▲The Knife of Never Letting Go▼

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Dip, Nov 30, 2014.

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  1. Down,
    Down,
    Down he would go. Painlessly, he presumed. It would be quick, steady, and over in a flash. He would fall ever so gracefully, the same way a led balloon would hang in the air.
    Atleast, that's what he hoped, anyway.

    The year wasn't important, but the day was. It was New Years Eve, roughly one and a half hours before the ball would drop, and the whole world would celebrate. Everyone, besides him, that is. This man was on a mission, and this wasn't anything that had time for a little run to the bar. He already had a meeting with his good friend Jack Daniels before he decided to take on this expedition, and it took a good amount to even let the very idea sink in.

    The idea was this: The ball wasn't the only thing dropping tonight.

    The man walked waywardly, as poised as ever. He walked and walked, with almost no care in the world outwardly, but inside, he was struggling to hold down a latent Latte he chugged down, following the flood of alcohol.

    The snow fell soundlessly on cruel world, and not even the shifting weather could sway his opinion. It wasn't long after the snow fell that the man shrugged to his location, which happened to be one of the tallest buildings in the city. As he journeyed towards the doors, he noticed a great lack of people overtaking the streets. He assumed they all took shelter of the bars, and he carried on.

    The man with jolly-rancher eyes walked into the building, and took off his hat. Almost like clockwork, his glasses fogged up from the rude temperature change. The strange man took a corner of his coat, and wiped off the fog. He turned to the women at the desk, and managed a dingy-white smile.

    The women, who was a hefty Chinese women, looked over her cat-eye glasses and inquired to the man, in a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Whatyou's damage?" She asked loudly.

    The man paused, and slowly put on his glasses.

    "Excuse me?"
    "Whatyou's doin' here?"
    "Oh," He paused, and cleared his throat. "I, I, uh, wanted to--"
    "We's closed."
    "I-I didn't see, so I just assumed--"
    The hefty heifer sat up, and inspected him head to toe, as if she was going to eat him. "Whatyou's name, kid? Do you's work here?"
    "Er," He paused, and tried to think of a name that would fit the card. His eyes darted around the room, until it came across a few that would work well enough. "Har...vy."
    "Har-vy? Har-vy what?"
    'Har-vy' paused. "Yes."
    The women looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and signed. "Stay outta trouble, Har-vy."

    He anxiously folded his hat between his fingers, and gave a slight nod. "Thank you." With that, he darted to the corner of the room, and raced up the stairs. There were many of them, and they all looked a little too clean. The man ran quickly up the first set, but slowed his speed down quickly. He was alone.

    He was so alone.

    The man who went under the fake name of Harvy pushed on, placing his hat in his pack pocket and scaling the stairs. Once he made it to the last flight, he saw two doors. One was labeled 'Wing F', and the other was labeled 'Catwalk'. The man sighed, and grabbed for the catwalk.

    The catwalk was atleast six stories up, and let me tell you, it took a whole lot of convincing to even get hold onto the railing. He just had to walk a short way, and he reached another set of rickety stairs. He set up those, and the next step, and the next, until he was at the very top of the building. He swore that it would be beautiful if the bird in his chest wasn't slamming against his rib-cage.

    He stood on top for a long time, simply taking it all in, before he walked towards the side and peered over. He gulped hair, and stumbled back. He sighed, and sat down on the ledge, his feet dangling off of the side. As he sat perched on the ledge of the building, he thought faintly of all the events that led him to this point. He thought gently of his ex-- that pompous whore. He also thought about his crippling dept.
    And his shitty room-mate.
    And his bitchy mother and bastard father.
    And his stupid major.

    The man sighed, and looked up at the sky. He began to speak.

    "Hey, God... It's Arty." He said gently, as if he wasn't talking to a higher being. The man called Arty shook his head, and sighed. "Stupid, stupid. What does it matter? It's not like anyone is listening." He looked back up at the sky, and almost glared at it. There was no hand out there to guide him in the right direction. There was no one out there for him.

    He ran a nervous hand through his choppy hair, and looked over the edge again. He took a deep breath, and placed his hands beside him. "Take care of things, okay? Make sure they settle without me. Make sure my old man doesn't run her off her rocker. Make sure my teachers got my final papers. And..."

