Ick. i'm stuck on cath, & my deadline for this is like... august. so i reckoned i better get started. it's probabli going to be pretti short, and i veri basicalli know where i'm going with it. but, then again, that's what i said about cath, and look at how long THAT is. anyhow. enjoyy. Oh, &, the whole "Forbidden love scene going on for some unknown reason thing" has been slightli modified -there's a forbidden love thingie, but it's not for an unknown reason.
Challenge #: 2
Likes: Anger management, weird hobbies w/ the characters, forbidden love scene going on for some unknown reason.
Dislikes: Stereotypes(such as rockers, girly girls, jock guys...etc), cheesy lines
Words/phrases to use: "I don't want to kill him, i only want him to have a near death experience." "I hate being touched!" "You think you're something? I got my homies in the back seat, man."
Breathing heavy, she leaned back into the seat. It cushioned her throbbing head.
And everything, everything that's going on…
"It's destiny," she whispered to herself. "Destiny."
A bloodied hand slammed against the window, once, twice.
"It's destiny," she repeated, "Destiny! Destiny! Desti ––"
"Stain, you shit, you've got ten minutes!"
"That's ten fu ––"
He hung up, shoved on his jacket and ran his fingers through his hair. Not that it would make much of a difference, considering…
The phone shrilled again and his gaze fell to the clock, to the phone, then back to the clock. Panic. He kicked open the door and his toe throbbed from the impact. Wincing, he dropped down the ladder, took two steps at a time. Moon light glinted over a black watch, gold hands shining a cheap yellow.
The phone blared in his pocket. Didn't Flick get the hint? Obviously not. Down the pavement; he ran, foot still throbbing. Round the corner and a message blared from his phone, was shrilled out.
"Stain, you cheap peace of shit, get your fucking ass down here now!"
An old lady on the kerb shot him a withering look. There was no time to notice ––to apologise for the language. Not that he was under any obligation to do so.
"The fuc––" He flicked his phone onto silent. Was there any point in running this fast? And his breath was escaping in sharp gasps.
Another corner and lights from streetlamps flooded his path. Luckily, it was night, so there wasn't much chance of bumping into anyone. Around another corner.
A car was parked against the road. Voices drilled out from it ––loud, energetic. Stain recognised them, was flooded with a wave of hope, relief. He stopped by the car, banged on the window.
It was rolled down. "Stain, mah man. Woddup?"
"A ride," he panted ––breathed out, "I need a ride. Now. One road down; the," he gesticulated; "the big house."
Without waiting for a reply, he kicked open the passenger seat with the already throbbing toe.
"Step on it!"
Probably picking up on the urgency, he did. The car accelerated forward with a jolt, making whoever was in the back seat squeal merrily.
"You think you're something!?" One of them screamed, obviously drunk. He kicked the back of Stain's seat. "I got my homies in the back seat, man…"
"Shuddup, Stu. You're a fucking embarrassment, so just…go eat a tree, okay?"
"Right after you eat a FENCE, YEAH?"
A banging sound and an "oomph" as one of them punched the other. Stain shot his friend a look that clearly read, 'Who the hell?'
Cantt shrugged a little. "Mates, man. They got drunk so I thought I'd give 'em a ride."
––And Stain's phone shrilled, loudly. Obviously the silent somehow switched off.
Cantt stopped the car in front of the building and Stain shoved open the door, didn't bother saying thank you because he didn't have any time. At all. He raced, bolted, across the lawn, trainers squelching in damp mud. Hopefully they wouldn't make too much of a mess upon entry. Lights flooded out, cut through darkness, from the many rows of windows on the massive house.
It was massive, enormous.
And he only had three minutes to get inside. Two men guarded the door, adorned in black. Upon reaching them, he shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the card, then handed it to one of them. He waited. The man took his time, then gave him a disinterested look, mixed with something else.
"You've only got three minutes to get on stage, you know."
The other man was shaking his head.
"I know!" And he didn't need another person telling him. He swiped the card back and rushed past them, into the corridor and through to the hall. Trainers left mud prints across crisp carpet ––the cleaners could sort it out later.
