[there's no coffee cups in the sink today, and the stains of ash on the table aren't as thick as usual]
[in another part of the shack, there's a humming buzz behind a closed door, a livewire thrum Genkaku knows all too well (can probably feel in strings-bitten fingertips]
[it's a bit of a lullaby, maybe, unceasing background noise familiar as a TV turned low]
[the door to the bedroom is kicked open, sent banging into the wall]
[the V is slung over Badou's skinny back (blacksteel heaviness making him bend a little under her weight), and a wiry forearm tenses with effort as it drags along Genkaku's practice amp]
[the cords whip and clack against wood and plaster as he hauls his load somewhat energetically over to the other man, seated in the kitchen]
[with a heavy WHUNK, the amp is slammed down onto the table, it's junkyard weary legs creaking like a decrepit old ship]
[ wounds heal quicker on Genkaku than they normally do, but sometimes (most of the time, when Badou is around) the monk does things to slow the process, a strange (hypocritical) mix of thankful and admonished for his engineered abilities. ]
[ on the kitchen table, rags soaked dark pink and thin red all over swelter in colorful piles, lifting up the scent of oldnew blood and scabs and sterility. his punch-rip jaw and his nightmare-tremor head turn when he hears the familiar noises, his stretched and stiff bleeding arm thrumming with a warm new current: the lure of the music simmering through his fingertips and the heat of incoming proximity. ]
[ decidedly, he ties off runningcrying wounds to observe the caravan show that's headed his way. ]
[ there's something caught on the edge between smirk and smile, fuzzy, never defined well into either category. ]
[ leaning back into the rickety chair, he screws on the cap to the alcohol (yeah, the shit that burns hard, the shit that keeps it raw--), and makes a wide, sweeping gesture with that injured arm. ]
[the wave of the bloodied arm makes thin lips quirk, and his task at hand has them cut even higher into a wide, infectious grin]
[Genkaku is treated to another kitchen cabinet shaking strum, and then the Undergrounder looks to strings and fingers, bony appendages vvvvzzzning up the fret]
[once positioned so very carefully, he looks back up, half shaking and half blowing scruffy hair out of the left side of his face]
This one goes out ta Jimi Hendrix, Buddha, and the ugly-ass dickhole bleedin' all over in the front row!
[ Genkaku's ears are sharp and musically inclined and he knows the man's hitting the right notes, but he can also hear the girl's D string slipping out of tune. he thought it might go soon, but with him all caught up in information and wounds, well -- ]
[ well, they've switched places. the monk's lingering in the semantics and trying to break through codes and Badou's hearing his own music. ]
[ ♪ but I can't forget the curves of your body ... ] [ and when i feel a bit naughty ... ♪ ]
[ he's too weary and lost in quiet admiration to take the lyrical advice, so he nods his head in time and just keeps watching ... ]
[he isn't watching for Genkaku's reaction anymore. as soon as that goddamn plodding bridge is complete, his unfeeling fingers rip down the strings with an excited energy that's bursting like the flame from his lighter]
[♪ hear the voices in my head] [I swear to god it sounds like they're snoring...] [but if you're bored, then you're boring...♪]
[and he races towards the end, fingertips splitting and scraping as he rocks on the balls of his feet]
[his teeth are bared in a fierce happy-monster grin just as they were in the photo he hasn't noticed yet, jammed within the V's case]
[♪ the agony and the irony -- they're killin' me! ♪]
[ the teeth could eat away the memories and the worry and the flame could burn something new underneath him, and he realizes too late his heartbeat goes harderfaster with the man's hands chokingwringing the neck. ]
[ Badou was a good student, after all. he'd had his doubts, used it as a ploy to keep him around, to beckon touch, but he'd taken to it and he would take away with it. he watches his chest heave beyond the V's fanned embrace and wonders how she feels about sharing part of the limelight. ]
[ nobody'll take your place, baby, he promises her. ]
[ the final repeating chords under stained fingers make the grin finally split his face open, and it's on that last measure that the monk gives a standing ovation. ]
[in another part of the shack, there's a humming buzz behind a closed door, a livewire thrum Genkaku knows all too well (can probably feel in strings-bitten fingertips]
[it's a bit of a lullaby, maybe, unceasing background noise familiar as a TV turned low]
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[the V is slung over Badou's skinny back (blacksteel heaviness making him bend a little under her weight), and a wiry forearm tenses with effort as it drags along Genkaku's practice amp]
[the cords whip and clack against wood and plaster as he hauls his load somewhat energetically over to the other man, seated in the kitchen]
[with a heavy WHUNK, the amp is slammed down onto the table, it's junkyard weary legs creaking like a decrepit old ship]
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[and in a loud, raspy, mimicking tone]
BADOU NAILS, SUPER PUNK AT'CHA SERVICE.