    Arty looked back up at the sky, and formed his fists into balls. He swore to God-- any God, that if he wasn't meant to do this, that they should send a sign. Arty stood up, closed his eyes, and spread his arms out wide, ready to--

    "Are you finished, yet?"
     
  2. New years had never been as exciting to Hooper as everyone made it out to be. Somewhere in his brain was a vague memory of his mother chugging champagne while his father fucked her sister in the next room, his siblings off in some room trying to ignore it. Maybe normal families didn't have new years like that, maybe that's why most people like it. He could always appreciate the snow in all it's shimmering beauty, until he was stuck outside in it. The last remnants of Christmas were still enchanting, mostly. Every now and again he'd pass a group of strangers laughing and generally having a good night, preparing for the coming year. More likely the next party. All in all, it was an average new years eve with fresh snow and happy New Yorkers. It boggled his mind how everything could be so normal while he was completely and utterly falling apart at every seam.

    The voices hadn't been quiet in weeks. It was constant talking; hurt that person, break that thing, stab yourself with this. Never a break, no matter what he did. No amount of alcohol, drugs, or benzodiazapines would quell the rush of whispers in his head. Not to mention the hallucinations. Shadow figures, bugs crawling on him, it was horrendous. After so long he thought he'd gotten used to it, but the paranoia had gotten worse as well, along with his anxiety. Everything had escalated so quickly he hadn't had time to do anything about it. Not that he would have, anyway. Things just snowballed until he'd woken up that morning and realized the only way put was down. All the way down.

    Hooper had spent his day drinking, as well as his night. Not too heavily at first, but by the time it got down to his deadline he was chugging vodka like a pro. The burning in his throat was nothing compared to the shaking of his hands. No pot or pills, though. If he was going to die, he wanted to feel how bad it hurt. He hadn't worried about dressing warm considering the circumstances, but only a few blocks in he was wishing he'd at least brought a coat. An old sweatshirt of some band he hasn't listened to in years and some ripped jeans was hardly winter ready. Maybe the coroners would have a good laugh at his stupidity as they scraped his body off the ground. Silver linings, right?

    By the time he'd finally reached the building, one of the tallest in the city, his lip was bleeding from the constant biting and he couldn't feel his fingers or his legs. As he rounded the building and slipped in through the back exit he felt like a ghost, as if he was on autopilot. It wasn't him sneaking through the kitchen, not him climbing all those stairs or braving those catwalks, it wasn't him lighting that cigarette on that final flight. As Hooper brought the cigarette to his lips he noted the blood on his wrist. He must have been biting there, too. Fuck it. Red stained the end of the cigarette as he pulled it back and exhaled, a perfect stinging sensation filling his chest. This was one of the only things he'd miss about being alive. Taking another drag, he pushed through the door to the roof and started making his way toward the edge.

    Honestly, though, he should have known someone else was going to be there. Biggest, most easily accessible building for miles on the day before the new year. What was he expecting? Still, the giant stick bug sitting there talking to God was hardly what he wanted to see when he'd just gotten the nerve up to jump. Now he had to build his courage back up all over again. He rolled his eyes and puffed on his cigarette, watching the pathetic man beg the empty sky for mercy on his school work. Like that mattered. In a couple weeks no one would even remember his name.

    "Are you finished yet?"

    Hooper had finally had enough, stomping his cigarette out on the ground. "Look, either stop being a pussy and fucking jump or I'm gonna push you. I ain't gonna wait around here all night for my turn. So stop talking to God and hurry it the fuck up!"
     
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  3. Arty stitched his eyebrows close together, and looked over his shoulders. He had to take a second look, because he didn't quite believe his eyes. He assumed he was completely alone-- he had HOPED he was. He felt almost offended when this stranger appeared out of no where, and began ordering him to quicken up. He felt almost as if it wasn't private anymore, like it was a single affair. Who the hell was this guy, anyway?

