yeh sportin', bro."

(tris)
A snort. Yes! a snort. But it's of the bemused variety as long musicians fingers reach to find the offered cup and screening barrier of deliciously scented nectar. The cup is lifted in mock toast, before a couple of swallows is taken, and it is offered back. All the better to spread coffee's delicious scent between them, you see.

Fingers lift to scratch behind his ear, before pulling the knit cap down over his ear again. Falling to shove into his pocket, he just.. well. nods. He doesn't say anything in reply for a few moments, collecting some runaway thought, perhaps, from some dusty recess of his fogged brain. Finally, going with the every popular understatement. "Went on a bit of a bender." pause. sheepish grin. "....i think."

Not much to remember in that fogged head of his, is there? "Was headed to wash of the stank somewhere. Eventually."


(james)
without the tell-tale scent of blood or ointments or the pack's stock-purchase in medical supply
the Gnawer Elderman settles with the assumption it was a safe bender
abuse narrowed to his kinsman's GI system and a nearby choice organ or two

"W'll....." another low rumbling chuckle accompanies now free hands during their journey to light up a cigarette, smoke plumed on exhale into night's frigid air ".... 'ssumin' you ain' re-kin'le sum love 'ffair wi' Deck'r a go bar-crawlin' w'th'm.... 'n my threatnin' yeh w'th'a firehose ain't tha' substan'sh'l a threa' much'z it'll transla'e a promisssse....." oh ho, it's not only the sheepish grin inspiring a wicked look there, we are sure "..... guess'm lef' wi' askin' how far yeh plannin' a wok 'fore yeh wash off tha' stank?"

must be pretty bad when a friggen Gnawer is thinking you most certainly smell like a fouler member of the Nation's reputedly dirtiest nation

"Can' figg'r if'is better a me askin' th' fuck happen... or join th' dog a bit'cha's pack'n get toss'd, too." an elbow affectionately digs into Tristan's side before offering cig in trade for drink "Leas' I won' notice th' stank a y'r af'rshave if wearin' y'r scen', too."

the next low breath of laughter gets framed by waving shake of dangling dreads
almost unable to believe there's a difference between bender of choice and pool party swim at the drunk tank
but love as brothers may, he'll go along with the story no matter how amusing it may or may not seem
must be his turn to be the make-shift parent after Tristan's stint as housekeeper-cook-medic-and-support
the disheveled recovery seems cute, in a way, when not shrouded by patient concern creeping from history's knowledge of what things likely cause such unusual reversals of role

(tris)
He scrubs at his face with one hand, before glancing at his bro outa the corner of his eyes at that oooooooooooooh so wickedly sheepish grin, which is answered with a grunted chuckle and devilish gleam in his own gaze. He doesn't answer right away, however, not until the now lit cigarette is offered to further mask the most gnawer of scents he's ever subjected himself too.

Now, if he can only sort out the whys and hose and wherefores. "Might be safer just t'join in." Nodded. but even then he's pointing with the cigarette as he exhales. "Nastyass hotel down that way. Not the best, but certainly obviously not the worst either. I show up at home like this and Rox will kick my ass."

Not that he's been 'home' in a while.

How odd this must be, this sudden reversal of roles. Always the one taking care of everyone else, putting them back together, to have fallen apart so certainly is out of the ordinary. There's a lot of reasons perhaps, and perhaps not any at all. "M' just..." well, there's a start, sort of, as he scratches his jaw with fingernails that definitely need cleaning. "m'so fucking tired. Tired of decker n his shit, tired of being called a sell out for livin with Rox, tired of being the one kicked around, and underappreciated, tired of wallowing in self pity when I'm under-appreciated and shit on, tired of missing you every moment of the fucking day. Just. Fuckin. Tired." a snort, somewhat amused in a self depreciating way. "Kemp - he ranked up. I found out... via the rumor mill. Ain't needed so much around here anymore an' when I needed everyone, I got you - a given - and a whole lotta grief. Getting to me, I guess."

A negligent shrug, as he belatedly remembers to offer the cigarette back if it's needed to be shared...


(james)

quietly, James listens
animal instinct somehow sensing the growing speech
waiting oh so patiently for his brother to choose time and place
and for a moment, there, he almost doubts it's going to happen
just as content with drinking the rest of the morning away
(.....is 5pm somewhere in the world, Jamey-boy, don't you worry....)
though somewhat relieved the confession did finally come

breifly, compassion softens the Elderman's features
then it's wryly replaced with the sardonic sounds of all-too-knowing chuckle

"Almos' soun's like yer feelin' 'bout like one've those Gnaw'rs tha' get whisp'r'd 'bout each moot." a pause while coffee and Camel are traded yet again, a childishly playful game of musical hands in the midst of heart-felt divulgence "Though.... guess th' missin' me par' dunn cut it f'r blood ster-yo-ty'e."

muscular shoulders roll somewhere under the heavy coat in shrug

"Soun's like yeh need a vaca'sh'n." weight shifts forward to finally place boots to ground, leveraging the raggedyman off the bench with his free hand held out towards his brother "But.... may I sugges' a bath, firs'."

