open RP

[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.]

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.