    Arty glared down at him (and it was easy to, too) and mustered the best voice he could. The Jack Daniels left his voice a little harsh, but it was nothing compared to the smaller man before him. He stank of it, and maybe it wasn't even the stink of the alcohol that caused it. Even from the distance he was standing, he could smell the smoke on his breath and the beer rolling off of his tongue, as if it was a wheel on a badly manufactured car. Arty turned back to the stranger with disdain, and began to speak quick, crisp words at him. He swore that this was going to end up like the conversation with the security guard, but this time, he didn't have any time to waste on him.

    "I'll finish when I damn-well feel like it," He started slowly, as if he was a retard. He looked over the man once more, and tried to recognize him from somewhere. Did he go to his college? Had he been following him, even? Had he been watching him the entire time? His head was spinning, and not because he was dizzy from the height. The cold wind buzzed past his ears, and he let out a sigh. He turned back towards the stretching city, and turned around fully, so that the man can see how very tall he stood, and he took a step towards him.

    "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Arty didn't see anyone following him, nor did he think that anyone would want to. He saw no one on the street, or in the allie way. Maybe he climbed up a different way? He ran a nervous hand though his hair, thinking that maybe he should find a different location, before he made a total idiot out of himself. But as soon as he thought of that, another thought raced through. "Fuckin' leave, why don't you? I was here first." Arty stated his dominance, much like a wolf would do to the pack.
     
  4. Hooper tucked his thumbs into his jean pockets, staring the man in front of him down like he wasn't completely terrified. Not of him, of course, despite the fact he looked like he was walking on stilts. He was much more scared of the fact he was mere minutes away from his ultimate demise. Some noodle-spined hipster who couldn't step off a roof was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now, especially one who could barely talk. Christ, for someone who seemed to be at the end of his rope he sure was attitudinal. It wasn't like he was trying to keep him from ending his life or anything, that wasn't his place; he just wanted him to get it over with so he could have his turn.

    "I'd rather be outta this place before next year, Green Giant," he snapped back, taking another step forward. The alcohol was making it hard to stand, his head was spinning like a top. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to just push this guy off the roof and follow him down but he really didn't want to be pinned as a murderer as well as a coward. It was bad enough he hadn't had the courage to take a gun to his head, there was no way this purple-haired faux hawk fucker was going to make him look worse. "Look, of you're just gonna stand there whining all night you may as well let someone who's ready go first. Didn't your mom teach you any manners?"

    Hooper cracked his neck, then his shoulders; the tension had been building up all night. He dug around in his pockets to begin emptying them of his cigarettes and lighter. There wasn't much he'd taken with him, not even a note. Even his phone was still at home, along with his keys. He walked closer to the other man, cringing at the cold air that buffeted his face like icy knives. It hurt like a bitch, he found himself wishing once again he'd brought a coat. "What the fuck do you think I'd be doing at the top of a building on new years eve while it's fucking snowing?" He rubbed the drying blood from his lips. "Look, Jack and the Bean Stock, I didn't walk all the way here in the cold for nothing. Now jump or I'm gonna do it for you,"
     
  5. Wow, Arty sure was going by a lot of aliases tonight. He raised an eyebrow nearly off of his head when he heard the little man call him by such names. As if he hadn't heard those ones before. He crossed his arms over his skinny frame, and gave him a look. "Okay, kid," He started out, sarcastically. "I'll cut you a deal, because you're just so impatient," Arty could see the steam building inside him. He looked furious, and it was almost too funny to laugh at. "How about you sit pretty over in the corner for a few minuets, let me collect my thoughts-- maybe write a will, or an exert that the local newspaper could use, and then you can go." He tried as much as he could not to smile or snicker, so he kept a stone-cold face up as he looked the man down.

    He couldn't believe the sudden mood shift. He was so uncharacteristically calm before this man came. This man-- whoever he may be-- reminded him of a bar. Any old bar would do. He smelt like he just stumbled in and out of one, and it was more obvious as the man teetered like a see-saw. Arty continued on his little rant. "Here, here, I'll write a little something-something for you, too. Just to make sure you're thrown out of the world as 'politely' as you were dragged in." Arty pulled out a pen from his left pocket, and a stray napkin in his other. He quickly wrote down what should be placed on the other's news exert, and kindly shoved it in his face.

