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what kinda shit you talking?
Cold? *Hell* no. Whole point of Miami is it ain't cold -- only thing that makes not being able to wear no drawers in this place worth it. I like *desert*, homies, California desert. I don't do this cold shit.
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Week 33: hatred
There ain't much Rome actually hated. Not really. He didn't care that much about most of it -- plenty pissed him off, but hating something took a hell of a lot of effort. Had to work at it. Had to live off it. Nasty and dark and vicious living in your gut, all the time -- Rome had better shit to put in his gut. No room for hate on a good meal.
But if all you had to put in you *was* hate... yeah, Rome could hate then, and he'd done a lot of hating in jail. His dad. Himself. The punk who'd narced on the garage he'd been using. The pigs who'd busted him.
Brian.
Didn't now. He wasn't there now, and he'd gotten that old wound taken care of. But now he knew he *could*, if he needed to, and Rome walked around with the scarred-over hate still living in him, and this was the thing he'd learned about hatred: you could live off it, if you had to. If you had flat nothing else, you could always have hate, and that'd be enough to get you through.
But if all you had to put in you *was* hate... yeah, Rome could hate then, and he'd done a lot of hating in jail. His dad. Himself. The punk who'd narced on the garage he'd been using. The pigs who'd busted him.
Brian.
Didn't now. He wasn't there now, and he'd gotten that old wound taken care of. But now he knew he *could*, if he needed to, and Rome walked around with the scarred-over hate still living in him, and this was the thing he'd learned about hatred: you could live off it, if you had to. If you had flat nothing else, you could always have hate, and that'd be enough to get you through.
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Week 15: fate, chance, destiny
Fate's for pussies. You think I'mma let some old White dude in a big hooded robe with some book tell me what my life's gonna be? Fuck that. I don't let nobody stare me down, and I don't let nobody tell me what I'm gonna be. *My* choices.
Hell with that shit, dog. I don't back down for nobody. What I do's on me.
Hell with that shit, dog. I don't back down for nobody. What I do's on me.
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Week twenty-two: When I grow up
*blank look* What do I want? Man, chill out -- I *got* what I want. So much potential in this here city, alla this coming so fast, everybody down here knows my name. And Brian's here. I got everything I want.
'Sides. Believe me -- I am *all* grown up.
'Sides. Believe me -- I am *all* grown up.
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Week twenty-one: opposite gender
Aw, hell, did Suki put y'all up to this?
Lemme tell ya, last thing you want to do is get that girl drunk after she lost a race to O.J. See, I already talked about this. Because she wouldn't shut up.
And it's not like she's *wrong*, you dig? I ain't exactly had the Cleavers living down the street, but it ain't like it couldn't have been *worse*. Chicks ain't shit on the street unless they willing to be just as bad as any dude. And then they still *get* shit. I wouldn't mind dishing it right back, but doing it again, and again, and fucking *again*... that gets old real quick.
I'd still be me if I'd been born with tits and a pussy.Kinda wonder what ol' Pops would've said about his girl running with a White boy. Hell. Not like he didn't say it anyway. Don't mean it would've been anything like easy.
Lemme tell ya, last thing you want to do is get that girl drunk after she lost a race to O.J. See, I already talked about this. Because she wouldn't shut up.
And it's not like she's *wrong*, you dig? I ain't exactly had the Cleavers living down the street, but it ain't like it couldn't have been *worse*. Chicks ain't shit on the street unless they willing to be just as bad as any dude. And then they still *get* shit. I wouldn't mind dishing it right back, but doing it again, and again, and fucking *again*... that gets old real quick.
I'd still be me if I'd been born with tits and a pussy.
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(no subject)
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racing_snowman used with mun permissionWhat I want? Man, alla y'all put too much thought into this shit. People asking what they want, they say something like world peace, ending world hunger, cure for AIDS, a billion dollars. Don't get me wrong, alla that's nice, I'd like all that shit, too, but that ain't what I'm here for.
I just want some good food and my car and my garage. And maybe Brian's lazy ass to get up to work on some of it with me.
All I want is some fun, man. Y'all people take this shit so *serious*.
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[locked to racing_snowman]
It took him one look at Brian's face, once they was both home, for Rome to know real good and well that yeah, Brian knew Mia Toretto was around. Shit.
