Whatever You Like // Tags + Icarus [Masquerade]

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] When the invitation fluttered up to me, tossing and tumbling in the breeze before landing seductively at my toes (as if anything less could be expected when Harper Libertine is involved), I didn't even try to play it cool like I usually do. "Oh my god, Bast. We're going." A masquerade party. The looping cursive script of the flamboyant Libertine boy twisted and turned around my mind immediately, ensnaring me with thoughts of secret identities and everything that can hide so easily behind the simple shield of a mask. After making him swear to meet me at the pawn shop for the soiree, I immediately ran off to rope Caly and Thea into my plans. Whether or not the invitation was fated for me, each and every one of my impulsive intentions immediately began screaming: CRASH IT, TAGS. CRASH THE PARTY. Maybe it's disrespectful to show up to a Libertine party dressed as a corpse, but I wasn't exactly thinking about that as I was making my macabre mask of the dead, fixated on how only the souls of those who've passed on may accompany the Ferry Man. Donning a tattered dress as white as a last breath and painting my skin pale enough to match, I weave my way through the crowd that has descended upon the pawn shop this evening, looking for signs of the familiar. Everything seems to glitter against the darkness, a sea of fake faces that promise this midnight hour belongs to the wildest of daydreamers — to me. The dance floor is too alive for the dead, so I make my way inside, creeping down the isles of this city's pawned desperation and tapping one shoulder after another. Although mussed and tousled, the curls of my hair should be enough for my friends to recognize me, yet again and again I'm met with little more than a curious tilt of the head in response. It's not until I discover the door to the basement storage and slip into its shadows that I'm at all certain I've found someone who shares my devious habits. Such casual posture in these dank and dusty quarters could only belong to someone who feels at home in the territory of an underworld. Footfalls from the party above echo through the floorboards as I sneak forward, as silent as the grave I'm faking tonight, my hands reaching up to grab his shoulders from behind as I latch onto him like I've sprung out from the pages of a horror story. Up on the tip-toes of my boots, with my mouth pressed suddenly to his ear in a ghostly ooooooo, it finally begins to dawn on me that this might not actually be Bast and I might be crashing more than just the Libertine's party. all i wanna do is live in e c s t a s y i know what's best f o r m e

[loren]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s I've been feeling foolish You should try it She came and substituted The peace and quiet for Acrobatic blood flow Concertina cheating heart beat Rapid fire Only a Libertine could possess the dauntless grace to invite all the crooks and misfits of the city to party. Which, initially, is all I took the invitation for. Cutting the air like a gilded razor, flickering like a small flame fighting against the wind until I reached and caught it midflight. The Libertines were asking for trouble. Swinging their doors wide open to any homeless drunkard on the street who could put his bottle down long enough to figure out where the pawn shop was. They were beckoning to dance with the most mental District Four had to offer and clink glasses with charmless whores. And I should have torn the damned invitation the minute it landed in my hand. But the Libertines were asking for trouble, and I had an answer. And that answer came in the form of a black satin mask and tie. And that answer made small talk with the fellow guests, learning of their names and their hobbies and what they thought of the weather lately and just how much does your family make a year by the way? And that answer danced briefly with girls almost as pretty as the jewels he slipped off their bodies when the music engulfed any chance they had to realize that they had just been robbed. And that answer struggled to swim out of the sea of faceless dolls to find the true reason he came to party. I strolled into the cellar, greeted by a friend I was far too familiar with: the smell of death. It hung heavy in the air with its usual notes of despair and loss; so sickly sweet the corners of my mouth couldn't help but pull up in glee. A smile I saw distorted, grotesque, and beautiful in the reflection of the silver trinkets and brass keys. I ran the tips of my fingers over their smooth metallic faces, ice cold from the cool night's embrace; begging for a warmth my pockets were only too charitable to provide. And all at once she came to me. Like a sudden thunderstorm that capsized the unsinkable me right as I saw the lighthouse. Just as I thought the waters couldn't be any more still. And she made me aware of myself, the skin beneath her touch suddenly alert and awake, tense beneath the layers of clothing and stolen jewelry. Her lips, flowered petals plush with the kind of femininity only youth can possess grazed my ear so lightly I could not help but deafen the world above our heads as she whispered in deadened hum,"Oooooooo." And I swallowed the anxiety that formed in my throat, turning my head mere fractions of an angle to all but face her; her eyes, so wide you'd swear she forced them that way to take in more of the world, mere eyelashes from mine. Her mouth a half breath from my own. "Get off me, yeah?"

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She's thunderstorms
Lying on her front
Up against the wall
She's thunderstorms

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[/center]

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] "Get off me, yeah?" Graceless, I am caught in shock and suspended within my own surprise, my lips still hanging open in a round, silent echo of my earlier whispered drone of the dead. The mirrors hung here and there throughout the subterranean room reflect my half-covered face back: a hastily sewn white cotton mask above a lolling mouth. I don't know what's hidden beneath his own black satin mask, but I know what isn't. For now, my ghost is undeniably lost from the Ferry Man, wandering aimless and confused to find only... Who or even what he is, I don't know. My eyes stutter back and forth, searching for evidence as to why he might be standing in the place where someone else was expected. The innocent do not seek out these types of hidden places — a neglected basement cluttered with senseless piles of tea sets, costume jewelry, and old furniture. This is a place for the dogs of society to hide, the people who have more than just their face to conceal, and the uninvited. My lips quirk at the corner, one side hitching itself up in intrigue as my indomitable imagination begins to run wild. We are still too close for his comfort, his request neglected and ignored. I have set him on edge, the tiny muscles of his jaw tightening as he swallows. He is nervous and, just maybe, I'm a little responsible for that. The idea turns my own expression wicked, a rush of adrenaline stinging at my veins as I'm left to wonder if this is it, if this is the moment of recognition I've been waiting for. Does he think I'm dangerous? That thought is enough for my hands to tighten their hold on him, fingers digging in slightly as if claiming a prize. What my touch finds, however, is an entirely different kind of reward. One finger accidentally slipping across something that is neither a knot of muscle or his collarbone, realization sets in and if I weren't already less than a breath away from him, I would lean in. Maybe I still do. "Depends," I reply like a petulant five-year-old attempting to strike a deal about their own disobedience. Shamelessly, my fingers slip down to grab a handful of his shirt... and whatever it is he's hiding beneath it. My attempt at a casual smirk flickers into something more genuine for a second, giddy as I run my thumb over the edge of his badly kept secret. "What will you give me?" It could be diamonds or gold that he has stolen away, but all I really want is to keep this fevered rush coursing through me. After all, that's what I was truly hoping to find from the start. i can't help it it's this h o p e l e s s i t c h i just wanna feel purple yellow red and blue