    The napkin, written in yellow ink and handwriting like a font, read as followed:

    "Pardon me,"
    Arty thought that would shut him up for a good moment or two. He let the napkin flutter to the short mans feet, and he began to speak again. "Now, Shortcake, why don't you go sit pretty for a bit, so I can finish my business." ​
     
    #5 Dip, Dec 1, 2014
    Last edited: Dec 1, 2014
  6. Using the word "kid" was the first mistake the beanpole made. Granted he was only twenty five and that hardly made him worthy of being called an adult, but from what he could tell this guy was younger than him. Take away the height factor and all that was left was some hipster haircut and shitty fashion sense, a face that hardly showed signs of a long life minus the bags under his eyes, and that cocky attitude that made him think everything he did was justified. This dude was twenty, at best. Probably up on the roof about to kill himself over some freshman girlfriend--or boyfriend, he didn't judge--dumping him for an older, richer guy. Not that it still wouldn't be sad, but really? Kids these days were ready to end their lives over everything.

    The second mistake was telling him to "sit pretty" like some damn doll. Hooper had heard that enough from the creeps his mother brought home, he sure as hell didn't need it from a stranger. He was in so much shock that some punk ass kid would try to act tough around him that all he could do was run his tongue over his split lip. This fucker was going down. He could feel his anger rising, his hands curling into fists at his sides. There was no way he was going down like this, letting some smart mouth bitch him out before he died. Over his dead body. Literally.

    Hooper crushed the napkin under his foot without even reading it, going straight for the man standing on the ledge. "You motherfucker," he growled, yanking the man down by one of his long legs until he fell to the ground. Height meant nothing in a fight like this, especially if this punk was as useless as he looked. "Why don't you go 'sit pretty' in your fucking parent's house," he kicked the man's side as hard as he could. "You smartass fucking prick!"
     
  7. Arty knew that only two things were bound to come out of this situation:

    1) Someone was going to be battered and bruised.
    2) Someone was going to be tossed off the ledge like a red-haired step-child.

    Arty fell like a tree, loudly, and ready to crush anyone under him. He didn't fall right away, oh no, it was the ice under him that made him slip. It was the stupid man attacking him that simply put it into play. He slammed his head pretty hard on the cement, which took him back a bit. He hissed out, grabbing the back of his head and recoiling the smallest amount. But the throbbing in his head was nothing compared to the feeling he felt in his side. It was as if someone had jabbed him in the side-- it was hard enough to bruise, but not hard enough to break a rib.

    He was thankful that the stranger stopped kicking after only one, because Arty could feel the anger rise up in him. It was a mix of pain, alcohol, and piercing cold. Something in Arty clicked. He glared up at the man, and instantly, his eyes darted towards his obscene face piercing. Oh, jackpot. The man seemed to feel pretty high and mighty when he was towering over him like that, but even the mightiest are bound to fall. In one quick kick, he managed to get the jerk-ass off of his high-horse.

    He flung his legs towards the side, and caught him off guard. He swept him off of his feet and watched him land with a groan. Arty swallowed hard, and closed his eyes as he did what he was about to do next. He kicked the man square in the face, with his size 14 shoe. He kicked him as hard as he could, and right after, he sprang up as quickly as possible, to try and give him the advantage, but he had a feeling that he was bound to be brought down to size.

    Literally.
     
  8. Admittedly, Hooper hadn’t really thought through this whole fight scenario. Being drunk and extremely peeved had made him act on impulse and now, standing over the massive man below him, he was pretty sure he was about to regret his actions. After all, he was short for a man and not in the least bulky and, despite this guy being as this as a stick he was practically a giant. Street smarts could only get you so far, especially when you were smashed. He tried to look confident when the other man finally lifted his head, eyes foggy, to stare up at him in a blind rage. Yeah, he was fucked.

    The second he hit the icy ground he heard his shoulder make a sickening crack, but he was fairly certain it hadn’t broken or dislocated. Just left a bruise the size of Texas. He groaned as he tried to drag himself up with his uninjured arm. Unluckily for him that just made it easier for the giant’s shoe to connect with his face, knocking his head back and his piercings right into his skin. Whether the stinging of the metal ripping his flesh or the impact of his back against the ground hurt more, he wasn’t sure, but it left his head spinning.