(tris)
He snorts, but there's a nod, as well, as he plays musical vices, and the sheepish grin appears just a bit. He...said that part out loud, did he? Well, not like it wasn't known, after all, from day one back in Jersey. He's here because James is here, and when James isn't here for random amounts of time for no reason or for any reason... it aches. And knowing that one of these times he simply won't make it back, it causes him to die a little somewhere inside. Such is the life of a kin. one of them gnawer kin to boot.

Boots hit the ground, and he turns to watch his bro as he stands, and then even manages a sheepish grin as he scratches his jaw again. "suggest... or insist...?" Either way - or both ways - he studies that free hand for a moment, before his own finds it's way to join, pulling himself to a stand again. A little unsteady still, as who knows how much blood he's managed to rebuild into his alcohol system.

"Alright. A bath - or shower - or something to chisel off all the grime." A sideways grin "Gonna wash my back for me?"


(james)
a little unsteady but James' strength makes up for that
far-too-easily hauling the wobbly kinsman to his feet and onwards
heading in the..... general.... direction of the aforementioned nastyass hotel
another cigarette jump-started off first's filtering ember without missing a beat of rotation
dark eyes spending equal time between attending their surroundings as leveling warmly on the disheveled prettyboi

"Depen's....." smirked around stick that'll never be cancerous to his lungs, deliberately leaving the answer open to any one of Tristan's questions without further clarification as he's smoothly changing subjects before they're crossing the street a block south of their rendesvous bench "Think tha' ge's t' all've our blood, in one way're anoth'r. I'd bet ih ge's un'r th' skin've all Moth'r's Chil'r'n, kin'r nah, t' sum d'gree."

once again the musical interlude of dancing vices

"Tires sum. Killz oth'rs." breath plumes in miror of the prettyboi's smoke-filled breath, last dregs of still warm enough coffee moistly heating the air that flows across his tongue "Th'n guess there sum oth'rs a figg'r ou' more importan' things a spend en'rgy worryin' fer. Sum.... ge' this.... ignore tha' silly shit oth'rs give'm alltogeth'r. S'possible. S'True" how evangelical "Cuz it's nuthin' more'n a was'e've y'r soul gettin' all dark cuz've tha' bunk, so why not spen' what may be y'r las' day enjoyin' th' things tha' bring yeh hope 'n'stea'."

his sideways glance could be categorized along the lines of sly
there's no doubt in the Adren's mind just how damned preachy his musing lecture must seem
quite a bit of it's probably right at home on the pulpit or some self-help-support-group-podium
probably sounds just as full of sugar-coated bullshit, too
and then there's also the realization that may come with the right precentage of blood-to-alcohol
things said simply for the sake of knowing they were, indeed, said
confessed just the same

"Kinda like forgettin' how much i'h hurts a miss'n yearn ev'ry day cuz th' mos' loy'l man you ev'r known had a be lef' behin' 'gain... ev'n though 'e'd drop ev'thing a follow yeh thus far'n th' firs' place." a shrug makes it so deceptively negligent "Thinkin' 'stead 'bout th' look'n'iz eye sparkin' tha' minute yeh get back home 'gain. Tryin' a figg'r out'iz thoughts wrappin' 'round yeh really did cum home, this time. Strength'ns tha' hope sumwhere in y'r own hear' f'r nex' time...... tha' yer strong 'nuff a make't home 'gain."

.... maybe there was a bit more Irish than Cream in that there coffee
waxing the raggedy Gnawer more romantically poetic than the night originally foretold
must be the way the sun's thinking about rising on distant horizon
creamy glow just beginning to infringe on midnight's clinging grip
driving the darkness so symbolically away, peeling back some veil yet unnamed
the one so powerfully persuasive to an unsuspecting, wounded, and bitter psyche
shadows lifting away the very elements of the dreamworld's ether masquerade
a new expression replacing the Full Moon's thoughtful cast
boyishly playful grin silent mockery his brother's state soon revealed by day's blinding light

"Dunna.... think they off'r steel wool 'long with y'r comp'men'ary toothbrush kit? Cain' remem'er a take yeh wi' me nex' trip if they dun let'cha on th' bus f'r fear a....... whatev'r yeh been rollin' in." finally, a bark releases the rich sound of true laughter, strong hand clapping on the violinist's luckily padded shoulder "JEZUS Tris'n. I'm fuck'n' im'press'....."

Posted by james at November 19, 2005 12:00 AM