abwesend.

Okay, maybe he’s a little disappointed. But it was a long shot that she’d be a Fangoria subscriber, or something. In actuality, Eli finds it almost immediately enchanting that Alice is shy of the genre. It’s easy to forget that a lot of people don’t like horror. He won’t judge, exactly, but he’s certain they’re all missing out. 

He chuckles gently. “…That’s cute.” He’s not mocking her, and the words basically just slide out before he can think. He can sense himself blushing. 

“…I mean… I know they can be a little much for some people. But I have good taste, I think. Well… I’ll watch anything, but I wouldn’t make anyone else watch anything. I won’t make you watch Cannibal Holocaust. I’m not a sadist. More of a masochist, actually… Though some people have told me otherwise.”

It takes a moment before he realizes the potential of misunderstanding or innuendo in what he’s saying. His eyes are cast downward, then lifted back to Alice, self-consciously, yet not entirely lacking in flirtation. He feels like he walked into it. He’s embarrassed, but somewhat coy, with a barely-there smile. 

“—I, uh… you know what I mean…”

Alice's eyes widen, her signature wide smile returning in an instant. She's surprised -- a little embarrassed, very amused. She wonders if Eli can pick out her natural blush from the one she'd manually applied an hour ago. She hopes not.

"That's a very forward thing to say," Alice teases, taking a sip of wine for no other reason than to allow herself to naturally break eye contact. It's just for a moment. Just a breather while she smooths down her frazzled nerves.

When she dares to look at him again, she doesn't look much different. Her smile is more relaxed, less... toothy, but her nerves are clear as day. She knows it's obvious. She pretends it isn't.

"I guess you could say I'm a masochist, too, in a way," she continues carefully, rubbing her fingertip against the stem of her glass. "Like I said: sometimes it's fun to be terrified."

@bittenichtstoren

“…Hey.” The blond’s tone is anything but casual - he steps out onto the sidewalk from the convenience store, whipping off his sunglasses just to ensure he’s seeing clearly. His Camaro is sandwiched in between two vehicles: the first one, a small family car which was there when he arrived. That isn’t the problem. He’s been trapped in by a pick-up truck on the other side, no room to steer and exit. 

The truck’s driver is already a few steps away, but Billy means to get his attention. He takes a couple of large strides over, taps the guy firmly on the shoulder. 

“—Move your truck, asshole. You blocked me in.”

Erik Fischer is objectively in the wrong here. There is nothing he can say or do that could possibly absolve him of his asshole parking job. He knows this. He knows. But the way the stranger engages with him leaves him feeling anything but remorseful. The jab at his shoulder, the name-calling, the... attitude.

Erik stares at him, adopting a look of mild confusion. He laughs nervously and shakes his head.

[to: Princess Felicity] You up?

[to: Benji] I fucked up big time. Sorry. sorry.

[to: Benji] hiding out at the usual place. don't tell anyone where i am.

[to: Benji] you can come if you want.

For Sidney, rainy weather is sedative. At the first sight of clouds, the first scent of moisture heavy in the air, the lethargy sets in. His eyes droop just so, his limbs growing just a little too heavy for his comfort. Rehearsals hadn’t helped much either. He felt sluggish the whole time, his mind embalmed in a perpetual fog which put him just slightly out of step with his contemporaries -- not that they were much better. All dancing had done was add a sharp ache to the bone-deep exhaustion wreaking havoc on every nerve in his body.

Usually, dancing leaves him feeling energized. On a day like this, though... well, it’s no wonder he’d drifted off. He blinks sleepily at Millard, taking a moment to pause and assess the situation before he attempts to stretch the sleep out of his body.

“Mm... yeah, I hit traffic. It was... pretty bad,” Sidney remarks, giving his spine one last crackling stretch before he makes himself comfortable again. His forehead presses against the side of Millard’s shoulder. The warmth of another makes the dreary weather borderline bearable.

He sighs. His body sinks into the mess of sheets and blankets like a dead weight. He just can’t muster any amount of effort.

Felicity can almost taste the scorn in his reply: why? She’s used that tone before, countless times. It’s less amusing when she is on the receiving end. But it’s hardly so much of a challenge. She’s certain that she could best Ira in a verbal sparring match, never mind his prowess with the physical. 

Still, she accepts her drink graciously, and lifts it to her mouth for the smallest of sips. The ease with which he bypasses the queue at the bar doesn’t escape her. If nothing else, he is his own brand of elite. Maybe something they have in common.

