And Disappear in the Trees [Ishaq]

[Kendal]

deets:
wardrobe
title song

It was bizarre.

It was bizarre how the slums, which some might consider an unfavourable part of the city, was more an area that was in his comfort zone than where he worked. The slums reminded him of home in minute ways, people there were of his ilk, bent and twisted in some way that people beyond the exit wouldn't understand. Now, there was nothing wrong with production company; in fact, it seemed just like any other entertainment-centred business. Maybe that was what was so unnerving. Regular folk going about their regular lives with jobs and cars and schedules. Obligations to carry and expectations to meet. Now those could all be his for one low, one-time fee of his very mortal soul.

The first night wasn't too rough. He'd applied for and been hired into security detail which suited him just fine. He took comfort in the feel of the flat side of the steel blade strapped to the side of his calf, hidden away under a layer of fabric. Cold metal against his skin felt more right then another's flesh ever did. He thought about asking his employer for a taser, you know, just in case. He thought long about how to word his request as he walked along 15th street. He'd only been at the company one night so far. Maybe he could find a way to warm them up to the idea, sneak in subtle clues and subliminal messaging. Bax toed at a small rock before sending it skirting across the pavement.

First a job, then what? A house? With a picket fence? Neatly trimmed hedges dividing the lot from the one next to it, one that looked exactly the same? He grinned faintly to himself.

Security wasn't too bad. He'd spent a lot of time at a desk, staring at the space in front of him and flipping through an old raggedy copy of the Divine Comedy that he'd found forgotten and wedged behind the desk. It was a good place to sit and watch people over the top of the book. It wasn't weird anymore because it was in his job description now. And it was a good thing too because sometimes, quite often actually, his attention would drift by noises, by smells. Sometimes, it was compulsive and he had to look up even if he didn't need to. He'd watch various people, singers mostly, walk in or out. None he knew but he'd never really good at obsessing over celebrities. Not that he didn't want to but he simply didn't have the means to, growing up, and that want (to fit in, to follow his peers) had eventually faded to nothingness.

When he got to 32nd, he arrived at his destination. He'd passed by it quite a few times before, especially when he was hunting for his charge down in Redwood. Bars were busy but no one had yet seen him. Maybe someone inside this time around. How long had it been? November 3rd. Nine days. How long could a body last without food? He rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands and inhaled deeply. He was getting scattered again. That constricting feeling was back again and cutting off oxygen supple quick, making it hard to think.

He stood outside The Handle Bar in contemplation for quite some time before squaring his shoulders and heading inside. If anything, he could maybe have a drink and maybe, if Lady Luck was even the littlest bit on his side tonight, sell the narcotics he'd picked up in the slums. If she wasn't, then his patience would be tested and wasn't sure how well he'd do. His patience was already thing and it was getting thinner and thinner as the days passed. He'd been brainstorming on exactly what he'd do when he saw Fred again.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

I need a dolla, a dolla. A dolla is what I need....

" One..two..three..." He whispered, thumbing through the bills in his wallet while casually glancing up to make sure he didn't run into anything. Though, it was more likely he would trip on his own feet as he swayed from left to right, stumbling about the means streets of Harper Rock.

He possessed over three hundred dollars in his pocket and anyone would have believed he was a fool for carrying so much cash on him. Yet, Ishaq was a man on a mission. He was a man full of desire and nothing, not even being drunk, would keep him from fulfilling such desire. The monkey on his back wouldn't let him get away from it. The itch was ever present to the point it was painful. He needed her, Snow Queen. He needed her, finding himself unable to function without her. Without her, he was no fun. Without her, he didn't feel like himself. Perhaps it was psychological; after all, he was a vampire and the blood in his veins was what really kept him from decaying. However, he just never quite felt himself without her sphere of influence.