    It didn’t take long for him to stagger to his feet, blood rushing from his nose and mouth. His septum ring and smiley piercing had left his face burning from the kick. Hazel eyes flared with anger as he caught the other man’s gaze, letting him know he was about to regret his decision. He advanced on him quickly and roughly pushed him against the ledge of the roof, pinning him against it. One hand fisted in his shirt collar, the other raised to punch him square in the face.

    The door to the roof burst open just as he was getting ready to unleash all hell, three cops shouting at them to step away from the ledge. He doubted anyone had called about suicide jumpers, so he guessed it was because of the fight. Shit. His street instincts kicked in and he let the man go, booking it past the cops and down the stairs as fast as he could.
     
  9. The kick that Arty sent must have been a good one. He saw the man stumble back, his head flying backwards and blood coating his mouth. Arty noticed the blood on his foot, and the splatter that ended up on his pants and shirt. My god, there was blood everywhere. He looked up at the man, and saw the purest hate in his eyes. He noticed that his eyes were a sickening shade of brown, and he faintly thought that this guy was going to kill him. And there, in a fraction of a second, everything went to shit.

    Arty felt the man race towards him, avoiding the ice with such grace. The cam shoved him to the ledge, and grabbed him so hard that he felt the wrath of god being thrusted into him. The man's blood dripped and dripped onto his tall figure, and soon, the man brought a sickening fist towards his face. He noted the alcohol stink on his breath, and wanted to say that the man smelt like roses and mustard gas. He wanted to, but there was nothing sweet underlying the musk he emitted.

    Arty closed his eyes, lifting his hands up in a defensive position, waiting for the punch that never came. It almost did, he swore he felt the air switch directions and blast him in the face, but it never made contact. Arty opened his eyes, and a crash sounded throughout the top of the building. He heard the faintest echo, and saw the few figures fighting the winter-winds up there with them.

    Well, someone up there must love him. Arty was sure that he was going to be killed right then and there, but then, the cops broke through the door. Arty wasn't sure if that was good, or bad, but he felt a serge of panic coarse through him. He darted as soon as the man got off of him, running as fast as he could. He heard the cops should, and the steps following the voices. He had no where to go but down.

    Down,
    Down,
    Down he went. He wished it wasn't like that, though. It wasn't quick, or steady, and it seemed to go on forever. He was scared of falling the same way a led balloon would hang in the air. That's what he hoped would never happen. He grabbed the railing and skipped three, four steps at a time. Arty saw the stranger do the same thing, but he was gaining on him. Arty bit his lip, and furrowed his eyebrows. When he was striding past him, he rammed him into the side of the stairs, and jumped ahead.

    Arty knew that if he was brought into questioning, he didn't want to elaborate about his plan to end himself.
     
  10. Hooper was more than used to running from the police. From a very young age he was taught to avoid them like the plague, that they brought nothing but suffering and were, in fact, not there to help you or anyone else for that matter. If it wasn’t dodging their questions about loud noises coming from his home or bruises on his body when he was a child, it was outrunning them with booze and weed as a teenager. Even as an adult he had to constantly evade them for getting into fights or stealing or vandalism. Arson had even been on the list a few times. This was nothing new, but the rush he felt skipping down those steps three or four at a time was the same as the first time he’d flipped an officer the bird. It was pure ecstasy, really. A feeling of being alive that he couldn’t get from anything or anyone else in the entire world.

    Being rammed into the staircase railing had surely left a large bruise on his leg and hip, possibly even his side, but it would be nothing compared to the ones on his shoulder and face. It gave the cops a fighting chance in catching him, but luckily he was a lot more ballsy than they had expected him to be. He grasped the railing with one hand and swung himself over it, falling down to the next landing and doing the same again. When he was certain he had a good advantage on them, he ran the rest of the stairs normally and all but slid across the hotel lobby’s floor trying to get outside. The woman behind the desk looked startled, but he paid her no mind as he burst out into the cold winter air.