[loren]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s She's been loop the looping Around my mind Her motorcycle boots give me This kind of acrobatic blood Concertina cheating heart beat Rapid fire Her eyes widened, her mouth cradling the ghost of her lost whisper in the shape of a little "o". And we stayed like that for a moment, close enough to feel the warmth of one another's breath on our cheeks, close enough to align the freckles in our eyes. I knew her no more than thirty seconds and she already drove me mad. Her eyes held entire oceans, vast as the sea can be and blue as a freshly broken morning but I couldn't read them. They bore holes in me, exposed their doe-like nakedness fearlessly but I couldn't decipher the thoughts behind them. What are you thinking? What was she thinking? In the wide expanses of blue I rummaged for the answers. For a hint of anger or alarm. But I saw no fury nor fear. Just two spheres of blue from behind the slits of a cotton mask. I was stealing her fortune, after all. Technically, she had the right to exercise some form of violence. Fashion some type of empty threat as I walked out the door a chuckling, wealthy man. Instead she practiced her right to read, running her hands along my shoulders, against my chest like I was a slab of braille and she had questions she wanted to answer herself. "Depends," she began, the fang of words. Depends. Lets you know the serpent is venomous seconds before you're bitten, infected, and dead. And her hand nimbly gathered the front of my shirt, as a rustle of stiff fabric and the clink of golden chains sang the answer like a boys' choir. And I shut my eyes tightly, driven mad by a girl I knew for hardly thirty seconds. Every tense muscle instantly slackened as the game was up. The buzzer rang and the flag was raised. How she knew of the night's affairs was completely lost to me, as I didn't care. I already began conjuring excuses --meant more for distraction as I ran out of the room than to actually excuse me from being turned over to authorities-- as she thumbed back the stark white to expose the shining treasure beneath and asked,"What will you give me?" She was no Libertine. I looked down at the bundle of cloth and chain in her hand, then to her. And how I hadn't seen it before, I blame it on the pure adrenaline ignited in my blood from robbing such a family as the pawn shop clan and the ornate decoration masquerading half her face. How I hadn't seen it in the spark in the blue, the crazed grin, or the complete and utter disregard for commandments is beyond me. How could I not have seen she was just like me? I smirked, pulling her hand from my shirt and taking it into my own. I took a few steps back, alike or not, the intimacy of enclosed spaces had never been for me. A lack of oxygen always kills the flame. And I sat on the desk of an old wooden vanity, hooking a finger into the arm of a small teacup. "I think we both know you didn't come here for something to be given to you, Dollface." And with that, I hopped to my feet and held the cup out, up at her eye level, mere inches from her face, just to be safe. Just to assure myself of what I already knew. Just to confirm we both walked on the same crooked street. Just to make certain we were the same. "So come and get it."

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She's thunderstorms
Lying on her front
Up against the wall
She's thunderstorms

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[/center]

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] It's not until the disconnect that I realize just how many boundaries I've been pushing at. Somehow the intimacy of the moment got lost in the thrill of it and the distance between mouths and bodies blurred into the peripheries of my tunnel vision. All I could see was that blinding promise of excitement and it's only as he physically pulls my hands off his chest and shoulders that I realize I've been touching him at all. My hand locked into this stranger's as he pulls away, my heartbeat starts to panic. Breath spinning dizzy in my lungs and eyelashes fluttering as he turns to walk over to an old vanity, I suddenly — violently — remember that I'm sixteen and in possession of a lethally over-exaggerated amount of confidence. The control I tried to claim seems to skitter away from me with every step he takes, but I don't attempt to back away. I can't help letting him lead me toward the unknown that lurks within the colliding minutes of our intertwined future. One of these days curiosity will kill me — probably because I look it point blank in the eyes and ask it to. As if he knows that about me already, he casually sits and hooks his finger into a teacup. "I think we both know you didn't come here for something to be given to you, Dollface." My face flushes at the pet name, knotting my tongue as I stare him down in a desperate attempt to hold my ground and hide how flustered I am. The scales have shifted and my pulse flails around in hopes of regaining a steady beat, but I can't turn heel and surrender. Even if I've secretly lost a battle to him, that tea cup is still hanging in the air between up like a dare. Once, I literally jumped off a bridge because of a dare. Another time I let Thea chop all my hair off at three in the morning in Caly's bathroom during a slumber party when we were eight and they were still discovering that, yes, when I said I'd do it, I meant it. Drinking "suicide" mixtures of chocolate milk, pureed carrots, tuna casserole, pudding, and cheese whiz at lunch; knocking on the door of the creepy shut-in neighbor everyone said was a murderer; touching my tongue to the frozen metal of the flagpole in midwinter... yeah, I did all of that. I was that kid. Just the same as always, I can't turn back as he hops down to hold the cup inches from my face. "So come and get it." A long moment stretches between us as I hold my breath, my eyes ticking back and forth between him and the delicate china of his dare. More than theft, this is a request to know me. Whatever my next move is, it will be an honest one and he knows that. Even in my little rebellions, I am too genuine. It's why Bast doesn't take me seriously enough to let me look inside the paper bags I deliver for him and it's why this stranger instinctively knew better than to fear me. I'm always too eager to throw myself into my impulses and possess no talent for hiding it. There's just no fun in that. Everything that has ever seduced my imagination is wrapped up in the idea of an adventure, in the idea of that tea cup. I practically leap for it, my breath escaping in a giddy hiss as I snatch it away from him. Quickly turning it within my own hands, I memorize the way my fingerprints slip across the glazed surface, the dainty floral pattern blurring within the constant movement. "Too easy, buster." My voice turns flippant as I scoff at him, nonchalantly tossing the cup into midair. "For a moment I thought you were someone with aspirations." It lands back within the cradle of my palms, my fingers a little too possessive as I toy with it. "Not gonna lie —" One second the Libertine's china is in my hand, the next it has vanished into the billowing sleeve of my dress. "— I'm a little disappointed." With a small shrug, I pick up a pair of silver candlesticks from the top of a hope chest, twirling one in each hand like duel batons before holding them out to him. "Shouldn't your effort be at least this much?" i just wanna be e v i l wanna be evil wanna be evil

