Two: Is There A Problem?

My eyes burned, tears clawing their way to the red brims. I didn't have time to pity myself. If I did, if I gave in to the pain and betrayal and fucking sadness, I didn't think I could pull myself back out. What is an angel without wings? What is a monster without teeth?

Blood So Brutal - Emily Blackwood

“All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only one who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it?—I don't know.” -Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human, 1948.

SHADOW OF THE TOMB RAIDER (2018)

being a GM is really fun because sometimes you can make your players go through some really traumatic Evangelion bullshit, but other times you can force them to go bowling for no reason

Whatever source it was that drove the universe forward conspired against him, that he was certain of upon opening the door to find the other standing on his doorstep. Azazel narrowed his eyes, thinking that if he believed in any god or higher power, he would fight them upon his death, which was his highest calling at this point. Glancing down to the ground, he moved his right arm up, resting it against his door frame before bringing his forehead to rest on his forearm, the sweat coating his body at that moment, accumulating enough in that spot to have a drop fall from his arm a moment later, muttering under his breath as he did.

He did need a drink, and the medicine he was on to numb the pain long enough he could pass out so comfortably onto the floor for, at least a short while, in some brief moment of absolute bliss, he supposed. Going by his drool that still remained on the floor. It didn't need to be five, however, to get that drink or otherwise. That was his current lifestyle at the moment. Which is why he had just kept the arrangement with his sibling to take his son in for the time being while he worked on all of this. Laughing a bit, he pulled his head up from his arm and looked at Sévérine, feeling a little unstable for a brief second before catching himself. Clearing his throat, he dropped his arm from the door frame and leaned against it instead, “I guess they don't know about Girl Scouts where you're from, neighbor.” Hell, he thought, that had to be where the other was from.

Azazel takes in a breath before continuing, when the other made a demand of him, “Do I look like a fucking grocery store to you?” Apparently that's what he was now. His jaw clenching, however, he reminded himself not to cause waves, all manner of people lived on this street, who were most likely spying on him. No, most certainly were. Though his paranoid state of mind at the moment wasn't just causing him stress, he wasn't dealing well with, but anger, he wasn't dealing well with. Not only this, however, but intrusive thoughts, especially in this moment. His imagination, conceptualizing great atrocities he could be committing on this neighbor, if he were just to snap right then in there, in a fit of rage. He wondered how the rest of the neighbors might react at the scene he could be causing right now. But, he steeled himself to those notions, shrinking again as a wave of nausea started to rise from his gut, “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” He didn't understand that last bit, and he didn't want to.

Pulling away then, he made his way toward his kitchen, not bothering to close the door. As if it were an unconscious invite to 'try him' on his rising intensity and dip into greater madness. Coming up to his fridge, he yanks it open and drops into a crouch, reaching out toward his container of eggs, pulling it out, opening it, taking two, and replacing it back as it was before. Though, he paused, staring absently at the eggs as another bout of errant emotions suddenly bombarded him. Breaking down a bit, his eyes filled with tears, soon enough spilling over and trailing down his face, an unhinged sob left him, almost making him sound like he was laughing, maybe giggling from the distance he had been at.

Bringing the back of his hands to his eyes, he thought, briefly, how stupid it was to be sobbing over fucking eggs, of all things. But that's not really what he was crying about. After the briefest moment of that, he took a few deep breaths, trying to control these emotions with his breaths. Once he did, he wiped away the remaining wetness on his face and searched his cabinets for the sugar, “Get your shit together, focus, no one cares if you're fucked up. You have to control your shit.” He told himself under his breath, seeing another package of sugar as he did, he grabbed it before making his way back to the front of his house. As he came to the door, he put up his best smile he could muster at that moment toward Sévérine, “You're in luck, I have the stuff.”

Sévérine wasn't the type to stir the pot between familial demons that would circle one another in a spaghetti Western gunfight at sundown no matter what he did. What was there to gain from something that was inevitable? If anything, long as he stayed out of it, he didn't see himself reaping the bloodshed. However, that didn't mean that the on-call translator thought it frivolous to always play by the book of no contact, and even in a city as big and bold as Las Vegas, one was bound to run into their mortal enemy. Life was full of impossible standards, like the saying that microwaves gave people cancer. ( Not so funny joke now, in retrospect, but the French native seldom made out like anything bothered him at all and laughed hollowly at the joke, nonetheless. No one was getting past his defenses unless they were going to pry him open with a crowbar. If it was going to be the Vitellis, though, he'd like to think he wouldn't give up trade secrets. Maybe. If they brought out an electric razor to his hairline, he'd reconsider that argument. Hey, it was hard work to grow it back. ) Thus, after weighing the odds, he couldn't say definitively that he was there on innocent terms, but neither was he intentionally playing the part of gambling with fire.

"...It's five o'clock somewhere?"

The brunette didn't exactly understand the query, raising his eyes to take note that the squeezed orange colors of the desert sky were certainly present. "Hm. Funny." For once, he didn't have a smart-mouthed quip in return; maybe he wasn't looking to take shrapnel to the throat, after all. Lifting his chin slightly, a hand fussed with the rim of his beanie. "Sugar. And two eggs." For what? Well, that was none of anyone's business, regardless of where he hailed from; it didn't pertain or award itself a positive result to the questions are you making meth or are you attaching something to someone's mailbox that might combust. "...S'il vous plaît."

