A Thousand Years {South}

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gamemaker kelsier
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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 24, 2012 0:14:08 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Jan 24, 2012 0:14:08 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

The first thing that catches my attention when I enter the hallway that marks the beginning of the.....learning area, is how much bustle there is. There are a lot more kids here then there ever were when I went to learn in District Thirteen's one room, place that a teacher teaches, house. For one small measurement of time, it's almost alarming. then my face slips into an easy grin, and I enter the bustle myself, one hand carefully guiding me along the wall. I don't feel like tripping over people today. See, it's my first day in school (there's the word!) here, and I was kind of hoping on making a good impression. I don't think you can even understand how difficult it is to make a good impression when you spend your time tripping all over invisible objects and landing on people.

It's only been one week of living in the District, Compartment B246, or something like that. I'm better at remembering what the outside looks like more than the numbers. I stop for a moment, making sure I have my footing, and look down at a slip of paper in my hand. It's got my class, thing that tells you where to be and where to go, on it. There's another little note at the bottom of the page, written in pink. It's got 'Dyspraxia'scrawled inside it in big loopy letters. They told me I had it when I went through those things that you go through when entering the District, like tests, but not. Anyway, it's apparently why I sometimes forget words and I fall over a lot. "Hear that dad? I'm not slow, just disabled."

Still, it's not like people need to glance over and see it, so I fold the paper up, and slip it into my jeans pocket. With a sigh, I lean against the wall I was using to keep my upright, and fold my arms over my chest, thumb catching on the slightly pointed end of my shirt's collar, pulling the fabric along, as if it's running across my body. I don't mind the slight tug of the cotton on my skin, because the air that is not as warm as normal with the added friction of the fabric cools my nerves a bit, and I take a moment to people watch. I've always been good at just watching, especially when my tongue and brain get too annoyed to go on If I didn't already have a thing that I was really excellent at, then that might just be it.

They all bustle by like mice in a maze, searching for their small pieces of dairy that is left to mold over a period of time. I can't help marveling at the size of this crowd. The last time I was in one so big was probably when I was thirteen. It was for the reaping in District Three, and all of us orphanage kids had been tesseraed to the max. Some kid named Karl had been reaped, I'm pretty sure he died, and gruesomely. But I had left shortly after that, to go into the words. I wanted to live deliberately, to suck out the marrow of life and know that I had done all I could to not just survive, but to live as well. I think that I, to complete something with flying colours, and even met a few people who I stayed with for a while on my travels.

But after a while, they would leave, claiming that they were looking for someone. So my stumbling feet led me here, to this little hole in the darkness, full of people filled with hope. And my, thing that tells me if I'm feeling good or not, seems to feed off of all of that good and delicious hope. Suddenly, a smile forms like the rising of the sun on my lips, and have to lick them to keep them from splitting. Running, my tongue carefully across the bottom lip, I reach back into my pocket, and open up the time table thingy, and whip my glasses out so that I can actually read what the sheet of paper says. Scratching the back of my head, I glance down the hallway, trying to see where the classroom for English Literature might be. Wherever it was, it hopefully contained a lot of good literature.

BRINNNNNNG The sound of the loud bell makes me jump a bit in surprise, resulting with me backing against the wall. But if the hallways were a, one of those things that bees live in, before, now they were only equal in craziness to a snake pit. After a moment of watching, I dive into the throng, pushing through to the other side, where I stumble, and fall. (There goes that good impression.) In that moment I've already resigned to myself meeting the concrete floor of the District for the umpteenth time. I almost want to put in an official complaint for them to get their flooring changed. I've got numerous bruises and lumps already from only one week here. But you know when one of those things called....that thing where something so crazy happens, and so good, that it can't have really come about?

Two hands catch me before I hit the ground, holding me steady. The force of my fall pushes me against the catcher's body, and for a moment, we're in a bubble, because time is moving so slowly that I almost don't catch the ringing of the bell again, and the way the hallway empties. My breath catches in my throat, and my glasses slip down the bridge of my nose. I can feel strong and steady hands through the thin fabric of my v-neck shirt. I'm pulled to my feet, like a rag doll, heart beating fast in embarrassment and surprise. The last person to properly catch me was my brother, Gabe, when things were still normal and the world made simpler sense. I take a second to push my glasses properly up onto my nose again, and tug down my shirt, which pulled up where his hands stop the fabric from shifting. Only then do I let the things which I see through, raise up to meet my rescuer.

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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 25, 2012 0:02:49 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 25, 2012 0:02:49 GMT -5

In love I've always been a mercenary
But I never leave my post
When the cash runs out
I wanna make you quiver
Make your backbone shiver

[/color][/center]
Kaelen Dempsey is the embodiment of ~~perfection~~ punctuality on any given day, and won't hesitate to tell anyone who cares to listen this exact fact. It's the only valuable piece of advice that his scumbag of a father ever gave him (you best never be late for nothin', boy. Kid like you misses your ship and it ain't never comin' back for you again), and he's followed it with immaculate precision from a very young age. Some would call him uptight or overly-staunch or a control freak for it - and it would be among the last words from their pitiful mouths - but it doesn't change the fact that he tries to be a bit early if anything for any even, even such droll occupations of his time like glee club or, in this particular incidence, Speks' absolute joke of an English class.

The metallic slam of his locker is lost in the hustle and bustle of the main hallway in the minutes leading up to the morning bell, the worn weight of a battered old English textbook and an equally tattered copy of The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway settling familiarly into the crook of a spindly arm. The novel is his own, selected from the pile of books in his locker in favour of whatever piece of juvenile C.S. Lewis or Lewis Carroll trash that Speks would have them read, numbing already woefully mediocre minds to whole worlds of literary stimulation that hold far more power, more rawness and reality and inherent truths of life than any other pathetic attempt at intellectual broadening he's seen so far in this dim hole of a district. Thirteen reeks of substandard everything, an added displeasure to the fact the although he'll never admit it he misses One so much sometimes that he can feel flashes of the tire swing's tough surface beneath his hands or almost taste the sweet chill of the homemade ice cream that Mrs. Rocciano would make during the summer months. Kaelen is far from pleased at the literal depths to which his celestial form has stooped, but what can he do? He played his games back in One until they had run their course, and living under the earth is still living, which is more than he could have expected if he had stayed to be caught.

A disenchanted sigh huffs between his lips as he adjusts the straps of his backpack on narrow shoulders, moving through the pressing crowd with effortless feline grace even as he flips the Hemingway classic to a dog-eared page, pools of amber lines with smoky black cosmetic caressing over words he probably has memorized by now. It was a warm spring night and I sat at a table on the terrace of the Napolitain after Robert had gone, watching it get dark and the electric signs come on, and the red and green stop-and-go traffic-signal, and the crowd going by, and the horse-cabs clippety-clopping along at the edge of the solid taxi traffic, and the - Among his many other skills and abilities, Kaelen has away of being constantly aware of his surroundings, sharp focus on the world around him never fading out even when he's absorbed in the pages of a book. Which is why he sees the smaller form on his left trip, arms flailing and on a direct collision course with his own lanky frame.

"Woah!" It's more reflex than anything, the way his arms reach out to steady the falling boy, sending his books crashing to the floor as the crowd in the hallway begins to thin steadily. Slender hands brace against the torso of a boy several inches shorter than himself, dark hair and glasses askew over deep chocolate eyes that instantly remind him of a puppy. He's new, Kaelen can tell that much even without his considerable powers of observation - his skin has not yet lost the glow earned from days Above, and the way he carries himself, cautious and not-quite-sure coupled with the quiet, optimistic confusion etched into features a bit too big for him carries a definitive new-kid vibe. He doesn't have much room to talk, a District Thirteen citizen for a whopping three weeks, but Kaelen at least likes to think that he handled himself with a bit more dignity and poise than this even on his first day. Cool derision is much more becoming on him than clumsy good-naturedness. "First rule of Thirteen. Don't fall down before the first period bell. You will be trampled."

As if in testament to his statement, a harsh ring reverberates through the hallway, and Kaelen's eyes dart to the surrounding space, noting how quickly it has become empty. An ironic scene in his mind conjures up a tumbleweed blowing across the abandoned linoleum where hundreds of feet scuffled only seconds ago. An irritated scowl pulls downwards at the corners of his lips, and the taller boy stoops to pick up his discarded books, noting with even greater displeasure that his place in the Hemingway novel has been lost. "And now I'm late for English. Fantastic."

It's not like he's missing out on anything (he only bothers going to class to catch up on his personal reading and to steal Speks' cigarettes when he's not looking), but the mere idea of lateness crawls unpleasantly over Kaelen's skin, adding to the ice in his gaze as he studies the new boy carefully, analytically - people have their uses, and it's good to get the lay of the land with someone who could be a tool or toy in the future. He's different looking than most of the populace with their bleached complexions and atrophied forms, skin baked to a slight gold from an indefinite amount of time in the sun and limbs still holding onto whatever lean muscle it took him to get here. Smaller but stockier than himself, not unlike Wheaton in build even though he looks like he weighs less than the blue-eyed whirlwind of words that makes Kaelen cringe just thinking about having to spend an hour with him at the end of an already hellish school day. There's a sort of exotic feel to his features, a million things that could be flaws combining into something that Kaelen guesses would be handsome if he knew how to appreciate it, full-ish lips and eyes that seem to go on forever, the deepest shade of brown and -

He realizes that he's staring. Shakes his head slightly. Paints the scowl on more fiercely and pushes the ice through his veins with a little more force. The freshly-printed schedule on the boy's arm matches his own at 0800 - English Literature, Room 214, he notices, readjusting his backpack again and pulling the worn green cotton of his V-neck back into place where it's ridden up over the waistband of dark-wash skinny jeans. "Well, you're in my English class. Come on, then, at least I can use you as an excuse for being late. Maybe Speks won't chuck me in detention if he sympathizes with the fact that the clumsy new kid nearly bowled me over in the hallway. Do try to watch where you're going next time; I won't be nearly as inclined to keep you from getting up-close and personal with the floor."[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Last Edit: Jan 25, 2012 0:03:44 GMT -5 by Deleted

gamemaker kelsier
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“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

A Thousand Years {South} Jan 25, 2012 21:50:28 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Jan 25, 2012 21:50:28 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

"First rule of Thirteen. Don't fall down before the first period bell. You will be trampled."

The voice is everything that I am not. Smooth, yet soft. It flows like a creek that knows it's bed. All light and dark, yet guttural at the same time like the owner spends a lot of time, that word for when sound emerges from the lips. I want to know what the guy looks like, so I look up further, expecting to see a head. But my eyes have to travel pretty far. (I'm pretty damn short though.) I'm greeted with amber eyes, so word when you can't even see the other side, it's so big, and empty that I feel like I'm being called in to explore caves. The mouths lined with streaks of ash, and framed by soft lashes. The spell is only broken when he blinks in annoyance, and my eyes travel back down suddenly, face blushing like I'm embarrassed.