[loren]

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[/i] she said with a heavy pitch of indifference, tossing the teacup into the air, from hand to hand, turning it within her palms. I leaned back unto the vanity and watched her toy with the cup like it was her first. Watched her study the trinket with her world-drinking eyes, watched her small hands trace the teacup's curves and design with the tips of her fingers. I bit into the tender flesh of my bottom lip to suppress an oncoming smile. She was like a child. Astonished by the smallest of treasures. If there was ever a time I found amusement in anything undeserving of a prison sentence I couldn't recall it. There was something poetic about taking the law in your hands and bending it until it threatens to snap. There was something indescribably alluring about staring someone directly in the eyes and stealing what is theirs just under their noses. So alluring I didn't even spare a moment to study the fruits of my labor, the wreaths of gold around my neck and humble lagoons of pearls and gemstones in my pockets. The decimation of a fire can never compare to its beauty as it burns. The act of the larceny was far more appetizing than the products could ever be.

"For a moment I thought you were someone with aspirations," she went on to taunt. I stifled a dry laugh, tongue against my cheek. If she only knew my entire attendance that night was nothing but the result of great ambition, that the only reason all of Panem should not bow to flames be a severe shortage of matches on my part. But after I pawn off all the valuables from tonight's escapades, who knows where these "aspirations" will lead me?

But I digress, and she went on. "Not gonna lie," she began, quickly devouring the delicate china into the swelling sleeves of her dress, "...I'm a little disappointed."

I laughed genuinely this time, shaking my head. It was a strange sound, my own laughter. My own, genuine laughter. Not the finely tuned strum of what I performed with the nameless drones stomping above our heads, but the actual, audible, authentic thing. There's not a lot to laugh about when you're in the business of discord --well, there is but you look like an ass laughing while their houses burn. It was foreign, and rather uncomfortable.

"Shouldn't your effort be at least this much?" she asked, offering me a pair of silver candlesticks. I rolled my eyes dramatically, strolling up to take one in my hand. I tested its weight, tilting it to and fro, giving it a delicate twist between my fingers. I looked from the silver ornate piece up at my masked accomplice with a smirk.

I took the slim stick of silver in my hand like a rapier, and traced a delicate line from her collarbone to her jaw, staring directly at whoever or whatever lay behind the mask, both the one fabricated of cotton and the one forged of careless swagger. With the candlestick beneath her chin, I tilted her face toward mine. "It's a dangerous game, you know."

"But," I interjected, sliding the trinket into my inner jacket pocket, much more upbeat in tone despite the solemn warning, turning from her to face a clutter of drawers in the corner. I pulled at the mismatched knobs and fingered through the mess of phantom memories it stored. "If you're going to insist on playing," I continued on, plucking a trio of golden pocket watches out of a drawer by the chains and turning to my anonymous companion once more, "You might as well play it right."

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She's thunderstorms
Lying on her front
Up against the wall
She's thunderstorms

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[/center]

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] I can't breathe. I legitimately cannot breathe. Smirking, he toys with me, the tip of the candlestick delicately tracing a path from my collarbone up to my jaw. Not only is he drawing a fragile line, but he's drawing the air from my lungs, up and out my throat until there's nothing left within me. Surely the only reason I survive is because — for tonight — I'm already dead. It's only right for a ghost to remember their last breath and as I stand before him, I find myself memorizing the way it slips out from my lips in silent exhalation. Silver tilting my head up and toward him, I don't fight against compliance as he releases the air from his own lungs. "It's a dangerous game, you know." "A girl can can only hope," I whisper so quietly in reply that he might not even catch it, as though mouthing my final words. The corner of my mouth hitched itself up automatically as the word dangerous escaped him and now I'm leaning forward again, pulled in so easily. Too easily. "But, if you're going to insist on playing," all at once he's gone from me, slipping our newfound treasure inside his suit jacket as he turns away. My lungs heave, gasping secretly as he begins rummaging through drawers. I don't even care what he's searching for at this point, basking in the relief of separation as I gather myself back into coherence. Subconsciously, my fingers flit across my jawline, skimming in mimicry of his own movements before I take a step back and force my hands to my sides. I breathe and suddenly the simple act feels so defiant that my strange flicker of unsettled nerves is chased away, as though I've found myself again. Turns out, I'm not the only one playing finding games, as he holds up a trio of golden pocket watches and faces me once more. "You might as well play it right." This time I'm ready for the showdown, hiking my dress up to my knees to tuck the remaining candlestick into the back of my left boot, as though stowing a weapon. It doesn't feel so different. Immediately, I dart forward to pluck the precious tick-tock timepieces from him before his mouth has even closed. Working quickly, I hook them together into a single loop, a giggle jolting out of me as my eyes flicker to the subtle evidence of jewelry hidden beneath his shirt. When I duck my head into my own handcrafted necklace, the gold hanging heavy against the back of my neck, it falls long and unwieldy to my bellybutton. Gathering it up with one hand and tugging at the open neck of my dress with the other, I unceremoniously drop it beneath. "Takes two to play," I flick a finger at his chest and feel the gentle shift as it collides with his hidden chains. My other hand reaches up to nudge at the edge of his satin mask, curiosity egging me forward. "So, Stranger Danger," I grin and continue walking over to an old coffee table, hopping up to sit cross-legged and quirk and eyebrow at him, "got a name?" Pulling the tea cup out from my sleeve, I set it down upsidedown, tap the bottom, pick it up, tap, set it down, repeat. A low hum reverberates through my throat for the most fleeting of seconds and evidence of my friend Thea's home within me sneaks into the air. I may not be able to hold a tune like she can, but my fidgeting habits have still taken on a transformation because of knowing her. The repetitive movement breaks any lingering tension within me, building a barrier of motion that feels comforting after the closer moments of our encounter. "At least tell me a fake one. I've got a lot of friends with fake names." That's a lie. I've got one friend with a fake name — Bastille "Ferry Man" Styx — but he doesn't need to know that. "In any case, I've probably got enough friends with fake names to figure out your real one, whether or not you tell me." Eyes darting around, I take stock of potential challenges for him, pausing my handiwork to point around the storage room. "Tea pot, small painting —" my voice snickers with shameless amusement "— or that funny looking desk lamp over there for double points. If anybody asks what the weird lump under your shirt is, I promise to swear on all the honor I've got left that you're a hunchback." i just wanna be e v i l wanna be evil wanna be evil

