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suitably_heroicYou know how Atton knew he was getting older? Not grey hairs, not lines in his face, but the fact it had taken him over 24 hours to fully recover from Friday's hangover. And even then he'd spent most of Saturday slumped on the sofa, enduring cracks at his expense.
But hey. At least he was up and back at it by Sunday.
"Remember, you're the muscle," Trent hissed, pulling him down a set of stairs. Atton had no idea why he was whispering. It wasn't like there was anyone else on that street. (He also had no idea what Trent needed muscle for.)
"Yeah, yeah," Atton muttered, and then the door opened, and he threw a passing and hopefully reassuring smile at the two kids loitering around in the hallway. "Sorry," he said, "He's from Portlan--"
Trent yanked him into the next room. "Silence," he hissed. "The Maestro will hear us!"
The Maestro? All Atton could see was a dark room, a shitty couch, a broken TV, and a guy sitting on top of the back of an armchair. He was wearing a baret, for some reason, and he was squinting. "Trent," he spoke gravely. "I have heard you."
The man tossed a USB stick at them. Atton caught it, if barely. He looked at Trent, who looked-- impossibly tense, moreso than he'd ever been.
"And?" Trent whispered.
"It is Good," said the Maestro solemnly. "But I come bearing words of warning: some of these tracks are... accessible. You must be wary they are not declared radio-friendly, or I cannot guarantee further blessings."
Atton looked from Trent to the Maestro and back again. "Right," he said slowly, "I'm just going to go smoke outside, all right?" And edged towards the door. (Okay, he was trying to quit. He was. Weird shit just kept happening, all right? Usually because of Trent.)
[[ can be open for phone calls and texts! just me exorcizing some vacation brain demons. ]]
But hey. At least he was up and back at it by Sunday.
"Remember, you're the muscle," Trent hissed, pulling him down a set of stairs. Atton had no idea why he was whispering. It wasn't like there was anyone else on that street. (He also had no idea what Trent needed muscle for.)
"Yeah, yeah," Atton muttered, and then the door opened, and he threw a passing and hopefully reassuring smile at the two kids loitering around in the hallway. "Sorry," he said, "He's from Portlan--"
Trent yanked him into the next room. "Silence," he hissed. "The Maestro will hear us!"
The Maestro? All Atton could see was a dark room, a shitty couch, a broken TV, and a guy sitting on top of the back of an armchair. He was wearing a baret, for some reason, and he was squinting. "Trent," he spoke gravely. "I have heard you."
The man tossed a USB stick at them. Atton caught it, if barely. He looked at Trent, who looked-- impossibly tense, moreso than he'd ever been.
"And?" Trent whispered.
"It is Good," said the Maestro solemnly. "But I come bearing words of warning: some of these tracks are... accessible. You must be wary they are not declared radio-friendly, or I cannot guarantee further blessings."
Atton looked from Trent to the Maestro and back again. "Right," he said slowly, "I'm just going to go smoke outside, all right?" And edged towards the door. (Okay, he was trying to quit. He was. Weird shit just kept happening, all right? Usually because of Trent.)
[[ can be open for phone calls and texts! just me exorcizing some vacation brain demons. ]]
