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Post by JESUS SANCHEZ on Feb 19, 2013 15:48:15 GMT -8
He would never understand why some parents thought the best way to prove their devotion to their child was to scream at the child’s teacher about the child’s shortcomings. Perhaps it was something about that particular type of student that made the parents behave like they had lost their thrice damned minds. Honestly, what was he supposed to do with other people’s children? Raise them himself? So what if he taught their kid how to count in Spanish and English. Bilingual kids learned better. What did they really expect, what with him being the official sponsor of an elementary level Spanish Club in Los Angeles? Was he not supposed to prepare them for a life in one of the highest Spanish speaking cities in the United States? Ah? Tuesdays were always some of his worst work days, the days he chose to inflict surprise art projects that could possibly be science on his poor yet unsuspecting class.
Not that it mattered right now.
Right now was for the complex yet delicious aroma of wine, the color of fluorescent lights through crushed grapes. It was not for whining (even if it was internal) about how awkward his day was. Maybe he could get something that Lucius might actually want to drink with him, that way he could stop being that awful person who took advantage of their relationship. Or maybe he should just do what he came to this place for, and taste wine to find one to suit his mother’s overly refined palette. It was always best to stock up for the sort of ritzy party his ‘father’ liked to throw for Mama well in advance, lest he be the one to show up with lower class presents.
So he brooded over wine, scratched his head and picked a bottle at random. Mama would appreciate the effort if nothing else. To be frank, Jesus was doing his very best to blend in with the more sophisticated crowd. He didn’t have to like it, and the scowl on his face was enough to give that away to the more astute people around him. He sighed and glared at those patrons of the store who looked like they were about to tell the staff that he should leave. How rude.
When Jesus finally made his way outside he fumbled in his pocket, searching for a lighter he already knew wasn’t there. “¡Puta! Anyone got a light?”
WORDS!: 404 TAG!: Open! TIME!: 04/17/2012; 2130.
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Post by lucius on Feb 28, 2013 23:34:51 GMT -8
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♣ Tragedy! At the Cathouse tonight!
Lucy did not understand the appeal of wine or beer or spirits or alcohol, and this he would admit with great enthusiasm and a distinct lack of distress, often also with a broad smile and very earnest eyes. Father could wax poetic on the merits of brands and colors and fragrance and texture and this flavor versus that for hours on end, but Lucy congratulated himself on his own ability to ignore those conversations with a single-minded focus and dedication. (It wasn’t important. Father wasn’t that important. Father was old enough to be dead soon anyways. What was the point of cramming one’s mind so full of useless information?) And whenever father’s birthday came around, Lucy insisted on showing up with a bottle of something less-than-expensive with the price-tag on, just to watch father’s horrified face. Because he could, thankyouverymuch. But Lucy was not here for father today; bless that old man’s poor fat-laden heart and poor abused liver. Lucy was here for himself today. The third cupboard below the kitchen sink in his apartment was a not-secret that that Jesus might have known about, and that man’s last visit had depleted the stash of alcohol secreted there to a ridiculous low. But Lucy supposed he couldn’t complain. Perhaps a little annoyed, because cleaning up afterwards had been quite horrendous for that girl he hired as help, and perhaps he was a little distressed about the sheer quantity his not-brother had downed in gulps so soon after the last time he had to restock, but… But Lucy would still not quite complain. So maybe he was here for Jesus today, but mostly he was here for himself. Because his brother was an interesting drunk, a slurring incoherent mess of Mexican aggression so in contrast with the daytime façade, a tauntingly juicy conundrum to be ripped apart and scrutinized with microscopic detail, and Lucy could not find it in himself to feel an iota of guilt or repentance for trying to ruin his brother’s liver too. Mexicans. They could take it. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. So it was with a smug little self-satisfied smirk that he clasped the book— Voltaire, a Christmas present from Mama—closed and stuffed it into a coat pocket, before ascending the stairs to the lounge-slash-store. He nodded a mild greeting to the greeters at the door, and turned— Oh. My, my, my, my, my. —And turned and caught sight of—well, wasn’t this interesting?