It was the only reason he left the party happening back at Dizzy's place. He had ran out of the powder earlier in the evening. He thought it had been enough to keep the high going for a while, but it wore off. It wore off and he had began to get agitated. So he drank and drank until he could feel himself floating in the atmosphere. Yet, even being drunk wasn't enough. When he ventured out, Dizzy had questioned him leaving and all he could do was apologize. He couldn't say anymore without the risk of looking like a complete moron. Hell, it was already impossible for him to lie to the male or anyone at that fact. All he could was apologize for abrupt departure and hoped it was enough of an explanation.

His feet continued to stumble across the pavement as he tucked his wallet into his back pocket. Eyes squinting, he took in the scenery around as best as he could. Handle Bar, that's where he was heading. No, he had no desire to go inside the establishment. The last time he had entered the place and got high in the bathroom, the female bartender gave him the hardest time, embarrassing. Now, she was married to his brother. Funny how things turned out. Still, the bar held a sour memory for him but it didn't matter; he knew he could score there. His addiction knew no limit. He knew where all the best spots to score and made it his point to memorise the areas. Dizzy's apartment was close to the Handle Bar. He could score and head back; that was the plan.

Finally, he made it to the bar with the dimly lit sign outside and glanced around the entrance area. No one. No one was out there. He grumbled darkly, pacing the pavement. He hadn't planned to go inside. He just wanted to do business and scram. Ishaq rubbed his face as he continued to grumble. He took a deep breath. "All right, pretend to be sober," coached the male, "You're sober. You're sober. You're sober." Another inhale. He held it tight in his chest before he slowly exhaled, grabbing a hold of the handle and pulling it toward him to allow himself to slip inside.

The smell of alcohol and cigarettes immediately greeted him. He took a deep breath and held it, allowing the scents to mingle in his chest. Oh, god. How he loved the combination of smell. Taking in the scene, he let out an irritated sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets. Now, he watched and waited, trying to see if the usual dealer around the Handle Bar was already here or would appear soon enough.

[Kendal]

It was a little noisier than he would’ve liked but bars usually were. It was a challenge to sit and concentrate with the layers of noise in the background. After a while, it all melted together, the many layers. The base noise was the scatter of conversations that meshed together until none of it was discernible, not even a single shred of it was left out in exile for him to pick up on and cling to like a desperate castaway on a raft. On top of the din was the louder, more distracting noise of music or the TV. He couldn’t even tell what it was anymore. Maybe some kind of a sports event? He looked up to try and find the source.

See, the white noise that came from people’s voices tangling together was bearable enough because if he tried hard enough, he could let it sit in his head and simmer until it bubbled and evaporated away; it would still be there but it would be less palpable. But the other noise, the louder one, the one from the TV or radio or whatever it was, was harder to ignore. It stuck out from the fog of the bedlam like a sore thumb. Decibels pitched at times he couldn’t anticipate, nor prepare himself for. There was no pattern, no linear rhythm to follow. He didn’t realize he was clenching his jaw until it began to throb dully and his teeth felt relief from the loosening of the vice as he opened his mouth to order his drink.

From his seat at the bar, Baxter watched as the bartender poured liquid amber into a stubby little glass before setting it down on the counter in front of him. He picked up the tumbler and mumbled his gratefulness to the man behind the bar, who had turned away already. He took his whiskey neat. Clean, he called it, because it was. There was no dilution, no extra frills that changed the way it tasted. The strong taste, which was neither favoured nor opposed by the male, had no façade. It was pure; or rather, as pure as alcohol could get. He took in a deep breath, held it for a pause before exhaling as he turned in his seat.

It didn’t take him too long to spot the creature. Tall, irate, impatient. There was something about the way he stood, with his hands in his pockets, like he was waiting for something, and the longer he didn’t find it, the more his patience ebbed away. He mused over the male, wondering if he was waiting for a date. But no, if it was a date, the man would likely attempt to appear casual, even if he wasn’t feeling it. Maybe he was waiting for friends. People tended to drop their acts around people they grew comfortable around. Baxter pulled his gaze away to look around and see if there was impending company. He waited a spell. Five minutes passed and then another five and he checked his watch, growing as impatient as the other man looked. Twenty-one minutes was how long it took before Baxter gave up.

