#knifeneck

party  sentence   starters. ( x )

BITCH, BITCH, BITCH -- for a guy who looked nothing like his ex-girlfriend, the man sure liked to complain like her. Now, was that a symptom of their relationship's dynamic, or a plague contracted easily in Scott's presence? He pretended not to hear Xavier and simply passed another beer to him, settling himself against the door-frame. (A sub-conscious transformation; here he stood, gate-keeper to the ex-convict's freedom. Thou shalt not leave the party thus yet, my dude. Tally-ho!)

He cracks the tab open and sloppily slurps up the fizzing foam, letting some splatter onto his shirt and he laps up the residue on his hand. "Shit." The guitarist muttered in the surprise of yeasty volcano's eruption, cracking a smile at his friend to see if he had noticed - he had not. His expression soured slightly and he rolled his eyes as he took a proper swig, thinking of what he could say.

It had been a courtesy invite to his brooding roommate; he hadn't expected Xavier to say yes. He doubted this was gonna be his scene. A cramped, dirty, apartment full of metalheads and punk-ass idiots. Scott unfortunately felt right at home.

"Hey, come on." He both warns and encourages, tone toeing the line of both as he gives Xavier a playful push. "Plenty'a cute girls at this thing tonight, man. Maybe you'll end up going home with one if you stop lookin' so fuckin' miserable."

He hangs onto his every word. His breath is stolen between the syllables given like revelation. Palms are pressed together in subconscious prayer, doing their best to hide glorious tremor that divinity offers. Left to die. Lark is more than aware of the terror that Xavier faced in his journey to enlightenment. Scarred flesh is kissed by angels, handsome features heavenly in the room’s subtle dark. What a collection of  wonders the musician had managed to shepherd to his tribe. Play your role. Xavier ! The rough-looking roommate of your frontman. Lark ! The unwitting lackey to said roommate. A roll of the eyes, a knowing glance when rock star opened maw to shriek.

Brows knit in well-practiced concern. “Shit man…” He breathes, pushing hand through his curls, bass guitar resting in his lap. “Fuck… I’m sorry,” an apology not for his circumstance, but for the lack of words in the face of such horror. He swallows hard, letting brown eyes melt to lighter shade. “How’d you.. get out? Shit’s fucked...”