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Post by greene on Mar 5, 2017 22:43:45 GMT -5
lil 50s rp for @viridian & me. <3
-- DOWNTOWN --
Massimiliano "Maz" Lazzari - A distinguished and somewhat short-tempered leader hailing from Sicily on the path of a tight-knit but dysfunctional immigrant family, possessing exceptionally violent tendencies and a coldly charismatic personality. Jack serves as his sole confidant, though the two do each other few favors in keeping themselves out of the more intense brand of danger.
Danny & Pat Fitzgerald - Twins opposite in every way - Danny being of the more bookish, artistic variety, while Pat is the praised athlete of the family - though their everlasting feud gives way consistently to an inexplicable support of one another whenever the relationship is challenged. They are the youngest in the downtown gang. Due to this, they are often pushed around by the others (Pat more often than Danny), albeit almost never with malicious intention.
Eddie Vincent - A self-described rat with an affinity for cars and confidence tricks. Despite his dubious personality, he is admired by the rest of the gang for his ability to appeal to authoritative figures - and forge fake IDs. His mother's occupation as a nurse has left him with a little knowledge on how to patch up wounds after a scrap, which he doesn't mind being called on for at any hour, given that he apparently doesn't sleep. -- JOHNATHON "JACK" MCNAMARA -- Though a proud poster child for the "rebel without a cause" rhetoric that he so dutifully upholds, Jack McNamara was known first as a family man - a willful step-in for both an absent father and a neglectful, mentally ill mother, granted first the responsibility of parenting nine wily younger siblings before his more mutinous side began to flourish. Under the influence of the Lazzari family's eldest son - whom he befriended shortly after moving to Macbrook from Manhattan after his father's abandonment at the tender age of eleven - the full development of the gang followed within a year of the initial, generally harmless trouble-making the two generated together. Despite the significant increase in their level of small town delinquency and violence, Jack considers the other boys his brothers and closest confidants. While perhaps best known for his knack for witty responses and big brother instincts, Jack appears at first to be a shrouded, superficial individual, apparently struggling with genuine feeling and being somewhat blunt with most people when first meeting them. However, a short time spent dedicatedly in his company would reveal him to be an incredibly vibrant, touchy, emotional young man - almost to the point of being obnoxious. He is remarkably prone to rambling about nothing in particular, lacing his conversations with lighthearted sarcasm and deadpan humor. He is straightforward sometimes to the point of being crude and takes no issue with speaking his mind, regardless of how inappropriate it may seem at the time. Nevertheless, he cares unconditionally for the ones he keeps closest to himself, and strives to be kind to (almost) everyone he meets. Despite his status as a regular hoodlum, Jack secretly despises the term "greaser" and will never use it to refer to himself or others due to the dehumanizing connotations he believes it holds. His lawless actions are constantly contradicted by the set of morals he privately clings to: he will not target innocent people, looks out for younger children, and refuses to cat call women (unless, of course, drunk, which he admittedly has a bit of a problem with). His stubbornness to relinquish these behaviors has gained him both admiration and annoyance among his fellow gang members. In most situations, he is incredibly outgoing, easy to strike a conversation with and known to start a rumble with sparse provoking, which he never seems to take too seriously - always being the one to end a rough night on a lighthearted note. He is the most easygoing of the gang and difficult to anger unless one of his loved ones are threatened. Jack adores his siblings - both blood and gang - to the point where the idea of living without one of them sends him into near panic attacks, although this doesn't prevent him from getting tangled up in increasingly dangerous situations on the heels of the others. Responsibilities aside, Jack craves freedom and loathes being confined in one place for too long. Because of this, he doesn't care to stay home for longer than he has to (despite the guilt this causes him in abandoning his younger siblings), and tends to become easily agitated when confronted with this habit. The frustration which blossoms from his feeling constantly trapped is often taken out in a violent manner, and because of this he can just as easily become monstrous. His leader-like role is surpassed in value only by Massimiliano's frigid aggression. He serves as second-in-command of the pack; however, his influence over the rest is strong enough for the role to be debatable. Jack is known to be the one to go to first whenever one is in deep trouble or mulling over a personal issue that can't (and won't) be shared. While he doesn't care to admit it, Jack is an incredibly intelligent hood. His specialty is numbers, though his advice-giving is top notch (particularly when drunk) in the most desperate of times. Jack is a lean, hard young man standing at about 5'11", excessively proud of his unruly mop of rust-colored hair that he often keeps halfheartedly pushed to one side. Though his frame is somewhat on the smaller end of the spectrum, his thinness is rarely noticeable unless he hasn't eaten for several days (yet another bad habit of his), and the muscle stands out beneath his clothing without being particularly obvious. His most vicious and conspicuous scar runs from the top of his left shoulder to the center of his chest: a souvenir from a particularly brutal rumble from days gone by (though always the first he'll show to any girl with any interest, occasionally altering the details of the story into something outlandish for his own amusement). His eyes are a deep, mossy green and his features sleek and sharp, him being considered the second-most handsome in the group in a sort of rugged, roguish way. His style pertains to the typical hoodlum look: a beloved leather jacket layered over monochrome T-shirts, tattered jeans and weathered boots or sneakers. He has a bit of a Manhattan dialect as well, prone to thickening when he's drunk or passionate, and which the others consistently tease him for.
The first evening of spring break in 1956 opens on the smoke rafts of a Sicilian cigarette, as all the most memorable Macbrook spring breaks do. The tradition begins at approximately eleven that evening, at the end of a shadowy drive encroached on both sides by a throng of untrimmed hedges disguising both the rusted-out bumper of a robin blue Ford Fairlane which serves as a refuge for an extensive stash of alcohol, and the equally rusted-out trash can with the now-faded term "Dago" halfheartedly spray-painted there (as if whoever had done so might have been particularly cautious about it), which will inevitably be chucked into the street, potato peels and all, if this night does not go exactly as planned. A pair of headlights slice through the moonlight; a fleeting flash of crimson, a cacophony of blaring music and laughing queens. A sleepless night. Jack McNamara, waiting patiently as is possible for Jack McNamara to wait, on the rest of his crowd, grinning to himself, a crooked Presley smile, shoulders hunched, bouncing on his feet. Kiddish, admittedly, but why the hell not? His kid days were numbered. The night is remarkably silent—most still young enough to be awake having gathered already in a heaping mass of juvenile discourse in the more populated center of town—save for the distant keening of the Lazzari family, a great deal of whom do not care to live amongst one another in such pressing quarters; or at all, for that matter. Jack snorts to himself every now and again in the wake of their tragedy, though the few words of English are harsh and far between. "Ay!" A dripping Boston drawl rips from the darkness. Both the pitch and the conviction are familiar, but for different reasons. A leather-clad arm bends round his throat and Jack reaches instinctively for the cigarette. "What's so funny, McNamara?" The perpetrator tries to snatch the smoke from the corner of his mouth to no avail. Jack wrenches around and punches him in the shoulder and they grapple for a minute, cursing, Jack rambling, as he's prone to, and are only broken apart when he throws a well-placed elbow to the other's wiry gut, readjusting the smoke between his lips as if it were piping out solid gold. "Get bent, I was thinkin' about your sister," he snarls, lips warped into a crooked half-smirk. Eddie hoots at that and aims another blow to his side. Jack shrugs him off. The rat doesn't pack the greatest punch until he's pissed, but Jack doesn't have the will nor heart to tell him - not tonight, anyway. "No guy smiles about Kelly unless he's bombed. But those cigs gotta helluva kick." He grins, sharklike, teeth sharp and white in the shadows. "Where's everybody at?" Jack sighs. Fourteen phone calls made between the five of them two days in advance and still, the details were shabby. Then again, details were always shabby. They weren't dames making dinner plans. "Pat and Danny are caught up - " "Pat ain't nothin', I'm here." The heavy breathing is a sure sign of it. The husky figure humps into the frame soon after. Athlete though he may be, Pat Fitzgerald is far more accustomed to cramming himself to the brim with junk food and I Love Lucy reruns than he is trekking two miles through the forest this close to midnight alone. Then again - in certain situations - the same could be said for the lot of them. The boy is a few years younger than the rest of them, red-faced, dragging his feet, bound with muscle under layers and layers of what both he and his mother will continue to call "baby fat" well into his twenties. He is alone, which is alarming, to say the least. "Yeah, I see you, nosebleed. Where's the other one 'a you?" Jack snaps, half to disguise his initial surprise at having been sneaked up on (by Pat Fitzgerald, of all people), and half because snapping was the typical tone to take when addressing either of the twins. "I dunno, I lost him back there somewhere." The vagueness and lack of concern is paved over with excitement. He doesn't even try to hide his bouncing. Kiddish - but expected. "Hey, where'd you get that cig?" Jack all but ignores the question, his intentions set fast upon big brother instincts. "Don't worry about it. Where's your brother?" "Jesus, Jack, what do I look like, a nerd's keeper? He'll be here in a minute." The redhead huffs indignantly. "Aye, you know why he's even a part of this whole operation? Because - " "Because your Ma told you that if you were a part of the gang, he had to be a part of it too." The third recital this week alone. Eddie barks like a hyena in the background, buzzing, running his fingers through greasy black hair. "We've heard it a million times. Go get Danny, I wanna split as soon as Maz gets here." "I'm not walkin' all the way back there just for - look, he's right there." A lanky figure shinnies up from beyond the wall of hedges, burrs clinging to an irritatingly crisp white shirt, jacket sliding haphazardly on bony young shoulders. Danny's expression is twisted into that of mild disgust, which is usually the case whenever responding to anything his twin brother does. "These trees echo like the walls in a cave, you know that?" he says. Though generally soft-spoken, Danny's voice is significantly higher pitched than his brother's. The rest usually only take note when he falls on the butt end of their drunken teasing. "They can hear you from - " "Oh, tell us all about it," Pat sneers at the same time Eddie snorts "they who?", and Danny is sandwiched between two shoulder blows that appear by all means to knock the breath right out of his lungs. Both perpetrators cackle. Jack pats him on the back and paws the due backs out of his pocket, an offer to which Danny smiles, but shakes his head. The boy is inexplicably convinced that cigarettes of any brand are plain deadly. It had threatened his very status as a gang member on several occasions ("If you're not gonna smoke like the rest of us, why don't you just go home?"), but he clung to the belief relentlessly. Jack ignores Pat's continued attempts to reprimand his brother for being overly cautious (knowing full well it won't keep up if he doesn't have all eyes on his efforts) and turns his attention to Eddie, who lingers by the displaced bumper with an open can of Bud in one hand, another smoothing over the chipped blue paint with a detached sort of longing. "You didn't bring the Bel-Air, Ed?" His head snaps up, gray eyes gleaming. "Ah, no. Maz was pretty insistent." "Where is Maz?" Pat pipes up. "Probably still sitting his guido *** in front of the TV set. You know he's got a color TV now?" "I don't think a day goes by when you don't bring that up, Jack." Danny chuckles. "Of course not, I'm bitter. Have you seen the thing? It's thirty inches across." Their conversation delves into the depths of color TV sets and the Lazzari