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[BWWWWOONN-A-BWONNNNN]
ARE. YOU. READY. TO. RRRROCK?
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[ on the kitchen table, rags soaked dark pink and thin red all over swelter in colorful piles, lifting up the scent of oldnew blood and scabs and sterility. his punch-rip jaw and his nightmare-tremor head turn when he hears the familiar noises, his stretched and stiff bleeding arm thrumming with a warm new current: the lure of the music simmering through his fingertips and the heat of incoming proximity. ]
[ decidedly, he ties off runningcrying wounds to observe the caravan show that's headed his way. ]
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[ leaning back into the rickety chair, he screws on the cap to the alcohol (yeah, the shit that burns hard, the shit that keeps it raw--), and makes a wide, sweeping gesture with that injured arm. ]
Play on, Maestro.
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[Genkaku is treated to another kitchen cabinet shaking strum, and then the Undergrounder looks to strings and fingers, bony appendages vvvvzzzning up the fret]
[once positioned so very carefully, he looks back up, half shaking and half blowing scruffy hair out of the left side of his face]
This one goes out ta Jimi Hendrix, Buddha, and the ugly-ass dickhole bleedin' all over in the front row!
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[a gritty mutter and a sycophantic rocking of heels counts off;]
One, two, one two three four --
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[Badou hums to keep himself in time -- paranoia, paranoia, er'rybody's comin' ta get me, just say ya never met me!]
[and by the time he reaches the first chorus, he's grinning again]
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[ well, they've switched places. the monk's lingering in the semantics and trying to break through codes and Badou's hearing his own music. ]
[ ♪ but I can't forget the curves of your body ... ]
[ and when i feel a bit naughty ... ♪ ]
[ he's too weary and lost in quiet admiration to take the lyrical advice, so he nods his head in time and just keeps watching ... ]
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[ ♪ I'd like to turn off time ]
[ and kill my mind ... ]
[ you kill my mind ... ♪ ]
[ he pays sharper attention, feels it sting somewhere that isn't his arm, isn't his scars. ]
[ and the man has no idea what brutal catharsis he forces. ]
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[♪ hear the voices in my head]
[I swear to god it sounds like they're snoring...]
[but if you're bored, then you're boring...♪]
[and he races towards the end, fingertips splitting and scraping as he rocks on the balls of his feet]
[his teeth are bared in a fierce happy-monster grin just as they were in the photo he hasn't noticed yet, jammed within the V's case]
[♪ the agony and the irony -- they're killin' me! ♪]
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[ Badou was a good student, after all. he'd had his doubts, used it as a ploy to keep him around, to beckon touch, but he'd taken to it and he would take away with it. he watches his chest heave beyond the V's fanned embrace and wonders how she feels about sharing part of the limelight. ]
[ nobody'll take your place, baby, he promises her. ]
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[as the song fades to feedback, he straightens from his guitar curled crouch, grinning like a 200 watt bulb]
[he waves a scarred hand to his crowd of one, barking;]
Thank ya, thank yaaaaa! No encores, sorry, only know the one song!
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