( open )

[persistor]

Who: red (persistor) & friends
What: catch-all
When: august + beyond, probably
Where: nadril
Warning(s): probably gross feelings

( a certain voiceless singer got her voice back, which means it's time to surprise folks. if you want a thread, hit me up! i'm happy to write starters for anyone that wants one ( if you want to surprise me with a wildcard, that's cool too ). c:

nevermind, i wrote an open prompt. )

Comments

boxer.

[persistor]

[ The entire situation has always been infuriating in its own way; her occupation, her Selection, can only exist with the one thing she's lost ( she's lost more, but in this context — it's the only one that matters ). She had been angry, rightfully so, but circumstances forced her to keep her anger securely under wraps. Because adjusting to an entirely new world had taken precedence, being able to stand beside Boxer had taken precedence.

So by the time she could focus on other things, she was used to keeping her mouth shut ( there's times, in the middle of the night, where she wonders if the fury will consume her one day. Probably at the most inopportune time, with her luck ).

But there are still times when old(er) habits die hard. Under most circumstances, they leave her with a hollow disappointment. Her mouth moves, instinctively, for some kind of exclamation, but nothing comes out. She's gotten used to that, too. There's never going to be an alternative.

Until — they're about to step out into the snow covered city when she suddenly pauses. Gently taps him on the shoulder, holding a single finger up as a sign to wait, before leaving him at the door to rush over to a small table in the corner of the room. Except she never gets there, her usual grace and poise missing as she nearly trips over a leg of the bed. It doesn't slow her down, she doesn't stop, but her mouth moves.

This time, sound follows. ]

— Fuck.

[ She freezes. ]

[desistor]

[It's not a perfect arrangement, all this. Nothing is fixed, nothing they've lost has been salvaged. But in most ways, it's enough. They're safe, for the most part. And they're together. He's adjusted, mostly, to the odd inbetween state the Natha had negotiated for him. Not quite here but not quite there. Makes the times he's confined entirely to the Transistor all the more bearable to know they're not indefinite. Even if it's not the same, it's more than he'd let himself hope for, once.

So he doesn't much feel the cold of the air, but he's solid enough to feel the tap at his shoulder when she pulls him short before they can leave. Solid enough that when she stumbles and pitches forward, he closes the distance and reaches reflexively to catch her and steady her. But then—

(He freezes, but his reflexes recover faster. Even as he plays the sound of her again and again to be sure he'd heard it right. Low, rough, kind of croaky. As if from disuse. But he'd never mistake it. He still regrets not being able to stop what had happened to her.)

She's not falling anymore, but he fumbles to catch her, anyway. The Transistor clatters loudly to the floor as he drops it, forgotten to free himself to face her. Hands lifting to cradle her jaw and tip her head up toward him urgently, head bowed close enough to see the surprise in her own eyes.

Oddly, his own voice seems to have vanished, for a moment. Then, hushed but urgently, inanely—]

Red?

[persistor]

[ When will we get to write COMEDY

For all the time she wished she could speak, she suddenly finds that — when faced with the ( possible, maybe ) ability to, she's not certain anymore. Some part of her insists that her voice hasn't returned, that it was just a fluke; the other part is skeptical, wondering why it came back now, of all times. Either way, she's not sure if she can handle the idea of trying to speak, and find absolutely nothing there once more.

Red blinks up at Boxer. It's obvious that he's heard it, too. Scratchy and awful but her's, nonetheless, and despite all that's going through her head at the moment she doesn't ever look away. Studying him as much as he's studying her, as if he'd have the answers to all of this.

Then, before she thinks about it, she clears her throat — she can't remember the last time she's done that, but she could hum perfectly fine before, couldn't she? Coughs, a little. Licks her lips, noticeably nervous for the first time since ... she could remember, really. This could change everything, one way or the other. ]

Ah— Oh. [ A test noise, and the confirmation that it worked. Her eyes widen, a hand reaching to grip at Boxer's forearm. ]

... Hi.

