[align=center][div style="0px; width:450px; text-align:justify; color:black; font-size:8pt;"]Every apartment, house, shed he had some sort of treasure to Johnny. Jewelry, old books, pictures of the family that had lived in the homes made him so curious. He'd been five when the world had turned to rubble, or at least that's what I felt like, and so seeing the world before that amazed him. It reminded him that before the odd, far away world there had been a place much like where he was now. Where people acted like animals and trust was a luxury. Of course he had at least grown up with some sort of teaching, so he wasn't completely crazy. He wasn't crazy at all. "Sheesh," he laughed at a four year old with both front teeth missing. Her short blond hair was choppy as if she had cut it herself, skinny legs were covered in scrapes from playground accidents, outfit all sorts of colors and patterns. The glass was shattered in the corner, but it seemed okay for the most part. Hm, he wondered what had happened to her. Silently he prayed that wherever she was that she was happy despite her being a stranger.
Continuing through the personal items of the girl's family he hummed to himself. Someday he'd have a family too, he'd have these sort of treasures to cherish. It was Johnny's dream. Gingerly he pulled out a silvery necklace with a silvery ring at the end. Not knowing of the wedding ring tradition he didn't understand the important of the item. Loopy words were etched into the ring though he couldn't read them, and even if he could read they were faded by use. He wanted to know what they said anyway. Something sweet and hopeful, surely. With care he put it back on the ground with the family's other junk. A small black book with a golden cross caught his attention. Halfway through the book was a pressed clover flower in perfect condition. He didn't want to destroy the fragile petals so he closed the book. "What a weird thing to keep," he mumbled, "a little flower."
tracking and bumping for you I'm running out of muse]
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 8.6pt; font-family:verdana; text-align:justify; line-height: 1.4; width: 500px"][color=black] mirtillo himself had been rather young when everything went terribly. he didn't know exactly, as it was so long ago, but he assumed it was a rather young age. so much so that he barely had any old objects from the past to hold onto. when he was younger, he barely even thought about keeping small jewelry or stuff along those lines. he just had the thought of keeping a few pictures of him and his brother, as well as a couple of toys that he liked way back when. he still liked them now, of course, but they weren't held in such high regard as they were back when he was six.
the small apartment he was scavenging through seemed to have another person there, seeing as he had heard the other when he was looking through one of the bedrooms. could someone of snuck in while he was looking for blankets and such? probably. the small and chubby male would grab the small bone - which was sharpened into a small blade of sorts - that he always used as a weapon, leveling it as he creeped out of the room he was in just moments before. mirtillo knew that he would never actually use it. he was a pacifist at heart- but if he needed to scare someone into keeping at bay, he would.
but what he came across was something he didn't expect. he had expected to see someone point a similarly sharp weapon right at him when he rounded the corner of a hallway, but instead he saw someone looking through what looked like multiple and personal belongings. "a bookmark, perhaps?" he had heard the other's inquiry about the small flower that was in the book, his own baby blue pupils flicking to the small book for a few moments. "although, flowers are very lovely! wish more grew these days."
listen to the whistle through the wind and raindrop.
[align=center][div style="0px; width:450px; text-align:justify; color:black; font-size:8pt;"]Quietly he looked over to the stranger, head cocked to the side. His eyes widened at the sharpened bone. Did he want to- no, he was just scared. That made sense. "Its so fragile though," he muttered in response, "maybe." Instead of standing up, as he probably should have, he just kept himself on the ground. He didn't want to move away from these stranger's memories quite yet. Since he didn't really have anything like them, loving and sweet. Taking a deep breath he nodded, "well, we are in a city. I've seen whole fields of daisies some miles out of the city, its nice."
Johnny gingerly placed the book into it's rightful place in the box before folding the black, velvety lid over it. "Do you ever wonder if there's pictures like that somewhere?" He pointed at the framed picture of the little girl. God, he was so dumb talking to a perfect stranger. So fucking stupid. Gruffly he pushed himself up before swinging his bag around his shoulders, rifle in hand.
[align=center][div style="0px; width:450px; text-align:justify; color:black; font-size:8pt;"] (Sorry if this is bad, it's been about six months since I last rped and I'm kind of just guessing at what the world's state.)