—the strain of a familiar back, a foreign streak of causality wrecking dissonance in an ambiance of sophistication. Jesus, oh Jesus. And as Lucy peeled off his coat and handed it off to a meandering store assistant to hang, he mused upon how Jesus could never quite shrug off that rawness to fit in wine-tasting crowds, to fit in with Lucy’s crowds. All the easier to recognize his not-brother for, then. Then, with nary a second thought, the man cut a straight path through the decors and the furnishing and the sparse crowd, heading directly towards that familiar back. As usual, he was hedonistic and work-obsessed and self-absorbed enough to not care why the other man was here. Jesus was here and Lucy was here, and Lucy was in an absurdly good mood with a dragging grin that almost showed sharpened teeth, and family was always best enjoyed when you’re approaching from the back whilst entertaining thoughts that should not see the light of day. It wasn’t until he was breathing into the other man’s ear that Lucy stopped. “What. Can’t find your lighter again?” |
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Post by JESUS SANCHEZ on Mar 11, 2013 16:03:51 GMT -8
There was something to be said for Jesus Sanchez de Cepeda's level of self control, a medal somewhere in the back of the proverbial closet that proclaimed him as an absolutely dreadful member of society and pity the fool who tested his rather substantial amount of patience. He had no class, no taste, no sense of propriety for the moment as it lasted. The Mexican was, in point of fact, usually rather content to avoid the trappings of high society that being a 'King' should have granted him. Screw his family. Screw them all with an angry mountain goat covered in wood glue and iron filings. Well. Screw them all save for Mama. Mama was a paragon of all he aspired to be in this life or the next. For Mama he was willing to put up with the dreadful act of putting on a suit and tie in order to pick out the perfect present.
He regretted the decision as soon as he followed through with it, price tags swimming in front of his eyes with their impossible numbers on his tiny teacher's paycheck. If he was a lesser man he would have punched the employees in their godforsaken faces and just walked off with the most expensive bottle of wine. It would almost be worth it.
But mostly he just wanted to smoke a cigarette and get the hell out of this ego-trip of a place. In that specific order, as soon as physically possible.
After years of associating with the man he was ashamed to admit he was in love with (who the hell falls in love with their own step-brother anyway; wasn't that a sin or something) he should have had some sort of paranoid sense of when the older man was going to do something awkward. But he didn't, chalked it up to being far more mentally stable than he gave himself credit for, and called it a loss every time Lucius managed to surprise him. This time the other man managed to sneak up into his personal space, his little imaginary bubble of do-not-cross-this-line, and scare the ever loving shit out of him. But Jesus was a manly sort of man, and the girly squeak others would have made in that situation came out of him as a pained sort of grunt. He barely registered the statement over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. “Took it out to change jackets. Forgot to put it back in. So what's your point?”
Keep casual. Keep breathing like normal. No matter what, do not let him know that you are far drunker from the 'free' wine tasting than you look. Do not show signs of weakness. And no matter what, do not physically engage in public. There were unspoken rules for this sort of thing, and no matter how open-minded California claimed to be he was pretty sure that having the green-card immigrant son of Mexico engaged in a scandalous affair with the favored son of the King family (who also happened to be his step-brother, wouldn't do to forget that sort of thing) would not be a fairy tale headline.
“Don't suppose you've got a light then? Humor the downtrodden soul.” He didn't turn around to have a conversation with his step-brother. That would be acknowledging that they had a relationship beyond what they should. Instead he tapped a single cigarette into his mouth and inclined his head to glance back at his brother with a scowl. “Well? Just going to stand there?” Jesus resisted the urge to sigh, ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that lived to remind him that this was wrong and should stop immediately.
He wasn't drunk enough for this polite small talk. Then again, he distinctly remembered the last time he was drunk around Lucius King. In hindsight, he should probably remain sober for the duration of this chat.
WORDS!: 665 TAG!: Lucius! TIME!: 04/17/2012; 2130.
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