[desistor]

[I have never once in my life written comedy, I don't know what you expected.

She clears her throat. Reaches up to grip at his arm, a distant, urgent pressure to punctuate the phantom feeling of his heart leaping up in his chest. Just a few long seconds of uncertainty in the dead silence of the room, but it seems to stretch on for ages. Until she edges her way slowly out from humming and into speaking, for the first time since—

Well. The apprehension hangs in the air for a few fragile seconds after she speaks. Like he's afraid to interrupt her, lest he miss a moment of what she has to say. But then—he folds. Composure collapsing like a deck of cards. He ducks his head, presses his forehead down into hers, fingers still resting feather-light at the edge of her jaw. And breathless, immeasurably fond, if not entirely steady—]

Hi, yourself.

[Go on.]

richie.

[persistor]

[ There's a knock on his door one late evening.

Loud enough to be heard, absolutely, but the knocks also end after the first three taps. As if the person on the other side is here to play the long game, to keep the inhabitant guessing on whether or not it was just a stupid prank or not.

In the event that he decides it might be a stupid prank not worth bothering, there's an unfamiliar ( or perhaps, barely familiar ) voice that calls out: ] Richie Tozier! [ It's loud, somehow surprisingly. Nothing like the crooning from a certain vinyl he has.

And if he does open the door ( finally ), Red is smiling. Silent, as if to make him wonder if the call was a figment of his imagination. Before he can greet her properly, however— ]

Hey. [ Surprise. ]

i hate you

[summertimeblues]

[The snowbank hotels aren't so difficult to navigate, but keeping track of who's posted where is trying. Richie isn't expecting company and he's hoping Prior isn't either, but there comes a knock and there comes his name.

Richie straightens, razor poised above his chin.]

I didn't order no call girl...

[It doesn't sound overly familiar. If movies were anything to go by this is the prelude to an impending assassination. "Ridiculous," he mutters to himself, though the memory of that woman and her chloroform rag leaps to the forefront of his mind. Richie looks in the mirror a hard moment longer.

He grabs a lamp. A slender metallic affair that curved like a dropping tear. Should pack a wallop if he can get the first lick in. He doesn't bother covering the wife beater bedshirt or the boxer shorts, but he does wipe the last of the shaving cream from his face. He'd been about done clearing up anyway.

The door creaks open, lamp concealed behind. Richie's brows pop skyward.]

Red? For god's sake, I'm about to turn in.

[She speaks.]

Hey, yourself. What's going...

[His face goes slack. The lamp clonks to the floor and rolls into view behind his frozen form.]

no you don't

[persistor]

[ The diva in her adores the reaction, the friend in her is delighted. From the knee-jerk response to the slow realization that dawns after. It's hard not to smile, the corners of her lips curling upwards despite her best attempts, but after a while she doesn't really see the point in keeping a poker face, anyway.

Then, something thuds behind him. Makes enough of a noise for her expression to shift, eyebrows knitting together as she peers behind him. The lamp stops rolling, but her concern doesn't really lift. Lips thinning, a glance up at Richie, and—

... Is he going to be alright? ] ... You dropped something.

[ Just in case he isn't aware. Just in case he needs to make sure that what he heard is real. ]

you can't prove that

[summertimeblues]

[Hell with the lamp.

Richie's got one more befuddled blink in him before he's snatching her by the shoulders, half crouched to meet her eyes. His own pale blues are blown wide in his pale face, lit with mania.

His voice has gone low with urgency.]

...Do it again.

[He needs to hear it. See it. The closer he gets to her face the more sure he can be that it's true.]

i have receipts

[persistor]

[ — That makes her pause.

Less his words and more the fact that he clutches her shoulders, eyes wide and face open with emotion and — it's more of a reaction than she expected. But then, her reaction wasn't over, and ... in comparison to this, neither was Boxer's. They're not loud people, by definition.

