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Post by Rory Fergus Hewitt on Jan 2, 2012 22:07:40 GMT -5
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“…and that’s it for tonight, thanks for listening.”
It was his usual finish to his usual set. And, of course, there was the usual reaction; a couple of disseminated claps, but mostly silence for his performance. The rest of the bar was filled the buzz of voices, clack of computer keys and (if you listened really hard) the occasional scratch of pen on paper. How people managed to do their homework in a pub, Rory would never know. Then again, the vibe in here was so different from the local village pub back home. Everyone there knew each other, and talked to each other. Here the students had their own tables, but they seemed to stick to themselves. True, the frat boys and sorority girls mixed it up a bit, but there weren’t that many of them.
Rory found it a little sad that there were so many people, but they were all so separate. But though he could talk to people, he couldn’t make people talk to each other. He could act outside the paradigm, but he wasn’t going to be the guy to change it. Rory was happy just being Rory, he didn’t need to change the world.
Hell, he didn’t even need to be paid properly for what he did. As he sidled down from the make-shift stage, guitar in hand, he made a beeline for the bar. It was time to collect for his performance. Most musicians might hope to get a little envelope of money, or word that the transfer had been made into their account, as usual but Rory knew that neither was coming his way. First, he didn’t have a bank account (being kind of illegally present in the country, he didn’t even have a social security number) and secondly, he didn’t think that he was good enough for money. Not really. He was good enough for busking, but there was a difference between a couple of errant dollars here and there and a proper, paid gig.
Which begged the question of why Quigley even had him play in the first place.
Thing was that Rory was probably cheaper than a jukebox or a collection of CDs. Live music also added a certain sort of ambiance to a place, and the fact that the performer was a foreigner with an obvious accent made it better. There was nothing wrong with a bit of gimmick.
“Good night,” complimented Quigley as he laid a couple of plates onto the bar ready for the musician. It was still hot, steaming, and the wafting scent of it made the Scot’s mouth water. This would be the most he’d eaten since the night before – breakfast being nothing more than an apple, and lunch being non-excistant.
“Got the regular here, onion rings, fries with…” the barman paused, expression both perplexed and a little disgusted, he’d been serving the boy for months and this was still weird, “vinegar. And house burger. No salad.”
“Thanks Quigley, my hero, as always,” replied Rory with a grin as he looked over his personal feast; probably the most food he’d see until the next time he performed.
Bar food wasn’t the ideal diet. It had very few of the important food groups and all of the bad ones. Oil, salts, fats, sugars, they were all covered…but vegetables? Fruits? Nothing. It was a good thing, then, that Rory was a scot. The stereotype about them and fried food wasn’t wrong at all. The musician hoed into his chips with relish, before the vinegar could make them too soggy to be much pleasure to eat.
…although he’d still scoff them down, even then.
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Post by CIEL AVRIEL LAZAAR on Jan 3, 2012 21:18:23 GMT -5
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 boy with a coin,
T H E N M A K I N G A W I S H , A N D T O S S E D I N T H E S E A Ciel listened to the guy on stage and tapped his foot along with the beat of the music. He didn’t usually come for the music, but for the alcohol. He watched the guy with rapt attention, more interested in the passion the guy put into his music than the music itself. Ciel refrained from clapping as the guy climbed down from the lousy excuse from the stage. He sat at the bar by himself, studying the people around him. He chatted to the bartender amicably, happy for the attention. Usually he wasn’t overly pleasant to be around, but he always had a healthy respect for the man who made the drink. If you were rude to them, they skimped you on the contents. Most of the staff at Quigleys knew Ciel by name. They greeted him as an old time friend. They always brought him his usual drink, a stout glass of straight tequila topped by three ice cubes. It wasn’t a conventional drink, but it got the job done nicely, thank you very much.
The junior sipped his drink, not flinching from the taste. He was familiar with the way tequila caressed his tongue. He loved the way it burned all the way down. He looked at it as a punishment for all of the things he had done wrong in his past. Ciel always took what was deserved, and never complained. Well, he might complain a little bit, but not if it was related to Alexei. He knew there were many things he could have done differently in the past. He pushed his thoughts away impatiently and closed his eyes for a moment. He took three deep breaths to calm himself. Whenever he thought of the past, grief welled in the hole in his chest where they said the heart was supposed to be. He didn’t believe them. He knew he no longer had a heart. It had been ripped out when his only reason for living had been taken from him.
Watching as Quigley set some plates before the musician, Ciel frowned thoughtfully. He saw no exchange of money, nothing. It seemed curious to Ciel, but he decided not to pursue it. He stood from his seat, holding himself up on the chair. He might have imbibed in a little bit too much entirely too quickly. He closed his eyes and held himself in place, waiting for the dizziness to dispel. When he wasn’t in danger of tossing his cookies, Ciel moved quietly up beside the guy. He set his glass down gently and occupied the seat.
Up close, he could see that the musician was quite attractive. The guy’s features almost made Ciel’s stomach flip, though he couldn’t explain even to himself why. He felt like the man was familiar, though he looked nothing like anyone the junior knew. He signaled for Quigley’s attention, and waited for him to approach. He glanced at the fellow who was eating beside him. “I’d like to buy your star player a drink.” He stated flatly. He kept his face carefully devoid of emotion. “Get him whatever he wants, and put it on my tab.” He smiled benevolently.
