He could easily acquire a cheap replacement at any store--and the numbers he'd lost were of no challenge to his memory. But the difference between the phone he'd cast aside before his fall and some cheap hunk of plastic was that the latter would sho(more)w up as 'unknown number'.
And John would not answer.
Still, he contemplated calling. The answering machine would patch through and he could leave a message--
Slender fingers even started jabbing buttons before he stilled them, shaking his head and rubbing at his temples where hair curled down. No, this call would have to leave no trace. A message left proof.
He slouched back in his armchair and watched the umbrellas bob below. Preemptive. The drizzle was barely formidable. People are funny that way.
He sighed, legs shaking in a restless fashion.
He could have gone anywhere.
France. America. Germany. Norway.
But he found himself outside of London, just far enough away that he and John would not cross paths. Not that he often left his flat--at least not at daytime and without disguise. And not that John presumably left 221B much either. Maybe. Perhaps he could send someone to check up on him. Secretly of course.
He shook his head again with a frustrated growl and whipped himself upward to grab his violin.
In the wise word of sir Usher I, "you got it you got it bad, when you're on the phone-- hang up and you call right back."
Seriously though, there may be some truth behind this top-20 song. When you feel there is no other option but to swallow(more) your pride (that may often be too big) in the face of someone you love, perspective sets in. You come to terms with what you're willing to put up with. You can't help it-- the heart wants what the heart wants.
In the wise words of my five year old nephew, "you get what you get and you don't throw a fit!"
Well my dear boy, you got me-- you got me bad. A kindergartener knows more about my life than I do. (less)
God got me bad. That Ass-shit.
Spend all day worshipping and doing His bidding to get into heaven, and he still hasn't bothered letting me rest yet.
My daddy used to take me flying. Back in the old days, when we were wealthy folk, when we owned th(more)e biggest fields. I'd sit on his lap, and he would take the plane so high I could see almost all of Kansas. I didn't see no cowardly loins or fruity midgets up there either. Just a whole lot of big fluffy clouds.
Each time we went up I told daddy to go higher then last time, to see if we could reach heaven. One day I was busy studying for my tests, so I couldn't fly with him. I was jealous as he took off by himself. Told me he was going bird fishin.
When I looked out the window I saw a tsunami of dust, so high I couldn't see where it stopped. He couldn't have see past his nose, and rather than meeting the ground, the ground must've met him.
Strange thing is, we never found his body or the plane. Folks said it must've been buried like the rest, but as a kid I liked to think he kept going up and up, pointed his nose to the sky, and got so high he reached the pearly gates. Instead of letting heaven come to him, he went to heaven. And so did his plane, and he was still there, waxing it with his old lucky hanky. And maybe one day I'll get out of bed on my old behind and walk out the front door, and he'll be asking if I'd care for one last ride.
She hacks, coughs, lungs heaving desperately around the sword imbedded in them. A duel for the ages is ended as blood drips down.
"Sorry, little bro," she wheezes. "He got me bad with that last hit. I guess this is one fight I couldn't win."
The villain(more) approaches, a black sillhouette against the raging flames behind. The boy cowers, hoping desperately that he will remain unseen if he pretends to be somewhere else. Somewhere his sister did not sacrifice herself for him.
A universe made of light, to combat this pitch horror.
A holy weapon, to purge evil from the world.
And his sister's loving hand behind him, guiding his steps.
The dream takes form, glows around him in a halo of incandescence. He is insubstantial, the weight of grief taken from his shoulders, silver katana levelled at his foe. In a fell swoop, it is dealt the same wound that it most deals, an ironic twist that eats away at the tainted flesh.
Light fades, and the boy returns to his original state, crumpling under his own weight. As his eyes close, mind fading to black, he prides himself on vengeance, and hopes his sister will be with him again when he reaches the next life.
(Partially inspired by Homestuck, by Andrew Hussie, the rights of which I make no claim to.)(less)
"you smell like you're on fire," Jay says, and Finch cannot help but wonder if that's meant as an insult or a compliment. he isn't given any time to think, though, because Jay continues:
"you smell like you're on fire. you smell like autumn and the fresh rain and(more) the warm moments of sitting before the crackling fire before getting up and going on with your evening, you smell like late august and early september and mid-october and you just keep walking past as though you don't care and you don't even have the decency to pretend that you don't know that you're lying and you've got me bad, so bad."
Finch laughs, tilting his head back as he blinks at Jay, blinking back the signs of sadness that try to show themselves in his eyes, white incisors bared as he shapes his mouth to form an answer that never comes because he's too busy watching Jay waiting for an answer from him the answer, as one defined in verbal form, never comes, but instead takes the form of Finch getting up to sprawl over Jays feet as ungracefully as he can, sharp grin melted to a friendlier smile as he tries to say sorry without words, feeling his lips twitch up at the edges and bare his teeth again, the jagged edges probably just peeking past his upper lip and Jay doesn't need another form of an answer because what he's been given is just enough.(less)
Jealousy was something Lovino was used to--it got him bad all the time. Jealous of Feliciano, usually--who else would it be? Antonio? Ha! Who'd be jealous of /that/ oblivious idiot? He even made /Feliciano/ seem intelligent some days. That's not Lovino just being mean because he hates how, despite(more) their constant idiocy, those two bastards had more friends than Lovino ever would. Of course not--anyone who was friendly with Idiot 1 and Idiot 2 was just stupid, too!
