LOCATIONS

[farrowday]

(placeholder-- will have toplevels for common locations, players welcome to add their own for private spots like dorms)

Comments

[broil]

'Course not.

[if he does notice, he doesn't care. at least John isn't just pushing him away as usual.]

Dragons can actually make their own fire.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

Oh, fuck you. [He gives Petre a shove, but not a really hard one; last thing he needs is the guy falling over and spraining a wrist when they're at stalemate as far as punishments go.] You only think pyrokinesis is lame because it can't touch you. I can wreck pretty much anything and anyone else out there, it's good enough for me.

[broil]

[He stumbles a bit, but just smiles at the shove. Friendly banter, is all.]

On the contrary, I think it's very impressive. Yours could just be a little more impressive.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

If you were any more impressed with me, you'd come in your pants every time you saw me. Better we leave it like this for everyone's sake.

[He's not holding the big front door open for Petre, just barging out on his own and waiting for him to follow. It's not really brisk enough for the hoodie yet, but he can handle being warm. Comes with the territory.]

[broil]

[His turn to shove John, even if his arms are nowhere near as strong when he smacks his fist against a shoulder blade. The moment passes before he manages to make it outside.]

Finally, some fresh air.

[Which is why he reaches in for that cigarette now. Who needs all this fresh air? Not him.]

[ex_outofcontrol435]

[As Petre probably expected by now, the cigarette gets a twitch of one nostril. Gross. He walks a bit ahead, trying to stay upwind.]

So where are we actually going?

[broil]

Somewhere on the grass, where a hundred-year-old tree will protect us from the evil sun.

[pasty people like Petre don't get to toast very well.]

Let's just sit and talk. Confuse the fuck out of the faculty.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

[It sounds as much like a trap as everything else that comes out of Petre's mouth, but also undeniably fun. He nods, picking up the pace as he once again tucks his hands into his pockets.]

I know a good one. Just past the graveyard. [It's sparsely populated, but the little collection of headstones to fallen X-Men is still a graveyard. And somehow the location seems to suit them well.]

[broil]

Of course you do! I knew I could count on you, John.

[And gladly he follows, bringing the cigarette up to his lips here and there, exhaling smoke with his eyes shut. He's soaking up the warmth on the skin of his cheeks, as harmful as too much exposure to the sun may be. It's all good. He feels good and doesn't question why.]

I'll tell you one thing - tequila's a bitch on your brain. Hate drawing blanks.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

[Too bad for you, he thinks with fierce relief.]

Tequila. Nasty. I go whiskey all the way, Jack Daniels.

[broil]

Aren't you fancy. Nothing gets you to crash as hard as fast as tequila, though. Fucking love the whole ritual of it. [he gestures with his hands, trail of smoke following the cigarette-holding one, fingers expressive and wide.]

Would you believe me if I told you I'm a total lightweight?

[ex_outofcontrol435]

I drank to keep warm, man, whiskey had the best burn. Now I'm just used to it. I stole all my booze anyway, there's nothing fancy about it.

[He looks Petre up and down - smaller than him, a rarity at their age, and skinnier.]

Yeah. Easy.

[broil]

I thought vodka was for keeping warm. Like they do in Russia.

[mothalaaaaaand wait no not really]

[ex_outofcontrol435]

Not Russian, never had any Russians around to ask. Whiskey worked for me. [He shrugs idly.] What kind of accent is that, anyway?

[That may well be the first real personal question he's ever asked Petre. Whoops.]

[broil]

[color him surprised.]

Romanian. Or so I've been told.

Can't believe you never ran into the Russian mafia.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

Guess the mafia just wasn't my scene.

[He falls into silence for a few steps. Romania. He couldn't place it on a map, but he's thinking Europe somewhere. And not even knowing... that's the first time a bit of Petre's reality has sunk in for him in a tangible way, and it doesn't feel very comfortable.]

I wouldn't be able to pick out and label many accents anyway, maybe I did.

[broil]

[Well. Reality sinking in isn't something that happens to Petre, ever. His past is just a haze and his present an ongoing road to nowhere. Anything he's told about who he is or used to be is as concrete to him was the abstract concepts of words on a page in a language he doesn't know. They're there; he can do anything he wants with the paper except read it.

(The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. Who said that?)]

Your life would make a pretty good book. I'd read it and write a ten page essay.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

Aggression vs. Assertiveness: Why Waste Time When You Can Kick Ass?

[He laughs quietly to himself. A real laugh. Even though he knows better than to trust the events of last night, it still feels like something has changed. And it doesn't feel entirely bad.]

[broil]

[he makes a space between his indicator and thumb, slashes them across the air like he's delineating a headline.]

The boy who wanted to be a dragon, by Petre Dodrescu.

[ex_outofcontrol435]

[He grins, but it's actually a very honest moment. He feels a lot like a study project to Petre sometimes - better than a test subject, but only by a little. And miles better than the conquest he knows he actually is.]

Too bad no one cares about our side of the story, right? [Mutants, he means. Mutant runaways are a dime a dozen, as evidenced by the very school they're in being a boarding school. His desertion is just a splash of colour, not a major event.]

[broil]

It isn't going to be that way forever. [He lifts a hand, drops it again.] You're gonna make sure of that, right?

[ex_outofcontrol435]

You're never gonna let that go. See if I tell you any of my hopes and dreams again. [It's said wryly, but there's just a hint of real indignation beneath it. It's pointless trying to get Petre to take anything seriously, he's accepted it as much as he can, but having that mocked stings from anyone.]

[broil]

It means I was listening. Means you weren't being ignored. You like that.

[His tone carries a hint of am I wrong? Sure he doesn't take anything seriously. It'd be a weakness of sorts if he did, or worse yet - if people ever knew. Most of all John.]

[ex_outofcontrol435]

[A study project, and in spite of his best efforts, Petre usually aces it. He hates those moments when he's so effortlessly pinned by the truth about himself, his ego, the weakness it hides.

They're crossing through the graveyard now, and he points up ahead to a huge old tree that pretty much exactly fits what Petre described. Branches spread wide and thick, leaves just beginning to fall, gnarled old roots bursting up from the ground to create what almost look like seats for them.]

Right up there.

[broil]

Perfect.

[a murmur as he finishes the cigarette, putting it out on the palm of his hand. Needless to say there's no burn, just black ash on his skin that he brushes and dusts off. Petre's considerate enough not to throw it out, mostly because they'd find it and immediately know it was him who littered the place.

Petre settles down before John, arranges the sleeves around his arms and rolls them up, shaking gold hair from his face. Eyes narrowed, looking up at the sky through the leaves.]

Just like I asked.