A Thousand Years {South}
Mar 24, 2012 23:15:03 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 24, 2012 23:15:03 GMT -5
[/color][/center]I don't need to be reminded that this is how it was
I moved on, I passed a billboard down my block
That asks if I've had enough, and aloud I say
"I've had too much," when the truth is
I'm just getting started
The sound of stuttered speech that meets his ears is probably hushed in reality, but to Kaelen it might as well be the explosion of cannon-fire, unexpected and startling. He jolts in his seat as if struck with an electric current, a lifetime shuffled between the slums and the training center whispering irrational notions that have him reaching to his side for a pocket knife that was confiscated weeks ago upon his arrival. Kill first and ask questions later, it's a paradigm drilled into the heads of every Career until they don't know how to operate any other way, and years of walking home under the guttering street-lamps of a shady neighborhood have done nothing to help a body that reacts before a mind in self-preservation - he remembers what happened to Auggie Dahl when his sister angered the wrong people a few summers ago; you could hear the screaming all the way down the block and no one batted an eye.
By the time his logical thought process has caught up with a flurry of spindly limbs and half-uttered curses, Kaelen has jumped up fast enough to knock the piano bench over with a loud clatter, eyes wide as a smaller stature with a messy tuft of dark hair enters his field of vision. A drumbeat still thrumming in his ears in loud, wet thumps, he scowls, pressing a palm flat over his own sternum in order to quell the sound that resonates evidence of him having something resembling a heart. "Ripred almighty, Hanlon, can I not have two seconds of peace without you making it your personal duty to be my irritating little shadow?!"
Irritation lowers itself over his features swiftly, as if trying to make up for the lapse of letting the memory of fear (of nights spent with a growling stomach under too-thin blankets while his father raged in the living room at phantoms that didn't exist, of his first forays into the underworld where he'd mouthed off to the wrong people and staggered home with bruises on his body and his pride, of the brief moment of utter terror in the aftermath of his first kill when he'd realized the true extent of his power and it had scared him more than he'd ever care to admit to himself) linger in his eyes for a fraction of a second. Now the tawny orbs harden their way into something icy and sharp enough to cut glass, usually graceful movements swift and jerky as he sets the piano bench upright and crosses his arms over his chest.
"There was a reason I waited until I thought the room was empty before I started playing, you cretin. If I'd wanted an audience I would have asked for one." Colt Hanlon, Kaelen decides, is probably the most annoying person he's ever met (besides Wheaton, who is a whole new level of irritating all on his own), everything about him grating on some level from the uncertainty of his speech to the unsullied trust gleaming from the darker depths of his eyes. Kaelen has never had much tolerance for naïveté, not when the world is too much of a broken bone to allow for things like innocence to thrive. Not to mention the sort of hushed awe blooming over his lips when he spoke of the performance he'd never been intended to witness - beautiful, he'd said. Beautiful, there's an odd warmth to the word that stands at odds with the cold derision that Kaelen paints along his skin like invisible armor.
Hanlon looks at him with something in his expression that doesn't quite fit, and Kaelen can't remember where he's seen it before until he remembers white-blonde curls and emerald eyes and promises to follow him to the ends of the earth, a final breath with his name on it. Dahlia. And the look that Hanlon's giving him is nothing short of infatuation, even if it's less psychotic than the variety that Dahlia had for him. Oh dear Ripred, the last thing he wants to be right now is the new kid's big gay crush. Time to nip this foolishness in the bud. "Look, I don't know what your first impression of me was, but I'm not -"
Wait.
Hadn't he just been lamenting the lack of decent playthings in this district? The wheels in Kaelen's head start turning, the situation setting itself up like a giant chessboard in his mind, an unfortunate pawn with Colt Hanlon written across it. Kaelen Dempsey is straight. Straight as a ruler, he likes girls perhaps a bit too much for his own good, and the fact that Alyssa is most likely sitting on his bed waiting for him right now is a testament to that fact. But Hanlon doesn't know that. No, for all Hanlon knows, Kaelen could be as fruity as a smoothie bar, and if he doesn't bother to correct him on that front, then a powerful infatuation indeed has the potential to develop. Kaelen imagines a few months down the road, once the game has been played to its full extent, imagines leading him on until the point os a very heartfelt confession, followed by his own emotionless deadpan. What are you talking about, Hanlon, I'm not even gay. The opportunity to watch his heart shatter into a million pieces in front of him in a swirl of his beloved chaos is almost too tempting, and that is what make's Kaelen's sneer gradually work its way into a comparitively gentle half-smile.
"I'm not as much of a complete asshole as I may come across. I'm a bit socially inept, unfortunately. And I probably shouldn't have shouted at you. But hey, it's nice to have someone else in the tenor section. If you ever want to practice or something, you can drop by. I've got my mother's old ukulele and a lot of time on my hands." He makes a beeline for his bag, pulling out a scrap of notebook paper and scrawling out his compartment number in neat penmanship, followed by a phone number underneath before pressing it into the other boy's palm, purposefully making the contact longer than it should be (he pointedly ignores that Hanlon's hand is much warmer than his own and that there's a roughness to it that isn't altogether unpleasant). "Besides, if you're a Hemingway fan, I'd be enthralled to find out your opinions on Palahniuk."
He smiles again, only this time it's the closest thing to a true smile that he passeses, the one that more than one person has called unsettling, a subtle curvature of lips and flash of teeth that lowers the temperature of the room at least twenty degrees. The subtle thrill of the new beginning of one of his favorite games (it's easy to play with hearts on the line when his is nonexistent) sings softly in the back of his mind with a tune that could almost be Moonlight Sonata, and he makes sure that his fingers brush along the back of Hanlon's hand as he slings the bag over his shoulder and heads for the door. "Really, though. Don't be a stranger. I get awfully bored in my seclusion, and I find you interesting, Hanlon. Very interesting."
He manages to make it down the hallway before he allows himself to chuckle. The pawns are always the most fun to knock off the board and shatter.[/color][/blockquote][/justify][/size]