    The snow that was falling pierced his face as he pushed through the new years eve crowd, gathering to enjoy the last minutes of the night. He weaved through them expertly until he saw a familiar face. Rather, a familiar height. The giant he’d been fighting wasn’t far in front of him and he followed him quickly, though he had much more trouble getting through the crowd than the other man did. He ran after him into a nearby park, where the street lights were glowing warmly and the snow was falling silently to the ground. It was almost like a scene out of a book, if they weren’t being chased by cops. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He called after him, finally stopping to catch his breath. When the man looked back at him he felt all the previous anger he had melt away, just like the snow beneath his feet.

    Then he laughed.

    Hooper laugh genuinely, so hard that he had to wipe tears from his eyes. Blame it on the booze, but he felt more alive right then than he had in months. “Holy shit, dude, you’re fast! You done this before?”
     
  11. The running wasn't bad, it was what he was running from that was even worse. Thankfully, he had always been able to run. He was on track and field when he was younger. Albeit, he was only on there to toss the javelin and pole vault, but he did a few running events, aswell. Those did come in handy, though! Arty raced through the crowd in record time, hearing the footsteps behind him. He wasn't sure if it was the cops, or the short man whom he had kicked earlier.

    Snow fell silently, and Arty's breath fogged the air around him as he raced towards the park. As soon as he felt safe, he slowed to a jog, sweat dripping from his forehead gently. He wiped it with his hat, but he nearly dropped it when he heard a man call from behind him. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” The bird in his chest was banging against his rib cage. Arty had to catch his breath, and calm himself before he turned around. He was so sure that the man was going to beat the living shit out of him, but he started laughing.

    Not the kind of laugh you get from a man in uniform, but it was a real laugh. A laugh full of life. Arty chuckled awkwardly and nervously, raising an eyebrow and taking a small step backwards. The man had asked if he had done this before, and Arty wanted to really laugh at that. "Uh," He started, unsure if he should walk away to avoid both him and the cop, or if he should continue conversing with this man. He decided on the latter. "No, I haven't, I guess it's..." He paused, and shrugged. "I guess it's all in the legs." Arty slapped his right leg gently.

    He spoke gently, sliding backwards on his heels, to create some more distance. Arty looked past the man, and saw the towering building blanketed in snow and ice. He sighed.

    Maybe another night he'd be able to make it.
     
  12. Hooper rested his hands on his knees, desperately trying to catch his breath through the suffocating cold. The running he usually did from cops was only a few blocks until he could duck in somewhere to hide, not down and entire building and across multiple streets. Jesus, he was getting old. He absently went to grab a cigarette from his pack but his hand hit nothing but an empty back pocket, making him groan. Fuck, he’d thrown them out on top of the roof before starting that fight, hadn’t he? Great. He rolled his eyes, then straightened himself up and cracked his knuckles. The only good thing about all that running had been the fact he was no longer freezing, just slightly chilled. Even the snow that tangled in his hair or settled on his exposed neck or hands didn’t bother him that much. In some strange way it was actually sort of comforting.

    “All in the legs, huh?” The blond cracked a crooked grin at Arty. For an annoying hipster brat he was pretty good at evading the cops. Maybe he was one of those privileged kids that always went to protests to get on the news or something. “Well, I’m pretty fucking badass for a short guy, then. Practice makes perfect, huh?” Another, softer laugh tumbled from his lips as he looked over his shoulder. The crowd of people along the streets was about the same as it had been a few minutes before and no one seemed panic, he guessed the police had lost track of them. If they’d really wanted to find two hooligans fighting on a rooftop at night they would have sent a car out already, but he didn’t hear any sirens.

    “I think we’re clear,” he started to say as he looked back toward the taller man. When he caught him staring wistfully up at the building they’d just come from he finally realized just how bad he’d fucked up. For both of them. Now neither of them were going to get to off themselves before the new year. “You know, this may actually be a good thing,” Hooper shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced from the building to the other man. “I mean, after tonight I’d be checking obituaries all the time to see if your skinny ass beat me to the chase. But, you know, people like us don’t usually make it to the papers. Maybe on a holiday, but,” he stopped suddenly, his grin widening. That was perfect. “Hey, do you have paper on you? Something to write with?”
     