This was different, though--much worse than being jealous of all the shit his little brother was "blessed" with even though he was a complete moron.
...Who the hell would be jealous of /Prussia/, anyway? He was a stupid, lazy asshole who was treated like shit by almost everybody. He didn't even have a nation anymore. He just sat in his brother's basement all day, every day, doing nothing but play his stupid games and win his stupid achievements in a world that isn't even real. He even had a crush on Lovino's stupid brother. Only an idiot would say that they were jealous of Gilbert Beilschmidt.
It didn't matter that Gilbert had a brother who actually fucking adored him. It didn't matter that no matter how obnoxious he was, he still had two people who would hang out with him above anyone else. It didn't matter that Gilbert actually /survived/ his dissolution and could enjoy life however he wanted.
Lovino could see past the bravado, sometimes. See the loneliness that Gilbert tried to hide. It made his stomach roil--couldn't the idiot see that he had hell of a lot more than he realized? He was only as fucking lonely as he made himself be. Only an idiot would be jealous of Gilbert mother-fuckin' Beilschmidt.
I look up to the sky. The rain patters all around me, splashing my face. I suppose Jason was right: allowing myself to get hurt wasn't going to help me. I like it, though. The hurt, the tears, the complete disgust with myself. It's all real and so I(more) cling to the one thing that I can control or maintain. I don't mind it at all. So now, after another vile encounter with a stranger, I'm alone and bitter and actually very happy with myself.(less)
On reflection, it was probably not a good idea for Ludwig to antagonize his captors that much, considering what they had done to his hand.
However, that was not the problem now. The problem now was that Ludwig was stuck in a tiny room in the bunker, handcuffed to(more) the wall, and his legs didn't work and neither did his right hand and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, only that it hadn't been good or recently. And since his legs didn't work and the rest of him hurt like holy hell and he didn't have the keys to the cuffs or the door, there was very little he could do.
This hazy train of thought derailed when there came a knocking on the door, which shortly became Alfred knocking through the door and almost into Ludwig. He visibly recoiled- the smell, Ludwig supposed, although a year of being shut in this room except for interrogations didn't do wonders for personal appearance either, never mind the bombings and invasions.
"Damn," Alfred said eventually. "They really got you bad, didn't they?"
Ludwig nodded- his throat was too dry for speaking- and Alfred moved over and started picking the lock of the cuffs. "You're lucky I found you and not Ivan, you know?" Pulling the cuffs off, he tutted at the state of Ludwig's legs. "I'll call some medics, get you out of here. And then, there's this guy Marshall, we'll fix you up, alright?" And Alfred looked so hard like he wanted to believe that this could be fixed that Ludwig nodded again. (less)
Ludwig knew there was something wrong with it. Knew that there were much better options for him. Ones that hadn’t just been fucking his brother a week before and ones that weren’t using him to get back at said brother for whatever stupid thing they were arguing about now.(more)
He’d even managed to control himself up until the kiss. He’d kept his stoic expression, eyes focused on the book he was reading as Lovino was lying across the couch like some wanton whore. Soft tanned skin exposed as the other man had let his shirt ride up just the slightest bit. Yes, he’d managed to control himself even then, knowing the other was doing this all on purpose.
But when Lovino had moved to sit on the arm of his chair and let his eyes fall half shut, all long lashes and beautiful hazel eyes, Ludwig couldn’t say no. It wasn’t like Feliciano begging for a kiss in that slightly childish way of his. It was seductive, it was smooth. Lovino hadn’t even put anything in words and Ludwig knew exactly what he wanted.
So he let it happen. He closed his book and placed it on the table, let Lovino straddle his lap, smirking at him because he knew he’d won. It was maddening, and Ludwig opened his mouth to take it all back, but the Italian’s lips were already on his, fully taking advantage of the slight opening.
And Ludwig suddenly knew why his brother put up with so much from Lovino, knew why his brother had fallen so badly…
Because as slender fingers moved to his hair and a hot mouth to his ear, Ludwig realized he was falling badly too. (less)
People judge you by the company you keep, and I keep rotten company. It is two o'clock in the morning. I'm laying in bed with my eyes shut trying to trick my body into rest. My sheets may as well be made of burning fire. I do my routine(more) clock check. If I manage to fall asleep within the next 15 minutes, I will get a solid 5 hours of sleep. Nothing soothes your system like a deadline.