Even under his panting, he could hear the ticking of his watch. It didn't serve to make him feel any better. He rounded the corner. The door stood, waiting. A head of thick, brown curls met his eye. There was a girl: tall, slender: he didn't have the time to properly take her in. A white dress was swept across her form, a camel coloured handbag flung over one arm and her attention fully set on a suit of armour. It looked polished under amber light.
His panting obviously caught her attention, for she shot her gaze from the armour to him. Cat like green eyes met amber; they were thin, outlined in black and arched. Two perfect eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she scrunched up her nose.
Not wanting to waste time, Stain walked past her, to the door, and made a move to turn the knob.
Her voice stopped him. "You're sweating." It was lithe, like the rest of her.
"I'm rushed," he returned.
"Yes," a pause. "I can see that."
His gaze shot to her once more and she zipped open her handbag ––the movements were quick, yet agile. There was nothing sloppy to her removal of a tissue, white like her dress.
She handed it to him.
Stain took it, wiped his forehead and she shot him a bemused look.
Then walked away.
One minute left to go, responsibility won out over curiosity and he flung open the door. There was no time to greet anyone, or register the glares sent his way by the rest of his band mates; the main thing was that he had made it. He held the guitar.
And they were on in five, four, three, two…
The curtain was drawn.
Lights flashed, played on her glass. A window was visible from where she sat and she kept her gaze trained on it as if by staring long enough it would break open. Or maybe something exciting would suddenly sweep through?
Another glass settled beside hers. She kept her eyes on it for a moment and then, slowly, lifted her gaze. The tablecloths were red, red linen, and from out the corner of her eye she could see a glint of silver. A spoon. She lifted it up, gaze still trained on the figure before her, and turned it over between her fingers.
"Slightly." Into the glass. Stir. "The window." She indicated it with the spoon. A few drops of red wine fell from its edges, onto the linen. "Fascinating."
Bemused, he shot his gaze toward it. Typical that he'd look. "Considering how long you've been staring at it," a pause, "I'd waver a guess that it is."
"But, it would be even more fascinating," she continued, as if he had said nothing. A lift of the spoon, and it was back in the glass. "If someone just randomly decided to jump out of it. Right now." She gestured. "It would bring life to the party."
He blinked, once, a bit idiotically, and then let out a sudden laugh. She offered him a smile, let the single dimple crease. "That's…" he shrugged, "Morbid."
"I'm bored," she let out a sigh. "As you've rightly deduced."
"Did you come here on your own?" He shifted his feet a bit nervously.
"You know," she shot a quick glance to his feet, caked at the toes with mud ––too quick for him to notice. "You can sit down."
He visibly hesitated, then pulled out a seat. "Thanks." He sat. "Zachary Stanton ––but my friends call me Stain."
"Stain," she tested the name, smiled a bit at it. "Does it have some story behind it?"
"Maybe," he ominously replied, then shot her a grin.
A stir of the wine. "Eire Riathlon. My parents were all for…" A pause. "Prettiness."
"A breath of fresh air;" he took an empty glass, poured in some wine ––filled it to barely a quarter; "I figure you get that a lot."
"No;" she stirred, "You're the first person to ever say it."
"Then I feel privileged." A quick, boyish smirk. His eyes, a fiery amber, sparked a bit at this.
She gave a look to the stage. "You were good." A gesture with the spoon. "You sing well."
"A breath of fresh air," the fire sparked. "Don't bullshit me. We sucked."
She shrugged one shoulder, visibly hesitated. "You seemed tired."
"Out of breath," he offered. "From all the running."
Someone called his name from behind them, followed by a high pitched sound and a crash. He winced, closed his eyes shut and they tightened at the corners. They re opened. "Sorry about this."
"It's okay;" with a nod of the head, she indicated the stage. "You better go help them sort it out."
Slowly, he stood up, kept his gaze trained on her. She stirred. "Catch you later, then."
The flippant answer made that same grin quirk on the edge of his features. A hand was drawn into his pocket, and he took out a white cloth, then handed it to her. "Yours, from earlier."
She took it. "Thank you."
A brief nod, then he walked away, to the stage.
When he was halfway there, she suddenly shouted, "Stain!"
He turned. She waved the cloth about a bit. "You stained it."
They both laughed and then, when he was gone, she drank her wine. The spoon, back on the tablecloth, dripped with red.