( Briefly, she wonders how Sybil would have reacted, if things hadn't turned out the way they did. She dismisses the thought just as quickly as it appeared. )

So it takes her a moment; maybe two, as she blinks back at him in silence. She's not against what he's asking of her, not exactly, but to be demanded something so suddenly definitely strikes a chord she has to quell. A breath, then— ]

... It just came back. [ Because she knows he'll ask. ] I didn't do anything.

all invalidated at the time of posting this log

[summertimeblues]

[If you were looking for subtlety maybe you should have knocked on a different door.

Her alarm is not unnoticed, but he just doesn't care. Richie lights up like Vegas in all its neon, gives a whoop of utter joy and scoops Red into his arms and off her feet.]

She can tawlk! Oh chilluns, we are witnessing a miracle! Call the papers! Call the doctors! Get the pope on the line, we need the whole congregation singing praise!

[He lets her go, drawing back into the room with a mimickry of an old timey movie cam. He hits her with the Movietone Newsreel Narrator.]

It's true ladies and gentleman, and it happened right here in Old Nadril Heights on the hour of eleven forty-eight! World-renowned chanteuse Red regains her right to sing the Blues. Watch the incredible story in your local cinema this July: Giving the Mute the Boot! Starring Red as herself, Boxer as life-long paramour Wally Doyle, and Richie Tozier as the Dancing Lad!

i lied, here's an open prompt

[persistor]

ONE

[ Thank god for Nadril technology. Or specifically, a specific one — her hands are warm despite the frigid temperatures outside, which really leaves her with no excuse ( not that she was looking for one, exactly; when's the last time she got to do this? ).

She's settled at a quieter part of the city square, where the occasional person passes by. Nothing set up in front of her to collect tips, because she's not here to work today. It's just her and her guitar, performing for the sake of doing so. It's a celebration, but only to the person playing ( for everyone else, she hopes, it's just some nice music to brighten their day ).

She sticks a specific set. But occasionally, if she catches a familiar face? She smiles. Raises an eyebrow and tilts her head, words falling from her lips. ]

Any requests?

TWO

[ Then there are the chance meetings.

Red isn't one to celebrate publicly, a performance being an exception rather than a rule — but then, she's not one to do a lot of things publicly. Private as they come, because her life tends to be her business and she's not fond of sharing. Good news, or bad.

But Nadril is only so big, and there are only so many people. And when faced with a familiar face, she's not completely humorless. She smiles when they catch her eye ( or she taps a few on the shoulder ), the usual method of greeting for her, until she opens her mouth to say: ]

Hey. [ It's not much. Or really, anything at all. But to her, speaking is no small feat. ]

2

[nanamari]

[ Ana starts at the tap on her shoulder, broken out of an uncommon reprieve. Even old soldiers aren't vigilant at every waking moment. It's a little disconcerting that she'd been so lost in thought she'd let someone sneak up on her, but she doesn't let any discomfort show. ]

Don't scare an old woman like that. I could die at any second. [ She actually puts her hand on her heart when she turns and sees who's standing there, her expression somewhere between confusion and the beginning of something brighter. ] Red? Did you just..?

one!!

[illuminating]

[A wolf meandering can seem pointless. If she were another, lost, without connection to the people here, it would be the same for her. But she has a habit of wandering and visiting, and nuanced familiarities lead her to those she knows.

Moving through small crowds that peter out closer to Red and her set up, Amaterasu weaves leisurely around legs, neutrally, indolently panting, unhurried steps. It feels routine, now. To sit with Red in their comfortable quiet.

When she's close enough, a question comes out of Red's mouth, doesn't appear on her phone, and wolf, who hasn't considered if she's addressing her or someone else, is so startled by this her ears spring forward (as if she thinks she missed something important), her own mouth closes, and she flops her head to one side in dramatic, tense inquiry. A whine is waiting, but hasn't been let loose quite yet, and she vaguely tilts her face further, keyed sharply in on her.]