projectroxas | (no subject)

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[ having decided that meeting anthony half-way would be best for this particular... conversation, he walks a bit slowly, quite aware that his dorm was closer to the school than his friend-slash-goalie's house. (that and he would probably have to struggle with his mode of transportation for a while.) so instead of the usual ten minutes it takes him to arrive to this particular destination, he gives himself thirty, casually making his way to one of the benches underneath a tree.

takes a seat, pulls out his cellphone, then begins to check his messages as he waits; it would be at least another fifteen minute wait, one he was finally willing to be patient for. after all, he wasn't expecting much, anyway. when it came to feelings, expectations were the worst things to have, or so he had logically deducted throughout his childhood. besides, it wouldn't be the end of the world if anything negative happened. this was anthony, after all, the boy who clucked and bawked louder than he spoke or made any semblance of sense with his words.

... it almost made him second-guess himself. almost.

pockets his phone and tilts his head backwards instead, letting it rest against the top of the bench. just simply stares up into the branches and leaves of the tree, allowing himself to show a rare display of being lost in some non-thoughts for the time being. ]

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[ sometimes being an adult sucked. the job market sucked (she had a job, but not one that she particularly cared to have for the rest of her life) and most people sucked (unless they were drunk) and her stupid jackass childhood friend sucked, too (he went off to stupid sweden for the weekend and took pretty little anne with him; even if it was their parent's idea, she still blamed michael for it).

but it didn't mean that the night had to suck. she enjoyed her own company well enough to not always need to hang out with people, even if being a social butterfly was much better than renting movies and popping by that hole in the wall chinese restaurant on the way home. or maybe not. their food was fucking delicious. or so she says, anyway.

though to be quite honest, all she really wanted to do was stay in for the night despite the urge to go out and drink (she had her social interaction for the day, after all; those asian guys who made her food were a riot). so after changing into something more comfortable, she waltzed out of the kitchen with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a glass in the other. with a satisfied sound she flops down on her couch and spreads herself out, grabbing the remote to turn on the tv after popping in a movie.

it's only five seconds later that her cellphone rings, groaning loudly and pawing for the annoying object with her foot (though it was playing one of her favorite songs, much to her usual enjoyment). doesn't bother taking the time to look at who it is, flipping it open before saying, in a thick asian accent: ]

Ni hao! Dis Rachel Chinese Food Services. Want some kung pao chicken? Five dollah, one time only! You buy, yes?

[ ...

...

... okay , he can't not respond to this. ]

Five dollah? Make it four and we have deal.

[ perks up at the familiar voice, grinning widely. ]

Hey! Long time no talk, chicken-head! Didn't think you'd ever call me, ya jerk.

I am being held at gunpoint. Please sign the lease to your illegal Chinese operation when it shows up in the mail.

Huh. Well, this is a toughie. On one hand, I really like my illegal Chinese operation. It's like my baby, you get me? Buuut I think your cap-i-tan would kill me if I didn't save your ass. [ pauses, humming loudly. ] Eh, guess he can find another goalie in time. Sorry, bro!

Where is the avian loyalty.

It's being drowned in alcohol, my friend.

[ pause. ]

Can I have some?

[ there's a (surprised) pause on her end as well. ]

Huh. Sure, why the hell not. The more the merrier!

Outside or in?

In, in. I'm in my pjs and I ain't getting dressed again for nobody!

[ ... he's going to check. just in case. he's been tricked by lyssa far too many times to not check. ]

What is your pjs composed of. [ pause. then hopefully: ] Shirt and pants?

[ barely hears that, too busy getting up to rummage around in the kitchen; clink clank. ]

Sure, chicken boy. Look, I'll text you my address and apartment number, 'kay? Just knock when you get here. See you in a bit!

[ & then she hangs up. ]

[ stares at the text in dread & then sighs before puttering around. grabs the bag of chips from where his dad had attempted to hide it, grabs his keys & makes his way to tinkerbell.

it takes about twenty minutes to reach the address if only because he had to stop & ask for directions at least three times (he stopped counting afterward) & circling around the street looking for the right building twice. still he arrived in one piece, the chips haven't degenerated into mush & he's about to get drunk. right? right. hopefully.

makes his way into the apartment building & up the floors via elevator. standing in front of her door, he holds up the chips in between his head & the door. just in case. knocks. ]

[ jumps up from her seat on the couch, making a beeline over to the door. swings it on open, raising her hands up in the air. ]

Welcome to my humble abode, chicken boy!

I brought chips. What is your pjs. Can I open my eyes?

Huh? [ looks down at herself. back up at him. ] What, you've never seen a girl in her underwear before? C'mon, it's not like I'm wearing something sexy.

[ seen it... too many times, actually. ]

Be decent or I will steal your sprite and run. [ pause. ] Please?

[ groans. ]

I have to? In my own apartment? Geez, you sure are bossy for someone who's gonna drink my booze.

[ dutifully turns to go into her bedroom anyway, leaving him alone for now. ]

[ shuffles after he hears her move away, toeing off his shoes. ]

I can pay compensation. In dimes.

[ quickly tugs on a longer shirt-slash-nightgown thing (that covers mostly everything, thank you very much) before poking her head out. ]

Paying me to get dressed? Hah, that's a first! You're a good guy.

[ looks up slowly & shoulder slumps a bit in relief. holds up the chips again. ]

Even flattery can't help possibly-moldy chips.

[ takes them from him and shrugs. ]

Eh, food's food. [ wanders back to her couch, taking a reasonably appropriate position on it. sets the bag of chips aside, handing him a (already opened) can of sprite. grabs her wine again. ] So. How can I help you, mister goalie? Need some cash? Lovin'? Or did you just miss my face that much?

[ stares at the sprite. doesn't answer her question in favour of a more important one: ]

Is this real sprite or magical sprite?

[ uses her fingers to make a "dazzling" effect with them. ]

It's magical sprite. Why, didn't you come here for that?