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[moralimperative]

An all-purpose post for all of your devot!RP needs. - post a prompt/starter/anything - pick a character for me to reply with (or don't) - ??? - profit!

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[beul]

[Click.
Like the turn of a barrel of a gun, echoing in the silence of the room, Harry flicks open the lighter, stares at the flint, slides his thumb slowly over the little wheel at the side.

Click.
Flame dancing in front of him, yellow and orange and he stares, for a moment. Watches it flicker and move, never sitting still. Why doesn't it ever stop? Does it have to keep itself warm? Whatever, chemistry. He doesn't care, not really. Not when all he needs to do is lean forward, cup the flame with one hand, puffing on the stick between his lips until it takes, until he sees the red glow at the end, feels the smoke being drawn into his mouth, washing over tongue and teeth and teasing down his throat.

Click.
The lighter falls with his hands, sliding shut with a twist of his lips and he stands, leaning a shoulder against the wall, staring out the windows of Perry's place. He probably shouldn't be here. He'd made a big deal of moving out. Again. Of moving in with Harmony, that it would work this time around. And yet, here he was, two days later. A dufflebag and a ratty backpack dumped in the middle of the room behind him. Perry would yell at him for that, for not just fucking taking it up to his room but did he really care?

Nah, not at all. Right now all he cared about was taking another drag on his cigarette and letting his mind go blissfully blank for just a moment. (In before well wow, when wasn't his mind blank because uh, fuck you, he has lots of non-blank moments. They just aren't advertised as well.)]

... Fuck.

[Yeah, today isn't his day. Harm dumps him, he has to sneak back into Perry's place with the key he'd forgotten to give back, and now he just burnt himself on his own fucking cigarette ash.

Just. Fuck.]

[vanshrike]

[Two days has got to be some kind of record, honestly, but the turnaround on Harry and Harmony's on-again off-again relationship gives him headaches to try and keep up with, so Perry's simply never bothered with it. The way he sees it there are three states of Harry to contend with; there's on-again Harry who hasn't packed his shit and left yet, on-again Harry who has, and off-again Harry who mopes around like the whole cycle isn't familiar to him yet and generally makes a nuisance of himself until things finally slot back together the way they'd been before he'd gotten it in his head that this time was different, hung up all over again on Harmony and destiny and bullshit.

He isn't getting tired of what essentially amounts to catching Harry on the rebound every time only by virtue of the fact that he's been tired of it since Day fucking One. But at the end of it all Harry still comes back, even if it's only because he's got nowhere else to go. And every goddamn time, against his better judgment, Perry gripes and bitches and threatens to throw him out, charge rent he can't afford, and then lets him stay. Every goddamn time.]

Don't leave your shit on the floor.

[It's a predictable greeting, upon coming downstairs to find Harry here again, but then everything about the whole situation is so trite and done to death that it doesn't really matter. Perry doesn't even have the decency to pause at the threshold of the stairs to take in the sight of him, just takes note of the fact that he's there and continues right along towards the kitchen as though his presence isn't unexpected at all, doesn't even warrant the distraction from what he'd been doing. Which it isn't, and it doesn't, but never mind. Two days or two weeks, he doesn't bother keeping track. There are only three states of Harry to contend with, anyway.]

[beul]

[Perry Van Shrike, ladies and gentlemen. The only fucking person in the history of humanity who can go up and down a flight of stairs without making a single noise. Without missing a single step and scuffing a heel or, fuck, stumbling even a little in order to not give a guy a heart attack.

Then again, maybe that was part of the plan in the first place.

... Well fuck, suddenly a whole lot of things make perfect sense. Jesus, the guy was like a Sociopathic James Bond or some shit. Putting his ninja skills to use for the sole purpose of freaking out roommates and other acquaintances. He probably got off to it, just sat there in the bathroom all "ha ha ha, sure got that Harry today. Fuck I got him bad, nearly fell off the balcony screaming. Shiiiiiit."

Not.

That.

Harry thought about Perry getting off. Like, ever.]

