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Cole sat and waited and watched and hated each of the uniform-clad students that dripped off the buses and slithered in long lines into the school. He only had one cigarette left from the pack he'd nicked from X and it dangled from his lips, getting increasingly damp and bent as the morning aged into afternoon. If it wasn't smoked soon, it'd be the wasted spoils of a particularly daring bit of burglary, but Cole's lighter stayed in his back pocket and the soggy cigarette drooped toward his chin.
bad writing: sempiternal drabble
Dec. 9th, 2009 02:25 pmWhen she turned away from the closed door, P was already at the windows. The light filtering in made a pretty silhouette of him and he stood still enough for a few minutes that he was almost a statue carved delicately out of marble. T scrunched her hands into fists and hated him even more.
"So," she said, and he turned around. "How long has it been going on?"
"T," he began beseechingly, "just-"
"Answer me!"
He pressed his lips flat and shrugged. "Ask J."
"I'm asking you!"
"Look, what do you want me to say? Sorry?"
"How - I mean - how could you, with J -"
His shoulders moved again. For a moment he looked just like J had, closed and distant, sneering down at the intruder. He knew why she had come to him after J had locked the door and his wards flared red in her face. And so, an instant later, he softened and dragged his hands through his hair.
"Sorry," he said to the ceiling. "It wasn't supposed to happen."
She had cried all night and into the sink by the window in the first floor bathroom. She scrubbed at her swollen eyes as more tears squeezed themselves out and wiggled through the powder she had packed over her crimson cheeks. She turned away from P to spare him from her wet emotions.
"So," she said, and he turned around. "How long has it been going on?"
"T," he began beseechingly, "just-"
"Answer me!"
He pressed his lips flat and shrugged. "Ask J."
"I'm asking you!"
"Look, what do you want me to say? Sorry?"
"How - I mean - how could you, with J -"
His shoulders moved again. For a moment he looked just like J had, closed and distant, sneering down at the intruder. He knew why she had come to him after J had locked the door and his wards flared red in her face. And so, an instant later, he softened and dragged his hands through his hair.
"Sorry," he said to the ceiling. "It wasn't supposed to happen."
She had cried all night and into the sink by the window in the first floor bathroom. She scrubbed at her swollen eyes as more tears squeezed themselves out and wiggled through the powder she had packed over her crimson cheeks. She turned away from P to spare him from her wet emotions.
