[closed]
WHO: Schuldig (colpevole) ; Badou Nails (smokeeasy)
WHAT: Comfort & old movies.
WHERE: Badou's apartment.
WHEN: After Schuldig gets notified by the authorities of Axel's death.
Lime green pjs, hard lemonade, and a toothbrush. That was Schuldig's overnight bag, and it would've actually been in a plastic take-out bag if he hadn't thought better of it right before he left the apartment. That quiet, sad, fucked up apartment that had, at least, been his, paid with his fucking bar money-however fucking barely they'd scraped by. It wasn't classy and it was in a complete piece of shit neighborhood, and it wasn't like he and Axel had actually done anything with the place worth remembering, but he was fond of it the same way lonely people were fond of stray cats, all riddle with fleas and disease. You fed 'em and you thought of 'em as yours and it was kind of, you know. Nice.
Well fuck that, Schuldig supposed. He couldn't afford this dive on his own and there was no one else in the entire fucking universe who would want to live in this nightmare, so that was it. Short lived, maybe too short lived, but whatever. You couldn't even think about the things you lost in this place. It would drive you nuts.
Even if he didn't have the money, Schuldig hailed down a cab, and he rode the whole way to Badou's plays smoking out the cab window, and he gave the cab driver everything he had in his pocket-which wasn't enough to over-tip.
Sucked.
You couldn't feel reckless unless you were really blowing some money, right?
And then Schuldig leaned on Badou's doorbell like the real bitches did in the old movies-the ones you had to love and hated to love all at once, the ones on whom Schuldig, aged ten, had modeled his entire lifestyle, because their faces were like statues and their eyebrows were just. Like. His. You had to have role models, and Schuldig's sure as hell weren't real people. They were just too... Too real.
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, he thought, Badou, let's do this.
There were too few people he knew he could actually act like a scared kid in front of. In fact, there was only one; and that was because he'd been a scared kid in front of him before. Couldn't help it. Badou already knew him like this.
WHAT: Comfort & old movies.
WHERE: Badou's apartment.
WHEN: After Schuldig gets notified by the authorities of Axel's death.
Lime green pjs, hard lemonade, and a toothbrush. That was Schuldig's overnight bag, and it would've actually been in a plastic take-out bag if he hadn't thought better of it right before he left the apartment. That quiet, sad, fucked up apartment that had, at least, been his, paid with his fucking bar money-however fucking barely they'd scraped by. It wasn't classy and it was in a complete piece of shit neighborhood, and it wasn't like he and Axel had actually done anything with the place worth remembering, but he was fond of it the same way lonely people were fond of stray cats, all riddle with fleas and disease. You fed 'em and you thought of 'em as yours and it was kind of, you know. Nice.
Well fuck that, Schuldig supposed. He couldn't afford this dive on his own and there was no one else in the entire fucking universe who would want to live in this nightmare, so that was it. Short lived, maybe too short lived, but whatever. You couldn't even think about the things you lost in this place. It would drive you nuts.
Even if he didn't have the money, Schuldig hailed down a cab, and he rode the whole way to Badou's plays smoking out the cab window, and he gave the cab driver everything he had in his pocket-which wasn't enough to over-tip.
Sucked.
You couldn't feel reckless unless you were really blowing some money, right?
And then Schuldig leaned on Badou's doorbell like the real bitches did in the old movies-the ones you had to love and hated to love all at once, the ones on whom Schuldig, aged ten, had modeled his entire lifestyle, because their faces were like statues and their eyebrows were just. Like. His. You had to have role models, and Schuldig's sure as hell weren't real people. They were just too... Too real.
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, he thought, Badou, let's do this.
There were too few people he knew he could actually act like a scared kid in front of. In fact, there was only one; and that was because he'd been a scared kid in front of him before. Couldn't help it. Badou already knew him like this.