He's tall, but not thick. If he was a tree, he'd be a Yoshino maybe. I once read a story about a Yoshino tree that grew to be thirty feet tall, yet only twelve inches thick. At the top, there were these flower type things. If they were in the games, I think they'd be classified as something bright that'll kill you if you eat it. I glance at his hips, and have the urge to wrap my arms around him, wondering if I'll feel a wooden heart. He's all loose limbs, bending down to pick up the books I must have knocked out of his hand. One in particular catches my eyes, but before I can glimpse the title, he's tucking it back away with fingers long and pale. It's as if he's got a tan that's begun to fade after days and weeks spent inside. Still, that word for when things don't seem quite the same, as the kids that were just around them.

I can't help glancing at where his shirt has ridden up to reveal soft skin toned with something that requires the body to be in motion. I know that he probably expects something along the lines of an apology for knocking into him, but I can't find myself feeling sorry about it. I open my mouth, and that awkward things happens where I'm so flustered and confused that I can't even remember one word. It's odd because the thing I hear most often is, "Don't you ever shut-up?" I know that I probably look like a fish, and my big lips definitely don't help as I stand here and gape. And you're probably thinking, what an idiot. Just remember that the last time someone bothered to stop me falling was almost ten years ago.

After a moment, I open my mouth again, and something does decide to emerge this time, "...I-I'm so sorry, truly, though, ....I must say that it was lovely to..... Danke for....for......Well. You have excellent reflexes." And the words for a person reaching out and taking a falling thing from midair is suddenly lost. So strike up two things that I have done to embarrass myself in front of this fine model of a person. I sigh and simply slip off my glasses again, putting them in my back pocket. Sometimes if I take a moment, wait patiently, the words all come running back like lovers that are sorry for the fight. I shake my head after a moment, and grin brightly, legs trembling as my feet ask for permission to move, and my brain tells them no. It takes so much effort, just to keep them standing still, sometimes I can't help getting distracted.

He's moving again, walking away from me, and like an entranced bug to a light, I go after him, only half listening to his words, so concentrated am I on keeping my feet steady and true. But the tone of his voice is like a textbook, yet colder. All the eloquence of a textbook, and all the cold of the last hunger games. I didn't watch them myself, but I heard all about the ice plains, and freezing. Something whispers at me however, that the ice in the other guy's voice is a lot colder than anything a gamemaker could throw at you. It's odd, but something about the way he caught me. The reason most people don't, even when I'm right beside them, is because I'm usually on the ground before even I can realize it. I guess if I knew that it was coming, I would be able to save, that word for when one talks about one's self.

I let my hand trail along the wall, fingertips gliding along like they are simply kissing it. I suppose I look like one of those people that can't really see as I go along, but I don't mind much. You wouldn't believe how much laundry I do. Not that I can't pick myself up. In fact, I'm rather excellent at falling and immediately bouncing up. So after a moment, I pull my hand away from the wall, and catch up to walk beside the other boy. It's odd, the feeling of simply walking beside someone else, I haven't really done it in a while. Mostly, I just did a lot of walking alone. (It's how I got so good at picking myself up.) My flat sneakers make slight sounds as they hit the concrete ground, even as I realize that the tall one is silent as a grave as he glides along.

I laugh slightly as he finishes talking however. It's kind of an ironic laugh, which is odd, I'm not usually one to find irony so amusing. "Believe me, I'm well acquainted with this floor already." I'm on a role here, one whole sentence without forgetting how it goes. It registers that we have a English Literature together and a stream of warmth like courses through me. But I choose to ignore it for now, It wouldn't do to scare him away after I've just met him. Carefully, I say, "I'm Colt, by the way. Colt Hanlon. Is it always so uptight and....table timey here? And...I was also wondering, is..." I've never had a good teacher. All my classroom, moments that you play like a movie in your head, are terrible ones. "Is the teacher....alright?" I lick my lips nervously, realizing that the question is almost too neutral. "I mean, I almost didn't want to....I wasn't planning on coming today, actually."

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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 26, 2012 22:00:19 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 26, 2012 22:00:19 GMT -5

And it's kind of funny
The way we're wearing anchors on our shirts
When being anchored aboard just feels like a curse
My mind is a safe, and if I keep it then we all get rich
My body is an orphanage, we take everyone in

[/color][/center]
"Danke?" Kaelen deadpans, arching a perfect eyebrow in sardonic half-interest. The word is German, he knows, he's seen some italicized dialogue in Hemingway's A Farewell To Arms that has given him a small grasp on the deceased dialogue. But his knowledge of the ancient word does nothing to explain how the ungraceful new boy knows it, and the taller of the two begins to speculate that there might be something more to the dark-eyed bundle of easy smiles than meets the ever-observent, ever-critical eye."Do you always make a habit of speaking in long-dead languages after nearly knocking people over?"

"-for... for... Well, you have excellent reflexes." he stammers, still stumbling over his trivial gratitude even as Kaelen turns on his heel and walks up the hallway, trusting his hunch that the boy will follow - they always do. People are drawn to danger and he is more than able to supply. As expected, he trails along behind him in a few seconds' time, yammering the whole time. Kaelen cringes visibly, already feeling the warning thrum of a tension headache licking teasingly along his temples. The last thing he needs is another Wheaton around. "Believe me, I'm well acquainted with this floor already. I'm Colt, by the way. Colt Hanlon."

Colt... the name doesn't quite suit him, Kaelen decides, cold amber gaze flicking over to the smaller form's uncertain gait. He's more like a puppy than a young horse, what with his over-sized features that somehow don't detract from the aesthetic appeal of his face and over-eager clumsiness as he trips over both his words and his own feet. It feels odd to stick the label of Colt on someone that's a million miles away from being coltish, lean and graceful and holding a nubile elegance. Hanlon seems to flow a little better, the heavy sound of the syllables more applicable to the utter lack of subtlety and blatant display of whatever passes through his mind that he exhibits. The end of his introduction hangs in the air, dragging a bit as if he expects one in return. Kaelen says nothing, busying himself with his armload of books as the two draw closer to Speks' den of inadequate literature. The titles of the divine should not be profaned by the lips of the unworthy, and thus far Hanlon has done less than nothing to prove himself. He keeps babbling, though, words punctuated by awkward pauses as he trails along in Kaelen's wake. "And... I was also wondering, is... Is the teacher... alright? I mean, I almost didn't want to... I wasn't planning on coming today, actually."

Kaelen snorts in mild amusement, closing in on the final few feet in front of the door before finally turning and looking at him full-on, black-lined pools of citrine gleaming with subtle patronization into darker chocolate so trusting that it almost makes him cringe again. "English Lit is an absolute joke of a class, taught by an obnoxious teacher with an over-inflated ego. The curriculum is decidedly blase and entirely unsuited for anyone with any sort of measurable intellect. You should find it enthralling."

The intricacies of the subtle insult paint themselves rich and decadent on his tongue, and Kaelen almost allows himself a smirk as he pushes the door open, only to have the subtle curvature of his lips be pulled into a disenchanted scowl by the self-important drawl of "Kaelen Dempsey, you are five minutes late," that splits the air even more sharply than Speks' death glare. The amber-eyed boy counters with a glare of his own, icy-sharp and quietly dangerous even though his voice drips poisoned honey when he speaks.

"My apologies, professor. See, this ignoramus -" he pauses to nod at where Hanlon stands in his shadow, eager eyes and an aim to please in his posture. "decided it would be fun to attempt a game of human demolition derby with me in the hallway. Took me ages to pick up all my things. Although I'm sure I didn't miss too much. One can only get so much out of the opium-addled claptrap that Lewis Carroll called poetry."

"Sit down before I decide to slap a detention slip on your forehead. New kid, you can sit next to Dempsey." Kaelen's mouth pops open in unspoken protest, but he quickly grits his teeth, driven from the scathing rebuke burning in the back of his throat by the desire to spend the hour after school in glee club where he has access to a piano rather than detention with the rest of the plebeians. Just one period, just forty more minutes of stupid puppy-smiles and fragmented strings of words, and he will be free of the new boy and the irritation that he brings along with him. Seething, Kaelen folds himself into a desk that was built for someone with much shorter legs, propping his Hemingway novel open and letting the steady drone of Speks' lecture fade into the background.

So far, his day has been absolute, utter shit. He fumes silently as pointless notes about Lewis Carroll and the syntax structure of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland flow in one ear and out the other, only pausing in his rumination to dart a hand out when Speks' back is turned, swiping a pack of smokes from the top of his briefcase and swiftly pocketing them. He's been running low. Every cloud has a silver lining. And if Hanlon saw it, Kaelen can't bring himself to care.

He gets lost in the eloquent prose of The Sun Also Rises until the bell shrieks out the period's end over crackly speakers, prompting a mad shuffle of sleepy high schoolers trying to escape the cage of the classroom and catch up on the latest gossip or whatnot in the hall before being forced into yet another almost-hour of mind melting instruction. Kaelen scoffs, marking his place and placing the novel lovingly into his messenger bag as he moves with quiet dexterity out into the buzzing throng of the hallway, all silent, deadly grace, like a panther waiting for unfortunate prey. And speaking of unfortunate prey...

"Why are you following me around like a lost puppy, Hanlon?" he grumbles irritably in the diminutive boy's direction, the door of his locker making a loud thunk as it clicks open and he shoves his bag inside, pausing to fish the novel back out before slamming it shut again. "I'm not your welcoming committee. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm skipping Music Theory and taking a smoke break. Unless you'd like to join me, you might want to get to class. And for Ripred's sake, don't fall. Not everyone is as quick as I am."[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Last Edit: Jan 26, 2012 22:13:43 GMT -5 by Deleted

gamemaker kelsier
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Pronouns: they/them
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“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.” - steinbeck

A Thousand Years {South} Jan 28, 2012 2:32:37 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Jan 28, 2012 2:32:37 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

I don't bother with trying to explain why I don't say Thank-you in English. I'm pretty sure at this point that it was a rhetorical question, and believe it or not, I'm not a glutton for punishment. Besides, I won't be discovered that easily, if he wants to know, he can ask me seriously. Although, there is the whole problem on figuring out why he would want to know anything about me in the first place. I mean, it's not that I'm not interesting. For such a short life, I've lived a lot. It's not like I've just been sitting around for the last four years either. I've seen different skin tones, faces, places, dirt colours, trees, it feels like I have been all over. I've heard lilting accents, guttural ones, weird slang, even some things that weren't meant to be heard, I did. My feet never tired, even as my heart did. But you can't know what it's like, is what I want to tell him, but I keep my mouth shut, firmly lest I regret it.

