no one's here to sleep {nori + olive}

Scratch that, I bit venom on the streets and- reverse, reverse.

That track spins like it always does. 

My hair's slick back. 

Combed and cut by your's truly, black hair in discontent but it's gotta get that shit together by its own, y'know? You can't force somebody to be happy, just something you've gotta get yourself. It's whatever really. My ma is always in discontent, like my father is always knee deep in his own bullshit, but it's whatever, they play an eternal chest match that I just don't have the damn time for. I hug ma before I leave the house, she worries about me and her cheekbones press into my bruised collarbone. We've got the same slender face, my ma and I. She cusses under her breathe when the screen door shuts behind me. 

Shit.

Pavement clicks against the soles of my boots, kerosene and lighter fluid in my veins. 

I have no idea what I'm doing.

Shit, I dunno. My own name clicking on my tongue, Nori, Nori, Nori, sometimes I get caught up in my own bullshit and I lick a chipped tooth in between eye teeth and molars - there goes my modelling career. Oh well. The air is thick in my lungs as I walk, the rundown of plague in the back of my through - Nori, Nori, Nori. When am I gonna get my shit together, I chuckle to myself through closed teeth, my thumbs between my chest and the straps of my rucksack. 

The fuck kinda name is Nori, whenever I asked my ma where she got it she just told me it was a brand of fish. Which I guess would make sense, nothing like a newborn child than a herring, and I smile with the afternoon sun on my burnt skin - it's great for fighting. Warm weather, relaxes the muscles. Great day to get my ass kicked, great day to make some money, great day to spend with Fucko. Love that mutt. Have no idea what breed Fucko is either honestly, he's got mange on his legs and ass but he's blonde and furry everywhere else and he's got a kink for fish. 

Nasty ass. 

Technicolor echoes in my ears, chanting and ambiance. 

I'd love it here if it didn't smell like asshole. 

There's something about suffering that just, y'know, brings cunts together. Like, I'm hot and hungry and I haven't brushed my teeth in a couple days and my back's been fucked since my last fight and my dad threatened my with a broken beer bottle - that was cool - and everybody's super chill with that. I'm sixteen, and the bartender (his name is Al, by the by,) buys me the first drink because he knows I pay back and I always provide at least.

And yeah, I know, Nori, no Nori, it's fucking like three a.m.? I think? I don't even know, fuck, only really fucked up people drink with the sun up but I don't really think I'm that bad, if that's what's up. I click my tongue waiting for Al, my boy with the first drink. I grin something cheeky and he asks what's up and I scratch behind my ear - 

"Just the same, Al, got any food for Fucko?"

"I ain't got shit for that poor bastard,"

His voice is deep, scratchy and jazzy.

"You been keeping up with the games?"

"Fuck you mean, can't run betting in a bar without actually watching those kids play,"

"Yeah, yeah I know - think we might get one?"

"Graham, people from this district are better off dying in the games." 

The hot of the glass pops with the hitting of cold scotch, it's pretty watered down considering he's got a business to run and I don't have money first hand at the moment. Just banter, I guess, a mouth like this can only work so much. And shit, I've got a pretty nice one. I swallow spit with the air sticking to my skin, the drink frostbiting my throat, "shit, Al." Good shit, I smile and he starts doing a bar rant giving me the run down of the poor fucker's that he's talked to on the daily. And see, I know I said that shit about suffering and sufferable and blah, blah, blah but honestly once he started on about good ole Mugsly I immediately toned out - you can only hear the same story about having your daughter murdered, y'know? 

My hair's messy. 

I try to blow the strands into place before looking around, an old record player beating cords as I look around. 

There's only a few my age - Brock and Stanley laughing in the corner and I can't help but smile looking at how fucked Stanley's pug nose is and I can still feel that bitch in my knuckles. Damn well thought I broke a knuck fighting him but that nose is, well, Fucko's inbred and he still looks cuter than him. Scratchy quality rings in my ears and there's one girl drinking alone who looks like she's probably gonna break down if somebody walks over - not my forte. 

Al breaks his speech and leaves the bar unattended for a second, walking into the back room to grab something and I shout a "I'll hold that thought," and he tells me to fuck myself and I grin and take my ass and my glass somewhere else - no offense to him but I really don't feel like talking about family murder right now. See, today's just a great lazy day, the wood of the table scratchy against my elbows. Fucko's probably scratching himself and whining like a tea kettle, and bless that mutt I'm starving just like him. You see, I'm just a single, hard-working mother of one mangy mutt, how can I provide for my family? I rub my thumb against the cool of my glass, one of the kids my age coming up to me. 

It's not Cock or Pug, just some twink ass, I think I remember him getting whipped? Shit was that the Mortuus whipping? Fuck, I don't know, should've asked Al - he remembers every bastard in this district.

"Hey!"

"Wassup ma-"

Repeat, bring it back now y'all - scratch that. 

I bit venom on the streets. 

