rufus et viridis | { hugo / maxen } blitz
Dec 27, 2019 1:23:36 GMT -5
Post by dars on Dec 27, 2019 1:23:36 GMT -5
Neon dreaming and the broken cement would always lead him back home. He stepped without regard of what might be waiting for him, cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth, dime of purple punch slid into his coat pocket. The parking lot was all shadow and blinking lights from the open sign of the store behind him and he had to admit, this was probably exactly where he wanted to be. At this specific time, in this specific place. No people, no noise, and still such a strange feel for frenzy and a taste of madness on his tongue. He stretched his arms out, kicking over an almost-empty bottle of beer, rounded a chain-link fence, wound up squatting on top of an old dumpster and staring up at the stars.
When he was little, when questions of death had first begun to plague him, his father had brought him to the balcony and pointed up at the north sky and said "We join the stars, son." Truth be told, he was likely high on something, acid and power one and the same as far as he was concerned.
Maxen held up a spindly hand, bending his fingers into a fist one by one until only the one in the middle remained standing up.
"Fuck you," he said, just in case.
Fuck him. For making a bad call. For dying. For leaving. Most importantly, for not telling Maxen where the fucking money was hidden.
He recognized the figure from the moment he saw it: steam rolling off the top of his head in orange tendrils of hair, walking like either the chip on his shoulder or the pole up his ass was starting to get too uncomfortable. Maxen groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as he sat up from his makeshift camp.
"Hugo fuckin' Belgrave," he said.
Fuck you, too, he thought.
Max polished off the rest of his bottle of vodka and tossed it into the trash can between his legs.
"Past your bedtime, innit?" It was about the politest way he could manage telling him to go away, but he'd spent enough time with firecrotch there in the Detention Center to know there was no such thing as simply walking away. Damn, he wished Harls was here. Or, at least, that he was sober.
He hopped down to face him fully. Max had a solid couple inches on him in height, but Hugo easily outweighed him; the giant ham hocks he called arms hung tensely by his side, hands permanently clenched into fists. He wore his anger, and every vein in his body, on his sleeve, it would seem.
"Don't suppose you came to have a chat with yours truly?"
When he was little, when questions of death had first begun to plague him, his father had brought him to the balcony and pointed up at the north sky and said "We join the stars, son." Truth be told, he was likely high on something, acid and power one and the same as far as he was concerned.
Maxen held up a spindly hand, bending his fingers into a fist one by one until only the one in the middle remained standing up.
"Fuck you," he said, just in case.
Fuck him. For making a bad call. For dying. For leaving. Most importantly, for not telling Maxen where the fucking money was hidden.
He recognized the figure from the moment he saw it: steam rolling off the top of his head in orange tendrils of hair, walking like either the chip on his shoulder or the pole up his ass was starting to get too uncomfortable. Maxen groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as he sat up from his makeshift camp.
"Hugo fuckin' Belgrave," he said.
Fuck you, too, he thought.
Max polished off the rest of his bottle of vodka and tossed it into the trash can between his legs.
"Past your bedtime, innit?" It was about the politest way he could manage telling him to go away, but he'd spent enough time with firecrotch there in the Detention Center to know there was no such thing as simply walking away. Damn, he wished Harls was here. Or, at least, that he was sober.
He hopped down to face him fully. Max had a solid couple inches on him in height, but Hugo easily outweighed him; the giant ham hocks he called arms hung tensely by his side, hands permanently clenched into fists. He wore his anger, and every vein in his body, on his sleeve, it would seem.
"Don't suppose you came to have a chat with yours truly?"