It's an effort, it really is. Talking is almost a sport for me, just because I have to put in double the amount of, energy one puts out to complete a task. I can sense however, that I'm not really a wanted companion to talk to. I'm the new kid who became a burden faster than a person can say, well.....ugh.....shit, a word, alright? I probably sound like a dumbass as well. Sure, it's all fine and dandy if you know me, and understand, or at least have patience. But something about this boy with a stride like liquid silver, and expression to add to it tells me that his patience factor does not include my stumbling self. You'd think it would bother me, being brushed off so easily, but honestly I'm used to it. Is that a sad thing? To be used to being brushed off, told I'm dumb. Maybe, maybe.

But I guess that is what makes it easy to roll my eyes at the words he says before spinning on his heel, rather gracefully may I say, and slipping into the classroom. I take a second to add the insult to my mental page of them, The list only grows longer everyday, and follow him in. Luckily, I'm just in time to hear him insult me yet again as he talks to the only other standing person in the room. I almost want to reply with, a comment about how it's only fair that stuck-up asshats, with lovely eyes, and slender hips, with...with...Shhh, Colt, old boy, I thought we decided we weren't going to fall for jerks after that last disaster, yes? I miss my chance to reply as I found myself caught up in his looks, and how I could simply take his hips, lean into him, and then maybe...

Damnit, I'm terrible. First day, and I already want to start flirting away. Look, not my fault that I've gone without human companionship for the last few....sequence of days because I've been trying to get here. I just need to let loose a bit, find a good fuck, and get it done. Because I shouldn't be checking out this guy so much, this Kaelen Dempsey. It suits him, the name, I mean. (The eyeliner really does accentuate his eyes, though.) I follow him to a seat beside him. I know it's meant to be a punishment for him to have to sit beside the Ignoramus. Luckily, not so much a punishment for me. I don't even bother telling 'Specks' my name as I take my seat, (make that fall into my seat.) he'll find it out soon enough.

As he goes by, he slaps a book on my desk. It's one I've read before, but I flip it open anyway, only paying half attention, most of mine currently occupied with Kaelen. He obviously doesn't care for the book being read, or about being noticed reading something else. My eyes focus on the book. Hemmingway. My hand reflexively goes to where I might have stored an old paperback in the cloak I used to wear, with all the pockets. Right now, all my books are stacked up in the living unit they gave me, You know, the one with the walls the colour of....uh...everything else in this place. The level of writing in the class novel is nothing compared to Hemingway, and the pure poetry he writes, and I understand why the oth-Kaelen, finds it frustrating.

Specks goes by again and my eyes glide over to the words on the page, one hand propping up my chin, the other holding the top of the book away from me like it's diseased. (It very well might be.) As he's passing by, a hand darts out, easily slipping a packet of those....deathsticks, fags, smokes, out from the teacher's briefcase. I was once in the certain slums of a district where they used those things as currency. My body wants to stand and give the man back his, thing used to purchase things. I stay completely still however, arms locked, because I guess my mind remembers that this is a different place, and those are just killing sticks. I sit quietly, eyes flicking over to Kaelen every now and then, because every now and then I catch a flicker of interest on that neutral face, and it's mesmerizing.

With the bell, I'm following all the students out the door again, and it's in my luck to find myself behind Kaelen. I find if I concentrate on the small of his back, It's steady enough that my feet don't feel like running off without me. Without really meaning to, really being the key word here, I follow him all the way to his locker. It's just that there is something so calming about following a smooth back. It's reassuring, and even though I'm well past the age of needing to be taken care of, it felt nice, just for those few moments, to let myself feel like I was.

But it's time for me to play, well, me. I answer his questions with a little bit more, word for when one is being calm and collected. "Since walking with you, Dempsey, I've been receiving dirty looks. Looks like my reputation is already ruined just by hanging out with you." And I have been receiving glares, but I can't quite tell if it's because I radiate 'gay' or if it's because I'm walking with Dempsey. Dempsey. I like the feel of his name on my tongue. Bet I'd like more than that on my tong- and with that thought, I can't help wondering when I got so dirty. Probably from that one time I learned about Harems. I shrug with a slight tug of a smile at the corners of my mouth. "Besides, I think I'd rather go with you, if not everyone is as quick as you, my best bet is with you."

It's not my best line, but whatever. I can't impress the guy, that's obvious, and although I wipe off insults like nothing, it probably still resonates somewhere in there. I wouldn't know, I can't see that far inwards. When he shuts his locker, I gesture away from us, as if saying, lead the way. I open my mouth to say the words even, but they are caught in my throat, or in my brain, somewhere. It's like there's a little man living inside me that catches my word with a butterfly net, and keeps them all for himself. Selfish jerk.

Last Edit: Jan 28, 2012 2:34:16 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

compendium / avriel
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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 31, 2012 0:05:11 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2012 0:05:11 GMT -5

You make your way in
I resist you just like this
You can't tell me to feel
The truth never set me free
So I did it myself

[/color][/center]
"Since walking with you, Dempsey, I've been receiving dirty looks. Looks like my reputation is already ruined just by hanging out with you," Hanlon offers in response, ~~irritatingly~~ surprisingly unruffled after Kaelen's less-than subtle (although he makes a point to do everything with the same silk-smooth, icy caress over words and actions he knows when his delicate nuances won't be enough to sink through certain people's skulls) attempt at rebuffing him. He snorts in derisive amusement at the statement, gangly structure leaning against the cool metal of the lockers as an immaculate eyebrow arches ever-closer to his hairline. If Hanlon's getting dirty looks, Kaelen reasons, it's certainly no fault of his. No one in this rabbit warren has the nerve or stupidity to look at him with anything but the fearful respect that he demands without even having to say a word, except for perhaps Alyssa, who in all reality does whatever the hell she wants in any event.No, Hanlon's definitely barking up the wrong tree in more ways than one, in both the assumption that Kaelen's reputation has anything to do with the xenophobic glares cast in his direction and that his offer to accompany him in skipping class was anything more than pure sarcasm. "Besides, I think I'd rather go with you, if not everyone is as quick as you, my best bet is with you."

"Well, I might not be so quick next time," Kaelen drawls in response, a wry smirk playing along his lips as he leafs absently through his novel, feels the smooth scrape of the worn paper beneath spindly fingers and the aroma that can only be associated with old books floating across his consciousness, musty and rich and as close to comforting as he'll ever experience. The crowd in the hall is rapidly thinning with the approach of the next bell, and he takes this as a sign to get moving. It will be easier to slip away in the chaos between classes, and Kaelen makes the split-second decision that he'd rather be left to his own devices with Hanlon in tow than sit through Wheaton's insufferable Music Theory class. Sighing, he cards fingers through painstakingly styled honey brown locks, motioning down the hall with a sharp jerk of his head. "Come on, then. And try not to fall all over yourself."

The halls of Thirteen are akin to a labyrinth, and someone with lesser intelligence might find themselves hopelessly lost among the endless twists and turns and staircases that Kaelen navigates with effortless dexterity - he will never admit that he wandered around for hours trying to get home the first time he ventured into the depths of the underground about two weeks ago. He's a fast learner, no one needs to know that embarrassing tidbit when he is now the master of his surroundings - leading them deep within the bowels of the district, below the school and the residential sectors and even the various warehouses and storage units. The terrain becomes less and less finished, gray walls giving way to riveted, corrugated metal and linoleum stairs becoming steel mesh that clangs under their feet as they descend. Tawny eyes flick back and forth for any sign of a wayward patrol that could come along to haul them back to class and a disciplinary meeting afterwards, but rather than see stern faces in neatly pressed uniforms Kaelen is almost surprised that he catches the falter in the shorter boy's steps, darts a hand out to steady him as he lapses into what might have been a fall that sent him tumbling down the stairs. "What did I tell you about falling? Careful, Ripred, are you always this clumsy?"

Something in the hollow cavern of his chest squirms uncomfortably at the realization that he even bothered to stop the new boy from plummeting to the floor. There was no reason to, and yet it was as if his body had acted of its own accord, all willowy limbs and quicksilver speed arresting a headfirst fall into the bottomless depths. He shakes his head as if to purge the foolish idea that he might have acted out of charity from his mind. Of course he only reached out for his own benefit. While Kaelen relishes in death and destruction and wheezing final breaths he has never had much of a stomach for blood and gore (prefers the subtle siren songs of nightshade and cyanide that whisper an untimely demise to the ears of those for whom it is already too late), and because of this he reasons that he only stopped Hanlon from falling because the resulting mess could have been quite nasty. Besides, he's still a relative stranger in this underland world, it wouldn't do to have a dead body to deal with so soon, especially not when the two of them were last seen together. Hanlon is much less of a danger to him alive than he is dead, even though he might be much more annoying in a living state.

The door reads Boiler Room 5, heavy metal structure doing little conceal the orange-ish glow that seeps from underneath and paints the concrete floor in an impromtu light show. "One of the only places in underground that doesn't have smoke detectors," he explains, sparing the darker-eyed boy a sidelong glance as he shoulders the heavy door inward with a small grunt of effort, waiting for Hanlon to follow him inside before pushing it closed again. It's almost uncomfortably warm in the high-ceilinged room, the faint whistle of the boilers and the steady, dull roar of the garbage incinerator in the far corner setting the air humming. "Almost made the mistake of lighting up in one of the school bathrooms last week before my friend stopped me. They've got the whole damn district bugged. You'd think we were all criminals."

Kaelen pauses momentarily to allow himself a smirk at his self-crafted irony - the majority of Thirteen's population might not be criminals, but he wears the title as a silent, anonymous badge of honor - before tugging the pack of Speks' commandeered cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one for himself and offering one to the new boy in turn.

"Skipping class on your first day. Tsk, tsk. We'll make a rebel of you yet, Hanlon," he mumbles absently, inhaling deeply as he sits down against the unyielding cement of the wall and nodding at the empty patch of floor next to him."So, what's your story? I should have at least preliminary knowledge if you're going to continue following my like a hopeless, sycophantic stray."

The cigarette drags warm and rich across his tongue as he props the Hemingway novel open against his knees and picks up where he left off, but Kaelen can't quite purge the cloying taste of annoyance at everything - Hanlon, the world, himself for even allowing the imbecile to follow him in the first place - from the backs of his teeth. Under normal circumstances he could have brushed anyone off by this point with a glare like ice daggers and the razored edge of his tongue, but this one seems to cling like a barnacle despite his attempts to shrug him off. Curious.

Even more curiously, Kaelen finds that oddly, he doesn't mind the company.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 31, 2012 2:40:16 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Jan 31, 2012 2:40:16 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

Something about the way he talks and moves sends my heart reeling. I want to scold it, tell it that it's not allowed to do that to me. But it feels like it just can't help itself. It's never been this way before, this pull. I've known him for just under two hours, but I'm already imagining things. I know I sound like such a slut, I'm really not, trust me. I'm a guy that prefers romance and all those lovely things that go with it. I never thought that I'd be the type to be a sex fiend. But something about this lanky form makes me bite my lower lip to give me some feeling somewhere else. Man, what am I even doing. Just because he caught me, I'm falling head over heels. I'm no better than a giggling school girl.