matriarch's poor financial decisions and twenty minutes pass before the distinctive creep of the Mob's favorite son catches them all off guard, and when their self-declared leader claps a hand over Jack's shoulder from some hidden shadow tucked away up his drive, the latter has to catch himself before lashing out. "We ready to cut or no?" Maz drawls, still in the habit of half-phrases despite a sixteen-year citizenship. Even in the sparse light, the dull gray sheen blossoming from the eldest member's eye is alarmingly apparent: Maz was—officially—a quarter-way blind as of third period last Thursday, having been on the wrong end of a switchblade likely paid for with Daddy's money. Scraps with rich kids didn't always turn out so well, though Maz had thoroughly insisted - as he always did - that the other guys looked much worse by the time he cut them loose. This was often true. Jack decides against questioning the status of the eye, knowing well enough it'll send Maz into some kind of wild tangent and possibly delay their departure in the process. He greets his best friend with a light shove instead. The hand burns on his shoulder. Maz is grown, nearly—no longer kiddish, fresh out of kid days—and his grip won't let Jack forget it. "Yeah. Where we going?" The others had begun whooping nonsense as soon as Maz materialized, granted the instinctive knowledge that the appearance of the chief meant they would taste their freedom at last. The answer becomes pointlessly confidential against this backdrop of thrill. Just the two of them; Jack and Maz, as they were known and feared. "Karl's," the blond mutters. "Where else?" Maz held the jukebox joint very close to his heart - not only because the burgers were decidedly divine (an earth-shattering statement, considering Maz loathed American food and happily went out of his way to criticize everything but Karl's and the milkshakes from two towns over), but because they served minors after ten with minimal threatening, and because it was bound to be the most populated place in town at this hour. All the better for carrying out an effective spring break kickoff. The excitement returns in a rush. Jack tangles himself up in a wayward conversation about an unbearable math teacher he and Pat shared in the fourth grade, forgetting about the echoing trees, and piles in Maz's rag-top with the rest on command, taking his designated place in the passenger's seat. Maz slides behind the wheel and runs a scarred hand through a mop of carefully greased golden hair. "Are you alright with that, Manhattan?" he says beneath the others' dull roar. Jack frowns; first out of confusion, then indigence. "Are you alright with the word from the bird written on your can over there, blondie?" He jerks his head toward the gleaming garbage bin, its scribbled slur the only testimony to his silver tongue. Maz's indomitable composure shatters under the lines of a voracious grin, and the faux tension abandons their ride in a great tidal wave of relief. "Alright, boys," the steadfast king roars over the heated thrum of the engine, resulting only in a significant raise in volume of the hollering from the back seat. Maz has put forth his best American accent, and Jack finds himself beaming. "Let's let 'em know what's ours tonight, huh?" Any sense of civility remaining has gone up in flames. Spring break, spring break, let's live tonight! Seven days of freedom granted, not seized. Too good to be true. The car screeches down the darkened lane and they abandon the gutters for the boundless cackle of rock-and-roll and jukebox joints and bloody knuckles. Jack McNamara leans out of the beloved hot rod and breathes in, tongue still bathed in exotic bliss, the air hot on his face, kid days stretched out in front of him into infinity. Too good to be true. And it would be so.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 10, 2017 23:48:13 GMT -5
a couple a' npc's, just for reference.
Brendon "Cambridge" Beck (brains/leader): A tall and handsome, but somewhat gawkish blonde. He's the first son of the richest family in town, and his father is one of the most successful prosecutors in the area. And, he's supposed to go to Harvard and study law in the future--he comes from a long line of legacies. The spoiled kid uses his gang to release some stress that all these expectations cause him. Spoiled, demanding, two-faced.. He's a prick. Casey "Junior" Beck (the kid): Brendon's younger, much nicer brother. He's softspoken and caring, but gets taunted and bullied into acting out of character. He's easy to persuade and lives off a desire to please others, especially his brother's friends. Levi Horowitz (comic relief): As his name implies, he's a Jew--stereotypically bearing dark brown curly locks, with dark eyes and a defined nose to match. His Jewishness would be something they pick on more often, but his father is a big wig at the local bank, and owns, say, thirty something more of them up and down the East Coast. He has the uncanny ability to talk his way out of anything, as well as make any situation light. Keith "New Haven" Atkins (the muscle): The son of a Yale football standout, who resembles his big-boned, stupid father in almost every way. He's slow to think, slow to react, but has a certain quickness to anger, and a readiness to follow orders. He's the most disliked of the group, since he's lethargic and a sloppy drunk, but he's invaluable for his huge build and muscles.
and, last but not least, the man himself:
[ Jasper Owen ] - [ 17 years old ] INFP, Cancer
A rather unassuming, unkempt young man, who looks somewhat like someone one might want to give a dollar to. He stands at just barely 5'10", and has a spindly, slight frame to complement it. He's perhaps the farthest thing from athletic-looking, with almost sickly-pale fair skin and very little muscle development. In fact, his frame probably edges on the dangerous end of skinniness, as he has a difficult time putting on weight. His general lack of care in his physical appearance shows itself in his longer-than-the-standard dirty blond hair, which often looks a bit tangled, and his constant stubbly facial hair. His blue eyes aren't the bright, vibrant blue hue that most blondes have: instead, it's a more faded, worn gray-blue tone, close to the color of an old pair of blue jeans.Jasper tends to wear what is cheapest, as he's your average broke student. His outfits are modest and worn, but have an element of grunge to them--think tattered jeans, beat-up Converse, graphic t-shirts, flannels, and jean jackets. To add to his already unconventional look, his natural resting face is a blank half-scowl: his goal is to look uninviting and keep people away, and it does just that. Even though Jasper isn't your classic attractive young man, even in a time such as this that places such high value on modesty, he certainly has an alluring grunge, bad boy air to him.
As far as this young man's personality is concerned, there is much more to him than what first meets the eye. To strangers, and basically everyone besides his inner circle, Jasper portrays himself as disagreeable and unlikable. He acts in an aloof, uncaring, defiant manner, quietly rebelling against what he believes is the status quo. He cannot stand being told what to do, regardless of who it is that's telling him, and will respond to even the smallest implication of this with aggression and hostility--he's got a a sharp glare and even sharper tongue. Even his sense of humor is marked by a certain intangible darkness and negativity, and often times, his sarcasm cuts much deeper than friendly humor. His jokes also tend to be self-deprecating, reflecting his low self-esteem, which to people that don't know him well, could be a source of concern. The young man isn't afraid to start a fight, whether it be verbal or physical--he isn't afraid of much, to be honest. Well, it's not so much that he isn't afraid of anything; there's not much in general that he cares about, and he goes through life with a pretty apathetic attitude.
Beneath that abrasive surface, however, those few very lucky individuals will be met with a surprisingly thoughtful young man. Though he might not be book smart, Jasper's quietness is of the intellectual kind, and he'll surprise even the people that know him best with particularly thought-provoking conversation. He likes to tackle the big topics people tend to avoid, such as religion, politics, and ideology. His initial meanness is actually a cover for his shyness. He can be quite kind at times, and even though he isn't one for much physical affection, such as kissing or hugging, his level of intimacy with someone can be measured by how much of himself he reveals to them. Jasper is an extremely private person, with good reason to be, so his trust is very difficult to earn. That being said, once that sacred trust with someone is broken, there's no way that relationship can be repaired.
Jasper's personal life is one marked by lots of pain and strife. He was born to and mostly raised by a single mother in Seattle, Washington, and from time to time, his father would reenter their lives. With his father came trouble--specifically, alcoholism and both verbal and physical abuse--but his mother didn't seem to mind it as much as her son did. The two married and divorced several times during Jasper's childhood, until his mother's pursuit of a college degree forced her to leave him permanently with his father, and then, his step mother and siblings. He was flown to the East Coast, where he has stayed ever since. Over this time, he grew to detest the both of them: his father, for being the terrible, manipulative person that he was, and his mother, for leaving him defenseless with him. In his father's home, he stayed to himself, finding excuses to stay either at school or out of the house for as long as possible, to avoid spending time with his family. Jasper discovered his love for music at a young age. As a child, he began by singing jingles he overheard in commercials to himself, and then eventually joined his school's choir in middle school. Even though he dropped the elective due to pressure from his father, he picked up guitar as a substitute, and practiced and played all through high school. Though he hates to admit it, since it sounds like such a cliche thing to him, music was what kept Jasper sane, and in many ways, kept him alive.
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Likes: coffee, foggy, rainy days, plenty of alone time, good books, rock n' roll, cigarettes, Hennessy, playing his guitar Dislikes: crowds, strangers, his family, intolerance, social inequality
Miscellaneous: - He's definitely depressed, but it hasn't been diagnosed. The few people that are close to him might suspect it, however. - He also has some undiagnosed stomach pain as well, which comes and goes seemingly at random, but intensifies when he's stressed out. These pains render him immobile for at least a couple hours, sometimes up to a day or two. (It's probably ulcers.) - Jasper's personal opinions are before his time. He is what one might call a feminist today--one who supports equality and the abolition of stereotypes. He admires role models such as Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. He's also a liberal, a free thinker. - He picked up a couple bad habits from the men that dated his mother; he likes to smoke cigarettes, and he'll have a drink or two every now and then. When he's stressed out, or celebrating, he will smoke weed. - Perhaps his closest friend is an openly gay kid in his grade named Travis, an awkward, rail-thin redhead. The two get along only really because they have no other friends. Rumor has it that the two are dating, but it's not true at all. (Well, they kissed once, but both agreed that it wasn't going to work.) - Speaking of his sexuality, at this point in his life, it's pretty nebulous and undefined. All he knows at the moment is that he's felt an equal amount of attraction to boys and girls. It's something he keeps very private.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2017 0:59:13 GMT -5
The polished, sparkling black Rolls-Royce Phantom looked quite out of place as it rolled to a stop in front of a, for lack of a more politically correct adjective, average neighborhood. Even with the excitement of spring break's first night out on the town in mind, the blond and curly top in the front seats had difficulty masking their grimaces at how normal, perhaps even somewhat sub-par, their companion's home and surroundings were. The two in the back didn't seem to pay much attention, and instead hummed to whatever tune played on the radio.
".. I'm sick of waiting," Brendon suddenly announced from the passenger seat a couple minutes later. "We told him we'd be here at 11, and it's been five whole minutes. We could be there by now." He huffed impatiently, then reached across the driver's body to press the heel of his hand onto the horn part of the car's steering wheel. The blond leaned on the horn for a couple long moments before the driver finally shoved him away.
"Good God, Brendon," the driver snapped back, flashing a warning gaze across at him. "You wanna piss off all his neighbors, huh? He won't be allowed out again if someone calls the cops--you know that. He says he has to lie to his dad when he comes out."
