((okay, since I got a bit of positive response, I feel more positive, myself, today! On to chapter one! There are a few more pictures, tit for tat, but, I'm sure no one minds. :tongue5:))
Chapter One- Rosline
Dane found himself in a very unusual and awkward position, as soon as he closed his front door, and found his eyes drawn to the street-light on the corner of his new house. Something, or, rather,
someone who was definitely NOT a dying small animal stood slumped underneath it, crying his androgynous eyes out. Dane, himself, couldn't move a single step from the moment he'd gone outside; he stood there, eyes brimming at the sight of the unusual young man, back turned to him, hands covering his face, and...he was paralyzed.
This young man's skin was a shade of rosy white that he'd never seen, before, outside of fantasy novels and cheesy animes that Jessica had forced him to watch; his form was slender, and reed-like, fit in skin tight blacks and nets and silver buckles. Black nails, short and nervously-bitten, were thrust into just the top of his white hair, which streamed down the crescent of his back, until it tickled his tail-bone, which....was almost -showing-, with the rate those pants had slipped down his hips.
"....H...hey, kid. What's....what's the problem? Care to tell me why the Hell you're bawling in my yard?"
The words didn't come out at ALL like he'd wanted them to; he'd finally gotten up the nerve to sprint down the steps, across the sparse grass, and in front of the crying figure, leaning down, a little, to try and see his face through his hands. The tired writer attempted a smile, faint and weak and slightly nauseous, but, any further words he was going to say were cut off when, very suddenly, the young man lifted his tear-stained face, and proceeded to bite poor Dane's undeserving head off.
"...This streetlight's Government Property; I can stand here and 'bawl' all I want, you
Jerk!"
The young man's voice was lyrical and slightly effeminate, but, it matched his face, as far as Dane was concerned; a sloping, pale oval, with tear flushed cheeks, puffy eyes, and smudged gothic make-up. His eyes were bright red, and his pupils were crimson; an albino, apparently. A typical...or, slightly atypical, 'damsel in distress'. Dane winced inwardly at his utter -lack- of social skills, and caught himself backing up a few steps as he was yelled at, trying to think of anything to say or so to make this boy
stop screaming .
"Look," started Dane, holding his hands up in mock self defense. His patience, which was already near-nil, after the day he'd had, was starting to wear thin. "...I Didn't -mean- to...well, make you angrier, okay?! I just wanted to know what was wrong!!
Jesus kid!!"
"...Everything is wrong!!" The pale young man screeched, throwing his arms back as if he thought the force of his own cries might send him falling backwards into the dirt and the out-of-place pine trees littering Dane's yard.
"J.....J-Just leave me alone, and I'll get off your D*** property....and....and don't call me K...Kid, because I swear I'll--"
Dane couldn't stop his pleased smirk when the younger man Froze, instantly forgetting what he was saying the moment the writer's hand had reached out, without warning, and brushed the tears from his snowrose cheeks. He was stiff and wary under his touch; a wild animal, waiting to bite or bolt...deciding what to do, but too scared to think straight. His eyes were caught on Dane's face, and his lips moved, soundlessly, before he was given something to answer.
"...Well, then...If I can't call ya 'kid'...I'm gonna hafta get a name outta you. I'm Dane. You are...?"
The young man didn't even realize he was being tugged, gently, towards Dane's porch, and then, inside, out of the cold, until his eyes snapped away, and he saw wall instead of horizon. ".....Rosline." He murmured, hardly a breath, and stepped back, sharply, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets. "...W....why...."
"...Are we Inside?" Dane finished, rather cheerily, before motioning to the hallway that split off of the livingroom. "...Well, at your age, I'm guessin' that hiding under my streetlight, in the cold, crying...would mean you're a bit homeless, right? You're stayin' here, for the night, till' you calm down, a bit. Now, go wash up. The bathroom's through the hallway; third door."