Just the way he leans against his locker, and arches his eyebrow. It's the elegance of his movement that is the most eye catching to me. I've never had that, the elegance. Sure, some say that when I'm performing I'm miraculously stable, or when I'm shooting my guns and building them, I'm a genius. But surviving daily life has always simply been the biggest challenge for me. He's just gliding through it like it's second nature. I suppose it is, for most people. But I'm not most people, and I can tell very easily, since the moment I fully saw him, that Kaelen Dempsey is not most people. In fact, he's rather delicious looking, but difficult. A bit like a poisonous plant, edging it's way through cement in a rather eloquent matter.

As he leafs through the book, I can't help murmuring under my breath, /"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."/ A quote from the book he holds in his hands. I don't know if he'll catch it, or if he will think nothing of it. But it's pretty much the only thing I've managed to say with tripping all over the place, so that was at least worth it. Thankfully the crowd has thinned a bit, but Kaelen seems to take it as a cue to leave. He starts off at a pretty rapid pace, it's those long legs of course, and it's all I can do just to keep up. I'm not sorry though, watching that long stride. It's so elegant. I know I seem pretty creepy right now, but guys, Think of a dog with only three legs watching a deer dart through the words.

We seem to be heading deeper and deeper into the bowels of the district. It's odd that the farther down we go, the dingier it gets. You'd think that they would have built the bottom sturdier, and the upper parts less carefully. But I'll probably never....(and I was doing so well to)....that word for when someone doesn't get something, how anything here works. All it has been is confusing. There's a lot of stairs. The darn things have always been a hassle for me, what with all they sharp corners and trippy bits. I've gotten numerous gashes and bruises from tripping down these babies. So I try what worked before, focusing on Kaelen's broad shoulders. That turns out to be a terrible idea. They shift up and down with the taking of the stairs, and it's such a nice site, that I completely lose my footing altogether.

There's no way that Kaelen can catch me again. My falling is too unpredictable, he'd have to be superhuman to catch me so well. So I resign myself to a bloody gash across the top of my head or something. We're on those stairs that have spiky grip flooring, and they are full of holes. Whatever, it'll be nice to see that I have blood, I usually get to check once a week. But almost too easily, Kaelen Dempsey reaches out an arm and catches me before I plummet to my death. I'm being over dramatic. I am, I know this wouldn't have killed me. But it does feel like Kaelen just saved my life. Standing still in surprise, but mostly to catch my bearings, I softly say, "....Ta, d-," and I'm about to say darling, I call everyone darling. But I have a small feeling that the taller boy won't respond in the way that most people do.

He lets me into the room before him, and I slip off my glasses again. I'm not reading anything, I don't need them at the moment. I settle myself down on a counter, my feet dangling about a foot off of the floor. It's comfortable, and slightly warm from the boiler being so near, but not uncomfortable. Overall, it's a very nice spot. Then Kaelen hands me a white tube thing. I have absolutely no idea what the hell it might be. Sure, I probably saw things in District Three that would allude to what this was, but i have that whole lovely memory thing going on for me, and besides, I never saw much outside of the orphanage. I don't know what to do with it, so I just hold it in my right hand, flicking it between my fingers. Taking it between my thumb and middle finger, I hold it up, looking inside.

"Better a rebel than a conformist," I say with a soft smirk.

Looks like dead.....things that grow from the ground and are leafy and green in there. I decide not to do anything with it for now. If it's something to eat, then I'll know in a bit. But I'm shown what to do when Kaelen lights the end of his and puts it in his mouth. He's breathing in the plants. I don't really know if that's healthy. I concentrate on his question instead. Questions like these always take a bit of effort, and concentration. I'm pretty sure my brain is hiding something from me every time I ask about it, myself. It feels like my brain is trying to hurriedly lock up all it's files so I can't see them. I must have a pretty shitty life.

"Well....I think I was born in District Three," I finally say, "I was put in an orphanage when I was eleven for....for..." but I can't find it the memory, so I helplessly shrug, a grin spreading across my face so easily, like it's always hiding there in wait. "I ran away from there when I was fourteen, been wandering ever since then." Racking my brain, a face keeps flashing across my mind, there for a moment, and gone again in the next second. "I think I had a ......a.....brother. There was a family gun shop." I sit quietly for a few moments, body tense, and alert as if I had heard something. But I'm still trying to hear it, the problem is that I can't hear it. It's like having a fish caught on your....sharp thingy, and the fish simply ignoring it, as if it can't see it. Shrugging, I lean forward a bit, "What about you?"

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A Thousand Years {South} Jan 31, 2012 19:18:30 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2012 19:18:30 GMT -5

Time out
But keep those tapes rolling
Just in case I say something brilliant
Time out, but keep those cameras rolling
Just in case I don't look this good forever

[/color][/center]
Kaelen is nothing if not the most careful of observers. Both from necessity and natural talent a tendency has grown for him to look at the world as more that what meets his initial impression, peeling back layers and finding the hidden meanings within glances and words and moments that people think no one will catch. This is what allowed him to avoid detection for so long back in One, tawny eyes sharper than the authorities would suspect noticing the mirrored analysis and observation in the eyes of the undercover operatives they had placed in the bars in an effort to ensnare him. Those were always the most entertaining kills, the ones carried out right under tho nose of the law so he could watch their panic and confusion as yet another victim fell and the room spiraled into untamed mayhem. That was what he thrived on, the icy chill of terror that hung heavy in the air around another unexplained death. Kaelen came to terms with his divinity long before he ever killed, but it was only when he did that he realized he was not just a god but a god of chaos. He is a watcher, a witness, an experienced voyeur of the world's depravity, observing the rat race of the huddled masses from his own state of cold removal and indifference. It's who he is. He watches, he judges, and his judgments tend to be rather final.

So when he watches Hanlon with a quietly steadfast, analytic gazes, he does not just see him, he sees him. See's the quiet turmoil and inner struggle flickering behind the deeper darkness of his eyes, the way he tries to grasp at things that he's not certain of before giving up with an unruffled srug and another easy smile from the arsenal of them that he seems to have in endless supply. It's a genuine smile, one that shines like the sun that Kaelen's almost forgotten and sears at the cimmerian shade that coats his skin like armor until he wants to hiss in pained protest. Creatures of darkness shun the light, he knows this even though some distant part of him still begs plaintively for the light of day. There's a sincerity in the beaming curvature of his lips that allows the taller of the two brunettes to believe that he isn't lying about his past - Kaelen knows how to spot a liar after years of being an expert one himself. But to not remember whether or not he had a brother... it seems odd. To forget one's own family as easily as forgetting the lines of an old song strikes Kaelen as both something out of place and something that he is envious of (even from beyond the grave his parents haunt his footsteps and even from across a nation of wilderness he can still feel Elvira's eyes on him like the harbinger of impending doom). Still, Hanlon's more impressive than he initially thought if he's been surviving in the wild for four years, and when he lifts his gaze to the smaller boy there is a slightly increased amount of respect sitting silently behind the amber discs. Let it not be said that Kaelen Dempsey doesn't give credit where credit is due.

"What about you?" he asks, leaning forward from his perch on the counter with inquisitiveness glimmering palpably in his gaze - for some reason Kaelen finds himself choking back a mild laugh. He really is like a puppy. So instead of letting the amusement skate over his features he twists it into a scowl that is more suitable on him, the corners of his lips tugging downward around another drag on the cigarette that's burning itself out much faster than he'd like.

"I'm from One," Kaelen murmurs almost contemplatively, the words blooming from his lips on a hazy flower of smoke, eyes locked on Hanlon's and almost daring him to say the same thing he's heard a thousand times since he got here. One? You're from District One? Why the hell would you run from somewhere that ritzy to come here? The statement puts his teeth on edge every single time because the ignorance of people will never fail to make icy irritation spark in his veins, and every time they find themselves backing away without an answer under the weight of one of his deadliest glares. "It's not as fancy as people make it out to be. There are poor parts, there are slums, and that's where I grew up. My mother died when I was six. My father... well, he was a useless piece of filth plaguing society. Alcoholic as they come. He stayed alive until I was seventeen. I have a half sister, but we don't get along too well. I don't associate with her. As far as I know she's still back home doing what she does best and ruining people's lives."

He leaves out the part where his mother killed herself and he bade his time for years before bringing down the cold hand of a slow, painful death that his father had so richly deserved and how he and Elvira have been out for each other's blood since they were toddlers. There are some things that it simply won't do to discuss with the general populace, and it goes without saying that Kaelen doesn't have any sort of plan to tell his companion the real reason he left, Peacekeepers on his tail following a chain of murders a mile long.

"I left with my girlfriend. She didn't have the best family situation either and we both got fed up." This is where the lies begin to come into play, smooth and effortless as he takes the last drag of his cigarette and lights up another without hesitation (bad habit, but chain smoking isn't the worst thing he's ever done in his life by a long shot). It's true that Dahlia had been his travelling companion up to the outskirts of Thirteen, but she had never known familial strife or what it was like to go to bed hungry. She was from the richer side of town, that neighborhood of mansions where the kingpins of the District like the Lightwoods and the Klardies made their homes, and the only reason she had ever followed him was out of a love that he had never returned. "She didn't make it, though. Ate something bad and got really sick. She was dead before I could do anything about it. I came the rest of the way here on my own."

Another half-truth. Dahlia had certainly died from eating something she shouldn't have, but Kaelen neglects to mention that it was his hands that crumbled the belladonna leaves over her food when she was none the wiser. He doesn't regret it. She'd been slowing him down with her whining and constant insistence that they change course from Thirteen and go somewhere else, and frankly her besotted affection for him had been starting to grow old. Kaelen tires of his playthings quickly, gets bored and moves onward leaving them broken in the dust without so much as a backward glance, and the only reason he kept Dahlia around for three years was that she had been a willing accomplice, a means to an end. And even then, she had eventually outlived her usefulness. And in the end, she had known far too much to be kept alive. Her devotion to him and his cause had been her undoing. Kaelen smirks quietly at his beloved irony coating the situation like dark paint.

"Four years in the wild, eh? You must be tougher than you look," he hums around the thin cylinder dangling between his lips, eyeing Hanlon with a critical stare and trying to imagine the bundle of eager smiles and unsteady limbs hunting down something and killing it and skinning it and roasting it over an open flame. Strangely, he can see it. There's a kind of determination in the way the other boy carries himself, something that speaks of an endless will to survive even in the face of adversity. Kaelen will grudgingly admit he respects that in a person, after all, it's one of the things he admires most about Alyssa, so he doesn't push the subject into an insult like he might have otherwise, tilting his head back to rest against the cool solidity of the wall. "But then again, you'd never look at me and suspect I was a Career for six years. Can't judge a book by its cover."