After returning the sour look and muttering something low about how he didn't really care, the blond sunk deeper into the leather seat. The two younger kids in the back seat exchanged a slight worried glance; once their leader was vexed, it took hours for his temper to calm, and it was the type of anger that any small nuisance could set off. If he didn't have anything to drink soon, and if Karl's didn't have any of his favorite tracks, they were in for a long night of complaining and undeserved insults.
Thankfully, the regal blond's expression softened: not even a minute after leaning on the horn, a small, slight figure stumbled through the doorway, struggling to carry something that seemed heavy wrapped in a coat. The two in the back scooted over (and the lumbering Keith unfortunately had to take the smallest seat in the middle) as he approached the car, and they both helped him sit down, taking the wrapped bundle out of his hands as he settled. The back row was now uncomfortably tight, due to the defensive lineman jammed in the middle.
"Sorry 'bout that," Jasper breathed, sounding a bit labored from his task. "But I.. uh, brought the stuff you guys asked for." Like always, his voice was quiet--it was the type one had to pay careful attention to in order to discern everything.
Keith's expression lit up at his statement, and he began to greedily tear into the jacket. Sure enough, there was a bottle of Jack's and Grey Goose wrapped inside, with two packs of cigarettes underneath it. Levi and Brendon turned to look over their shoulders, wide grins replacing their peeved expressions, and even little Casey leaned over with some interest.
"Well done," Brendon praised, making grateful eye contact with the newcomer. "We'll get into those later tonight. Right now, we're going to Karl's." The car's members whooped in excitement at the statement, and the car's engine roared to life, as if on cue. Levi made a tight u-turn in the cul-de-sac, his tires screeching as he turned, and then roared off into the night.
All Jasper could think of as they drove was of how his stomach had been bothering him all day long. It wasn't enough to keep him from having a good time, but he felt too nauseous to eat much else than probably a chocolate malt and a French fry or two, and the Rolls' dizzyingly powerful speed didn't help to settle it, either. Part of him wanted to politely ask Levi to ease off the gas, but why ruin a good time? The four seemed to be enjoying themselves quite a lot, and the last thing he wanted was to put a damper on their mood. He just hoped it would be contagious, and he would catch some of it--today hadn't been very good, and he wanted to get drunk and yell and scream with them.
The beast advanced forward smoothly, like some kind of jungle cat, roaring and flashing with its freshly washed exterior as it blew past more homes. Rock n' roll music and off-key singing poured out from a cracked window, and, as bad as he felt, his heart felt light. He never participated in this kind of merrymaking--and they stopped asking why he didn't a long time ago--but he enjoyed watching them enjoy themselves. Jasper had always been an outsider in this group, but watching them made him feel like less of one, in a strange way.
A couple minutes later, the five arrived at the diner, and after a brief struggle in the back seat, they emptied into the parking lot. A few marveled out loud at how, thankfully, the parking lot was mostly empty, meaning they would get their orders served quicker. The light look on Brendon's face faded as soon as his keen eyes caught sight of an infamous car parked right by the entrance of the restaurant. He raised his hand, effectively halting the obedient pack that trailed behind.
"The Downtowns are here," he said quietly, the corner of his lip curling down in a sneer. The rest of them went silent with the realization, exchanging worried glances among each other. "Great, just effing great," the blond continued, now starting to raise his voice. "I was just trying to go out, and have a nice meal with my friends, but no--these classless scum have to beat us to it. I don't even want this anymore."
Keith spoke cautiously, trying to show some respect after cutting his leader off. "Whoa--why are you gonna let them ruin your appetite?"
The blond flashed his dangerous, gleaming grin that his friends knew all too well--it was the scheming, devilish look that he always donned right before he threw them all straight into trouble. "You know what? You've got a point there, New Haven," he answered brightly. Keith straightened at the compliment, grinning nervously back at him in reply.
Brendon lead his pack into the diner, swinging the door open with a certain confident flourish. After flashing that million-dollar smile at the waitress, assuring her that they were perfectly able of seating themselves, he strode to the jukebox. "You all go find a table. I don't like what's playing right now." The rest all obeyed without protest, and watched with interest as their leader moved to take a quarter out of his pocket, eyeing the selections behind the glass.
The Harvard bound senior's plan always seemed to work: he would do something innocent enough to provoke the more hotheaded gang into approaching them (or, in some cases, starting the conflict), which always resulted them looking much worse in the eyes of observers. The Uptowns were used to getting away with murder and looking good doing it, simply because they never started it, and it only fueled the tensions that already existed between them.
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Post by greene on Mar 11, 2017 3:22:49 GMT -5
The car had careened right up against the curb so violently that Jack had feared briefly for his life - which isn't an unpleasant feeling, necessarily, not tonight, and not for him - and braced himself hard against the dash, grimacing, grinning, he couldn't tell the difference. Pat had piped up from the backseat: "You're gonna lose more than your eye if you keep pulling stunts like that, Boss." The laughter that followed was anything but nervous. It was a tremendous night.
They'd spilled from the rag-top like bees from the hive and lit themselves up in brilliant tints of neon as they'd crossed the parking lot, punching and snarling like wolves, and baked in the diner's golden glow, drawing all the attention to their lawless presence for those few savored moments. It wasn't uncommon for social groups to mingle at Karl's, though the divisions were clear: buddy up to the wrong dame and you'd have your jaw knocked loose, or worse. But that was part of the reason they were there to begin with.
Maz chases a lingering freshman couple out of a booth and orders them a round of beers, which the waitress doesn't once question. Maz is about old enough anyway and looks plenty older when he wants to be, and even if he weren't, he'd send her away and ask for the manager and flash his switchblade out from under his arm, which always sent the poor old man into a nervous frenzy. Jack felt a pang of guilt rise up in his gut whenever this happened. Luckily it hadn't come to that for some time, and the waitress - a smallish, beady-eyed girl named Evelyn, a bookish type in his last period English - looked a little sympathetic on account of Maz's eye, anyway.
The booth doesn't stay occupied by all five for long. Eddie departs first, finding his place perched at the bar beside a couple of red-lipped, preppy-looking girls whose boyfriends appeared to be more engaged in a conversation with their pals nearer to the jukebox than to them. He was showing them a card trick which never failed to amaze; it was Eddie's prime pickup tactic, given that he didn't have the best mug around and happily accepted the fact. Pat was pressed up against the glass of the jukebox with a boy they knew named Rabbit, a fourteen-year-old who dressed preppy but acted hood, who was decidedly annoying but funny enough to hang around with every once in a while. Rabbit was somehow sloppily drunk (probably from breaking into his old man's stash at home, which he would inevitably be beaten sick for) and debating Pat on the principles of Elvis' music in between bouts of irrational laughter, which the former seemed prepared to defend to the death - which was, of the Downtown gang, the only appropriate response.
Danny had crept noiselessly from the midst of this teenaged chaos to slide into a booth a few tables over, at which a tender-looking, dark-haired girl called Olive was sitting eerily alone. Danny loved Olive with all of his heart. The two never stopped smiling around each other, their black eyes warm with adoration, and spoke so quietly that Jack wondered if they weren't just mouthing the words. It wasn't a big deal, really, because Olive was the product of hippie parents. She was neither preppy nor hood, which meant she was in that wonderful place where no one would get their jaws knocked loose if they sat next to her, like Eddie - but the other boys teased Danny relentlessly for it. Jack did too, of course, but found something strangely precious in their odd, quiet little relationship. It was like being found by a rescue helicopter out at sea: feeling impossible, but happening nevertheless. It was hopeful.
Jack had sat at the booth the for longest, sipping away at his mug next to Maz, who leaned back against the greasy red and white striped fabric with his collar popped, smoking, eyes drifting aimlessly around the pulsating interior of the diner. Jack wondered vaguely what it was like to be a quarter-blind. He didn't ask. A couple of preppy girls were peering at the blond from a few tables over, whispering dangerously. It wasn't uncommon. Maz was movie star handsome - he just didn't care.
Jack winked at a passing waitress and kicked him under the table. "How's that eye treating you, old man?"
Maz's lip twitched nonchalantly at one corner. "I think it's a healthy change in perspective." He drummed his fingers on the back of the cushion and scoured the room once more. "It ain't that - "
He stopped, stiffened, sat up. Jack whipped around without a thought, narrowing his eyes through the darkened glass window.
"Well, wouldya lookit that?"
The younger boy beamed. The Royce was sleek enough to be almost gawky next to their busted up, low riding Corvette, and Jack felt sure that he hated it then with every ounce of his being. It's ridiculous. It's too much. Who needs all that? "We should send Danny out to key the thing," he hissed, knowing full well that Eddie would beg and plead for hours on end in defense of that car if he knew they were even considering such a thing. Eddie envied the owner of that Royce more than anything in the world. Truth be told, so did Jack.
He twisted back around in time to witness their entrance. Truly a grand flourish: the leader, a loathsome mirror of their own in appearance (and perhaps sometimes behavior, though it was an insult that would cut so deep that no one would dare use it against Maz), followed closely by his cronies - alarming parallels to their enemies if there ever were any.
The collective attention of the gang had been refocused as if by some mysterious instinct, and they all peered maliciously at the intrusion through hardened eyes. Danny was hovering protectively over Olive, jaw locked tight, hands buried in his pockets.
Pat was the only one who appeared not to take notice until the last moment, still heavily involved in the jukebox situation despite the shift in palpable shift in the air. The hair on the back of his neck must have stood up, then, because he whipped around all of a sudden and scowled at Brendon Beck. "Hey hey hey, what's the big idea, Pretty Boy Floyd? Didn't your mama ever teach you how to take turns?" His tone dripped venom, a natural defense in light of what they were faced with. Rabbit had leaped out of the picture in an instant. All things considered, the populace of the diner was about evenly divided as far as support went.
And Jack was excited. Almost jealous that Pat had gotten the first wisecrack in. The glint in the athlete's eye was perfectly indicative of his satisfaction.
"Nah, he's got everything, Pat. What's the use in sharing?" Jack snorted. Eddie barked at that, and Maz rose from the booth slowly, shoulders tense, smoke hanging from his lip like a dragon's, muttering a string of foreign curses. They were all on their feet now. Eddie muttered something to the girls through his crooked smile and took another long swig of his beer. The two looked a mite colder now.
"You've got a lotta nerve, y'know, thinkin' you own the place, Beck." Jack continued, shoulders shifting beneath his jacket. "Is it really worth it? A shame if that Royce got a little dusty in the lot, don'tcha think?"
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Post by Deleted on Mar 11, 2017 14:00:30 GMT -5
Brendon looked unaffected as he always did as their rivals began to close ranks on him, barely seeming to notice them as he took his time picking a new song. Though the rest of his followers couldn't help but feel uneasy at the standoff, they were reassured by how composed their leader was. After he made a selection, the blond rested an elbow carelessly on the jukebox, rolling his eyes before answering his addresser.