He waited.

Once he caught the dark eyes as they scanned the room, he smiled what he hoped was an amicable expression and lifted his glass towards him in invitation.

And then he waited again.

[Ishaq (DELETED 4744)]

This was taking longer than he had anticipated it would. Ishaq wouldn't say he was an impatient man eighty-five percent of the time, but the other fifteen percent... Well, the other fifteen percent accounted for times like this, when he feigning to feel higher and not grounded by reality. His mind begged his feet to ignore the urge to pace in the limited space provided in the tavern. His mind even had to beg his desire not to convince his feet to leave and return to the part empty handed. Sure, he could somewhat satisfy his itch with a bit more alcohol; but, what about tomorrow evening? Would alcohol be enough to satisfy the itch once it became a full blown rash on his productivity?

No, no it wouldn't.

So he waited. Five became ten. Ten became fifteen. Soon, fifteen became twenty and he found himself growing anxious and agitated with every passing moment.

Ishaq's eyes continued to searched the tavern, flickering toward the entrance often. Not much changed in the environment; most movement were consistent. That was until his eyes caught a change of movement. At first, he wasn't sure of the blonde was looking at him. Immediately, he turned around to investigate but found no one had come in behind him. The allurist glanced toward the male and returned the smile with one of his own. He was unsure how it came across, that smile, hopefully alluring and charming, but likely drunken and goofy. Deciding taking the invitation was better than just standing around and looking lost, he continued his facade of sobriety and traveled toward the other male.

He slid into the seat and leaned against the counter, "Tired of me standing around?" A light chuckle escaped from his lips as he situated himself comfortably, still using the counter for support. Ishaq shot a glance over his shoulder toward the entrance one more time before he turned his attention to the blonde. He couldn't place whether he had met him before at one of the many shows he'd performed. Ishaq figured he didn't know how though; he wouldn't forget a face and especially a body like that.

He knocked on the hard surface and called out to the bartender, "Hey, can I get a shot of whiskey? Cheapest one you have...I don't care."

Ishaq returned his gaze to the blonde, clearing his throat and offering his hand, " Ishaq."

[Kendal]

The sight of the lopsided grin was intriguing and it was silly enough to almost make the blonde crack a smile himself. As the man pulled away from the door and began to make his way towards him, Baxter kept his eyes locked with the other pair as he turned in his seat to face the bar. He smiled to himself once the man sat down and spoke to him, casting a sidelong glance towards him.

"You just looked so lonely up there all by yourself." Bax lifted his tumbler, lips pursing slightly around the rim. His voice had a certain, different lilt to it. He paused there, liquid touching his upper lip and this time, he turned his head slightly to look at the other man, his dark brows lifting slightly. His own voice dripped like honey and he loathed it; he loathed himself for it. He took a drink of the whiskey before setting the glass down. But this was business. He knew the old saying, "You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." So, he sweetened himself right up. "Waiting for somebody?" He asked, folding his arms on the counter, shoulders lifting slightly to compensate as he slouched forward, his chin touching the joint of his arm and shoulder.

He smiled again.

"Ishaq. That's a neat name. What's it mean?" He was genuinely curious. A person's name said a lot about their parents and knowing a person's parents meant having an idea of their upbringing. And that information was vital. "My name is Jack. Jack Galloway." He straightened to shake the man's hand in a firm grip. In all fairness, it wasn't entirely a lie. He had once known a Jack Galloway and for one evening, he was this Jack Galloway... as he called up the man's choice of financial institutes. He let go of Ishaq's hand and propped his jaw up against his pale knuckles, giving the other his full attention as an amicable smile easy over his features.