As if to exemplify his statement, thin, elegant digits trace the battered cover of The Sun Also Rises lovingly, the pads of his fingers used to feeling the worn places and notches in the binding where it's beginning to fall apart. Kaelen's knowledge that people don't change is different from his knowledge that sometimes people portray themselves differently than who they truly are, but he knows that both of these are irrefutable facts of life. There is something lurking beneath Hanlon's surface that is entirely different from his overzealous, bumbling exterior, and even though Kaelen can't quite see it clearly yet, he knows it's something more intriguing that your run-of-the-mill citizen of Thirteen.

No, he muses, still stroking the spine of the novel as the hum of the boilers fills the heavy silence between them. Colt Hanlon is just a book he's going to have to read to discover exactly what he's about.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Last Edit: Jun 14, 2012 13:20:39 GMT -5 by Deleted

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A Thousand Years {South} Feb 2, 2012 1:39:41 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Feb 2, 2012 1:39:41 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

Sun peeked through the leaves of the old tree like a shy suitor, and the grass had been cool to the touch. Then there had been that same large sound that glides into the quiet, creating a discord with every wall it meets. It had echoed over the grounds between me and the shop. A gun shop, that had been normal. There was a practice range behind the house to test new guns, perfectly fine. The piercing screams that had started after, were not. It had sounded so unreal at first. But they weren't screams of joy, hadn't been anything in them but pain, fear, and loss. I had been so afraid I couldn't move for several minutes. And I guess that hesitation was all it took for him to do it, to-

[/i]

A second later, all memories of /him/ and sun dappling through leaves flicker and fade, like the jumping shadows leaking against the wall opposite the boiler through slitted vents. They looked malicious. I wish I could grasp them, reach out and take them before the shadows of times past flit away, but it's as useless as trying to catch words. My net must be full of holes, I haven't caught anything useful in ages. But shaking my head, as if getting water out of my ears, I focus once again on the tall gangly boy in front of me, and now I can't even remember what I was thinking about other than that boiler and the shadows dancing. Was I even thinking about that, that which lies behind?

But then my eyes sweep the room and catch the way Kaelen's lips form around the white cylinder, embracing it. Smoke blows out of his lips with practiced precision, the way he always moves. I can't help wondering if that's because he's practices, or if it's because he never does not consider the outcome. It's so unlike me. Words sputter half formed out of my lips, while everything he does has such a sense of grace to it that it's like I'm holding my breath, on the verge of something whenever I watch him. And I'm feeling so lost right now, because I can't seem to figure out what to do with myself, or even the similar thing between my own fingers. It's frustrating, because he looks so damn found, and I'm floundering in this new place.

But then he's doing something I didn't quite expect from him. He's telling me about his past. I don't know why I didn't think he would tell me anything. I can't just assume that everyone can't remember their past or doesn't want to talk about it. But even as his eloquent voice drawls out the words, it sounds like they have been memorized from a script. Like Kaelen Dempsey is a walking story. Just because I never say anything that isn't true, I suppose I'm not bad at catching those little things that don't fill in all the way. People write me off because I walk and speak like I'm special, but what they can't see under all that outside, is that I'm not such a dumbass after all. But people don't usually delve that deep with me. All I have to do is smile big and act like I'm fine with being me, and no one tries to pry.

As he speaks, I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, stomach curved up into my spine. The tips of my fingers meet as I shut my eyes and listen. It doesn't matter what he's saying because his voice is something I could listen to for hours. Every time he opens his mouth, I'm struck again how Kaelen Dempsey is just everything I am not. And it's beautiful. Like a poem, or the lyrics of a song I can't quite grasp. It feels like my heart isn't in my chest anymore, but all the way up in my throat, and like the volcano from that one games, any moment now it's inevitable that I will erupt. But that's me, simply jumping into my emotion because I jump into everything else. This feeling will go away when he doesn't look at me like that. It always does, and I always get over it. Who could even think about a clumsy little puppy like me? That would be like choosing to live with a broken mattress. Pointless and uncomfortable.

Still though, his history sounds rough, and full of pain. No brightness there. But he cleans the slate away by lighting another cigarette and changing the subject. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so that's fine, I don't push people. Mostly people just tell me things because I look like I'm trustworthy, but I've never grilled for information before, and there was so little I could tell him that it's only fair I don't bother him when he's given me so very much already. Leaning back again, I poke the end of the sick stick experimentally, feeling soft, yet dried things inside. The smoke in the air smells poisonous, and I don't really want to breath in, but at the same time, it's a bit of that same smell that clung to Kaelen's clothes when he saved me from falling.

If this is what he tastes like, it's probably lovely. And I'm terrible, shutup, shutup, shutup. smiling softly, I take a few moments to carefully think out my response to this question, so that I can try and find all the words first. Kaelen's voice calls for, no demands, eloquence. So taking my time, I try to elaborate on those four years. After he's given me so much, it seems only fair. "Yeah, well, I had my...explosive things that you shoot, and there was also a girl at one point that helped me for a bit. But she left because she was looking for someone important to her." Shrugging, I suddenly feel like I need movement, so I stand and carefully move around the edges of the room, one hand on the wall to stay relatively stable. There's a mess of interesting things leaning against the wall. My hands glide over the edges of items covered with dust as I move slowly along.

"And well, this is silly, but I thought I'd come here because I had no one important to find." That was a lie of course. Even if sometimes I can't admit it, I was searching for my older brother. Even if I can't remember why I searched for him. I spent countless night stumbling and calling through those dark and endless woods, guns in my hands, calling for that brother of mine. I know the emotion behind that search, but frankly, it scares the crap out of me, so I try not to dwell on that. Because there's that dredge up of colour and haze, as if it's all hiding behind a wall, and with enough force that wall will crash down, blowing up my whole world. And maybe I was strong enough to survive the wild for four years, but there is a reason things stay left alone all up in my head, and I prefer it that way.

"Well, it does explain your amazing.........fuck." It's that word for when a person moves very fast and deftly without thinking about it. That's what he has, but the words have escaped me again. I thought i had them safe for a while there. I may be a whirlwind of emotions that stumble along with as much grace as a newborn horse, but there's something about Kaelen just lounging there all long limbs, and smooth expression that calms the room down. But still, there's something odd about him, and I can't quite pin it down. Shaking my head again, I move to stand in front of him, studying the book in front of him. It's old and worn, and has seen much. But it looks like he takes a good, loving care of it. It's certainly nicer than my copy, which has seen better days.

So many themes in the book can reflect lives like pools made from rain in the long grassy marshes of four, or the cement roads of two. Leaning against the wall, I quote the book loudly this time, wondering if he'll pick up on it, that it's from the novel in his hands. It could also sound like I'm simply stating a fact. Tapping the white paper stick against the wall to a random beat, I say, “But I suppose you can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another,” and watch the other boy with shadows in his skin.[/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Feb 2, 2012 1:58:42 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

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A Thousand Years {South} Feb 10, 2012 0:48:49 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 10, 2012 0:48:49 GMT -5

I'm a young one stuck in the thoughts of a old one's head
When all the others were just stirring awake
I'm trying to trick myself to fall asleep again
My head's in heaven, my soles are in hell
Let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well

[/color][/center]
Kaelen watches him carefully, quiet observation taking in everything from the orange-red glow of the boilers washing over his skin to his odd, halted speech pattern (he seems to be the opposite of Wheaton. While the music teacher has too many words to comprehend, Colt Hanlon seems almost like he loses his phrasing before he can say it, unspoken implications thick along the backs of his teeth) to the careful curiosity of his fingers as they ghost over a pile of gadgets left to collect dust by someone who abandoned them for bigger and better things. It takes the smaller boy a fair chunk of time to get his response out, and even then it wouldn’t be clear to a normal person – Kaelen’s superior logic and inherent understanding of people and all their flaws is enough to allow him to fill in the gaps that Hanlon can’t fill in himself – large pauses and stumbled syllables muddling the flow of words.

“Well, it does explain your amazing…” Hanlon trails off again, exotic features furrowing into a mask of frustration as he rattles around in his brain for a word that must have escaped him, fingers twitching almost as if they might grasp the air and snatch the fragment of speech away from wherever it’s flown off to. But no to avail; he huffs exasperatedly and seems to give up. “Fuck.”

Kaelen can’t help choking on the next drag of his cigarette, an undignified snort of amusement scorching his throat raw with smoke as he tries and fails to hide an actual smile from spreading over his face, teeth flashing in the luminescent glow of the boilers. He never fails to supply even the most unintentional verbal slips with a boatload of snark in response, and Hanlon practically set himself up for this one. He wills the grin to settle back into a wry sort of smirk, an eyebrow arching in his companion’s direction as he takes another hit from the cylinder between his fingers, taking care not to choke on it this time. “Well then. Seeing as you are neither female nor have I met you before, it begs the question of just how you know what an amazing fuck I am. Do my conquests sing my praises in the hallways, Hanlon? At any rate, I certainly appreciate the compliment.”

It’s all he can do not to cackle at the look on the other boy’s face. Making people uncomfortable isn’t quite as entertaining a pastime as delivering the hand of Death in an unassuming cocktail, but Kaelen is a master of both and will take whatever amusement he can glean from life in Nature’s basement. Biting back the somewhat sadistic peals of laughter pulling taut at his throat, the caramel-eyed boy stubs out the remnants of the cigarette, deciding after brief deliberation against having a third (not even his divinity can save him from inevitable lung cancer, and he prefers to reign over his self-crafted kingdom for a while longer before having to do it attached to an oxygen bottle). “Although if those are the rumours you’ve been picking up, I don’t think it’s bragging for me to say that they’re a hundred percent true –“

“- I suppose you can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another,” Hanlon says matter-of-factly, molten chocolate eyes fixed intently on the worn novel clasped in Kaelen’s free hand. The taller boy blinks once, twice, head cocking to the side curiously as if he’s not sure what he just heard. Lips pursing, he flicks back through the book’s yellowed pages until he sees the exact same words staring at him from the first page of chapter two. "Listen, Robert, going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." Mouth agape and more than a little dumbfounded, Kaelen looks back up at the enigmatic form of easy smiles and lost words in front of him, back to the book, and back to him again.

“You…” Now he’s the one with words flying away into thin air, lost in shock because dear Ripred, is there actually someone in this hell of a district that he can be on the same page (literally) with in at least one respect? “You read Hemingway? You read Hemingway.”

The repetition of the question comes out as more of a skeptical statement, tawny eyes raking analytically over stumbling legs and deepdark eyes that, now that he’s looking for it, hold much more intellect than he’d initially thought. Kaelen decides that his earlier thought about Colt Hanlon being more than he seemed at first was a fair assumption, especially now that it’s come to light that the two of them share similar taste in literature. And even though he doesn’t need anyone in this hopelessly flawed world – there is no one besides perhaps Alyssa who he would truly attest to “friendship” with. People are tools and he knows how to use them, a chess master who manipulates his pawns with nimble fingers and cold calculation –[/color] there is something more amicable in his gaze when he gets to his feet in a tangle of spindly limbs. He hasn’t had a good book discussion in ages; none of the girls he’s manipulated between his sheets with satiny subtlety have been smart enough to even understand the plot of a bedtime story, and attempting to discuss literature with Alyssa is rather like trying to teach a ‘roid-raging Career to have a proper afternoon tea.