As he finally caught sight of who it was that was at his door, he blinked away what remained of his sleep. His neighbor, Alice, he didn't imagine to be much to fret over. Until recently, glancing to one side, a few errant thoughts sprang to mind as to why she would be knocking at his door. Momentarily, his overthinking going to the worst, his heartbeat speeding up, he tapped a finger to his door knob, trying to put all his concern in that one part of him, appearing relaxed from Alice's point of view, “Oh. Right.” Azazel answered before looking back into his house, trying to remember if he had anything like that in his house. But of course he did, sugar seemed to be a standard in households, “No. You're not. I was-” He pauses, what was he doing? Napping in the middle of the day? It sounded like he was some kind of bum if he gave that answer, “Just getting ready for work, actually.”

He paused again to yawn again and pulled back from the door, waving her in, “Come in, or just stand there, I'll see what I got.” He then answered as he made his way to the kitchen, “Mind the mess, I'm waiting for the cleaning service to get here.” Azazel warned of the dark stains at the entrance to the house, before he disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of a couple of cabinets opening for a moment. Then he came back out, holding a pack of sugar, “Not even opened.” Though he couldn't say how long it had been in his cabinets, either. Whatever got her away from his house quickest, before anyone could see her, seemed to him to be the best way to go about this. Given the circumstances about the other.

Alice felt quite silly but in the midst of baking the cupcakes that she'd promised to make for Rhea's daycare (why had she agreed to do that again?), she realized that she didn't have any sugar. And now here she was, at her neighbor's door, literally asking to borrow sugar. She thought that was just an old saying but sure enough, here she was. Alice didn't really know Azazel too well but she figured that he seemed nice enough. Perhaps it was just the journalist in her but when he opened the door, it was pretty obvious that he had just woken up--and his question only further confirmed that. Do you realize what time it is? "Uh... Yeah, it's 2PM... Sorry to bother you, Azazel, but I was wondering if you had any sugar I could borrow? Or rather, have, I guess, since I can't really give it back? But if I'm interrupting something, I'll just go ask someone else," she said, wanting to get out of his hair. He clearly wasn't in the mood for visitors, which was fair enough.

Blink 182 - Wishing hell

It was getting to be a lot, especially with what transpired from the events concerning the Drive-In. With his boss's brother dying, things were, in his mind, progressing very quickly along the designated path. He had to get away from it for a bit, acting normal. Old habits seemed to die hard, as he went about doing this. Slipping easily into the act, as if he were pretending to be someone else, his entire life. Perhaps, he was.

Stopping by the café on his route to excuse himself from whatever was going on concerning the most recent death of a member. The fact that it wasn't just any member, either, was a significant concern. Azazel stood to one side, waiting for his order to be fulfilled, scanning over the rest of the room in the time he had to his thoughts.

The quiet of the café, barely full of anyone at this hour, thankfully. He spotted one that stuck out to him, jotting away in their journal. Turning his head away, he smiled as his drink was finally delivered, “Thank you-” He whispered appreciatively, then glanced back toward the male. A split second or so later, as the other spoke up, he tutted, “Now tell me what I'm thinking.” Azazel replied, taking another drink from his cup. He seemingly carelessly moved closer to the other, studying the male. Not sure why he was even interested at all. Perhaps boredom, honestly, anything to distract himself from one of the other two things currently consuming his life at the moment. “Don't worry, though, I'm not interested in you. Go back to your writing-” He turned away and walked to the other side of the café, still in eyesight of the other.

Sitting near a window, he turned to look out of it as he quietly enjoyed his drink for the time being, slouching and bending over the table from the waist, he rested his head in his free hand, looking quite content and at peace at that moment. Though in reality, his mind was anything but at peace.

@boneyardstarters ; open starter ! date: april 29th location: a quaint café somewhere in vegas

fun fact: your bones always ached the day after a mission. or maybe that was just him. there was always that dull, insistent throb that hummed beneath the skin, nested deep in marrow, as if his skeleton remembered what he didn’t want to; as though his body knew it had never been built to carry this kind of weight. a slight, slender frame that spoke of cathedral halls, faded sonnets, and tragic french novellas; better suited to waste away in verse, not weave paths of blood with someone else’s heartbeat in his hands. and yet. the others moved like soldiers, all muscle and momentum — he was the scalpel in a drawer full of sledgehammers. precise. quiet ( unless he had fully gone off the deep end, which, thankfully, hadn’t happened in a bit ). lethal. easy to underestimate once, never twice — if you didn’t mind losing your throat, that was. still, it left him tired, though he was tired at the best of times. he sat alone in the booth the lémieuxs had always claimed — back when legacy was louder than loss. the cracked leather beneath him remembered better days. so did he. it had seen him at his worst. held him when nothing else did, and continued to do so. it was, in every way, a refuge. the kind of place that knew better than to ask questions. his usual arrived without him asking. refills appeared as if by instinct. they knew his order even when he couldn’t remember it himself. a journal lay open before him, its spine worn and pages crowded with black ink, as the same coffee went cold in front of him — same cup, same bitterness. his elbows rested on the wood, spine curled forward, a soft crescent over the table, dark curls falling over his face like shadows. unbothered, untouched, unseen … except, not really. he let the silence stretch, and then, without lifting his head or giving the pen pause, he finally spoke, “i can feel you staring, you know.”