“—You’re European?” She doesn’t quite mean to be so generalised, so American about it. She’s heard the word he used before, but can’t place it, and would rather not make a more specific assumption.

It’s so hard to socialize with even a modicum of civility when the night’s violence is so fresh in Ira’s mind. It always ends too quickly. It’s never enough. Win or lose, nothing stops the craving short of being beaten unconscious -- and even then, he dreams of bloodshed.

But something about Flick takes the edge off. In spite of his lack of decorum, this is the most docile he’s been in a long while. At the very least, he doesn’t want to cave her face in with his fist. It’s... something. It’s new. It intrigues him as much as it gets under his skin.

He finds her... refreshingly annoying.

“My mother is from Odessa. Ukraine, not Texas,” Ira’s smile softens as he speaks, but his gaze remains sharp. He doesn’t want to offer too much, nor does he want to offer so little that she sees fit to leave. It’s not often that anyone takes an interest in his personal life. It’s a pleasant change from the usual.

Her taste in movies couldn’t be further removed from his own - the last one he watched was Sinister. He hasn’t even seen any of the films Alice mentioned. It’s not a disaster: he actually feels a tug on the heartstrings, thinking of her fragility when watching something emotive. 

Eli’s heart glows when she smiles, and he senses it isn’t for show. She’s relaxing. So is he. 

Her education is refreshing in his own world, where people spar with however many initials happen to follow their name. Eli has been guilty of this, too - no one could accuse him of being totally down-to-earth, and he has a snobbish streak. But he’s also been known to drop any judgement when he likes someone. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter what others might think. 

He chuckles at her joke - is it a joke? Probably not. His distant family members are not so imaginatively named, either. “…Same here, actually.”

Halfway through his food now, thanks to the awkward silences from earlier, he slows down to appreciate the other tidbits she’d offered about herself. 

“…That’s better than studying the wrong thing. Degrees are expensive these days.” Much less so when he was in education. “I’d love to see your watercolours sometime.”

His statement has an aftertaste of double entendre to it, and he nearly laughs at himself - a little shy of it, but regaining confidence by the second. Then, because he’s dying to know—

“—Do you like horror movies?”

The evening is, for the time being, saved. It would be a surprise to Alice if she were still thinking about how quickly things had gone South, but that’s the furthest thing from her mind right now. The barrage of questions worked. It was an awkward start, but it had gotten her mind unstuck. It had allowed her to move on.

Just as she’s about to take another bite of her butter chicken, he pops the question. A seemingly innocuous question that makes her eyes go wide. She lowers her fork, her food forgotten for a moment.

“Nnnno. I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to try to enjoy one.”

Alice laughs and resumes eating. As she chews, she’s quick to think of a followup that doesn’t solidify her snap rejection. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that he’s asking because he likes horror movies.

She lets out a hum and cants her head to the side, as though she’s reconsidering her answer.

“…Well, it’s still 1994 in my head.” Benji taps his fingers on the counter while waiting for their coffees to be ready. “Sometimes I feel like it’s goin’ backwards.”

He’s no less affected than Uriyah, but his manner tends to be more carefree. He can’t really change anything. Go to protests, sign petitions… support the community. That’s it. Occasionally, it feels futile. He’ll enjoy life regardless. 

“…I blame America,” he grins, and it’s true, to a point. He initially left a stuffy, homophobic Scotland for a new world in NYC, but over time, tolerance seems to have become more grudging. It’s lip service, rather than genuine. Corporations will use queerness to sell shit. The idea of progressiveness is often fake. 

“—Dunno why I came here. Only the worst people.” He nudges Uriyah - reassuring him that yes, he’s one of the worst people - and by worst, he means best. 

It is monstrously difficult to remain in high spirits for long when addictive craving rears its ugly head. Uri is fighting it as hard as he can -- has to, unless he wants to end up back in jail again. But the conversation is heavy. His heart is heavy. Benji is smiling, cracking jokes, being friendly, and Uri... he’s irritated.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been scowling, but he notices how deep the expression is when the barista sets his drink on the counter. The brief interaction grounds him. He smooths out his frown lines, musters a half-smile and a soft thanks. 

The first sip of coffee releases some of his pent up tension. It scalds his tongue, but it quiets the part of his mind that is screaming for him to just ask if Benji’s got any pills on hand. Now, the voice just occasionally nags in a stage whisper. Plenty irritating still, but anything is better than the constant flood of noise.

It’s an improvement.