“He’s brilliant, isn’t he?” Kaelen enthuses, holding up the tattered novel in reference. “The writing style is just phenomenal. Hemingway writes like an iceberg – the syntax seems so simple at first but then there’s all of this gorgeous prose lurking under the surface, and it’s so subtle that you have to really think outside the box to appreciate it, and –“

He peters out into silence, cursing the mutinous smile that’s worked its way back onto his lips. This isn’t him, this beaming, overzealous bookworm that reminds him a bit frighteningly of Wheaton when he talks about music. Clearing his throat slightly, Kaelen slides effortlessly back into glacial composure, the curvature of his lips reverting to his usual aloof deadpan. “Well, I wouldn’t have expected you to be a Hemingway fan at any rate. It’s rather highbrow stuff. Bit beyond Alice and Wonderland. You surprise me, Hanlon. Not unpleasantly so, but you do surprise me.”

As his stomach twists in apprehension at how easily he had lapsed beneath the divine separation from the masses that he so prides himself upon, Kaelen begins to wonder if maybe Colt Hanlon surprises him too much for his own best interests.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Last Edit: Feb 10, 2012 10:06:18 GMT -5 by Deleted

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A Thousand Years {South} Feb 16, 2012 1:23:21 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Feb 16, 2012 1:23:21 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

Rolling my eyes in only half concealed annoyance, I slip around the room again, fingers poking and prodding at the odd things. There's an odd little brass thing with a stick, and I lift it up experimentally. One could slightly hear the dull thud of a dusty ball hitting a dusty wall. The shop had a bell that would jingle anytime someone opened the door. I put the bell back down reverently, sticking the white cylinder sticky thing behind my ear as if it is simply a pencil. Then again, like it's a reflex against the memory, another easy smile slips out, and I roll on my heel to face Dempsey, brushing the making fun of off, and failing. It's stupid to be so annoyed by it. If this annoys me, my entire life would be one big ball of annoying. Dempsey isn't the first to take my failure at speaking and wrap it up into a different meaning.

But why does it bother me so much more then? I can't say, but it doesn't even matter, because he's just finished flipping through the book, and is looking at me with so much shock, that I glance down at myself, trying to see if I'm still all me. Definite answer is yes. Same legs and all that, we're good. But Kaelen is looking at me like I have suddenly turned into a purple rabbit under his eyes. And the way his lips form the question tells me that he didn't think I had it in me to read Hemingway. It's alright, I'm used to that too. Most people think that the only thing I could read by my way of speaking is Jack and Jill, but that's only because they haven't heard me sing yet. Nothing can trip up my singing, I don't let it. But I'm more than picture books and feet so weak I might as well crawl.

"You seem far too surprised.....for my liking." It took a moment to find those words, but it feels like with Kaelen, my tongue just calms down and my brain stops flying away. Maybe if I could just reign the bugger in, I wouldn't have such a problem. But it's like every time I open my mouth I'm letting something escape, and it never comes back. They always leave me. But then there is something miraculous happening right in front of me. Long limbs have unfolded themselves, and Kaelen is suddenly standing in front of me. That's isn't odd at all, but it's not what his body is doing, but his face. He's seen him laugh already, but not this, and before he thought the laughing had been nice. If that was nice, this was amazing.

Because it's like the sun has suddenly peeked out from behind the clouds, where they had been hiding in the darkness of the district. It's reminiscent of the days where the sun would dapple through the trees, and my skin would feel warm for a few precious moments before it disappeared again. His shocked grin was like a gift, and then the excited one reminds me of the time my little cousin thought Father Ratmas had come early. But his smile, it was so lovely and incredible that I knew the other students had never see his grin. If they had, they'd worship him. And now I think I know what's drawing me to him. It's not the fact that I'm horny after four years as living alone with a fuck here and there, but it's because he has a smile, and I like it.

And god, it's so cute when he's geeking out. I smile, and nod, and say, "The....thing...the way he paints a picture with his words is what gets me. Words are so beautiful, and he tames them like a master. I remember when I first stumbled upon Hemingway, (Literally, I tripped over it) and how I had been instantly grasped by the way his grammar wasn't amazing, but it was as if he had taken poetry and written it in a novel, edges neatly sewed up like a really good melody. I guess you could say that it was love at first sight with him and I. And I'm aware that when it comes to describing anything, Kaelen and Hemingway will always be first because I couldn't describe a duck if I tried, let alone a whole story. "I like The Old Man and The......Whatsit best, myself."

But there it is, the smile is gone, all gone. It's as if he's recognized it, registered it, and saw that it was bad, so took it away. A God never keeps anything bad, because then that old bible I read once would be full of the God guy saying, 'Oh, this ones a baddy, I'll just take it off, but I created the land, that is good.' Mistakes are meant for us mortal, and I've never considered himself a god, but everyone else who walks with grace and smiles like a child must be. It makes me sad for a moment, the fact that I'm so mortal, the fact that everyone is. But nothing stays for very long in Motel Colt, so the smile returns like lightning, as if I took the one that Kaelen dropped. And sour words are crawling out from between his lips again, like it's effortless for him to simply say things, like it should be for me.

And it's frustrating for a second. I haven't felt that way for a while, that slow burn. Sure, I've tasted the question of revenge on my tongue, and the bitter sting of betrayal, but this frustration only comes when I'm really tired, or beyond repair. And believe me when I say I've been there. In annoyance, I turn away for a moment. Because like anyone else, he judged me on my appearance first. It's what everyone does, it's what I did. But I just wish that for once it could be at least a little bit different. I place my hand on the boiler's surface, snatching it away again almost instantly. It's a boiler, and I have a human hand, and it was stupid. But it's better than the pain of being stupid, anyway. It takes a quick shake out for the pain to be forgotten, so I shake it all out, till it's all gone, both of the pains.

Turning back around on my heel, I bring both fingers up to my lips, as if I'm pointing a gun up at the ceiling. Frustration stems the words, making them fall out easier than usual, like a staccato bullet. "Carol, was simply a man probably high most of the time, who seemed to have a thing for children. His biography was a rather enlightening read, and sadly a lot more.....that word for when things actually capture my attention, than any of his ridiculous works." It's snobbish and rude, but satisfying, because it is completely true. My mother wouldn't even read me his stuff because she believed them to be silly, no, she was more likely to read me Terry Pratchett, or Rudyard Kipling.

But I don't want to be /that guy/. It's not me. I've never been petty or snobbish, but something about being told that I'm surprising because I actually know who to read, frustrates me. And maybe my voice just raised a bit, and my heart slipped past a beat in vicious betrayal, but I'm Colt Hanlon, I smile. I just smile. So I do, and ask, (because I can) "What are you doing after class ends?" And my red palm smarts, but my smile glows golden because that's what I do, it's what I'll always do.

ooc: graphic made by the loverly south <33

Last Edit: Feb 16, 2012 1:34:19 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

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A Thousand Years {South} Feb 22, 2012 23:01:44 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Feb 22, 2012 23:01:44 GMT -5

You swore and said
We are not
We are not shining stars
This I know
'Cause I never said we are

[/color][/center]
An eyebrow drifts dangerously close to his hairline as Kaelen's statement (it's the closest he'll ever come to actually complementing someone, he gives credit where credit is due, nothing more and more often than not decidedly less) is met with pursed lips and a tentative, stumbling rebuke as his companion stalks off in the opposite direction, his hand brushing one of the boilers and causing him to recoil with a pained hiss. He notices almost unconsciously in the orange-yellow flicker of light from the boiler's grate that Hanlon has nice-looking hands, the surface of the skin worn with a million untold stories and the structure solid and steady, a counterpoint to his own bird-bone skeleton of a palm and fragile pianist's fingers. Nursing the fresh burn, he turns back around, a waspish derision of Lewis Carroll blooming over his lips that makes the corners of Kaelen's mouth twitch upward slightly in approval. Colt Hanlon may be a clumsy, overzealous pain in the neck, but he's also the only fellow book snob that Kaelen has (quite literally) run into since his arrival in this subterranean hell of a district, and that alone seems to spark a foreign sense of something that feels almost like camaraderie even as the shorter boy glares at him indignantly - it's not his fault that he assumes the least of people until they prove otherwise. Growing up in a cesspool filled to the brim with the worst facets of humanity will do that to a person, and Kaelen has no regrets on anything, much less the paradigm that shaped his own divine judgement.

"What are you doing after class?" he asks, all smiles again, tone shifting from perturbed to conversational so fast that a lesser being's head would reel from the sudden change even though Kaelen manages to take it in stride, shoving agile hands into the pockets of his now dust-covered skinny jeans with some difficulty and shrugging slightly.

"There's not that much to do here. I'm going to glee club, sitting there for an hour suffering through it and attempting not to slit my wrists because it's the only place where I have access to a piano. Then I'll probably go home, get some dinner, and read. You fall into the routine pretty quickly. It's a bit pathetic, actually," he muses, leaning against the wall and letting the cold solidity of the cement seep into the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, spread over his skin and behind his eyes until he could be just another warped feature in the stone. His gaze rakes capriciously over the disrepair of the boiler room, making a point to move right past the dark eyes and eager curvature of lips a few feet in front of him. "They're all like rats in a maze that someone left behind as a failed experiment. Just scrambling around in a facsimile of order, claiming superiority the entire time they're doing nothing but existing in a self-contained hellhole. You're born, you live stuck in a rut of your own depravity, and then you die. Every day the same. It's enough to turn your stomach."

He's not sure if he means the citizens of Thirteen or people in general. Both seem to fit. The ice in his veins feels glorious even amid his utter disgust with this woefully mortal existence he's condemned himself to, a frigid wrath that swells and waits and bides its time until he allows himself once again to give into the siren song of cyanide and gasping final breaths that calls to him even in his dreams. But it merely glimmers quiet and dangerous in the depths of unreadable tawny pools that flash in the glowing aura of the room, sinking back below the radar as he turns gracefully on his heel and casts a fleeting glance at the door. "They come down here every few hours to check that everything's running the way it should, and while I can hide in here you'd undoubtedly trip over something and damn us both to community service for the next year and a half. We should be going. But before we do..."

With quicksilver speed and flawless precision, Kaelen pulls his right hand from his pocket and darts it through the air, plucking the cigarette from behind Hanlon's ear and bringing it to his own lips in one fluid movement. A supercilious, sly smile settles comfortably on his lips as he pulls a lighter out with his free hand, teeth flashing icy-sharp through a haze of smoke on his next exhalation. "If you're not going to smoke that, then by all means, allow me."