[loren]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s She's thunderstorms Lying on her front Up against the wall She's thunderstorms And the golden timepieces leave my hand before the flesh of my fingertips could finish adapting to their mineral cool. The watches clink against each other in concerned soprano as their captor works quickly to intertwine them together by the chains, fashioning an odd necklace and bluntly concealing them under the cover of her dress. Actually, those watches were meant for me. But I held my tongue behind a hardened grin, who was I to interrupt the escapades of wild youth? "It takes two to play," she accepted the night. She accepted the risks and repercussion and rewards that accompanied the twilight and I with a devious smirk and a flick at my own medals of valor. A small whisper of a ring chimed beneath my clothes and against my chest, prompting my hands to instinctively reach up and try to tuck the obvious proof of theft out of sight before she reached for my mask and paralyzed any fueling flame that burned within me right where I stood. And it was such a curiosity, feeling your heart pulse faster than you knew possible and not all at, at the same time. And it was such a curiosity, being so immersed in a moment of time your body not only loses the ability to breathe, but also the need to. With her fingertips against my cheek, the edge of the mask, my jaw locks to iron constraint, not wanting her to reveal me but having no desire to stop her either. It wasn't until she walked away that I realize I had been holding my breath. "So, Stranger Danger," she breaks the careful silence, taking a seat unto a coffee table so uninhibitedly you could have sworn she forgot entirely about the occasion. That she forgot entirely about the collection of dancing affair attendees clomping about above our heads and the inhabitants of the house who were losing precious pennies every second we spent in this room. And that she and I and I and she in our small oasis of silver and gold and antique and china were all that were. You could have swore it. "Got a name?" Ask half of the girls twirling stupidly oblivious on the ground above, and the answer was an indefinite yes. Several, actually. With every stiff crank of the clock's tired arms and every new shade of rouge on the lips of my metamorphosing dance partners I grew increasingly fatigued of the constant, yeastless conversation. So I became "Eric Darling of the Banking Darlings" and "a fisherman's son, Henry Hoggart". And I painted them pictures of childhood fears that never existed and illustrated heavily detailed lives that never went lived. By myself, however. There must been a fisherman's son somewhere in the district that once fought off a shark with nothing but a ballpoint pen. Made one hell of a story. But that was then and this is now. And this song was not one for dancing, but for bathing in and immersing worried thoughts and soothing lined brows with its simple melodic resonance. And I had a new partner now. A thunderstorm. A thunderstorm I knew from seconds of speech and rebellion I could not shepherd or lead like those above. Thunderstorms bow to no limitation. But it didn't mean I couldn't be limitless beside her. "At least tell me a fake one. I've got a lot of friends with fake names." I chuckled at this as she went on to add, "In any case, I've probably got enough friends with fake names to figure out your real one, whether or not you tell me." I walked up to the coffee table, sitting unto its edge beside her, knuckles curled over its border. I stared out across the room, cluttered with memories pawned off or repossessed to be forgotten by those who forged them with their laughs and tears. And I looked up at the door, no more than a few feet from where we sat but still smugly erect with the reminder that this room was nothing more than a temporary moment in time. That as soon as we crossed over its threshold we were bandits all once more. Constantly on the run and chase, never looking back at the ones who fall behind. I grinned at the thought. "Let's go with a fake name then, yeah?" I proposed, turning to smile at her, holding a hand out to her as if I was completely foreign to her touch. "I'm Icarus Falls, and it's an honor to have met you" I introduce myself, the wicked grin carved unto the unmasked portion of my face unwavering as I waited for her own. I've never truly told my real name to anyone who I didn't suspect could get me to far places in life. And I never intend to. "Tea pot, small painting —" she began, eyes wildly scanning the room, "— or that funny looking desk lamp over there for double points. If anybody asks what the weird lump under your shirt is, I promise to swear on all the honor I've got left that you're a hunchback." I groaned at the site of her dare, a sorry excuse for "craftsmanship" in the shape of a whale and probably weighed just as much. "Lovely prospect, ending the party deformed and contorted, it really is..." I replied dryly, making my way toward a corner of the room where paintings were stacked unto one another against the wall. I fingered through each one, blurs of vibrant carnations and pastel seasides mixing into a kaleidoscopic stream of memoirs. I flicker through each work until I find a particular piece, more naked canvas than paint. Streaks of black dart across the portrait to depict a skeleton, thin and gnarled by the lack of humanity, rowing a boat across a river. On the opposing side of the boat a girl sat, her hands cupping the sea of souls below her. But her smile isn't malicious nor tinged with a single dose of superiority, but sincerity. As if she had no idea she was living in a den of thieves who burglarize lives. Or she was genuinely happy to assist. I slide it from its place in the mess of others and turn it to face my new consort, "But I've always been looking to make my life an art." I gingerly detached the painting from its frame, rolled it into a thin tube and slid it under the waist of my pants against my left hip. Walking rather awkwardly as to not damage the painting, I limp over to a quartet of old umbrellas and, collecting them all, bluntly drop each of them unto my masked companion's lap. All in all, they couldn't have been worth more than a single train trip around the district but looked hard as hell to steal. The music blared louder, the reverberations of the feet stomping on the roof above growing harder, and the chorus of laughter signaled the party's climax. The perfect time to leave undetected. "Seems rather a shame to come to a party and not dance, doesn't it?" Across the dance floor was the my best passage out, its rims saturated with tables of food or pretentious crones with far too much time to analyze each body that came within a six yard radius that might, perhaps, cargo fifteen kilograms of stolen jewelry? "Luckily, I have a proposition for you," and with that, I took her hand in mine to lead her to the door, cracking it ever so narrowly as to let the unfiltered craze of those above leak into the room. "A single dance," I began, holding a finger up between the two of us. "Across the floor until the entrance is all I ask." I looked from out the door back to her, the light streaming in through the crack in the doorway glazing her blue eyes behind the mask. I looked at the skin virtually untouched by the things that burn and scar, the curling locks that obeyed no conformist direction, just like the girl beneath it all. And it was strange knowing I knew only the surface of the girl beneath the mask. I didn't know what brought her to the party tonight, if she came accompanied or alone. I didn't know her favorite sweet or her favorite song or what made her cry when she was all alone. I barely knew her face. So I raised a hand hesitantly under her chin to lift her face toward my own, letting my finger gingerly brush her jaw and up to her cheekbone to slip my finger beneath the thin cotton of her mask only to pull back my hand and let it retreat into my pockets. Because if I hadn't seen her before tonight, chances are I'd never see her again. And if the lethal stupidity of my parents, or the seamless success of Bast in his crooked affairs has taught me anything, it was to burn all anchors. So I forced a laugh. "I'm asking you to be the bandit you are and steal me for a single song. And let me steal you. Just until we're clear across, and once we're there..." I will say goodbye and never see you again. We might see each other one day, we might see each other everyday. But I won't know it, and you either. "Anything. Any one thing of mine is yours." I said, motioning to the clearly stuffed pockets and blemished chest and the abnormality in my leg. "Help me get across and I give you my word: whatever you like. What is mine will be yours."