"Slow your roll, McNamara," the blond answered coolly, lacking the snappish aggression that the previous wisecracks had. "It only makes sense that Levi wouldn't key his own car, and his father knows plenty about you and your.. Friends." He flashed a narrow-eyed glare at the other thugs lingering behind Jack, before moving his gaze back to the redhead. "If you want to pay for his new paint job, and perhaps spend a night or two in jail, please, be our guest."
As he flashed his trademark false grin, pleased with his comment, his pack took the opportunity to come to his aid, filling in the spots behind him. The big boned Keith and wiry Levi stood on either side of him, as they usually did, giving the already striking blond a more intimidating look. Casey and Jasper hung behind him, doing their best to manage hostile looks.
"Did this schmuck threaten to key my car?" The curly top asked indignantly, turning to share his outraged look with his leader. "And you're just gonna let him get away with it? Nobody talks to us that way and gets away with it." He crossed his arms over his chest.
Levi's suggestion prompted the devilish grin back out of hiding. ".. Look. We just wanted to have a nice dinner here, and this diner isn't big enough for the both of us," Brendon growled, now standing up straighter. He towered over Jack, since he was over six feet tall, which allowed him to get some satisfaction from literally looking down on him.
After a pause, he asked, "You guys wanna take this outside, or what?"
Thankfully, Jasper was standing just behind Keith, so his now slight fearful expression was well hidden behind his bulk. Wait--what? They wanna actually start a fight, right now? He asked himself. He wasn't at all prepared to start swinging at anyone tonight. Well, that wasn't necessarily true, since he always kept his switchblade in the pocket of his jeans in case of scuffles like this, but all he wanted was to have a little fun on a Friday night.
But, once again, as he searched his friends' faces for any concurring expressions, he found none; instead he found a strange, feral type of excitement. As much as Brendon, and even little Casey, wouldn't admit it to themselves, they both lived for the thrill of these scuffles. It was glaringly obvious how much the other two enjoyed fighting, and now they shared their leader's dangerous look. Jasper hung behind, expression neutral, once again biting his tongue.
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Post by greene on Mar 11, 2017 23:06:36 GMT -5
Jack shifted his jaw a few times beneath his wolfish grin, eyes bright with the kind of vibrant enthusiasm that only someone who took genuine delight in confrontation could possess; he was angry, sure, but he was always sort of angry. He just didn't feel angry. He felt excited, thrilled, like the wild buzz in his chest was piercing his heart like a scorpion's tail and clawing its way up through his throat and making him say these things that he knew for sure were foolish, but he said them anyway, because he enjoyed doing it. There really wasn't much else to it. He liked a good rumble; it gave him something to do with himself.
"By all means, your Highness - " He bowed his head dramatically, unwilling to let the height difference between them look half as much like the disadvantage that it was. " - we wouldn't want Horowitz's poor old man to have to go through the trouble of scraping together the dough to buy you poor young men a new storming machine. God knows he couldn't afford the horse to pull it."
Pat laughed in the form of a wild, obnoxious cackle and fed rabidly off the sarcasm, straining his voice into a high-pitched caricature. "Least he get his panties too far in a twist."
The others moved to match their warped reflections, wiry Eddie taking up his place behind the two instigators, his mouth set in a gawky half-smirk. Maz tipped back the remainder of his drink - some spilling from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down the front of his white T-shirt - licked his lips, and began stalking toward their throng, eyes locked intently on Brendon.
"A nice dinner," Jack muttered, batting his eyes up at Eddie, who beamed in response as Jack repeated it, as if there was no way the others could've heard. "All they wanted was a nice dinner." He was drunk, and his green eyes were glowing, and his "-ers" had turned to "-ahs", something he would've been mocked ceaselessly for if it weren't for their current situation. Contrary, the Downtown gang had come for anything but: it was tradition to start up trouble, tradition to look for some action on their first eve of granted lawlessness. It was only appropriate to take full advantage.
Danny lingered on the gang's periphery, bent over the booth in which his Sophie sat, excessively worried-looking - and that went for the both of them. He was gnawing on his lip, collar popped, chin low. He was looking at Maz, big eyes pleading. The request was simple: do what they want. Take it outside. Do that much for me. Maz and Jack both were keen on making a scene in places they self-decidedly "owned", but Olive had never seen Danny fight, and they all knew well enough that the boy was quick to make sure she never did. It must've been a weird thing, Jack thought: to have such a sweet lie to share. Even though Danny looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly, he was tougher than nails when he needed to be. But he'd be sure that Olive could keep up the illusion that he was just a sweet, innocent boy like any other. It was no cardinal sin to expose loved ones to how dangerous you could be, but Danny never asked for much. It would be easier to ditch the place if the heat came rolling up in the midst of it, anyway.
Maz came to absorb the space behind them and put his arm around Jack's shoulders, tendrils of smoke dripping from the end of his weed and dancing across the leather. His eyes were cold, as per usual, but he was breathing hard, which only happened when he was drunk or teetering on the edge of it. So that was that: Jack was drunk, Maz was intent, Eddie and Pat were pulsing with excitement and Danny was practically sweating. Needless to say, it was a typical first day of spring break.
All the attention had poured into the middle of their fray, and mutters of calling the police began to worm their way through the room. "Figlio di buona donna. Ladies first." Maz gestured to the door they'd rolled through a pitifully short time ago and cocked an eyebrow, expressionless otherwise, his icy stare locked on Brendon's. The rest began to cluster together in anticipation. Jack licked his lips and found himself again bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet, feeling heavy under Maz's grip. He told himself this was justified - because of Maz getting jumped, because of all the times he or another member had been jumped, because he needed to let out his frustrations, because it wasn't anything more than what they normally did, anyway - but in the end, it didn't matter. In the end, he just wanted something to do with himself.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 12, 2017 13:36:37 GMT -5
Even though the tall blond could give a damn whether or not they were teased with these drunken jeers, he could feel Levi starting to lose his composure next to him; his fists were balled, knuckles squeezed white from the strength of his grip, and his expression had shifted from comfortably ready to infuriated. He was the type to stick up for those close to him with every ounce of strength in his wiry frame, including his immediate family--and he could barely take insults quietly. Brendon only broke the eye contact with Maz to address his deteriorating friend, but still shot the shorter Italian a sneer.
"Save it for out there," he insisted in a whisper. "Use what you're feeling right now against them." He nodded towards the other members of his pack, and in that quiet, focused way, they moved as a unit out of the diner. None of them were completely comfortable with turning their backs to these thugs, but perhaps one of the few set rules that they obeyed was no brawling in public spaces, and their rivals had the shred of decency to uphold it.
Once the five of them were safely outside, Brendon pulled them all into a close huddle. The air in the circle was thick with adrenaline and the readiness to cause some kind of bloodshed--it was similar to the excitement of a hunt. "We know what to do," he said lowly, reassuringly, his steady voice now starting to shake with anticipation. "They're drunk, inebriated, sluggish--we're sober. Be quick and hit hard. We're not losing this. We gotta set the tone for this spring break." The blond paused before adding, "If the cops show up, the word is, as always, 'lemon'. You hear that, we go to the car, and get the hell out of here."
Levi and Keith seemed most inspired by this talk, as they shared the same wicked grin while they cracked their knuckles and double checked for the emergency knife in their back pockets. Brendon pulled a pair of brass knuckled out of his pocket and slipped one set on his right hand before handing the second set to his brother. Casey gazed at them with some uncertainty, but took them out of his brother's outstretched hand and hesitantly put them on. Even Jasper looked focused and intent; he was mostly intent on landing a few punches and getting out of this parking lot. It was clear they were all nervous--the warm springtime air buzzed with some kind of anxious energy--but it was the good kind that could be put to work.
But, at the same time, the five felt comfortable and concealed in the darkness. The only real source of light was of the colored neon signs radiating out from the diner windows, but that light was weak, only giving their jackets and polished shoes a pinkish tint. The way the darkness blurred them out from any passerby and made them confident, perhaps as much as a couple swigs of Jack's could've inspired them. In the dark, they were liberated from all clinging ties of self-consciousness, or expectation, or stress; it compelled their fists to swing. The desire to hurt was almost overwhelming.
The five all straightened once they heard the tinkling little bell on the diner door sound again, turning to face their opponent. Brendon took his stance at the head of his gang, looking curiously unprepared to fight, standing with one knee bent and both hands in his pockets. Then, he enacted a strategy he'd recently come up with: the blond turned his back to the other boys, acting as if he had one last thing to say to his people, before whipping back around, with his armored fist swinging at his side, aimed right for Maz's jaw.
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Post by greene on Mar 13, 2017 22:08:20 GMT -5
They piled out of the diner in a mad rush. Jack was second to hit the pavement, prodding Danny out in front of him because the only way the youngest would throw a punch in the offense was if he was absolutely forced to. The boy had lost his color already and was nearly quavering. Danny was a pacifist, though he made no move to hide nor express this fact; he was never the one to instigate, and wouldn't dare be the one to put a halt to a violent situation. But his hesitance was obvious in the way it gripped his features, pulling his youthful face into sharp lines of uncertainty which never failed to give Jack some pause - though it never did much to put him off a good scrap, either. He was only reminded that Danny was young - younger than the rest of them, though in mind more than body - and perhaps he had some valid reason to not want any teeth knocked out only for the sake of pride, or for nothing at all. Jack had to envy it.
But he was pushed out ahead anyway, and Maz grabbed his collar as soon as he'd come out and shoved him to the far left, between Pat and Eddie, and he stood there, one hand in his pocket, fingers curled tentatively around the hilt of the blade he kept close. If worse went to worst, Jack thought, Danny would do it - he'd pull a blade long before the rest of them would, perhaps. But killing, or even hurting someone that badly - even a wealthy schmuck with his name written all over a blade like the one Danny kept - would kill Danny himself, and so no one ever worried too much over all the damage he might one day cause, however unintentionally. It was never wise to pull a blade on an Uptown.
Jack and Eddie flanked Maz, Pat and Danny flanked Eddie, and they all shot brief, wordless glances among one another. It was a silent ritual - no plan, no scheme, because they worked like a pack. They had no tactic because there was no tactic to be had, and relied solely on the movements of the others the moment they happened. If all went badly, they'd have a good kickoff rumble, at the very least.
Eddie put his arm around Danny's shoulders as he snubbed out his cigarette. It was a silent, boyish attempt at encouragement: in the heat of the moment, all they really needed was the pack.
"Let's go, princess." Jack spat at the space between them and took a step forward, eyes narrowed, beaming, wolfish. Half the fun was the jeering. In truth, he loathed his inexplicable urge to coax trouble the same way he loathed patching up the aftermath - and on his adopted family much more than himself - but it was sometimes all he could hope for. Jack MacNamara was the eldest of ten, a solitary parent, paid the bills, would never afford college despite his stellar grades, and simply couldn't find himself a steady place in the world. He was a square peg in a round hole. A puzzle piece that just wouldn't fit. The greaser lifestyle was made for him, shaped from shared hard times and blood and frustration - and brawling, hot rodding, shoplifting, rebelling, were all a part of that, and nothing had ever left him feeling so whole and free.