Chuckling somewhere low and dark in the back of his throat at the look on Hanlon's face, the taller of the two brunettes crosses the room in a few strides of feline agility, hauling the heavy door open even though it takes a few tries and an undignified grunt of effort that's thankfully covered by the shrill squeak of the rusty hinges. He's grown bored with this encounter, and Hanlon can find his own way back to the upper levels for all he cares. Despite this thought, though, Kaelen pauses in the doorway, looking back at the shape now wrapped in shadow from within the depths of the cavernous room.

"See you around then, Hanlon," he says with a parting smirk, turning and heading up the stairs with another drag on the stolen cigarette.

Kaelen makes a point not to acknowledge that the taste of the other boy's skin lingers within the fibers of the paper.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

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A Thousand Years {South} Mar 1, 2012 23:25:20 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Mar 1, 2012 23:25:20 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

The flutter of his fingers against my skin almost undoes me. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, when he caught me, how his warmth spread through me. It stings more than then the boiler’s introduction on my hand. But the stinging sensation was pleasant, not something painful. It felt as if the tap had sent a slow wave of warm water sloshing through my body, up and down the sides of it like a trapeze artist. And yet, I barely register his exit, my back to the door as my hand goes up to feel that space behind my ear, where I felt his fingers for those few precious moments. The space there is all skin stretched over skull, it should be a place with no nerves. I don’t quite know why I felt it so harshly then.

Sighing, I pull my fingers up into a snap, turning on my heels, face down to the floor as I try and work things out. Now that his gangly frame has left the room it feels like there is so much more space, and air to think with. The scent of him, and his death sticks still lives somewhere up in the air however, as if this room is his room. And it is really, I feel like I’m intruding. It doesn’t make me want to leave however, it just makes me want to intrude more. There’s a dusty old wrench leaning against the wall, and I pick it up, hefting it. Too big to work with my guns well. And now that thirteen has taken my guns into custody, I need a new hobby. There’s an idea swimming around in my head somewhere, and a slow curl of a grin comes to my lips as I think about what I could do. He had said piano, which meant hopefully other instruments as well.

That was all the excuse that I needed to give myself. Now I could go to this Glee club without going for the soul purpose of seeing Kaelen again. I’d be lying to say that I didn’t want to go for that reason, but I’m not just some puppy dog that follows people around either. I’ve survived on my own for a long time, I don’t need anyone now either. But I don’t have to feel conflicted about this, I’ve never been one to cancel out emotion with logic. I leave that to other people. No, I’m honestly best at feeling, and I don’t think that it’s such a bad thing. Maybe they are all rats in mazes, but I’m not searching for the same cheese as them. I don’t know if I’d even be allowed to have a proper look seeing as I’m so damaged, my goals are so very different from their’s and I don’t know what to say when I realize it. My heart bleeds.

But my body makes a snap decision and exits the warm room, feet taking me places my brain hasn’t decided on yet. I stand there in the door frame, looking at the routes I could take, but I can’t quite remember where I came from. Everything’s too muddled. I can’t get out of this labyrinth, maybe I really am just a mazed rat. I bite my upper lip, and after a moment, choose a direction. Maybe it’s still the scent of Kaelen Dempsey in the air, but as my feet take an upward route, it begins to feel correct. On my way up the stairs, my feet trip up again, my shin hitting the sharp edge of the step above. A snarl releases it's self from my throat, and blood wells on a thin cut, red tearing from it beneath my jeans. I realize that if Kaelen had been there, my shin would be fine, and there would be the faint smell of smoke and something else in the still air.

DOODLE OODLE OODLE DOODLE DOODLE OODLE OOOOO

In the end, it took me just over an hour to find my way back up to the school hallways, but that was alright, because the fourth period had already started. I had gotten the chance to find the music room using a map, and a compass. People called me a boy scout in the hallway, whatever that was, but it was worth it, because I found the source of the ticking at least, and it wasn't a pipe bomb. Only a half hour after obtaining the map, I found himself knocking on the door of a Mr. Wheaton, smiling confidently, if not a little nervously at the wooden frame. But I had been welcomed in with a loud, "Come on in!" and then a lot of other words that I couldn't even try to keep up with, brilliant blue eyes over a nice big smile talking way too fast.

It took a moment to acclimatize, but my brain registered the change in speed of talk, and soon his gobbley gook became English. It seemed that words just sped away from him and out at the drop of a pin. I liked him then, he could have my words for me. I ended up chatting with him for a good while. Where I would struggle with words, he'd listen intently, and just know where the words had to go, or offer up a string of possibilities. It got to the point where I didn't know if I was talking or he was. But I learned some stuff about him. He was only about a year older than me, and I also learned a whole string of other things. In that twenty or so minutes spent with Wheaton, I learned more about him than I learned after an hour with Kaelen.

Now I stand outside the Glee room door, and it's ten minutes after the final bell has rung. They all sit inside, and I can hear Wheaton speaking, and someone's voice drawling out a scathing remark. Dempsey. My body shudders at the sound of his voice, and I blush crimson, willing the heat to go away. I'm silly, so silly. But I can't help that silliness, it leaves me breathless and giddy, but I can't help it all the same. I clench my left hand, and it's still raw from earlier. I've only attended one class today, but it doesn't bother me, I've never been one for schedules or school, and sometimes I manage to lose tracks of time far too easily. Like a red ribbon slipping from a still hand onto a wooden floor.

I shake my head, the thought slipping out as Wheaton calls my name. It takes a small moment, but I pop my head in, and then the rest of my body, shy smile forming into a huge grin as I wave and introduce myself. "Uhhh, Hi! I- I'm Colt Hanlon. I just.....that word for when a person just gets to a place, and I'm dying for some music." Tentatively, I make my way into the room, one hand trailing along the wall. But even then, my eyes catch the sight of an old acoustic guitar, and I can't stop my eyes from lighting up, and fingering the strings. It feels good to feel the chords on my digits. And it takes a moment to realize that I just made my way over without even thinking about it, and in a straight, steady line. I grin uncertainly at Wheaton, and he nods at me, as if giving the go ahead, so I heft it up, and play a G chord, something bright spreading down my spine at the music. It's been so long.

Almost sighing in contentment, I remember that I'm in a room full of people. Shrugging, a doleful grin playing along my lips, I say, "Sorry, it's been a....that word for much....time, since I held a girl." And of course by girl I meant the guitar. But I still see someone's arm tighten around their girl, as if telling me that she was hands off. Rolling my eyes, I hastily pulled back, moving to the center of the room as I did so. "No, I meant...." I gesture helplessly at the guitar in my hands, "Besides, I don't walk in a straight line, nor do I tend to be well, straight either." And there's some murmurings at that, and was that a disappointed sigh? Shaking my head ruefully, I say, tone light, "I hope that isn't a problem for you!"

I don't ask about it, if they are okay with it. I've never been the type to hide myself, it's already too difficult being me. I keep a steady gaze with the other students, my gaze gliding over the lanky figure in the corner, trying t remain in concentration. It shouldn't affect them either way. Sometimes you just learn that people are idiots however. Clearing my throat, keeping conversation going, I sling the guitar around my neck, making sure it's all tuned up. "I guess I'll just play my song for you then, It's called ...uhhh.....give me a minute...." Concentrating, I look down at the wood of the guitar, cheeks tanned by the sun enough to hide the slow rise of embarrassment and frustration. "That Green Gentleman"

Strumming the guitar feels like the best thing I have ever done. and once again I smile in pure, unabridged joy, as the first lines slip from my mouth. "Things are shaping up to be pretty odd / Little deaths in musical beds..." When I sing, I don't trip, or stumble. I can even sort of dance. But I'm content to just stand there, making blatant soul love to the neck of the guitar. I chose this song because it pretty much sums up my entire life. Everything's always changing for me, but in my head I've always been so stagnant. And basically, I just really like to sing the chorus. I can feel the way the words and songs feel in my throat as they come up, and in the middle of it all, I glance up, looking for the only opinion that matters to me.

"Things have changed for me, but that's okay, I feel the same, I'm on my way....."

[/color][/blockquote][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Mar 1, 2012 23:39:03 GMT -5 by gamemaker kelsier

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A Thousand Years {South} Mar 11, 2012 21:23:52 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2012 21:23:52 GMT -5

This is it, boys, this is war - what are we waiting for?
Why don't we break the rules already?
I was never one to believe the hype - save that for the black and white
I try twice as hard and I'm half as liked
But here they come again to jack my style

[/color][/center]
“Hey guys!” Wheaton’s irritatingly chipper voice grates against Kaelen’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard, causing his eye to twitch ever so slightly in the wake of yet another late entrance to glee club practice. “Everyone have a good day?”

“I was having a fantastic day until my peace of mind was interrupted by a certain midget drummer who speaks about twenty decibels louder than he needs to,” Kaelen drawls through a smirk, kicking his feet up onto the back of the chair in front of him. Sometimes it’s too easy to control the game of cutting words and icy stares, but that doesn’t mean he won’t play when the opportunity presents itself. In the seat next to him Alyssa snorts amusedly, the two of them locking eyes and sharing a whole world of unspoken things in a mere fraction of a second (that she’s just as disenchanted by this waste of time as he is, that he wonders what she’s doing after this, that both of them know a few hours from now the question will be answered in restless hands and merciless lips and the warped terms of a friendship that’s never really been normal) as Jace simply glares at the two of them, eyes flashing irritated aquamarine under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Can it, Dempsey. Anyway, we’ve got someone auditioning today, so we’ll get that done before we start on the group number. He’s new, so make sure you guys make him feel welcome, okay?”

The door creaks open, and the Hemingway novel dangling loosely between Kaelen’s fingers falls to the surface of the desk with a muffled slap. Jaw hanging open in shock until he pulls his face back into its mask of neutrality, the amber-eyed boy groans pitifully, hiding his face behind a slender palm. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

But there’s nothing funny about Colt Hanlon flailing all over the music room – all right, maybe there is a certain amount of lowbrow comedic value, but the irony of the situation is not the kind that Kaelen would prefer. He’s much more comfortable with twists of fate that don’t happen at his expense – on a tide of tentative movement and misplaced words, although only a few of the latter seem to catch his attention. "Besides, I don't walk in a straight line, nor do I tend to be well, straight either. I hope that isn’t a problem for you!"

Oh. Oh. Kaelen has to fight the urge to plant his face in his hand again. Leave it to his stupid lapse of judgment to make him spend all morning frolicking about the District with the school’s new resident flaming homosexual. Alyssa must notice the faint horror etched into his features, questioning evident in the razor-sharp arch of her eyebrow, but he merely shakes his head, shifting his expression into one of almost-bored disdain as he leans over to whisper in her ear. “Well of course he’s gay. Practically walked in on a rainbow carpet with Cher music playing in the background. Honestly, how is anyone in here dense enough to miss it?”