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She's thunderstorms
Thunderstorms
Thunderstorms

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(( ooc: this is literally the most I have ever written on this site I'M SO SORRY OH MY GOD IT'S FINE IF YOU SKIM IT I'D SKIM IT TOO LOL ))

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] Truth is, I've forgotten and I just don't know it yet. The party. The dancers. All that music and drink and whispered chit chat above us is lost to me, belonging to another world suspended above a staircase that might as well be infinite for how well I can see the end of it. To me, this basement is bigger than all of that, holding everything I need for immediate survival, even as my heartbeat fails and breath feels faint within my chest. None of those lightheaded details register, drowned out by the violent adrenaline coursing through my veins. As he sits down beside me, my blood wields weapons — an army of spikes and daggers. Each passing second shreds me into pieces from the inside out. If I didn't skip science class so often, I might know better than to believe that my atoms are being split apart and that I've discovered new proof for spontaneous combustion, but this is what I get for aspiring to delinquency. I don't mind it though, not when this is the feeling I follow Bast around for and that this kind of twisting stomach is the reward for breaking into abandoned buildings or setting trash cans aflame, not the punishment. I live for this... or at least I want to. Yet, my hands fall still in the proximity, ceasing their childish games of distraction, and I know this is why I settle for being Bast's lackey instead of becoming him. I know how to cross boundaries, how to take one or two steps past them — ten feet, twenty feet beyond that borderline, even — but I get so distracted by this addictive crackle in my veins that I forget about the distance and the idea of making an honest run for it. "Let's go with a fake name then, yeah?" I stop. I settle. I play hopscotch with the borderline like the sweetest bad girl that ever was. After all, I can't deny that there's a part of me that likes the fake names even more than the real ones, romanticizing code names and double identities like these fictional ideas of criminals are my superheros. "I'm Icarus Falls, and it's an honor to have met you." If I weren't so lost in the thrill of our devious game or the newfound knowledge of his covert name, I might remember the difference between past and present tense and the implications of met versus meet. Once again, I must have skipped out on my lessons the day my English teacher introduced the concept of foreshadowing, because I'm too busy turning the name Icarus — as mythic as the Ferry Man — over within my mind to realize that I've already been declared something worth leaving behind. In this scenario of ours, I am less valuable than the china cup I stow in my sleeve once more or our matched pair of silver candlesticks and maybe that's why I neglect to name myself within our game, neither returning his introduction or adding Taggerty Eames to my list of tea pot, painting, desk lamp. "Lovely prospect, ending the party deformed and contorted, it really is..." The legendary Icarus turns down my offer for portrayal as a hunchback, opting to riffle through a stack of paintings instead. Fingers ticking through his options, when he settles on one, I can't help the amused grin that overtakes my face when he turns to show me, a snorting giggle jolting out of me so quick and graceless that I have to clap both hands over my mouth to cut it off. Despite the depiction of a skeleton and the idea of an endless sea of lost souls, my heart might flutter at the sight if there weren't already a living, breathing hummingbird within the cage of my chest tonight. I know the Ferry Man better than to believe him to be made of withered bones, but my accomplice rolls the canvas up and tucks it away before I can point out the artist's blatant misrepresentation, too caught up in thoughts of inaccuracy to acknowledge to myself which aspects of the painting might be more realistic than I have yet to realize. "But I've always been looking to make my life an art." By the time I'm pulled back from my distracted thoughts, a quartet of umbrellas has been rather unceremoniously dropped into my lap. My laughter kicks back up again, only now I'm too preoccupied with studying one of the awkward objects in search of tricky inspiration to worry about how loud and unabashedly charmless the sound is. "Seems rather a shame to come to a party and not dance, doesn't it?" Opening my unspoken dare up, it blooms a vibrant, sudden red above me and I can't help the instinct to twirl it between my fingers, momentarily mesmerized as it blurs against the shadows and ceiling rafters. "Luckily, I have a proposition for you." All at once, he grabs my hand and pulls me up. Umbrellas clattering to the floor — loud but already as forgotten as my school studies and the world beyond our