He didn't even hate the Uptowns, he thought. This occurred to him every once and a while, a terrifying epiphany that stuck in his mind for all of a split second at the worst of times. He hated their parents, maybe, but not them. No. This was his outlet. This was his freedom.
Maz didn't pull him back, but stepped ahead of him, moving like a leopard, his head low. He suspected something Jack hadn't at the last minute, but that didn't stop him from catching the blow hard before he could shift back against his crowd. Pat whistled low. It became apparent when the blond took a moment longer than usual to recover that the fight was not balanced in their favor. His cigarette lay an inch or two from Jack's boot, one end stained crimson. Maz touched his lip and, upon pulling away with his fingertips stained, turned his full attention on Brendon, eyes dark and frigid. "Oh, I'll put you on the news, boy."
Jack got a drunken bout of laughter out at this line before Maz lurched forward and made a grab for Brendon's collar, his other arm drawn back to return the blow. The following moments were a hazy blur, a constant din that never quite ceased from that day on. They flung themselves on the others like junkyard dogs: Pat grappling with Levi, Eddie determined to take Keith and Casey both with a broken bottle in one end and nothing but callouses on the other. Danny dodged between all of them, slick as a fox, jabbing here and there wherever he was needed. Jack - perhaps drunk beyond reason, if his wobble was any indication - was momentarily stunned: things moved quickly every time, he thought, but he was still looking at the bloody cancer stick by his foot, still pumping out thin streams of smoke, and the world seemed frozen for that moment.
Then his senses came back all at once in a sort of sobering way, and he flicked his switch out of his pocket and smoothed his hair back with his free hand. Then he went on the prowl, slithering numbly through the commotion to find the blond - the new guy, the cube, the odd ball. He couldn't recall his name to save his own hide, but he was, for some reason, determined to introduce himself.
"What's buzzin', cuzzin?" he purred, once he had registered that he was confronting Jasper - or who his drunk brain assumed was Jasper, anyway. He twirled the blade between his fingertips, albeit his most sensible side reasoned that he would never use it as seriously as his sluggish mind thought he intended to - not tonight, anyway. And never against an Uptown. "Let's dance, huh? You and me. Get to know each other a little."
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Post by Deleted on Mar 14, 2017 0:43:39 GMT -5
The Uptowns watched with stunned expressions, including the usually stoic Brendon, who flashed a nervous, half awestruck glance at his balled fist, as Maz took the blow head on. None of them had expected to see bloodshed on the first hit, but nevertheless, the surprise only delighted them, feeding into their hunger to see even more harm done to the rest of them.
The rest of them sprung into action once their leader was yanked forward by his freshly pressed shirt collar, making shouts and whoops as they leaped at the first bodies they could find. This was an unusual fight, even for these two gangs; metallic glints of knives were already flashing in the moonlight, ready to pierce and settle this matter very quickly. Usually, weapons of any kind were held at the last resort, but both boys were thirsty for a good ol' fashioned knife fight this particular evening: there'd been a drought of conflicts between them as midterms rolled through, so now, all that pent up frustration and stress was manifesting itself through senseless violence.
Brendon struggled to breathe, nonetheless see or react, as the punches to his handsome face kept on coming. At one point, when he was tired of taking this drunk man's blows, he raised a knee to the Italian's stomach, then used the space it gave him to reach in his back pocket, drawing out his knife. Something in his intelligent hazel eyes looked particularly disturbed tonight, and they glared at Maz with particularly potent hatred.
"Don'cha wanna keep your eye, huh, punk?" The blond snarled in question, voice slurred with both the blood in his mouth and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He breathed heavily between words, spraying mists of red as he spoke. "You're a goddamn idiot if you wanna try this again. You're only gonna keep losin'." He kept the knife half raised, but it was only a threat; both sides knew well that Brendon rarely lashed out with anything other than his fists. He would much rather keep his hands clean and have his friends fight, which is what they did.
Levi struggled lightly to hold his own against the strapping Pat, and the two wrestled for control of a switchblade--and the latter seemed to be winning the fight easily. The much smaller Eddie, however, stood no chance in front of the hulking Keith, who promptly shoved him to the ground and began delivering a good pummeling to his face and stomach. Casey, looking stunned out of his mind, with that sort of glazed over look that Jack wore, rushed to Levi's aid, helping in the struggle for the weapon.
That left Jasper, who looked to help the others, left alone. He seemed intent on helping Keith finish the job with Eddie on the ground, but he froze as he realized Jack, who the Uptowns considered the co-leader of his gang, advancing towards him. To the blond, he looked like some kind of sick animal, taking his sweet time in approaching him, mouth drawn up in a lazy, drunken smile, and--good God, his knife was already out. He didn't say anything in reply--he was never the talkative type--and only drew his own switchblade out of his back pocket, looking fierce to mask his fear. He'd never been put in this situation before, but as he prepared to fight, something developed between Brendon and Maz.
His leader staggered backwards from his opponent, sheathing his blade back into his pocket. When Jasper scanned the scene for the rest of his friends, he was startled to find none of them were where they just were, and, he heard the Roll's deep mechanical roar start up as its engine was turned on. The car lurched out of its spot, tires screeching as Levi made a beeline for Brendon. The Downtowns close to him jumped backwards, threatened by the car, and the taller blond stepped inside, slamming the door. The beast of a car then took off out of the lot and back into the night, leaving skid marks behind as it sped out of there.
Through a cracked window, his leader's voice could clearly be heard: "This ain't over, you greasers!" It echoed in the quiet streets.
Jasper watched the car speed off, his breath held tight in his throat as he fought to yell out for them. He simply turned his wide-eyed gaze to the beast as it pulled away, feeling the fear in his chest only multiply. He was full of outrage, too, and he would make sure these a-holes would hear about this when it was all over, but for now, he stood still, paralyzed by fear more intense than he ever remembered feeling before.
These jerks actually forgot me, was all he could muster, even to himself. I bring them booze and cigs, and they f-ing forget me? This is unbelievable, now I'm basically a sitting duck--God know what these punks are gonna do to me. The voice in his head was as incredulous as it was outraged, but it was quickly silenced once he heard footsteps approaching him from behind.
The smaller blond whipped around, brandishing his knife as he used his free hand to push some hair out of his eyes. This was not going to end well, even if he did run--and he was not running. Jasper knew he may be called many things, but he wouldn't stand it to be called a coward. Even if they were going to beat him to a pulp, he was not going to flee from them, and in fact, he was determined to leave some of them with scars to remember him by.
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Post by greene on Mar 15, 2017 17:12:31 GMT -5
The four leered at the clunky vehicle as it barreled off the bloodied asphalt and jolted into the blackness - all but Jack, who, caught in an undertow of confusion as a result of Jasper's lack of returned insults, was staring at him presently, eyes narrowed, struggling to organize his thoughts into some semblance of who this young man was in the wake of what had just happened.
"Good riddance." Eddie croaked from the pavement. He'd propped himself up on his elbows, wide mouth settled into a red-tinted smirk. His dark eyes—one tinged purple and swollen—flickered up to where Danny stood above him, grimacing. "Coulda thrown your weight around a little more there, Danny boy."
Danny crouched to offer a hand. "Sorry, Ed."
Pat ruffled his brother's hair in a wordless gesture. Aside from Danny - who bore only a golf ball-sized bruise on one cheek, yellowing already - Pat was left the most unscathed. His nose was bleeding, but he took no notice, glowing with pride as rivulets of red trickled through his big, bared teeth.
"Let's go after 'em!" he suggested fiercely, cracking his calloused knuckles. "The sons of b-es shouldn't be able to get away that easy. The cowards!"
He looked to Maz for validation, but the blond was somewhere else. He was rubbing irritably at his jaw, contributing a smear of scarlet to the blotted mess of black and purple. His lip was split and his hands were slick with blood. The trouble with Maz was that he was more merciless than the rest of them, and Jack thought he'd gladly beat a man back to life just to beat him dead again if he could - although he rarely showed any satisfaction either way. That was the most unsettling thing to notice about him after a fight.
Jack watched in a detached sort of way and felt an ugly tug in his chest when Maz reached up to touch his eye, then just as quickly dropped his arm, the motion so fluid it was as if it hadn't happened at all. The blond stooped to pick his dislodged smoke up off the pavement and lifted it back to his bloodied mouth. "No. Now they've got the sense to stay off our turf. We're not overdoing it." He spat bright red onto the ground and caught Jack's eye, hands pressed into his pockets. "What's the damage, Manhattan?"
He hadn't caught sight of Jasper tucked away in the shadows. Jack smiled.
"Just fine, Daddy-O," he sang, sobered by the evening and the curious faces plastered against the glass and the blood dripping from his brothers' wounds. He cocked an eyebrow at Jasper, folded his blade back into his pocket, and again began fussing with his thick hair. "Might wanna check in on this cat over here, though. Looks a little green in the gills."
Maz was quick to dismiss his rambling, but when he came to check to make sure Jack wasn't bleeding profusely and simply immune to it because of his own inebriation, the secret was out. His sapphire eyes grew big, then narrowed into shards of ice.
Pat cursed. "Did they leave one?" His voice was high with excitement, like a little kid spotting a wild animal off the road for the first time.
Ed leaned on Danny and they swarmed around Jack and Jasper, forming a loose half-circle that buzzed with amusement and malice. Jack grinned.
“Can I take this guy? Please, Maz, I’m in the zone—”
“Nahh, let Eddie do it, he hardly got a swing in from what I could tell—”
“Well maybe we oughta—”
“Boys.” It wasn't their leader who brought their attention around. The rest looked at Danny incredulously. “I think we should let ‘em go. I mean—” He shuffled, hot under the collar with all the attention. “We beat the rest pretty bad, and this guy doesn't look like the fighting type...I mean, y’know.”
Danny was great in school debates; so much so that he captured the awe of even his brothers, when they had the time to listen in (and they did, when they had the time). But presenting his case to the gang itself was another matter: everyone knew the latter half of his argument was a lie, and they shared doubtful glances among each other.
“What I mean is, they already left him behind, so they must not care about him that much anyway. We don't even know he was really a part of the gang.” Danny straightened a little, hands spread out in a gesture of encouragement.
This argument struck a little more convincingly with the rest, and their bemusement turned to vague consideration in light of the concept. Could be true, Jack thought. Could be a ploy. Could be a trap.
His puzzled scowl lightened into a shining look of realization. Danny grabbed his arm to steady him. Probably hoping he’d be the easiest to convince.