But his next verbal jab is cut short by full, rich guitar chords and a voice to match. His voice. It’s an acquired taste, a wobble that isn’t there because of any sort of mistake. He is hitting every note he intends to, and the heavy vibrato must be the way he prefers to sing. His voice is decadent and dark in a way that contrasts with how Kaelen’s voice is pristine and thin. They’re both acquired tastes, but the sound of Colt Hanlon’s voice is enough to make the whole room stop what they had been doing and listen. Watch. Experience. The applause that fills the space when he’s done is nothing if not genuine, and even Kaelen finds that he spares the other boy a nod of approval as Wheaton twitches back to the front of the room.

“Awesome! So yeah, you’re definitely a tenor. And right now our tenor section is… Kaelen. So you’ll be working with him during sectionals tomorrow.” Kaelen’s jaw drops again, a half-formed sound of protest dying somewhere between his throat and his lips. First English, then the boiler room, and now this? Colt Hanlon, he decides, is like a very irritating puppy constantly at his heels. Never in his life has he wanted to kick a puppy until now. He grimaces as the smaller form settles into the seat on the other side of him that isn’t occupied by Alyssa, grimaces even more when Wheaton slaps another god-awful group number down in front of them.

“The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage? Really?” He pinches the paper between a spindly thumb and forefinger as if it’s diseased, holds it aloft with his nose wrinkled distastefully. “Isn’t this a song by that band back in the day that used to dress up like a gay circus troupe?” Kaelen lets out a nervous cough as soon as he realizes what he’s said with Hanlon sitting right next to him, probably thinking he’s the biggest homophobe on the planet. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”

But when did it start mattering what Hanlon thought of him?

The air of the music room now feeling distinctly more heavy and awkward than it did before, Kaelen purses his lips and tosses the paper back down on his desk, sparing a sidelong glance at the newest addition to the tenor section. “Good job, by the way. At least I’m not stuck singing with a completely talentless moron.”

He isn’t aware of shifting his seat closer to him when they start running the chorus, silently appreciating the way that their voices really do seem to fit well together, the silky precision of his own gliding over the raw power of Hanlon’s as they fall into the rich harmonies perfectly in sync without even having to try. Swear to shake it up if you swear to listen, oh, we’re still so young and desperate for attention…

The rest of the allotted hour passes fairly quickly, Wheaton bouncing out of the room with a reminder for them all to practice that none of them will heed. Kaelen breathes a sigh of something almost like relief as the others finally begin to filter out. As much as singing can sometimes be enjoyable when given decent repertoire and the opportunity to make it into something better than Jace’s lackluster vision, there’s only one real reason he comes to practices regularly, and that reason is sitting in the front of the room wrapped up in ivory keys and black lacquer. He takes much longer than he should to put his books away in his bag, looking up only to check that the room is empty before sitting the messenger bag back down in his abandoned chair and sliding with feline grace onto the piano bench.

His fingers brush over the keys in something that is as close as he’ll ever get to a lover’s caress, the minor arpeggios blooming beneath his hands until Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata[/url][/color] hangs delicately in the air of the abandoned music room. The notes take him to a different place and time, where his mother would play the same haunting melody on the old, worn-out upright in the living room and he would sit and watch, eyes wide with childish wonderment until he’d clamber up on the creaky bench beside her and pull at her sleeve. Mama, teach me. And she had, clasping his tiny hands under her own, the slender structure of them ever so similar, and guiding them over the keys. You have pianist’s hands, darling, she’d said, a quiet smile on her face. You’ll be great one day, Kae. Just you wait.

She was never alive to see her prediction come true, cold in the ground less than a week after she’d promised him that one day he’d be a Mozart in his own right. Kaelen isn’t sure what made him keep playing after that. Maybe he’d wanted her to still be proud of him wherever she had gone in the next life. A more likely explanation is that the house was just too quiet without the music floating through the halls. The piano beneath his hands now is much nicer than the one in the ramshackle house back in One, and even though the keys still feel foreign and too responsive to the touch he can feel himself relaxing into the intricacies of each new measure, eyes drifting closed and shoulders leading into each crescendo and diminuendo. Perhaps he’s as cold and removed as people claim, but it’s not so much as he can’t feel as it is that the lesser beings are worth neither his notice nor his time. The music is infinitely more precious. As if to testify to this fact, he can almost feel the temporary surge of warmth leaving his veins as the final chord fades into the air, leaving the classroom as empty and cold as the space where a heart never really seemed to grow the way it should have.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]

Last Edit: Mar 11, 2012 21:30:11 GMT -5 by Deleted

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A Thousand Years {South} Mar 14, 2012 1:39:58 GMT -5

Post by gamemaker kelsier on Mar 14, 2012 1:39:58 GMT -5

Talking
Doing
Deep thought
Hearing
Singing

I can't tell if I liked the way that turned out. It certainly was satisfying to my fingers, the joy they had over strumming strings again still made them tingle, or that was the burn of holding and pressing strings after not doing it for so long. But it had felt empty. Things were slipping out like wasted things from me, and the things, the words that did matter were becoming only stickier to the back of my throat. Feeling this strange unsatisfaction, I smiled slightly, and slipped into a seat beside Kaelen Dempsey, apparently a designated tenor. That song didn't really show off my higher range, but I feel numb as I move to sit, even as I am completely aware of the boy sitting so close to me. The only thing that tingles with heat is the hand I pressed to the boiler, yet I feel like I've just been dumped into a bucket of that stuff that's frozen in winter.

I never know what this feeling is, that washes over me like a wave sometimes. As long as I can remember it's happened, I can feel complete happiness one moment, and the next feel like I've swallowed my tongue. A tall guy with light hair and an easy smile leans over and pats me on the back, "Hey welcome! I'm Sam, just got here a couple weeks ago myself. Need anything, just let me know!" It feels like my head turns really slowly, and then I'm looking into this guys face, shaking his hand and smiling back at him. I know I mutter some kind of response, but it all feels too slow. Like I'm moving through cream. Despondent really. I shut my eyes, I think I'm blinking, can't be sure, but it feels like I'm holding my lids closed for too long. I'm trying to swim through it, this current but it's pushing the other way. I should just shut my eyes and-

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.”

My eyes flutter open and I sit up properly as kaelen spares me a glance, like he's said something rude. I'm sure he has, I've known him for all of a few hours, and I know that much about him. I roll my eyes at him, used to that shit from everyone else, it doesn't bother me much coming from him either. Not that it should matter, right. He's just a body I want to fuck, it's not his stupid brain that I like. Much. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean back in my seat, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't have to look at me when he said that. He could have said his snarky crap and kept right on with being Kaelen. But he looked at me, as if he realized what he said might be hurtful. It's not, I'm made of tougher stuff.

But still, "Guess I'll just.....throw out my gay clown....ou-...costume then," I drawl out, lifting my head back up to grin lazily at him. Sitting up, I take the sheet of music from off my desk. no matter what he says, I like the way this song is looking. Whoever wrote these lyrics was a very interesting person to say the least. But still, I'm feeling instantly better. It was like when you're swimming in a heated pool and suddenly you swim to a spot where the sun isn't swimming too. Then a wave or a splash pushes you over and you're in the sun again. Kaelen Dempsey is a wave. Suddenly filled with something electric, I sit up fully in my seat, and get ready to sing. I'm curious to see how the rest of the choir sounds. When I say rest of the choir, I mean Dempsey. Mostly I'm interested to find out what he sounds like.

“Good job, by the way. At least I’m not stuck singing with a completely talentless moron.”

Despite myself, I grin at the compliment. I know it's a real push for Kaelen to even say something so nice, especially after sitting through an afternoon of snark. And alright, it may not sound nice, but at least he's making an effort. Nodding at the sheet music, I look to the front of the room, where Jace is about to direct us to start singing. "I hope I have the....the...same luck with you," I whisper, face lifting into that grin I can slip into so easily when I have no reason too. Apparently if you're me, you shouldn't have so much reason to smile because you have dyspraxia. But then I would have dyspraxia and frown lines. I'd look even odder with frown lines, I mean, if one just looked at my dad..

Before that thought can spin it's self out of control, we're thrown into the chorus, the tenor's note to start signing, and I throw myself into it with Dempsey, letting him choose the words so I don't have to. I simply lend my voice. Swear to shake it up if you swear to listen, oh, we’re still so young and desperate for attention… His voice sips in with mine so nicely, like we're meant to be singing together. It gives me confidence, and I find myself enjoying the choir's sound, even if we all seem to be a big group of ragtag voices that are all trying to outshine each other. All I can hope for is that we'll begin to fit better. Or you know, at least I will. And as we sing, I notice Kaelen's chair edging closer to mine, and the corner of my mouth lifts even more becasue I notice that my seat has shifted closer as well. Oh this might be really very fun.

Everyone is quick to leave the room, and I find myself hurrying out pretty fast as well. I might have gotten away with leaving too if it weren't for a pesky drum set and two left feet. As it is, I find myself lying dazed behind the set very quickly. Of course it comes as no surprise, and I let out a long huff of breath as I begin to move, pushing myself into the corner to keep myself from damaging the instrument. I don't think anyone is left in here but me, so I take a moment to simply breath, realizing that I have begun to shake. When it gets like this, it's best to just take a moment to ride through it until the tremors have stopped. I shut my eyes against it, letting myself pretend that it's the word that's shaking, not me.

And as I sit, something brings it's self to life inside the music room. It's like a resurrection, the way the notes sing themselves to life. I know the sound, have heard it before. It's a piano. Someone is playing the piano. It means that not everyone has left yet. It sounds so sad. Like someone is playing their own death march. The song plays at the heart better than anything I have ever seen, touched, heard, felt, tasted before. It's inexplicably sad, even though it's supposed to be beautiful. And it makes my heart slip into the shell of another's soul for a few moments as the two of us sit in the emptied room, one playing out their sorrow, the other collecting it in handfuls, storing it away. Yet I wonder who's sorrow I collect.

Rising up slowly, using the wall to hold me, I slowly view a slender back, body sitting upright at the piano as the musician slips their long fingers along the keys as deftly as I know I can play a cello or guitar. This is someone who has spent many hours practicing their trade. And inexplicably, although I've only seen his back once or twice, this sorrow, I know, can only belong to one Kaelen Dempsey. I know because it lives in his eyes, along with his intellect, that's what I saw there. I stand silently leaning as he plays the song, no words there to guide me, and not wanting to interrupt the playing anyway. It sends shivers down my spine, and I shut my eyes, looking away. I'm intruding, I know, but I never said I left, and he never looked behind the drum set.

So when he draws to a close, I let silence reign for two minutes, watching his hands resting on the keys where they finished, before I offer, voice soft, "You.....you....the way your fingers run across the keys, like they're dancing, it's beautiful."

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