Cheer up, yeah?
Sunday, 25 November 2012 07:30![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouBut, I think you need this more'n I do.
25 November, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (77% full).
It's early in the morning, and cold, and the few people who are out and about are generally not looking to be out and about for long. One such of those is Flint, who is for the moment under-dressed for the weather, hunched into the slightly oversized sweatshirt and sidling along the sidewalk. Hands are shoved into his pockets, hood is pulled up, and he glares but doesn't really pay too much attention to where he's going other than that he has a destination in mind, and knows what it is. And every so often people actually step out of the teen's way and avoid him.
Some people have the option of going indoors. Moxie is not one of them. She is huddled up in a corner between two buildings, one slightly longer than the other to create that shape, just so she's out of the wind. She has a ratty blanket over most of her, pretty much just her head poking out—though there's a glimpse of clothing through some of the holes. She's awake, because sleeping is impossible in this cold, and so she's people-watching tiredly. Flint gets more interest than most, on account of his Don't Fuck With Me vibes.
Closer passing reveals that Flint's got one headphone in, the other dangling loosely out of his sweatshirt. Moxie gets glared at just like everyone else, though Flint actually slows as he approaches her section of street, as if debating a course of action, though he sticks to the outer edge of the sidewalk for now. Complete with kicking a convenient car as he passes it, with such force that the thing—inexpensive and older—rocks back and forth slightly.
The glare makes Moxie wilt for a moment, but then she bounces back, pushing one hand up from under the blanket and flipp^H^H^H^H^H making a beckoning gesture to the angsty Galliard. Is she crazy? Maybe. A lot of homeless people are, after all.
Crazy enough to get Flint's attention and make him raise up a brow, as if wondering if she's serious, certainly. And that's enough to get him to come closer. In contrast with the demeanor, Flint's soft-spoken, voice relatively gentle though with some of the roughness of adolescence still, breaking at inopportune times. He jerks one thumb east. "There's a. A place," he tells Moxie. "Regan Hope Project. Some blocks east. They." Glare. "They've got beds. And hot food."
"They won't take us. Keep threatenin' to call the cops," Moxie replies with a huff of breath which plumes out into the morning, a silent witness to the temperature. "But, I think you need this more'n I do." She pulls off her cat-hat, sticking it out in one hand towards the Galliard. "'cause if you don't cheer up, your face'll stay like that while the wind blows."
Flint frowns, and approaches further, moving to sit on a step and huddle out of the cold. "Try their youth center. It's. Over… the Industrial sector, though stay clear of—" There's a pause, after that, shakes his head and changes thread. "Or the church, they do meals, too. Have to be there, o-on time. But they don't turn you away, or. Shouldn't, least." Clearly, whatever anger he's expressing at the world, he's also more than familiar with being on the street, hungry, and cold. Eventually, he withdraws a hand from his pockets (no gloves) and takes the hat. "Thanks. I…" there's another sigh, and a shrug rather than explaining why he's not cheery, but the teen pulls the hat carefully on, offering Moxie the plain black toque he'd been wearing. "This. This w-way you. Don't freeze, just for bein' nice t' me."
"Youth centre, hostel, homeless shelter, church. None of 'em want me'n Reed," Moxie tells the Galliard with a quiet, serious voice. "I dunno why. Ain't like we're axe murderers," she finishes, though apparently has no problem talking to someone who broadcasts rage like he is one. "Thanks." She pulls the hat on, tucking her ears in under it.
This seems to trouble Flint, and he nods. "You mostly 'round this. This, um." The stutter, it seems, is habitual and a speech impediment rather than caused by the chill weather. "This part of town?" is the question that eventually gets asked. Another pause, and Flint twirls one of the tails of the cat-hat around one finger. "Reed?" he asks, not quite a question. "Where're you guys from?" A pause. "Me, I'm from. From Oakland. While back. Mom dumped me, here, so I. I stayed."
Nodding, Moxie points with one finger to under the blanket—yes, it's possible someone else could be balled up under there, if they were curled up tight for warmth. Maybe Moxie was on watch duty while her partner in crime slept. Who knows. "California." She doesn't answer the question about family with words, just with a vague sort of shrug. "Just movin' on through."
Flint nods, not seeming any the more put off from talking for the acknowledgement of another person's existence. Or perhaps anything more than merely being nice never entered the teen's train of thought. "Yeah. Just avoid the blown up section of. Of… of the. The industrial sector," Flint eventually says. "Bound to be more cops than, than usual. Some gangs had it out, last night. The really big explosions, an' all? I wasn' that far away, lossa gunfire." A grimace follows.
Possible, because it is an actuality and proven when the bit of blanket moves enough to reveal another face that squints askance at Moxie and Flint. It must be Reed whom the girl referenced just seconds ago. There's no telling exactly how much he's heard, or if the quiet murmurings finally drew him back to awareness. Probably the latter judging by the vague confusion in in expression.
"Yeah. Heard it a bit, mostly stayed away," the blonde girl acknowledges, tugging Flint's toque hat down a bit more, to keep the drafts from the back of her neck. Reed gets a bit of a smile, and she leans away so he can get sat upright without being crowded.