He didn't know how to do this. Sebastian "Fucking" Clements didn't know how to will the quivering of the bow of his crippled, pale fingers, which seemed as if they were corpses dancing with death, to stop. He didn't know how to drain his dense lungs of fluid or mend the white bone cages of his ribs that held captive the two rose-colored birds. He, in short, didn't know how to breathe, and thus, function like the computers with which his father had been so fond of. Motherboard, CPU, RAM, people weren't designed with the sleek contemporary ideal of technology beyond survival. The world was in shambles, a torn-apart canvas that was almost more beautiful now then it had ever been. It was rather humorous really, that there were suits, clad like the thin raven men and women they were, feathers ruffled but never out of place, who devoted their entire lives to machines built up of pieces that wouldn't ever be touched by a surgeon. They gave up their children, their spouses, their parents, their pets, their normal sleep cycles, their sanity, just to watch what they had so mechanically crafted fall apart. Sebastian supposed that his father had already collapsed before the bullet hit his chest. At least eternal slumber would help him catch up on the missed hours of sleep and decomposition would eventually cause his tired eyes to fade into the dirt.
Sebastian himself was what others would have once called "the pretty boy" or the "privileged boy who acted out because he was neglected". The calluses on his now sun-worn hands that were kissed with the constellations of tiny freckles had once been because of the Italian leather of his convertible, wearing at his skin like water wears at rocks. But now, they had come up like miniature mole hills from the habit of wrapping his arms and wrists before throwing them against someone else's jaw. The whiteness of the gauze was not a symbol of surrender, but a symbol of the irony of innocence. There was no longer a regular cigarette hanging loosely from his full peach lips, only the pitter patter of dripping blood from slight cuts of the knives that knew how to dance properly. Once upon a time, his tousled hair had been the calculated outcome of the use of gel, each lock tugged into position and prepared for a battle against a hypocritical society that longed for careless ease, careless glamour. The only thing that hadn't seemed to change were the bruises that licked the small of his back. However, even those were no longer an act of submission to being made into his brother's punching bag, yet still a sign of survival.
It wasn't only his figure that had changed since he hit the streets of gold. There was something less superficial that had flickered to life. A new glint in his eye, the kind of thing that would have scared anyone from what could now only be called a past life as it felt distant enough to belong to someone else entirely. He had gone cold, he had tasted starvation and made a decision to prioritize ambition over people. Body counts were just numbers without faces tied to them. As much as he now despised people, he still found pleasure in using them to stay alive, which is how he ended up here.
"I swear Johnny boy, what is it with you and trying to pick up strange men? And daisies, really, not quite the pick up line I'd use." Seb tossed his body as if it were as hollow as a bird's (sometimes he believed it was) over a dusty fainting couch lined with delicate buttons that he could imagine someone twisting in their palms. Perhaps the flower girl. Somehow no one had managed to burn or loot the thing. But he liked hearing Johnny's voice, the way it rose and fell, the way each word felt like a secret, however, it hardly helped him remember how to breathe. Neither did the city air-smog, really. He himself hadn't kept anything when the world went to hell, he instead poured gasoline and lit a match. Fire.
[align=center][div style="0px; width:450px; text-align:justify; color:black; font-size:8pt;"](cries because the first post is so shitty and also your writing is so good)
Well... Well, was that a joke, a reference maybe? Or was this guy being serious? Not understanding he shrugged, nodding his head slightly as if he knew what was going on. Social skills were not something Johnny had a good grasp on. Body language, facial expressions, tone, they fell on deaf ears, so for the most part he relied on words and only words. Which made jokes hard for him to understand. Sarcasm was next to impossible, which in the badlands made things pretty difficult. "Yeah," he breathed in, "gotta, uh, gotta work on that." Having enough understanding of manners he turned to fully face the dude, smiling a bit.
"Gimme some lines for reference then," his shoulders stiffened as he looked away. God, how was he supposed to learn anything when he didn't even understand his own words? What the hell was he trying to pull off, because it sure as hell wasn't working. Was it? Maybe, maybe he was getting better. "throw me a bone Sebastian." His free hand went to his hair, unruly from neglect and ridiculously curly, before moving down to the back of his neck. Seemed like messing with his hair was becoming a habit.
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