He grabs my shoulder and I'm not panicky or anything, and his fist cocks and hits my jaw and I spit out the last syllable. "Shit," he let's go of my shoulder and he's smiling and I make eye contact after spitting on the wooden table - fucking sorry bout it Al. He's smiling like he just got asked out to prom and my eyebrows are furred, the fuck is this kid? I hear Brock and his bitch boy laughing in the corner, and I smile a little too, it was a good hit and hell, I like his style I guess.

"That's a hell of a kick," and this poor kid. 

I cock and aim for his eye, his left for me, his right for him. Sorry bout it, and I feel my knuckle pop like it did when I crooked Stanley's nose. 

"Fuck off him, Nori," Al's voice deep and scratchy and jazz, like the beat of the record in my skin. Sorry bout it, Al. I smile, grabbing the collar of his shirt and bring his face nearly up to mine. Shit, this kid is short, feel kinda bad. "Who the fuck are you?"

And I'm still grinning.

( I'll say goodbye soon ) a dog barks in the back of my head.

It's an echo.

Al's voice reverberates in the bar, the scratchy fuzz nearly a tangible object and it blends with the minor pounding of my head and the jazz box in the corner of the room. Shit kid, that was a nice kick, not gonna lie. I feel the stretch of my lips against my teeth, visible, good, this is gonna be fun. Fucko's monotone surrounds my thoughts and this kid is warm-bloodied, don't know how he ended up in a spot like this. His eyes are wide and he's still smiling through dead eye contact. ("Who the fuck are you?")

The music beats through my body, synced with the audio of faint adrenaline.

I shouldn't get that off a single punch anymore I don't think, but hell maybe it's just a kink of mine. A survival tactic at this point, so what, you've gotta be a masochist to wind up in this bar anyways. The liquor's all cheap shit - no offense Al. Hair combed back still through two punches - one received, one returned to sender - except for one strand in my face, well, we can't all be perfect. Body heat radiates through his collar and there's a skip in my heart, Al's statements ringing deep like a cannon in my ear; "Graham, put him the fuck down, and, well. We can't all be perfect. 

"Shit I dunno. Who is anyone y'know?" What- he kisses my nose, and I scoff breaking eye contact, he's grinning and damn I wouldn't fight chuckling if I wanted to, his voice is honest. I drop him back on his feet, my hands still warm on his collar - what? I like a little body heat. He's still holding eye contact even while looking up to me and I hear Al's soft "goddamn kids," as he figures out what his own business is - "but feel free to call me Olive."

The smell of watered-down scotch holds in my brain along with the scratch of the record and Fucko's constant replay, fuck. I still gotta go feed him, my eyes dead in Olive's and holy hell. Olive Mortuus. Knew I knew this one, and hell I don't think I've been wrong once in my entire life. Honestly, I got a better calling than fucking judgement day. The uproar of the other bar goers dies down once I put Olive back on his feet - Olive.

"That's a cute name."

I'm still grinning, it's so fucking hard not to. My nose still touched by ghost lips, Olive. Yeah. That's a name I could get used to, my palms press from his collar to his shoulders and push him back away, the warm of his skin dying down to just the humidity of the bar. "I like your style, Olive," his name heavy in my exhale. It's more a whisper, lost to deaf ears between the chatter of the bar, the veterans probably think I go weak to puppy eyes and kisses now. 

Fucko scratches in my background. 

I scratch my thumb.

You see, I'm not really that big of a cunt as everybody says. Sure, I'm irresponsible and my hygiene's not the best, plus I start quite a few bar fights and if Al wasn't practically my dad I would've already gotten kicked out this bar for good, and I don't really know where I'm going with this. But y'know, I got a heart too? Beating duds in my chest, a big, wet, crimson one like, I'm honestly a real nice guy. With a good pair of fists. And a greater pair of eyes. So, what's a guy with moral responsibilities such as providing for his singular child-dog while also chaperoning the newest twink on the south side of a rotting district?

Well, hell if I know.   

Sizing him up, he's not that bad. The pounding of my temples still symbolizing his punch but that's probably just anger talking. He's skinny, but then again the Mortuus's are privileged fuckers. Maybe he'll be a hell of a fighter one day, he didn't take the punch too bad, I lick at a back tooth still ringing. Al's jazz box filling the quick silence between thoughts - nah, this kid'll die in a real fight. I'm a nice guy, right, so of course I'm bought over by nose kisses and heavy eyes but had he punched somebody else in the bar and hell, I could've been betting money. "Alright, Olive."

@ Karma, hope you're watching cunt. I wrap an arm around Olive's shoulder, fingers propped against his left collar bone, "I say we get you out of here and teach you some shit." My heads crooked to face his, though I'm smiling enough to make my eyes wrinkle while I talk with my right hand. I take longer strides than him, stopping at the door to uncoil myself and steal the tray of peanuts from the counter and throw it, plate and all, into the rucksack tugging at my back and yelling deuces at Al.

My hand presses against the door to the bar and I grab Olive's hand, "we've gotta make a pit stop on the way- are you sober?" I take a second to think, cutting him off with the first syllable, "never mind, doesn't matter."

I'm a sucker for puppy eyes, really.

"We've gotta get going," my jaw stings as I pull us back into the streets. It's the best home I've got, really.