I'm gonna pick it up. [He grumbles around his cigarette, pulling it out of his mouth and turning - definitely still trying not to die a little jittery from that fucking scare entrance of Perry's - to just watch the other man move towards the kitchen, practically blinking and finding himself following him. Like some sort of fucking puppy trailing after him, whining for scraps.]

People put things down for, like, five seconds. It's normal in places that aren't run like army ca- what are you doing?

[Easily distracted, Harry. But fuck it, if Perry's making food, that's probably the best thing he's heard all day. Harm didn't even give him lunch before slamming the door in his face.

Again.]

[vanshrike]

[He'd been after coffee, in fact, but Perry's played Harry's on-again off-again keeper long enough to know his hopeful look for what it is--it's in the set of Harry's shoulders if it weren't already blatant on his face--and he sets about fixing a late lunch without missing a beat, as though that'd been his intention all along. He still turns on the coffee machine first, setting an extra mug out on the counter without so much as thinking about it. Harry isn't the only one who keeps making the same stupid mistakes. It's his own damn fault for falling back into routine so easily every time Harry shows his face again.]

I don't care what people do. [Perry grouses, sounding more irritated than he is. 'Lunch' itself amounts to sandwiches, but he'd already eaten and it's too early to start dinner; and for all it's an overtly generous gesture were anyone to realize, he still sits the plate of them on the counter for Harry to retrieve one for himself. Like all things it's a balance between doing too much and too little, letting Harry get too comfortable or driving him away for good.] You don't pay any rent, so you can either quit bitching about the things I do ask of you or find someone else who'll tolerate you for more than a week.

discussed.

[captainfuckingmagic]

[ Harry was hurrying. That wasn't really an uncommon state with him, it's just that normally he didn't really have such a purpose to his hurry. Normally it was more a general, bumbling type hurry - today, there was intent to it. It was weird, having intent, having purpose. What wasn't weird was the source of the purpose. It was always Perry, wasn't it? If not Perry, then Harmony. If neither one of them, some dead person, and given that as far was he was concerned right now, Perry was probably dying and Harmony was incommunicado, perhaps it was all three situations at once. That was just a horrifying thought. It didn't really help things at all, made him try and hurry more, made him trip over his own feet, his shoelaces, forget that his hoodie was on inside out because after the call in the early morning/late night he hadn't had the presence of mind to put it on correctly. (And to be fair, he barely did anyway. The interruption only provided an excuse for the normal. Yay.)

But it wasn't hard to make it to the right location, looking for Perry like his very own life depended on it - and this was how he did most things that mattered to him, with absolutely everything he fucking had, which was what made him tenacious and amazing and such a fucking easy target when viewed through the wrong lens. But, luckily, it paid off, because there was Perry, lying in a bed, looking a bit worse off but beeping a steady enough bass line to be moderately reassuring. ]

Hey, you know it's your turn to clean the filters at work.

[vanshrike]

[This was really what he deserved, leaving Harry out of jobs the idiot had agreed to in the first place. LA had been ordinary before Harry Lockhart arrived to fuck everything up; his very existence brought cheap paperback novels to life, pontifical villains and all. Perry glared halfheartedly at the intruder upon his drug-fueled haze-- on the one hand if he was lucky and not injured quite as badly as he felt, Harry being present meant he might talk his way out of spending any longer in this hellhole than necessary. On the other, it was particularly difficult to give a shit at present where he was so long as it meant he didn't have to move. He pressed one hand against the throbbing in his head, ignoring the twinge of an IV he didn't care enough about to be cautious of.]

Blow me. You never remember them when it's your turn anyway.

[captainfuckingmagic]

[ Yes, well, his general ineptitude and shit of that nature doesn't and has never necessarily precluded him from actually caring about whatever it is he's haphazardly trying to work on or effectively putting in more danger by default of his very presence. By this point he just accepted glares as a form of slightly affectionate greeting: if you bothered enough to feel strongly enough to glare at him, then he considered that a good thing. ]

Yeah, well, you always tell me I don't do it right anyway. It saves time, just waiting until you do it.

[ He wanders a little closer though, because in as much as he might not be entirely fond of settings like this, he's not going to just pussy out now that he's actually here. ] You okay?