  13. Arty's attention was drawn away from the building and back towards the man. He wasn't really paying attention, but he didn't quite hear him. "Huh?" He asked quietly, before it clicked in his brain that this man wanted something. He groped absently in his pocket for a pencil or a notepad. Of course he had one, he was a journalism student. Arty finally found a small journal and his yellow sharpie. He pulled out a piece of paper from the leather-skinned journal and hesitantly thrusted it towards the shorter man.

    He looked back at the building, and tucked his journal back into his back pocket. He saw the man scribble hectically, but he didn't much care at the time. He watched the crowd part like a red sea, and wished to himself that he had something to eat. He thought that running on a stomach full of Jack Daniels was a bad idea to even think of, and the fact that he did do it was even worse. He placed a hand over his stomach as he tried his damnedest to hold in the contents of his stomach.

    Arty's eyes drifted back to the man, who was going away wildly on the piece of paper. He couldn't read what it said, but it must have been important. Whatever it may be.
     
  14. Hooper could barely contain his excitement as the taller man in front of him patted himself down for some form of writing equipment. If he was anything near as nerdy as he looked, he was certain the man would have it. To his amusement, he pulled out a journal and sharpie and all but shoved it at him like he was some kind of contagious mutant. Without even thanking him, the blond knelt down and uncapped the sharpie, placing the paper on the ground. He started to scribble down everything rushing through his head at once, knowing damn well his writing was probably awful. Being drunk and in a manic state was not the best time to try to be an author. He didn’t even notice the other man staring at him, nor the rest of the buzzing nightlife; all he was concentrated on was this one moment of clarity. It was the first he’d had in a long time.

    When he’d finally finished viciously scribbling on the paper, he sat up and smiled at what he’d created. It was hard to read, due to both the bright ink and the awful handwriting, but it was legible. It made a decent amount of sense. He took great pride in signing his name at the bottom before recapping the sharpie and standing up. “Valentines Day,” Hooper grinned as he handed the paper and pen back to their owner. “The next big holiday is Valentines day, so we wait until then. Neither of us will kill ourselves until February fourteenth. That way we may actually make the papers and neither of us will have to worry about the other.”

    Hooper, admittedly, wasn’t in the right mindset to be making contracts with strangers. Still, if he wasn’t going to die on his night of choice the way he wanted to, then neither was this brat. “It’s a contract. Just sign your name, like I did. Then, after Valentines Day, all bets are off. You can jump in front of a train if you want to,” he laughed giddily. “Hell, I’ll freakin’ push you!”
     
  15. Arty looked at the paper and back at the man. He looked back at the paper once more, and squinted at it. The first thing that popped into his mind was, "Who the hell would name their child Hooper?" But then again, Arthur wasn't that attractive, either. He read the contact, in bright yellow, with his glasses lifted above his eyes. The contract read, in jumbled fonts and fumbled words, that neither of them should kill themselves off until their doomsday.

    Arty had to read it over a second time. He wanted to blurt out a laugh, about how stupid of an idea that was, but when he looked at the man, he saw excitement much like a child's. He decided to humor him. He rolled his eyes, and wrote his name on sheet of paper. 'Arthur Aponté'. He handed the man the paper back, and tucked the sharpie away in his pocket. He looked around the park gently, seeing if there was anything to start a conversation about.

    There wasn't. Arty was going to leave him right then and there, but the man who went by Hooper gave him a look. "What?" He asked, turning towards him.
     
  16. In all honesty, Hooper was expecting the man to either ignore the paper completely and walk away or tear it into little pieces and then walk away. There was no doubt in his mind any sane person would have thought him crazy and left. Then again, he had met the man on top of a building ready to kill himself. Perhaps that meant he wasn’t all that mentally stable himself. Nevertheless, seeing him not only read over the entire contract twice but also sign it with his full name left him extremely amped.

    The blond took the paper back happily and read the name the man had printed on it in perfect script. It looked like a work of art next to his sorry excuse for handwriting. Arthur. He mouthed the name silently to himself, rolled it through his mind over and over again. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. It was certainly nerdy enough to be this hipster’s name and he didn’t seem to have any reason to lie, so he accepted it. With a satisfied smile, he folded the piece of paper and stuck it into his back pocket, mentally reminding himself to buy cigarettes on the way home.