here and now — the last one spins right out of my fingers, floating up into the air for a few fleeting seconds before falling down and away from us. Where it lands, I don't even know, my attention carried away by the touch of skin still warm with the scorch of stolen goods. He leads me up the stairs and cracks the door open just enough to allow a sliver of invading light to split the air in two. It draws exactly the kind of line I'm best at crossing and I already know I'll agree to anything he asks of me. "A single dance." Holding a finger up between us, I don't know how to tell him about the opportunity he's passing up on. "Across the floor until the entrance is all I ask." Just how much more he could have requested from me and just how shamelessly I'd have complied is hard to say, but I'd have liked to find out. As it is, he glances between the door and I, as though worried I'll deny him and decide to make a new home in this den of dusty treasure. Perhaps he's realizing — a moment too late — how little he's asked of me, because suddenly his fingers are skimming across my jaw and cheekbone, lifting my chin up and toying with the edge of my mask in a mimicry of my earlier actions to him. Despite the flicker of familiarity, my mind swims and can't sort out the logic for his wandering hand. I don't know what he's doing, but I don't stop him. Instead I chew on my bottom lip and count the beats of fluttering confusion tiptoeing across my eyelashes, wishing Caly or Thea could magically whisper an explanation in my ear or some helpful hints on how to regain enough sense to react. I'm about to scream — FUCK THE PEACEKEEPERS — and... and... and... Ripred. I don't even know. I want to slap him for making me feel awkward. I want to run away and find Bast. I want Thea to hug me until my pulse remembers how to settle down. I think I want him to kis— Then his hand falls away and he laughs at me like Bast does when he can't even pretend to take me seriously anymore. I look at the floor as if the staircase below us is the most interesting freaking thing I've ever seen in my life, cloaking the unmasked half of my face in shadow, and I scowl. Stupid Icarus with his stupid hand and stupid stolen treasure. "I'm asking you to be the bandit you are and steal me for a single song. And let me steal you. Just until we're clear across, and once we're there..." I wipe the evidence of being an emotionally impulsive teenage girl with too many daydreams off my face and look back up at him. "Anything. Any one thing of mine is yours. Help me get across and I give you my word: whatever you like. What is mine will be yours." When in the Libertine's pawnshop, do as the Libertines do. It only seems appropriate to strike a deal, but as he motions to his stuffed pockets and awkwardly bulky clothing, I realize that I'd forgotten for a moment that this stranger doesn't know me. I'm not a girl who cares much for the jewels beneath his shirt or the silver stuffed into my boot, however, he does have one thing I can't help wanting. "I can have whatever I like?" Shooting him a pointed glance, I take a moment to appraise the odds of whether or not he's lying to me before deciding these odds aren't in my favor. "For the record: I accept fake names, but not fake promises." Even as the words leave my mouth, I'm struck with a premonition of him laughing at me once more as he walks away, my hands as empty as they are right now. Then again, either way this ends, it's not like I care. It's not like the prospect of leaving here with nothing more than I came with is going to stop me. Grabbing his hand, I look him dead in the eye and shake it decisively before he has a chance to confirm my suspicions one way or the other. "You have yourself a deal, Icarus." I don't miss the subtle opportunity to utilize his fake name as proof that he's already lied to me once, my smile turning devious as I oh-so-casually kick the door open with my boot and pull him toward me. "You also have a dance partner, so let's hope you know what you're doing, because I hear she isn't a very good one. Two left feet and not a lot of worries about making a fool of herself." Hands ghosting up his shoulders to wrap around his neck as we whirl away from the shelter of our basement hideout and into the dancing mass of party-goers, I forget to be worried that someone might realize we're hiding more than just our faces. All I can remember is that I haven't told him my name yet and maybe that's somehow more important right now. "Name's Taggerty, by the way. Taggerty Eames. You can call me Tags though — it'll be easier to yell when you're cursing me for stepping on your toes." s t a c k s o n d e c k patron on ice we can pop bottles all night and baby you can have w h a t e v e r y o u l i k e

[loren]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://24.media.tumblr.com/23852afae022af07411698a343db75a3/tumblr_mrisv7zrrt1soa143o3_500.gif); border: 050403 solid 0px; width: 500px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 25px 0px 0px;]