“Listen, listen!” Jack said as the other four dissolved into heated debate, ignoring Jasper’s presence entirely. As if he were a piece of meat. The last slice of pizza in the box. A granted thing. “Let me do it. I didn't get any action tonight. I’ll take him back behind the place, rough him up a little, not too much—” He raised his eyebrows dramatically at Danny. “And then I’ll uh, I’ll let ‘em go, or whatever.”
He peered up at Maz, eyes almost pleading, mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “What say you, Don?”
Maz took a long drag from his smoke and sighed. “I don't care one way or the other, fratello,” he concluded, sounding perfectly the part. “You’ve got—I dunno, ten minutes. We got so much attention on us it’ll be some kinda miracle if the whole town doesn't know by morning. Ten minutes, then we split.”
Jack socked him in the shoulder as an extension of his gratitude, grinning wildly. Then he flicked his blade out again and jerked his chin at Jasper. “Alright then, blondie. You and me. Out back.”
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Post by Deleted on Mar 15, 2017 23:43:00 GMT -5
If there was anything he hated--well, if there was anything close to the top of the long list of things he hated, it was being the center of attention, in any circumstances. However, Jasper could deal with being called on by the teacher to answer a question with little complaint; now was completely different, as these rats argued among themselves which one was going to take him. The blond felt his face heat up and redden with the indignity of it all. The way they argued over him reminded him of a disturbing incident he'd witnessed at a party over winter break: a couple jocks fought over who had "the right" to a drunk girl passed out on the couch. It disgusted him, and that same vile feeling rose up again in his chest. He was not an object to be fought over, with intent to be harmed.
As strong as the emotions were that he felt, the blond never felt smaller in his whole life. Even though these boys were raggedy, battered looking things, they were still so much bigger than him, and he was far outnumbered. His grip on his blade began to slack and he instinctively drew his arms close to him again, shrinking back into himself. The driving factor behind his mind, which was racing with all kinds of thoughts of rage and revenge and betrayal, was intense fear. At this point, he could barely hold his knife still in his trembling hand, and he felt like a complete fool. Despite this, his hardened expression, which was cross as ever, didn't crack at all.
That being said, Jasper felt immensely relieved when the most drunk out of the bunch, Jack, decided to claim him. Even though he knew this kid contained what he thought was a sick desire to hurt, reflected in the fact that he even wanted to choose him, he was drunk to the point where he could barely even steady his body, which teetered and swayed precariously. He could hit him with a quick couple jabs, taking advantage of his inhibited reaction time, and then slip off into the night once he was dazed. It was the perfect plan--he'd leave completely unscathed and get home before midnight.
That factor alone emboldened the smaller blond enough to rekindle his usual defiance. After locking his hostile gaze with his challenger's more relaxed one, he turned and spat on the pavement, which was dark and shiny in spots where blood had been shed. "Be my guest, ya prick," he snapped back lowly, his soft voice quiet as usual.
He kept his knife out as the two walked to the back of the diner, Jasper leading by just a few strides as they distanced themselves from the bloodied Downtowns. The blond kept an uneasy eye on his trailing opponent, worried that he would try to strike without him knowing if he had his back turned. The back was nearly pitch black, illuminated by only a faint green neon sign in a small window and shaded by the building itself from the moon shining overhead. Jasper remained calm, telling himself that this darkness was perfect for a getaway. He pressed himself close to the wall, watching with wary eyes, anticipating Jack's first move.
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Post by greene on Mar 16, 2017 14:12:11 GMT -5
Jack lit another cigarette as they traipsed around the back of the building. His blade had disappeared into the pocket of his smeared jeans, though his eyes traced Jasper's with intense scrutiny until the voices of the others faded behind the bricks. It occurred to him vaguely that having a weapon pulled on him in this scenario wouldn't render the other boy as the threat in the eyes of most of the town: Jack was the menace here, the instigator, the delinquent, the greaser. Jack would have paid the price no matter the outcome. Jasper was only defending himself. That was the difference Daddy's money could make.
It had him angry by the time the background noise faded and he braced his arm against Jasper's chest and shoved him hard against the dumpster, immune in that moment to the reverberating bang and the chorus of early morning crickets and the leeching nighttime air. He bit his lip until the coppery tang seeped into his tongue, eyes blazing for that moment, blind and uncaring to how violent or irrational he'd become. It wasn't fair. His Bud-enlightened mind had brought him only to this conclusion: it wasn't fair, and it never would be.
Then like the flip of a coin he was mellow again, inexplicably, and the switch he hadn't realized he was brandishing against Jasper's throat was being flicked back into its hilt. "Come on, cowboy," he hissed, long and low, his mouth bent into that wicked grin. "Don't you wanna get your two in?"
The slur was gone, but his eyes were hazy and the world tilted hazardously in its paling glow. Jack twirled the knife between his fingers and let his arms swing at his sides, his chuckle muffled around the blunt of the smoke. He raised a hand to look briefly at his unmarked knuckles. He hadn't hit anything tonight, he realized; now was a golden opportunity.
But it felt fake: a ruse, a joke. He felt like one of them. Waiting for a moment when the other party would be trapped before they sprang. Always guarded by their friends, their teachers, their parents, their community. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't even.
"I'm not gonna hurt you." He shook his head, his expression going slack with irritation, then brightening just as quickly, the grin bobbing on and off his lips like an unsteady ship cresting the waves. The drink ran through his veins like fire and his mind was just as frantic. Jack laughed. "Nah. That's too easy. They'll know." He raised the blade toward the east end of town, toward the spray of white-fenced neighborhoods that stood in its protected, tree-lined lanes. "They'll know, and they'll go cryin' after you. And then what happens to my boys, huh? I'll bet you know. Everyone does."
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Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2017 6:10:36 GMT -5
It all happened so fast--an instant after he lifted his eyes to meet his assailant's, Jasper felt him last out with a strong grip and toss him to the side, into the hull of an empty dumpster. He made a weak, surprised cry as he was thrown, but once he felt his body jerk forward with the contact, the blond felt dazed, as the echo of both the empty metal bin and his head reverberated in his ears. It was too soon to feel pain--he just felt an immense pressure along his side and back, where he hit the dumpster. And, again, as quickly and suddenly as the first act of violence was, the blond felt a rough hand jerk his head upwards by his hair, and something cool and thin was suddenly pressed against his exposed neck.
After struggling to comprehend what was happening, moving his confused gaze up toward Jack's, he was suddenly hit with the reality of his situation: this kid had his knife pressed to his throat, with enough pressure that threatened to press the blade into the soft, vulnerable skin of his neck. Forgetting his usual cool facade in the moment, Jasper's eyes widened with terror, and he raised a shaking hand to clasp the one that held the knife, fighting with what little strength he had to push it away. There was nothing he could say--he was gripped by the fear that any excess movements he made could press his flesh into the blade.
Jasper noticed something change in his opponent's eyes. They were dark and hauntingly aggressive, like some kind of ravenous wolf, starved of fresh meat and blood, when he approached him earlier and threw him to the floor, but now they seemed to warm with some kind of realization. Somehow, this kid's eyes looked more human, and as the blond toyed with this concept in his mind, it seemed almost contradictory: how could a human's eyes not look human? As his adrenaline-fueled mind raced with activity and thoughts of all kinds, he realized that he'd seen the same nearly feral look in both his fellow Uptowns, and in the eyes of the Downtowns.
Just after he noted the change, the knife and pressure were suddenly gone, as quickly as they had appeared. His first instinct told him to gasp for air and reel backwards, and the blond's trembling hands moved to feel at his throat, thankfully finding no damage other than a little tenderness at the site. Jasper pressed himself tight to the dumpster walls, peering up with wide, terrorized eyes, both arms raised over his face to block any kind of blow. But, none came, and after a couple long moments passed, he lowered his hands, perplexed.
His assailant was now back upright, muttering bitterly to him about the unfairness of their uphill battle against the richer kids, gesturing with his blade towards a row of houses just across the street from the diner. Jasper glanced over at them, not daring to let Jack out of his sight for more than a moment or two, for fear that he'd attack. Even though he assured that he wasn't going to hurt him, the blond had plenty of reason to be doubtful.
".. I don't live there," Jasper replied lowly after letting a quiet moment pass between the two. "I, uh.. I don't know what would happen, after..." He trailed off, gesturing to imply 'beating'. "I'm not from here." He sounded guarded and defensive as he spoke, and even though part of his tone reflected aggression, it was the wary kind: part of him felt fear for speaking, as he didn't know how he would retaliate. His demeanor seemed all over the place at the moment, so he didn't know what to expect at all from him.
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Post by greene on Mar 18, 2017 22:50:28 GMT -5
"Course you don't. Christ, you're all so -" He dissolved into a fit of rogue laughter that peaked in a slew of curses mumbled so fluently under his breath that, had he been sober enough to realize, Jack would have been impressed with his own eloquence.
The ghost of a hangover lingered at the front of his mind: throbbing behind his eyes like something alive, urging the gray matter up against the paper-thin walls of his skull until he felt himself stagger - then recover, then grin. A simple barrage of stage instructions. The pain resonated like a ragged wound directly between his eyes, bearing straight down into his heavy brain. Jack grimaced.
He paused in his tracks once it occurred to him that he'd been pacing. The nausea faded. The switch was out again, but the blade threatened only the cement under his feet. You're not gonna hurt anybody tonight, pal, he told himself. Using a switch on anyone - especially in his current state, and especially against someone of Jasper's standing - in any way, whether he meant to or not, looking, sounding, acting the way he did, was just about the second worst thing to a death sentence a guy like him could get - and Jack thought himself just a hair too smart for that.
He slid the knife back in his pocket and made a silent pact with himself to keep it there. His lip was dotted with red. It was his only battle scar that evening. He scowled.
Jasper's words sank in after his animal anger had faded enough to leave him somewhat reasonable, though it took a good long moment more before he could fully process the idea that the man he was dealing with might not, in fact, be like the others. Jack's scowl deepened.
"The hell do you mean - " He raked a hand through his thick hair and shook his head in frustration. What does it matter where he's from?
Once again, his human facade had fractured. He didn't want to think. He shoved Jasper back against the dumpster and leaned in close enough to recognize the boy's eye color, even in the dim - pale blue, old blue; like the color of his jeans.
"You're cruisin' for a bruisin', you know that?" he chuckled. "What's it to me where you're from? You're hangin' around prettyboy Cambridge whatshisface, aren't ya? Livin' off Daddy's money and whatnot?" Something occurred to him then, and he shoved himself away from the blond as if he'd burst into flames. "Why'd they leave you, huh? You might as well be just as big a coward, so why'd they leave you?"
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Post by Deleted on Mar 19, 2017 18:50:05 GMT -5
Though he did his best to keep his unaffected facade from cracking, Jasper was honestly quite terrified at this fearsome inconsistency that the redhead displayed. Jack reminded him of the cat he and his mother used to have, in their home all the way back in Seattle: there was no telling what mood it was in, whether it be pleasantly lazy and unbothered, or fearsome and hissing, swiping with its razor sharp claws. In this moment, Jack's mood swung so fast that he struggled to keep up--most likely due to all the alcohol he'd already drank. He had his moments of sobriety, but they were quickly lost in drunken rage.