Rosline was too stunned to Argue; he stood in this new stranger's house, looked around, once, then nodded, mutely. No less than five minutes later, the sound of running water ebbed out into the livingroom, and Dane had already set a pair of Black Pajamas by the door for the poor man to use. The writer had pursed his lips in concern when, even after the water had stopped running, Rosline seemed to prefer to keep the lights off.
"....Kid's so gloomy, he even bathes in the F***ing dark..." He muttered to himself as he worked on the complex process that was getting coffee to -come out- of his kitchen coffee-pot. The machine sputtered, dripping weakly into the pitcher, and the black-haired man itched his stubble, absently, only NOW wondering
why he'd suddenly decided to let this 'kid' stay with him. Dane Hatcher, while well known for occasional random-acts-of-kindness, was also known for frequent random-acts-of-stupidity.
Dane couldn't exactly figure out which one of those two this situation was, yet. After about 20 minutes of utter silence from the bathroom, though, he was starting to wonder if it was the latter. Just as he slid away from his dying coffee-pot and towards the hallway, though, the bathroom door opened, and a tall, thin shadow cast itself upon the walls.
It was then that the writer realized why his new charge -wore- so much 'gloomy' make-up.
Rosline stood, in shocked stillness, again, in Dane's hallway; his body was covered up ((almost swallowed, really)) by the night-clothes the other man had left for him; they swathed his arms, and fell over his heels...but...they did nothing to hide his face, which was focused, blankly, in Dane's direction.
....It was
covered with angry, pink scars. They bridged across his nose in packs, and laced up his left jaw in twos. The corner of his mouth...even his -eyes-, in places, looked as if a rabid bear had mauled him. In the center of his pale, sloping forehead laid the three worst marks; neat slashes, deep and painful-looking, still the pink of a newly-scarred injury.
Dane's first reaction was to open his mouth, and reach forward, as if to touch, mentally clawing for something, -anything-, to say...if only to make that fearful glint in Rosline's eyes dissipate. He didn't have time to think of anything 'inspiring', though; within seconds, the young man turned around and bolted to the back guest room, finding it, fumbling open the door, and slamming it behind himself. Under any other circumstance, the writer would have thought it strange that Rosline found it without having gotten the 'tour'...but, all he could think to do, now, was follow Rosline back, and try to salvage what was -left- of his ruined day and night.
The sounds of much softer sobbing assaulted the Writer's ears the minute he cracked open the door. Rosline stood in the blank beige bedroom, fists clenched and head down, biting his lip so he wouldn't be 'loud'. It seemed, when he'd run out of places to run, that he'd given up, so to speak; when he glanced over his shoulder at Dane, his eyes held so much hopelessness that the older man found himself unable to stop.
His arms were around Rosline before he could even think about it, hands buried in cascades of white as the pale slip of a man collapsed against him, hiding his face and crying. Dane didn't know how long he held Roseline; minutes, or even -hours-, but...he found himself not minding, so much. The kid was light, and he smellt like soap and jasmine blossoms, somehow. It was...unique; different.
Perhaps, it was even a little inspiring, that the poor guy was trusting a stranger so openly.
"...hey, hey now...sh-shh. It...It's gonna be alright. You got that?" Dane murmured, pulling back, a bit, trying out another weak smile. This time, it worked, and Rosline sniffled, softly, wiping his eyes in a gesture so utterly childish that the other man caught himself smiling all the more.
"...We...I...oh, D***it, just tell me in the mornin', okay, Rosline? I think you might need to get some sleep."
The poor young man didn't speak a single word, as Dane quietly pulled the bedsheets back for him, and helped him into bed, wiping his eyes, again. Dane Hatcher tried to avoid touching or brushing a scar, and left Rosline with the silent hope that he wouldn't run off, in the middle of the night.
He laid in his own bed, not long afterwards, and found himself staring thoughtfully at his old friend, the white stucco, again. This time, though, he felt much...better, to be looking at it. As his Mossy eyes slid shut, he smirked, a bit, into his pillow, and shook his head.
"....I should write about this...in the mornin'..."
Dane thought, rather absently, that he might have just stumbled onto his newest Muse.