Silent, Flint seems to have gone back to staring at the world like he wants to make all of it explode, or do significant amounts of violence to it, though none of it's directed at Moxie, a bit of the brunt of a glare lands on Reed before Flint has the good sense to look down. "Yeah. Made for a long night with. With, no sleep," the Galliard says, hunching his shoulders, and eventually managing a faint smile when he plays with part of the cat-hat, again.
A touch of Reed's own deeper, defiant anger meets the glare directed at him. Unintentional, however it might be. He sits up when Moxie makes room, glancing at his friend for a second.
"Don't be pissy at Reed." While she might not be too bothered about being glared at herself, she's quick to jump to the other street kid's defense. "We didn't get much sleep either. Too cold. 'least you got a home to go to." An easy assumption, since Flint has such luxuries as an iPod and clean clothes.
Flint grimaces again, but it's not at Moxie's words. Rather, it's at the anger that meets his glare, and Flint talks to himself for a moment, not even audible. Clean is also an overstatement for his clothes. Flint's clothes look like he's been through a few nasty scrapes, and they're hard-worn, though he's cleaned up a bit since the night prior. "Sometimes," is all he responds, words still quiet, as though the home to go to's not something that Flint makes any habit of relying on. "Speakin' of. My mates'll be worried," Flint glances further down the street in the direction he'd been going before, but without getting up. "I'm not s'posed to be out on my own too much. You two should be careful, yeah? And. There's… some pretty messed up things around by the clubs, don't… go w' anyone. N'matter h-how. Nice. They… They seem." That number of words in a row looks like it's exhausted the Walker, and he leans forward on his knees. "Except Temple. Temple's safe 'nough."
"We'll be fine," Reed finally says in tones that implies he's not as willing to trust the other boy. Another glance darts to Moxie then back to Flint, and there's definite mutual protection for his friend.
"'kay." Moxie nods at Flint, apparently accepting the advice, though making no promises about following through with it. "Cheer up, yeah? Cat hat don't like bein' on a grumpy head." That is, after all, why she gave it to him.
Flint offers a weak, tired grin to Moxie as he leverages to his feet, leans against the wall out of the wind. "Yeah," he says. "It's th' first nice thing as happened t-to me, in. A. Damn while, so," comes the remark after, which sounds an awful lot like 'thanks' in tone. Reed is looked at once more, and Flint pushes his hands back into his pockets, coming out, eventually, with a crumpled scrap of paper, offered out to Moxie. It's got a number on it. "Y'ever need, that'll. Reach me," and once she's taken it, Flint's starting back down the sidewalk, with a little less outright anger at the world.
25 November, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (77% full).
It's early in the morning, and cold, and the few people who are out and about are generally not looking to be out and about for long. One such of those is Flint, who is for the moment under-dressed for the weather, hunched into the slightly oversized sweatshirt and sidling along the sidewalk. Hands are shoved into his pockets, hood is pulled up, and he glares but doesn't really pay too much attention to where he's going other than that he has a destination in mind, and knows what it is. And every so often people actually step out of the teen's way and avoid him.
Some people have the option of going indoors. Moxie is not one of them. She is huddled up in a corner between two buildings, one slightly longer than the other to create that shape, just so she's out of the wind. She has a ratty blanket over most of her, pretty much just her head poking out—though there's a glimpse of clothing through some of the holes. She's awake, because sleeping is impossible in this cold, and so she's people-watching tiredly. Flint gets more interest than most, on account of his Don't Fuck With Me vibes.
Closer passing reveals that Flint's got one headphone in, the other dangling loosely out of his sweatshirt. Moxie gets glared at just like everyone else, though Flint actually slows as he approaches her section of street, as if debating a course of action, though he sticks to the outer edge of the sidewalk for now. Complete with kicking a convenient car as he passes it, with such force that the thing—inexpensive and older—rocks back and forth slightly.
The glare makes Moxie wilt for a moment, but then she bounces back, pushing one hand up from under the blanket and flipp^H^H^H^H^H making a beckoning gesture to the angsty Galliard. Is she crazy? Maybe. A lot of homeless people are, after all.
Crazy enough to get Flint's attention and make him raise up a brow, as if wondering if she's serious, certainly. And that's enough to get him to come closer. In contrast with the demeanor, Flint's soft-spoken, voice relatively gentle though with some of the roughness of adolescence still, breaking at inopportune times. He jerks one thumb east. "There's a. A place," he tells Moxie. "Regan Hope Project. Some blocks east. They." Glare. "They've got beds. And hot food."
"They won't take us. Keep threatenin' to call the cops," Moxie replies with a huff of breath which plumes out into the morning, a silent witness to the temperature. "But, I think you need this more'n I do." She pulls off her cat-hat, sticking it out in one hand towards the Galliard. "'cause if you don't cheer up, your face'll stay like that while the wind blows."