Another fit of that same rage consumed him, and before the blond had fully risen to his feet, he found himself pinned to the dumpster once more. He grimaced, flashing a hostile look in reaction to how close Jack's face was to him, and listened to his ramblings, cheeks heating up with anger. Now, all these false assumptions, combined with this kid's stupid drunkenness and rage, were really starting to get on his nerves. Once he was released from Jack's vice grip, he shook himself off and straightened his posture.
"Watch your goddamn mouth, a--hole," the blond snapped, his usual cool eyes now blazing with anger. "I won't take this s--t anymore. Your drunk a-- said you weren't going to hurt me, anyway. Did you forget already?' When he wanted to, Jasper could sound quite cold and mean, and he channeled that aggression now. He didn't care if he got hit for his mouth; he wouldn't tolerate this any longer. "You probably did," he added lowly, bitterly to himself, shaking his head.
He rolled his eyes. "Anyway." Jasper huffed angrily, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "I don't know why they left me, but why do you even care? What'sit mater do you? And, I don't use my dad's money--stop putting words in my mouth." He sounded surprisingly firm, tensed up at the subject of his father; there was no way for him to know, but it was a highly sensitive subject to him. ".. They took me in when I transferred here earlier this year. I didn't have any other choices, and they were nice. There. Happy?"
But still, Jasper was mildly surprised that even in his heavily inebriated state that Jack didn't notice his worn jeans and beat up Converse. Brendon, Levi, and the rest all boasted clean, freshly pressed slacks and nicer shoes, paired with crisp shirts and nice jackets. He was wearing the nicest jacket he owned, a jean jacket he'd picked up at a thrift shop, and he heard part of it rip as it caught something sharp on the dumpster. He certainly didn't look rich--so why couldn't he seem to understand what he was saying?
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Post by greene on Mar 21, 2017 1:52:17 GMT -5
Jasper's abrupt fury rattled around in his head, and the bile began to inch its way up his throat. No way I'm gonna throw up in front of this guy, Jack told himself. He would keep that pact: lunch in his stomach, knife in his pocket. Shouldn't be too hard.
But it was. He had to sit. The tremble in his legs became so violent that it threatened to dump him on his a--, and Jack thought he'd sooner stab the guy than let him watch him pitch over drunk.
He settled on the cement with his knees bent out in front of him, vision warped like TV static, and rubbed nonchalantly at his chest. Nothing hurt, but the idea of such a terrible injustice as that which he'd convinced himself of had made him ache; he felt it, he was sure - a persistent throb in his chest, steady with the beat of his heart.
"Doesn't matter," he mumbled. His head was still heavy with the drink, but the passion had gone out like a flame. All that remained was exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than a long, quiet ride home in the 'vette, to limp up his drive and crawl in through the window and curl up on his mattress in the laundry room and sleep till noon (or at least until the routine shouting began). What a dream.
It never was quite enough to peel back reality, though, and he looked up at Jasper irritably, as if the latter was solely responsible for the direction the night had taken.
"They're gonna be mad if I don't hurt you, y'know?" He was smiling, but it was a toothless, tight-lipped smile, and his blurry green eyes were dull and detached. "Well, not mad, I guess, but they'll be wonderin'. I mean, why wouldn't I?"
He steeled himself before making a move. His lips pulled into a grimace and the muscles in his legs shrieked and strained as he stood, but he managed, and approached Jasper again on somewhat steady legs. Then - without hesitation, forcefully blank - he drew his arm back, and let his fist collide hard with the other boy's jaw. The responsive pull in his chest was oddly potent. Jack ignored it.
"I wish you were right," he muttered. He pushed the cigarette out of his mouth with his tongue and crushed the glowing ember under his boot. "You sure look the part, I'll give you that. Coulda been a proper greaser. But I don't believe you." He narrowed his eyes, hardened himself, refused to let his liquidized brain acknowledge the possibility that maybe Jasper's calloused appearance betrayed more than just a fashion sense - that he really was even a fraction closer to Jack than he ever would be to Brendon Beck. But his boys were waiting on him, and he couldn't afford it.
Ten minutes.
He pulled back, but didn't break eye contact, still vaguely and inexplicably intrigued by the light, dusty blue of Jasper's eyes. What's his name, what's his name? He was sure he'd been told, or that he knew, somehow, but he couldn't for the life of him recall. The beer had struck him so dumb that he nearly asked.
He wondered what it might be like to have the gang abandon him like that.
"Go on home," he said instead, smirking, hands tucked protectively in his pockets as he strode backwards. "Not like your folks miss you, apparently, but who am I to talk?"
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Post by Deleted on Mar 21, 2017 22:21:02 GMT -5
The tight feeling in Jasper's gut tightened and relaxed with his opponent's temper, which ebbed and flowed, but finally, he seemed to subdue him; the blond watched with a furrowed brow as he teetered off into the dark again, precariously, in that way that all drunks seem to do. He was finally able to draw in a breath, expelling most of the fear he had, and now a genuine sort of confidence filled his lungs; before, when he snapped at him, it was the false kind, driven by mostly anger and fear. Now, with Jack literally sitting on the ground, he could now be sure he could leave this situation without getting beaten to a pulp.
His gaze met Jack's for the brief moment they saw eye to eye, with the both of them sitting on the ground, and Jasper was able to recognize the alcoholic glaze in his eyes. It was a look he'd grown to detest over the years, associating it with men who yelled and hit him and his mother all those years ago, and he'd grown perhaps unjustly hardened to it. In fact, he now held a certain level of disgust for the figure sitting in front of him: the once powerful Jack, who commanded respect in his tongue and fists, was small and pathetic. Anyone drunk enough to corner a kid half his size in an alley was less than a man, in his critical eyes.
He spat to his side before slowly taking a couple small steps, testing his hurting body. As he expected, his side and back throbbed dully, but he knew it wouldn't keep him from getting home. Tomorrow, however, would be a different story, but his mind didn't linger on thoughts of the next day for very long: he was quickly snapped back to alertness upon hearing Jack's low, mumbled comments, and the vague threat he implied made an odd feeling settle in his stomach. Jasper didn't like the look on his face, either, but his expression remained set and peeved at his smile. But, as he rose to his feet once more, his expression finally cracked.
"Wait," he began, raising his hands, and he opened his mouth to say or protest something, but--
God damn.
The punch made him stagger to the side, and Jasper struggled to keep his balance as he swayed. His head spun like it hadn't in a long time--no, ever, and suddenly, he felt faint, like he was going to pass out right there. A couple moments must have passed since the contact, since he was now leaned up against the building's wall, his hand tentatively feeling at the sore spot. His mouth felt gross, tasting of metal, and once his senses slowly came back to him, the blond realized he'd bitten his tongue. This was bad, this was bad, and for all the talk of fighting back with all he had, the only thing his clouded mind screamed to him was to get the hell out of there
Of course, the prick had to get a last word in. And, it wasn't entirely false either, but how would he know that? The comment almost stung more than the punch did, making his chest tight all over again. Jasper swallowed, shuddering at the rank, hot taste of his own blood, and met Jack's eyes once more, his cool gaze burned with a muddled mess of intense emotion. After debating what to say for a moment, the blond spoke as well as he could though his nipped tongue and throbbing mouth.
"F--k you, Jack," he snarled, the scorn in his voice dripping with venom. Even though it hurt like a mother to speak, he didn't care: getting the last word was more important to him than his health, at least right now. With that comment, he broke the eye contact, and staggered off into the night, not caring that he'd been the one to turn tail on him. He left though the back side of the building, not the way he came, so he could spare himself the shame of having to see the rest of the Downtowns.
The walk home was long and ungodly painful. This time of year was still chilly, so Jasper drew his thin jacket tight to his frame as he limped, keeping his eyes low as the occasional car passed him on the empty suburb roads, temporarily blinding him with their bright headlights. He'd never felt more alone in his life, or more angry--the brats he called his friends were probably off drinking his liquor (well, technically, it was his parents' liquor, but still) and his cigarettes, enjoying them, any thoughts of him completely lost in their drunken springtime ecstasy. They abandoned him. That was absolutely unforgivable, in his book, and he was determined to hold fast to that even if the gang tried to sucker back up to him. They were all terrible friends, and he'd rather have no friends than them.
Not only that, but his chest burned with rage for the Downtowns, too. They weren't quite as bad as his ex-friends, since he had no personal ties to any of them, but they were still brutes. The blond held a special place in his heart and memory for Jack, too, whose image dropped several levels as they faced off in that alley. Those greasers were brutes, all of them--he didn't care. Every person that came to his mind as he walked home he hated. Nobody had any redeeming qualities at twelve in the morning, after getting your a-- handed to you.
Jasper let himself in through the back door of his home, cutting through the backyard, taking mind as he always did to make his entrance and footsteps quiet. Thankfully, everybody was asleep, so he was able to slink back to his room undisturbed. It hurt him tremendously to lie down, but all he wanted to do was sleep. After he kicked off his shoes, he lazily pulled a blanket over his legs, and a hard, dreamless sleep quickly overcame him.
- - Late morning light that seeped in through a crack in his window blinds woke him up that next morning. He groaned, already irritated, but for a brief, happy second, he didn't recall the events of the previous night, but, when he moved to check what time it was on his bedside alarm clock, Jasper's body screamed out in pain. He settled back in his original spot in bed, wincing, and waited for the worst of it to pass. He figured he'd have to get up at some point, though, so after lying there for a couple more minutes, he found the strength to rise to his feet and limp to his bathroom.
As the blond tried to reconcile with the image that stared back at him in the mirror, he raised a hand to touch the large, purpling bruise on his right jaw. It hurt to even the lightest touch, but he tolerated the pain as he opened his mouth to get a look at his tongue. The side of it had a small nick taken out of it, and that was all. Not too bad, actually, Jasper said to himself. You won't be eating for a while, though. Have fun getting used to that. He grimaced at the strange kid staring back at him before heading downstairs, taking his sweet time making his way down.
Thankfully, neither parent or siblings were home: his father had work, and his stepmother took his younger step siblings out for the day, to do something fun and light for their spring breaks. Part of his chest pricked with jealousy, but it quickly faded when he stepped into the kitchen to ring up Travis on the landline.
He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" His friend's voice was so distinctive--it was the oddly chipper, feminine queer-sounding voice. Jasper could barely stand it, but at least he was pleasant company.
"Hey. It's me," the blond answered in a sigh. "Can I come over? Is your ma home?"
"Nah, she's got work. Come on by." They both hung up. Before Jasper left, he put on a new shirt and hoodie, then slipped his jean jacket on over the top of it.