He dumped the bottle of Brian's favorite vodka in his lap before he flopped down next to him, spread his arm over Brian's shoulder, feeling the wired-up tension in him and hating that nice, pretty, angry girl for a minute, for being able to do this to Brian. "You gonna need another bottle, or that one work?"
He dumped the bottle of Brian's favorite vodka in his lap before he flopped down next to him, spread his arm over Brian's shoulder, feeling the wired-up tension in him and hating that nice, pretty, angry girl for a minute, for being able to do this to Brian. "You gonna need another bottle, or that one work?"
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Wanting something you can't have.
Sometimes Rome had nightmares. They wasn't all that often, and mostly he could drown them in Miami's streets and the heat and the noise of the city that never quit.
Sometimes they lingered, made him twitchy, restless, wandering out to the porch at three in the damn morning and thinking of shit he'd rather forget. The set of Brian's mouth when he'd said he was going pig. The sound of his own voice telling him not ever to come back. What it had felt like to hate him, to need him so goddamn *much* and know he wasn't gonna be there -- right then, he'd have given up his pretty, shiny car to have Brian back.
When he'd been arrested, bruised and tasting blood from resisting it, he'd been glad. Laughing in holding, shaking with it, because if *this* didn't bring Brian back, nothing ever would, and at least Rome would know where he stood.
He hadn't quite believed he'd really lost the punk until Brian hadn't come.
Sometimes they lingered, made him twitchy, restless, wandering out to the porch at three in the damn morning and thinking of shit he'd rather forget. The set of Brian's mouth when he'd said he was going pig. The sound of his own voice telling him not ever to come back. What it had felt like to hate him, to need him so goddamn *much* and know he wasn't gonna be there -- right then, he'd have given up his pretty, shiny car to have Brian back.
When he'd been arrested, bruised and tasting blood from resisting it, he'd been glad. Laughing in holding, shaking with it, because if *this* didn't bring Brian back, nothing ever would, and at least Rome would know where he stood.
He hadn't quite believed he'd really lost the punk until Brian hadn't come.
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[locked to racing_snowman]
racing_snowman used with mun permissionIt wasn't the heat in Miami that drove him up the wall. Settled under his skin and made him growl, twitchy and lazy. It was the humidity. He felt like he was walking into body-warm mist every time he stepped out the door, and that just ain't right. Wanted to find a pool and maybe live in it for a week.
But the heat did one thing right: Brian was damn pretty when he was flushed, sweat beading on his face and his neck, his stupid moussed hair falling a little out of its style, sticking to his forehead.
"Wanna close up early?" Rome asked, settling one hip against the car he was working on, watching the way Brian's shirt stuck to his chest.
Brian glanced at him, smiled, a slow spread of his mouth, and Rome grinned back, heat edging through his system, warmer than Miami air.
And a hell of a lot more fun.
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Freedom
His ankle was light. It was the only thing Rome could really think, the only thing he'd been able to think since Bilkins had hauled him and Brian down to the station, flashed his badge, had a few words, and magicked the ankle bracelet off.
He'd managed to talk, ask questions about what the hell this deal was, wondered down under curiosity and anger why Brian had hauled Bilkins all the way from Miami back to Barstow just to get him, but under everything else, all he could think was that his ankle felt light.
Outside Customs, Rome reached down to run his hand over skin under cloth and the rise of bone, spreading his fingers slowly over the new bareness. He'd half-forgotten how jeans fit without that damn thing on.
He hadn't been free in nearly four years. He still wasn't, not with Brian and Bilkins and the deal he still had to pull off, but he was almost close enough to taste it.
He'd managed to talk, ask questions about what the hell this deal was, wondered down under curiosity and anger why Brian had hauled Bilkins all the way from Miami back to Barstow just to get him, but under everything else, all he could think was that his ankle felt light.
Outside Customs, Rome reached down to run his hand over skin under cloth and the rise of bone, spreading his fingers slowly over the new bareness. He'd half-forgotten how jeans fit without that damn thing on.
He hadn't been free in nearly four years. He still wasn't, not with Brian and Bilkins and the deal he still had to pull off, but he was almost close enough to taste it.