Ciel studied the guy’s plate for a moment, not caring whether he was seen or not. The amount of fried food almost made him shudder, but he held back the urge. Ciel hated fried food with a passion. He subsided on salads and white meat. He might be somewhat of a health freak, but it was only normal, right? “Interesting food choice,” He commented absently. “I’m Ciel,” He made eye contact with the guy he had chosen for company that night. He offered his hand, and waited for it to be taken. Handshakes were customary in his family. He had been taught at a very young age that good manners were next to godliness and some other rubbish.
notes // I am extremely sorry that this fails. |
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Post by Rory Fergus Hewitt on Jan 11, 2012 8:43:50 GMT -5
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It wasn’t uncommon for there to be company found at the bar – Quigley’s was a bustling place any night of the week, and Rory was a talkative young man – but it was most out of the ordinary to have his company purchase him a drink. He might have had a mouthful of deep fried potato and onion, but the Scot still grinned at the Kappa who had sat down beside him and showered him with largess before even knowing his name. It was a brief expression, however, because exceptional though he was, the busker couldn’t hold a grin and chew his food at the same time. Yes, he could easily talk with a full mouth, but some habits from his upbringing had persisted. His father wasn’t glowering at him from across the table any longer or rapping a spoon across his knuckles for a transgression, but Rory didn’t need that. Good manners all round had been ingrained into him.
After a large, heavy swallow, sending the bolus of food down to sit happily in his stomach, Rory was free to speak to the ~intriguing~ stranger. Ciel was a face that he had often seen, but never had the pleasure of interacting with. To be honest, most of the time the man seemed more interested in his drink than socialising with anyone. Of course, had Rory invested any of his time falling into the Greek rumour mill in his years at LCU he would know all about the Kappa’s habits.
But he hadn’t.
The musician liked to keep himself innocent of all that crap. It was well above his head. Not to mention that, most of the time, rich people were far more trouble than they were worth. He would know, having been raised by one!
“It works for me,” he replied, flashing that cheeky little grin again.
“It’s a good way to fill up the tank after a long day’s work.”
True, he never did a lot of movement, but standing and playing all day left his muscles sore all the same. Bobbing along with the music he played set an ache into his thighs and onto the soles of his feet. It burned enough energy to make his stomach curl in on itself; attempting, perhaps, to devour itself for some form of filling.
Wiping his fingers hastily on his shirt, Rory accepted Ciel’s offered hand and gave it a firm shake. It was another old practice from his upbringing. No limp, useless shakes. He was supposed to be a strong man, so he’d have a strong shake. People would know right from the get go that he was a Hewitt and not a force to be discounted. Or something like that. It had seemed that his father could rant for hours about something as simple as shaking hands, when it came so naturally to him!
“Name’s Rory,” he announced, before taking his hand back to get right back to his dinner. The food took his attention for a few moments (one should never get between a ravenous man and his daily meal) before Ciel stole it back again, simply by existing.
…this time the Scot might have forgotten that he did have a bit of food in his mouth.
“You want some?”
The plate slid easily across the bar, that much closer to Ciel.
“Seeing as you offered me a drink and all. Speaking of, Quigley, could I have some of that pale ale you have on tap?”
Tonight was definitely a good night.
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Post by CIEL AVRIEL LAZAAR on Jan 15, 2012 15:15:22 GMT -5
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boy with a coin,
T H E N M A K I N G A W I S H , A N D T O S S E D I N T H E S E A Ciel studied the crowd for a few moments before he re-focused his attention on the man he was sitting with. The man was attractive, and had a nice voice. He couldn’t place the accent, but he wasn’t afraid to ask about it. “Where are you from?” He drained the contents of his glass and slammed it down on the counter. He nodded at Quigley, signaling that he would like another. On a normal night, he had three stout glasses and promptly passed out. So far, he had only imbibed in one. However, normally there wasn’t such stimulating company. The male population tended to avoid Ciel, simply because of his reputation. He didn’t know how he had not met this man before, but it was of no consequence now. The musician’s grin made his heart flip. The sensation was irritating, but Ciel brushed it off.
He drew his finger across the rim of his glass in lazy circles, watching the man eat. He felt compelled to stare, but knew better than to be rude. He had never seen anyone eat with such abandon. To his family, eating was a necessity to remain healthy. The saying, “Food is the cement of a family,” was something totally foreign to his family. It is true that they took their meals together, for the most part. However, there was little conversation between them while they ate. Their chef cooked relatively tasteless meals, because it was what his father enjoyed. When he had gotten to college, Ciel subsided on Top Ramen. The taste was comforting to him.
“I see,” Ciel nodded amiably. “You must love it.” He commented. He couldn’t fathom what it must take for someone to live that way. It was obvious that the guy didn’t get enough to eat. Why else would he eat like he did? Not that it mattered. “So is playing all you do?” He raised an eyebrow questioningly. It was more work than Ciel did, for sure. But it didn’t really bring a lot of money to the table when you were just starting out, or if you weren’t ‘discovered.’
Ciel winced when the man didn’t use a napkin. It had been ingrained in him at a young age that if you destroyed your clothes, you would have hell to pay. He decided liked the feel of the musician’s hand. His shake was firm, and authoritive.
“Rory,” Ciel tasted the name, enjoying the way it sounded. “Unique name,” He grinned, raking his hand through his hair. He eyed the plate that the Scot slid toward him. “No thanks,” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to cheat you out of your hard work.” He tried to ignore the fact that Rory talked with his mouth full and wiped his hands on his shirt. Something about it reminded him of his childhood, though he couldn’t place what. He drummed his fingers on the table listlessly.
notes // I am extremely sorry that this fails. |
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