It was slow going to the bus stop with his sore and aching body, but thankfully, a bus pulled up as he arrived at the sign. He paid his ten cent fare, then settled down into a seat towards the front, his hood drawn to keep prying eyes away from the bruise on his jaw. He sat numbly, wincing at every little bump in the road as the bus moved forward, but thankfully, the ride was short, and he was off the bus in about five minutes.
The blond never looked at his friend's part of town critically before, but Jack's comments about the nicer, larger homes the night before made him do a double take. The houses here were a good degree smaller than his own neighborhood, which paled in comparison to the Beck's sprawling green lawns. All the homes here seemed to be straining against each other, stretching this way and that for a breath of fresh air amid the crowd. These yards, covered in brittle green-brown patches, were barely big enough for one of those inflatable kiddie pools. Jasper's expression hardened as he considered it, some feeling he couldn't name stirring in his chest.
Hearing that voice was enough to snap him out of his daze; Travis came bounding up to greet his friend at the stop, as he always did, grinning and babbling about something excitedly. Today, Jasper's head struggled to keep up with his fast pace, and instead of begrudgingly welcoming his fullhearted embrace, he winced away.
Travis looked hurt, pulling back. "Hey, you good?" He asked, tilting his head to the side. "Why do you have your hood--wait, oh my God, Jasper.." His friend's hood had shifted to the side in the hug, revealing the bruise. "Jesus Christ, where'd you get that?"
The blond shook his head. ".. Can we just go back to your place?" He asked quietly. "You got a steak, or some peas, or somethin' to put on this?"
Travis nodded gravely, then turned to lead his friend just up the block, where his home was.
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Post by greene on Mar 22, 2017 1:49:37 GMT -5
"Yeah? Well f--k you too, princess."
It was their parting melody. Jack flipped up his collar and skulked around the opposite side of the building, the better half of him feeling as if skulking was all he deserved to do, and hoped from some distant, spacey corner of his blitzed brain, mottled with liquor and nicotine and hormonal stupidity, that he wouldn't see Jasper again - ever.
He'd never hoped for something like that, as far as the Uptowns went.
The gang was huddled up against the Corvette like a pack of stray dogs snuggling for warmth. Jack grinned at them despite himself. Eddie was picking at a cut on his cheek, and Pat was encouraging it, simultaneously choking out his unrestrained, disgusted amusement in a series of irregular, very Pat-like chortles. He's loud, Jack thought. He's loud and I love it.
That was the issue with Jasper, he thought; the kid was loud, but in a different way. In a fearsome way. Not in a lively, vicious, bellowing storm, but in a narrow-eyed, tight-lipped hymn - one that tangled up in Jack's brain like a string of barbed wire, like it was trying to pin down some raging thought that might expose him as the monster that he very well could be. Pat's voice lit him on fire, and he didn't have to think. Didn't have to justify.
"What are we waitin' on, fellas?" Jack interjected, his voice bent in a yawn at the final words, as if to emphasize a point he hadn't yet made. "I heard eighteen people phoned the fuzz already."
Maz narrowed his eyes, vaguely bothered, though dark with a distant humor. "That ain't funny."
He'd been hauled off four times, three of those four for inciting violence. Danny was his most fearsome advocate. ("They never woulda got him if he wasn't Italian," their most timid member had drunkenly proclaimed on Jack's front porch, after an earlier incident in which a jock classmate had been admitted to the hospital with a badly broken jaw.)
"You know I'm pullin' your leg, Maz. But really, let's go. I'm beat." He hauled himself into the passenger's seat and lit another cigarette as the engine roared to life. He'd been smoking since he was thirteen. He made himself sick with the things sometimes, but justified it now with the ideaa that he was under a great deal of stress - but even then, Jack could never quite lie to himself. The "stress" never really went away; he just found better ways to cope with it every once in a while.
He didn't think of Jasper as the dissolved into weary conversation about their battle wounds. He didn't think of Jasper as he toked on the cigar and then dropped it willingly into the street as it flashed past in a blur, even though the ember was still glowing bright. He didn't think of Jasper when he looked at Maz's badly bruised jaw and then looked away, abruptly guilty. He didn't think of Jasper when he looked at the ridge of blood on his knuckles.
He didn't think of Jasper when they asked him how it went, and he replied with, "Oh, y'know - typical Uptown kid, ran away with his tail between his legs. You know how it is." He didn't think of Jasper when they all cracked jokes about it. He didn't think of Jasper when he felt the shame pull down hard in his chest.
"I thought you were exhausted, red?"
The voice peters into his clouded head like a trickle of ice water. The vette is suddenly idling at the border of his untamed lawn, a pink bicycle with rusted handlebars nearly within grabbing distance. Jack sees it first, and furrows his brow. I told her to put that damn thing away. That's five bucks anyone could take.
"Yeah."
He pushed the door open and nearly tumbled out. Pat grabbed his jacket from the back seat. "You alright there, Casanova?"
"Yeah," Jack repeated, wondering why he'd dropped his damn cigarette. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." The eyes on him have his shoulders hunched by the time he gathered his legs under him and assured himself that he will not, he will not get sick in front of the others. Not on the first night of spring break. Not because of this.
He turned back once to acknowledge the rest with a nod and a crooked grin, which always seemed to instill a little comfort. He looked at Maz, cold and calculating, and looked away, feeling his stomach give a nauseous little jerk. It wasn't the alcohol, it wasn't the fear, it wasn't the guilt. Not always.
"Aye, come back to my place if yours ain't quieted down, yeah?" Jack offered. Maz nodded in return. More noise would make it easier for the blond to sneak in, anyway - but that wasn't really what Jack wanted.
They said their final parting words and Jack slipped up the drive and in through the back window of his bedroom, which doubled as the general area in which dirty clothes were dumped and a Maytag washing machine won in a lady's club giveaway sat sparkling next to the stained mattress of the McNamara family's eldest son, who paid the significant increase in the water bill without protest. It made his mother happy - despite looking like a diamond in a dumpster - and so few things really did. So there it sat.
He ditched his jacket on the floor and crept through the halls to assess the unusually darkened rooms. Not a creature was stirring, he thought to himself - and that was a rare occurrence in the McNamara household.
Four sisters in one room, two sets of hammock bunk beds he'd fashioned himself - Maizey, Siobhan, Eileen, and Rosalie - and five brothers in the other - similar situation, though slightly more in disarray, prone to switching places (albeit with the youngest, Alroy, nearly always on the floor) - Freddie, Michael, Wayne and Alan (who was a self-proclaimed twin to Alory, despite a significant gap in both age and appearance). All slept peacefully as if they'd been on a sugar rush for the last six hours and had finally crashed.
His mother's bedroom door was shut and locked. Jack didn't attempt it. The dogs were nowhere to be found, which made it evident they were curled up in bed with her, and he didn't worry. Sometimes he was the man of the house; sometimes the light of her life; sometimes a rat bastard, a leech and a liar just like his father. Tonight may have been one of those times. It didn't matter much anymore.
He didn't make it back to his own room right away; his stomach wrenched hard, and Jack bolted for the bathroom and hunched over the toilet, dry heaving for ten torturous minutes before emptying his last two drinks into the bowl. The aftertaste was almost enough to make him sick again. You've gotta eat, pal, he told himself. But he didn't listen. When half his misery ebbed, he pulled himself up to the sink and ran the freezing water over his face, cupping his hands under the faucet several times to drink, to wash away the burn and the thoughts of what he was, what he thought he was becoming.
Thank God you were out with the boys tonight. Thank God you didn't get angry here.
Jack pulled himself into bed, stripping off his shirt and dumping it next to his jacket and tucking the sheet halfheartedly over his legs, unconcerned with comfort in the wake of how heavy he'd become - like a statue, or a meteor, falling, falling, threatening to smash into something he would surely destroy; or something that would surely destroy him.
He thought about the bloody cigar on the pavement. He thought about the shiny, always-new Rolls Royce. He thought about the diner. He thought about the hand on his shoulder. He thought about being called Manhattan, only ever being called Manhattan by one person - about the bruise on his jaw, about the blood on his lips, about the ferocity, the deadliness, the inhumanity in his eyes when he'd latched onto Brendon -
Then the wave of drunkenness receded, and Jack stopped himself. He didn't think about Maz - so he thought about Jasper.
---
The next morning could not be called anything but typical. He was awoken by Eileen, twelve and sharp like her big brother, heaving herself onto his bed, elbowing him into consciousness. "Are you hungover?", was the first thing she'd said to him. Jack appreciated her honesty.
He made breakfast for the lot of them. The other gals at the lady's club were relatively good about getting his mother out and shopping at least once a week (with money from Jack's part time jobs, of course - at least, the few he could score with his reputation), and they had a few eggs and half a pack of sausage left, which served as more than enough for a family who rarely had three square meals a day to begin with. The McNamara children were all scrawny. Jack had been the same way, built up with muscle only after he'd been roaming the streets for some time - but they didn't like to eat too much, anyway, and not even the youngest seemed particularly bothered.
They were independent too, which Jack prided himself immensely on. They bathed themselves, brushed their teeth, got dressed, said their prayers all and all without having to be told. Of course, the occasional play break was expected every ten minutes or so to wrestle or argue or shriek or pretend, but they were children, and Jack gladly indulged them. It was better than school. Anything was better than school.
Half til noon and they were out in the yard: nine little Irish terrors roiling in the grass and up and down the sidewalk under careful watch of their big brother, who sat on the porch swing like a perched hawk, clad in one of three pairs of jeans he owned and a wife beater stained with a faded streak of gasoline. Eileen sat beside him, green eyes big and imploring, swinging her stick-thin legs out in front of her.
"Why can't I be in the gang?" she asked.
He watched as Freddie skidded down the sidewalk on a pasty blue bicycle, followed by a thready pack of his brothers and sisters and neighborhood kids. Rosalie was perched on his handlebars, looking alarmingly pale. It'd cost him thirteen dollars for both bikes - one for the girls to share, one for the boys (the girls' being cheaper on account of all the rust; it was most rust than pink at this point, and the wheels creaked like they had a death wish).
"Because," Jack responded coolly. "You're not old enough."
"That's not the reason," she boldly proclaimed. "You said that when I was ten, too, 'member? So it's not cuz 'a that. Is it cuz Eddie doesn't like me?"
"Eddie likes you fine."
"He thinks I'm annoying."
"He doesn't. And you're not. You're just too young."
"And I'm a girl."
"Well, that too."
This conversation would go on for ages. And it did, and Jack allowed it, because he was truly entertained by the idea of his sweet, smart-mouthed little sister, who crawled into bed with him still when it stormed at night, was starved for street life. Part of him wished he could have been this passionate.
But his eyes strayed as they had their little talks - naturally, keeping watch over his other little charges, then straying casually down the street, acknowledging the neighbors, waving to those who passed by, examining the familiar cars, the bus -
He stiffened. Incredible.
The corner was too far away for him to examine too closely, but Jack recognized the figure like the back of his hand. Hunched, inexplicable. He leaned back in the swing and sighed. I thought about him.
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