[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s I was a quick-wit boy Diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes Wide on my plastic toys Taggerty Eames. Taggerty Eames, in another life can I see you again? In our next lives, if the sands of time decide to run a bit slower, flow a bit smoother, and save me from watching my mother burn in flames, would you meet her? Would you charm her the way only you know how? Coax embarrassing stories out of her at supper and paint yourself into my childhood of missing baby teeth and regrettable haircuts? Or perhaps she wouldn't like you at all. Perhaps she would loathe every last ligament of your darling self for simply being who you've always been. For being undefinable and indescribable. And who you are wouldn't care, and I'd have enough love to envelope you safe from every last bitter remark either of my parents would have to say. And we could spend endless sleepless nights, etching bruised circles from beneath our fatigued eyes; dark circles we'd hold unto until the jealous sun could chase the ethereal moon from above our heads. Could we spend those nights arguing about just why it seems your fingers fit between my own perfectly? Or why my future is as bright as a waxless candle during the winter's darkest hour turning all my somewheres into nowheres but nowhere feels like somewhere when you're in my arms? In my next life, if I do it for you, can I see you again? If I was reborn a virgin of sin, never daring to tread near the line between the opportunities for eternity and belonging to the night, could I belong to you? If in another life I swore to never lie again, would you let me lie beside you? If I cheated every day, cheated envious death from the moment the sky flushed pink like the blooming secreted garden you cultivate beneath your skin until the stars severed the dark to guide me to you, would you run away with me? If I stole nothing but your heart, would you let me keep it? If I promised in my next life to be true? To be lawful and innocent and honest and worthy of you? To be everything that I am not in this life? To be everything but Icarus Falls? In our next lives, Taggerty Eames? Can I see you again?

[/i]

She stares at me for a moment, as if she's weighing the heft of my words. And I can't help but grin, thinking that no eyes but the great harbors of her own would be capable to bear the colossal mass of my loaded promises. And I can't help but wonder why, after seeing me thieve and play and digress far too far grace, she had yet to run. Nothing plagues a mad mind more than trying to decode what scares a dove.

"For the record: I accept fake names, but not fake promises."

An acidic stab I'm well aware I deserve. And although she's unaware she's the only one beneath the Libertine moon who knows the true identity of the boy beneath the satin mask, I try and rearrange the scattered splinters of my mind to find solace. Because as much as the warmth of her hand cooled the burns fire forever entrenched in my own, keeping her flame alive was a brokenhearted fracture more important. Because my hands were dirtied with the grime of the business and my head was wanted by very few but very dangerous. Because I didn't know who she'd run into trying to find Icarus Falls.

And she was smart enough to not run after midnight myths.

"You have yourself a deal, Icarus," she agreed, taking my hand in hers and sealing the contract with a shake. She pulls me in closer, her face newly adorned with a wicked smirk as her hands reawaken the basins and valleys my body had to offer. "You also have a dance partner, so let's hope you know what you're doing, because I hear she isn't a very good one. Two left feet and not a lot of worries about making a fool of herself."

I grinned at the mere prospect of the thunderstorm gracelessly foundering about the dance floor, drawing shocked stares from her awkward dancing rather than the thousands of dollars tucked away in the nooks of our clothing. I leaned forward, letting my lips brush her forehead, more heat than audible forms expelling from my mouth as I whispered, "If there was someone I rather look a fool with, I have yet to meet her."

My hand wrapped about the small of her waist, and I raised our interlocking fingers high. I squinted about the room, other couplets swaying to the rhythm of a bass-heavy melody and slate stone faces observing in unimpressed interest.

"Miss Taggerty," I hummed into the ribboning twists of her untamed hair, words meant for her and her alone. "What brought you here tonight?"

Or who.

Just one of a thousand words I'll never bring myself to say, at least in this life.

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Have I found you?
Flightless bird, jealous, weeping
Or lost you?
American mouth, big pill looming

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[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] Underneath this mask hides an ordinary, tragically boring teenage girl. In the din of music and swaying bodies, it's easier to hide this secret of mine than it is in the brutally honest daylight of regular life. Here, everyone seems to have a little bit of magic haloing their bones. Usually I might worry about the turn of my mouth or if the alto of my voice might be enough to convince other people that I'm a year or two older and more worldly than reality dictates, but not tonight. Tonight I will waltz while wearing combat boots. Tonight I will steal a teacup and think of it as the most badass thing I've ever done. Tonight I will be a legend of the future. At least, this is what I'm telling myself before he leans in to brush his lips against my forehead. "If there was someone I rather look a fool with, I have yet to meet her." The fragile mask I wear isn't enough to hide my secret now. I stutter against him, a tremor of bones and seizing time, my mouth falling slack as I gasp against the sudden flare of warmth. This is the part of me that hides under the covers with a flashlight in the earliest hours of morning, when I can be absolutely certain no one is around to see me, reading cheesy romance novels I borrowed from the library under a fake name. It's evidence of the same girl who curls up on the couch eating nothing but ice cream and chocolate for three days straight to drown my embarrassment after catching a friend of one of my brothers riffling through my underwear drawer. Taggerty Eames, who can't recite the alphabet backwards. Who thinks you're the stupid one for thinking that's something everyone should be able to do. Me, who will tell you so, because, even now, stupid is still my go-to comeback insult. Stupid Icarus, with his stupid mouth, and stupid — However, no insult crosses my lips to defend the way my cheeks flush in the wake of his kiss. My face burns like I've been damned and I'm suddenly so sixteen that it hurts. The only saving grace of my flustered pride is the way momentum carries us through the crowd, coaxing my feet toward him again and again and again. With my fingers intertwined into his, I lean into him to keep from falling over, hoping that even though he now surely knows everything I work so hard to hide, that he might somehow miss at least this one small detail. "Miss Taggerty," he whispers into my hair, as though teasing me by seeing how much more I'll blush. "What brought you here tonight?" The answer to the mischievous question his words didn't ask is: a lot. When I try to speak, nothing comes out. My mouth is empty of every word I've ever learned and if we were closer to a wall, I don't know that I'd be able to resist the urge to bang my head against it for a minute or two. "I... um... uh —" Coaxing this small crackle of sound requires an infuriating amount of effort and finally I have to duck my head down to clear my throat with a loud, impossibly awkward cough. God, I want some chocolate. "— had an invitation." I. Could just. Die. My forced smile tries to play it off as something of a joke, but I don't feel very convincing. Distractedly, I begin fidgeting with his fingers in nearly the same way that I turned the teacup and umbrella over within my hands earlier. Thumb wandering in circles over the side of his index finger and my fingertips pressing a random cadence into his knuckles, I struggle to remember what words are while simultaneously attempting to forget the way his other hand is resting against my waist. "And you, Mister Icarus?" Gracelessly managing to step on his toes twice within the next ten seconds, the saying easier said than done flickers through my mind. All I can think in response to the thought as I inwardly scream at my vocal chords to — DO WHAT I SAY! Come on. This has got to be easier than z, y, x... — is: I wish. s t a c k s o n d e c k patron on ice we can pop bottles all night and baby you can have w h a t e v e r y o u l i k e