    Hooper hadn’t realized the wistful look he’d had on his face until Arthur turned to question him. He quickly wiped it away and replaced it with a smirk. Truthfully he was just astonished the man had actually gone along with his plan, though there was no telling if he’d really stick to it or not. Maybe, even after getting kicked in the face, this next month and a half wouldn’t be so unbearable.

    “Happy jumping,” he murmured teasingly, then turned and strode off without another word.
     
  17. Arty watched the man walk off after telling him those words. Arty supposed they were kind enough. Well, atleast he wasn't going to beat him up or anything, like how he first imagined it. He watched the man leave, shuffling drunkenly, and he almost wanted to apologize for kicking him and shoving him like that. He could see a nasty shiner developing on 'Hooper's' face, but he supposed he shouldn't meddle any more than he already did.

    Arty turned around, and walked the other way, hoping to never see this man again.

    He walked through the park and around for a while, collecting himself. He never really wanted to kill himself and be known-- he just wanted to die! There was no chance in hell that he'd wait another month, just to have his picture in the paper. He wanted it as hush-hush as possible, he decided for himself. So that way there was no way he could recreate this night. He thought lightly about what the other said before, "You can jump in front of a train if you want to,” He let those words echo inside himself, and shrugged.

    He'd have to buy a train schedule on his way back to the dorms, he supposed.

    Arty stuffed his hands into his pocket, and continued off, with his head hung low and his mind sky high. He walked on like that for quite some time, till he did manage to make it to the main building of the college. He walked into the office, and inquired about a train schedule. He got one, and looked through it as he walked up the steps to room 346. He realized quite slowly that he was tired. He was so tired and emotionally drained, he just wanted to sleep. Arty shoved the paper in his pack pocket, and pulled out some keys that went to his dorm.
     
  18. Outfit

    Hooper vaguely remembered throwing up on the way back to his apartment and again in the elevator...and again in his toilet. Somewhere afterwards he must have passed out halfway between his bed--which was just a mattress on the floor--and his tiny kitchenette because that was precisely where he was when he woke up. Half naked. For a long time he just laid there on the floor in his boxers, staring up at his ceiling whilst desperately trying to decode what had happened to him. The absolutely horrendous pain in his face and shoulder reminded him about the fight, which led him to remember why he was out in the first place, and then to exactly how much alcohol he’d consumed beforehand. It made him sick just thinking about it. Luckily, he had nothing left to puke up instead tried to focus on what had happened after the fight. He remembered being freezing, so he must have been outside. Oh, and the police. That’d been fun. Then the guy he’d met...Arthur.

    The blond grinned wildly when he remembered the contract they’d signed and nearly fell over himself trying to get up. He rushed around the house, trying to find the magical piece of paper until he finally saw it tucked into the back pocket of his jeans from the previous night. Which were laying in the tub. He grabbed it hurriedly and read it over once, twice, as many times as he could until the reality of the situation sunk in; he was shaking with excitement. A laugh split the silence in his tiny one room apartment. Then it grew until he was nearly crying tears of joy, slapping the contract onto his kitchen counter. He stared it down with his hands cupped over his mouth.

    This was it. He wasn’t alone anymore.

    Needless to say, he’d never gotten dressed so quickly in his entire life. Despite how completely awful he felt and the terrible bruise forming on his face and shoulder, he was ecstatic. He was going to find his new friend and make sure he’d stuck to the contract. Considering he didn’t have a computer at his house, much less internet and his phone was a piece of crap he had to go to the nearest library to do a little research. After he’d looked the name Arthur Aponté up online and found only a few articles with the name in New York, he managed to find out he was studying some kind of literature at a local university. He wasted no time in hopping on--rather, sneaking onto--the subway and making his way to the college.

    Wandering around a bunch of nerds in the morning with a raging hangover was definitely surreal, but when he finally spotted Arty it was worth it. It was impossible to miss him, considering he towered over even the tallest jocks walking around. He sauntered over to him with a grin and leaned around him to smile up at him. “You look like shit, sunshine.”
     
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