Flint frowns, and approaches further, moving to sit on a step and huddle out of the cold. "Try their youth center. It's. Over… the Industrial sector, though stay clear of—" There's a pause, after that, shakes his head and changes thread. "Or the church, they do meals, too. Have to be there, o-on time. But they don't turn you away, or. Shouldn't, least." Clearly, whatever anger he's expressing at the world, he's also more than familiar with being on the street, hungry, and cold. Eventually, he withdraws a hand from his pockets (no gloves) and takes the hat. "Thanks. I…" there's another sigh, and a shrug rather than explaining why he's not cheery, but the teen pulls the hat carefully on, offering Moxie the plain black toque he'd been wearing. "This. This w-way you. Don't freeze, just for bein' nice t' me."
"Youth centre, hostel, homeless shelter, church. None of 'em want me'n Reed," Moxie tells the Galliard with a quiet, serious voice. "I dunno why. Ain't like we're axe murderers," she finishes, though apparently has no problem talking to someone who broadcasts rage like he is one. "Thanks." She pulls the hat on, tucking her ears in under it.
This seems to trouble Flint, and he nods. "You mostly 'round this. This, um." The stutter, it seems, is habitual and a speech impediment rather than caused by the chill weather. "This part of town?" is the question that eventually gets asked. Another pause, and Flint twirls one of the tails of the cat-hat around one finger. "Reed?" he asks, not quite a question. "Where're you guys from?" A pause. "Me, I'm from. From Oakland. While back. Mom dumped me, here, so I. I stayed."
Nodding, Moxie points with one finger to under the blanket—yes, it's possible someone else could be balled up under there, if they were curled up tight for warmth. Maybe Moxie was on watch duty while her partner in crime slept. Who knows. "California." She doesn't answer the question about family with words, just with a vague sort of shrug. "Just movin' on through."
Flint nods, not seeming any the more put off from talking for the acknowledgement of another person's existence. Or perhaps anything more than merely being nice never entered the teen's train of thought. "Yeah. Just avoid the blown up section of. Of… of the. The industrial sector," Flint eventually says. "Bound to be more cops than, than usual. Some gangs had it out, last night. The really big explosions, an' all? I wasn' that far away, lossa gunfire." A grimace follows.
Possible, because it is an actuality and proven when the bit of blanket moves enough to reveal another face that squints askance at Moxie and Flint. It must be Reed whom the girl referenced just seconds ago. There's no telling exactly how much he's heard, or if the quiet murmurings finally drew him back to awareness. Probably the latter judging by the vague confusion in in expression.
"Yeah. Heard it a bit, mostly stayed away," the blonde girl acknowledges, tugging Flint's toque hat down a bit more, to keep the drafts from the back of her neck. Reed gets a bit of a smile, and she leans away so he can get sat upright without being crowded.
Silent, Flint seems to have gone back to staring at the world like he wants to make all of it explode, or do significant amounts of violence to it, though none of it's directed at Moxie, a bit of the brunt of a glare lands on Reed before Flint has the good sense to look down. "Yeah. Made for a long night with. With, no sleep," the Galliard says, hunching his shoulders, and eventually managing a faint smile when he plays with part of the cat-hat, again.
A touch of Reed's own deeper, defiant anger meets the glare directed at him. Unintentional, however it might be. He sits up when Moxie makes room, glancing at his friend for a second.
"Don't be pissy at Reed." While she might not be too bothered about being glared at herself, she's quick to jump to the other street kid's defense. "We didn't get much sleep either. Too cold. 'least you got a home to go to." An easy assumption, since Flint has such luxuries as an iPod and clean clothes.
Flint grimaces again, but it's not at Moxie's words. Rather, it's at the anger that meets his glare, and Flint talks to himself for a moment, not even audible. Clean is also an overstatement for his clothes. Flint's clothes look like he's been through a few nasty scrapes, and they're hard-worn, though he's cleaned up a bit since the night prior. "Sometimes," is all he responds, words still quiet, as though the home to go to's not something that Flint makes any habit of relying on. "Speakin' of. My mates'll be worried," Flint glances further down the street in the direction he'd been going before, but without getting up. "I'm not s'posed to be out on my own too much. You two should be careful, yeah? And. There's… some pretty messed up things around by the clubs, don't… go w' anyone. N'matter h-how. Nice. They… They seem." That number of words in a row looks like it's exhausted the Walker, and he leans forward on his knees. "Except Temple. Temple's safe 'nough."
"We'll be fine," Reed finally says in tones that implies he's not as willing to trust the other boy. Another glance darts to Moxie then back to Flint, and there's definite mutual protection for his friend.
"'kay." Moxie nods at Flint, apparently accepting the advice, though making no promises about following through with it. "Cheer up, yeah? Cat hat don't like bein' on a grumpy head." That is, after all, why she gave it to him.
Flint offers a weak, tired grin to Moxie as he leverages to his feet, leans against the wall out of the wind. "Yeah," he says. "It's th' first nice thing as happened t-to me, in. A. Damn while, so," comes the remark after, which sounds an awful lot like 'thanks' in tone. Reed is looked at once more, and Flint pushes his hands back into his pockets, coming out, eventually, with a crumpled scrap of paper, offered out to Moxie. It's got a number on it. "Y'ever need, that'll. Reach me," and once she's taken it, Flint's starting back down the sidewalk, with a little less outright anger at the world.