That's when he walks in. Smug as can be. He wears that fake sincerity like a second skin. I could tell he's ready to drop some of his "sage" advice.
"Hey man, you know you're just kidding yourself. You're wound so tight there's no way in hell you're falling asleep.
"Thanks for your concern. Why don't you go try to get some sleep yourself?" I knew he wouldn't take no for an answer. He's a well-known night owl. I knew what was coming next.
"Nah, man. The night is young. Come have one drink with me. It'll loosen you up and knock you right out."
"I have to work in the morning."
"Just one drink, brother. We'll just get in, get out. Chug it, pay and leave. It's exactly what you need right now. You'll sleep like a baby." I'd heard this all before. He couldn't care less about my well-being. He just wanted someone to indulge him in a good time.
I get up and rummage through my closet for the wrinkled clothes I had meant to iron. Every fleeting rational thought compels me to stay.
I sit at the bar and order my drink. Whiskey sour. I knock it back without giving myself the time to stop. Three weeks sober, now down to none. I order another. I'm alone.
That manipulative, dastardly, manic illusionist got him. On the broken pavement of stone, he laid in blood and rain and tears. He laid on a pedestal of disappointment, shame, loss. He was horrible. They depended on him, and he failed them. He failed them.
Daemon Spade actually outsmarted him. He used his weakness and killed him. And he knew that he wouldn't survive. There was a hole, an empty place, in his chest. There was blood everywhere, but he felt... strangely at peace.
He gave a quiet, bitter laugh. This was just what he deserved, right? Killing all those people before the Vongola... deserting his parents. Chasing after Daemon despite Knuckle's warnings not to. Really... what kind of friend was he? Going against his best friend's wishes...
... Alaude laughed. It was a strange, demented laugh. Pitiful, really. He kept his eyes open, yearning for that last ray of sunshine, but finding nothing there. Knuckle had deserted him. He was going to hell, wasn't he.
"He got me." He got me bad. It hurt, but the pain was numbing out.
Got me good. Got me right. Got me sounding like a fucking blight.
Got some sound. Got some rhythm. Mix it together and you got some damn can't rhyme shit with that. Spithm? Spasm? Spontaneous orgasm? Seriously sounding symposiu(more)m?
Yes, Joe. A serious sounding symposium is exactly what we are looking for.
Because that is the basis of all things. It is the fountain that we call life. It is the beginning and end. It is....aahhh some folks simply just do not understand.
Indeed [with a puzzled look on Joe's face. Squinched up eyebrows and a tongue against a cheek].
All right mate, let's get rolling shall we?
Mic check, one two one two, spit these rhymes like they coming from a shoe, been going since I was three years old. Slapped your momma on the wrist and she considered me sold, to the system into which I don't see, been going round and round, and I don't give a shit if you like it, or if you be.....trippin' down on your face, brother you can't keep up, these rhymes is impeccable since they been spilling out my cup. Convention is gone, but so too is your face, melted away by the blast of my mace.
WAIT. STOP. Stupid. That's all I have to say. Fucking retarded.
You know what, asshole? I'm not even going to do it this time. I'm not even going to pull the trigger.
You've got a gun?
Yes. Yes I do. But that's besides the point. I just don't feel like it. I'm getting the fuck out of here. I don't even care if it makes sense. It's all for fun and for shits and giggles ain't it?
Can't you see we in the club man, shut the fuck up? Luda(less)
Ryan shuffles miserably around the party, hating the nauseating noise, press of people, and strong smell of spirits. He looks desperately over the crowd to see if he can spot his former roommate amid the rumbling crowd and too-loud music. Annoyed, he grits his teeth--he needs the stupid textbook(more) he'd lent his roommate just before he left.
"He probably did that on purpose," Ryan mutters, hunching inwards and diving deeper into the crowd. It's hard to breathe in the claustrophobic atmosphere, surrounded by strangers and everyone who hates him. "Fucking textbook thief." He parts a section of the crowd, only to get an elbow in the ribs from some careless asshole carrying too many drinks. Ryan slams past a few people and ends up falling into a wall, the strobe lights hazy streaks that make the crowd look like a series of pictures playing in front of him. He feels oddly disconnected from the whole thing.
"You need a hand?" a svelte male voice asks--Ryan can't tell if he's being mocked or if this mystery guy is actually showing concern--as a large hand picks him up by the arms. Ryan stands up and looks at the man in front of him--average height, built like a motorcyclist, and hotter than hell.
"Thanks," Ryan says, voice muffled by his dry tongue.
"Here, step out with me," the man replies, taking Ryan's hand and leading him to the porch out back. "You gotta light?" Ryan shuffles around in his pockets and pulls out a black bic. The man nods and lights a long, skinny, filterless cigarette. He'd pull out his own, but he isn't sure if smoking's a good idea right now. "Better, huh?"
Ryan doesn't have time to respond before he's pulled by the arm and fangs are in his neck.(less)