[loren]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s You see her when you close your eyes Maybe one day you'll understand why Everything you touch surely dies I tried to hold her as delicately as I knew how. Or rather, how I assumed one should handle the rarities they wanted to keep. I myself was novel at the idea of finding anything of value that I didn't instantly see as a pawn to pawn, as a shining token to be sold or traded or used to propel myself toward that fiery beacon that burned constantly at a fingertip's reach that I simply could not close the gap of. I never was one for the business of creation, these hands scourged and singed with white veins of a blazing affliction physical proof of my destiny to destroy. I was birthed to erase and ease others' passages into the lovely abyss of forgotten names and faces. It made life much easier to bear, living to dismantle the very stitches that held together memories of cheated hearts and lonesome lifetimes. These hands knew of nothing but of how to dismember all that you wished to forget. And here they were, holding the first find he didn't want to let go. His eyes drinking in the first face he was beginning to believe he didn't want to forget. But as her hands trembled in mine, as her frame quivered shyly against my own I denied any urge I may have had to rewrite her skin's memory with my own lying lips. I lighted the grip of my hand about hers, the hold on her back. I knew all too well the tighter the fist the quicker sand escapes between your fingers. I was to have her hand in mine for a single song, for a single passage across the dance floor. Whether she truly knew I could have made the endeavor alone was lost and unimportant. I had more important affairs on the mind, like wondering if we spun enough times would each melody eventually melt into one another and become an endless concertina of entwined fingers and unwritten goodbyes. But I really should have left the wishful thinking in my bedroom wardrobe. As the curling strikes of brilliant lightning sewn into the backs of my hands remind me on the constant: each of my tales begin with a goodbye. And Taggerty fumbles about her words as I bite harshly into the flesh of my lower lip. I had no intention of erasing you. I hoped the sudden severe lack of grace accompanied her on every dance floor and not simply because I was writing our finale with my lack of inhibition. "Taggerty I--" and as she "Oh, it's fi--" steps unto my feet "No, it's fine, re--" with such careless gracelessness "It's--" I can't help but "Maybe if you just ste--" dismiss the thought of our goodbye as fruitless worry. I exile it from my thoughts with a laugh. The dancing bodies about us, the jeweled and painted burdens of bandits weighing us down, and the inevitable end of the evening were all still hanging about my neck like an ill-fitting choker. Scooping her up beneath the arms to gently lower her unto my feet, I can't help but smirk. A small tide of nostalgia laps at my heels, distant memories of my grandmother teaching me to dance on her feet in our cramp kitchen as the sugar cookies went ablaze in the oven. Obviously, Tags is no child and the only things I can think of teaching her that she might not already know more often than not result in second degree burns and permanent scarring of the skin. But the sight must've been rather odd, if not amusing by the way the occasional head would turn and gawk at the two grown adolescents waltzing in such awkward stiffness. I grinned, at both the idea of it all and the thrill of having the very attendees I robbed ogle at their valuables sauntering away in an uncoordinated samba. "See I've made a mistake in choosing my partner in crime here," I whispered through a grin at our new prospectors, "Far too beautiful. They can't seem to take their eyes off you."

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Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go

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[L△LIA]

[bg=B4D0E6][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i40.tinypic.com/315okg8.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border-left:1px solid #000000; border-right:1px solid #000000; border-top:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-topright: 25px; border-radius-topright: 25px; -moz-border-radius-topleft: 25px; border-radius-topleft: 25px;opacity: 1;] Once upon a time I was tough, I swear. I kept a little bit of fight in the spaces between my teeth, just in case, and knew every detail of what defines a saint's smile versus a devil's grin. Just an hour or so ago, I'm pretty sure I was still that girl. Minutes, even. Then again, maybe that's all the myth of my own that I'm ever going to be destined to have, because for now I'm a stumbling wreck of swinging heartstrings with a butterfly-pulse. I've always known I was a very particular kind of easy — just a stolen pack of bubblegum away from finding the next person worthy of devoting my attention to — but I kinda thought it was all stuck in my head. All those beautifully bad boys I caught mid-mischief were just infatuations who thought I was a little funny, but never on par for their course of trouble, indulging me for a moment or two if I was lucky or simply walking away if I wasn't. Bast was the first one to find me, climbing in my window one night in hopes that he was sneaking his way out of a scrape, with no idea of what he was actually getting himself into. I stuck to him with an undeniable kind of determination, always curious and desperate for a glimpse of what might be lurking in the shadows of his future. It's the very same impulse that took me over the second I realized Icarus wasn't Bast... but wasn't completely not-Bast either. I can't help wanting to hang around him just a while more, long enough to see what happens next. Only, I know I'll never stop wanting to know what comes after that, and after that, and — "Taggerty I—" Me stomping all over his feet wasn't exactly what I was crossing my fingers for when wondering about the future. "Oh, it's fi—" I tried to warn him, but at this point, it's not like I'm gonna walk away unless he makes me. "No, it's fine, re—" So I stomp stomp stomp because that's all I can do, dancing with as much accidental mayhem as I aim for in every other aspect of my life. It's a little bit perfect, really, and his reassurances start to tug at the corners of my lips until we're both pulled into a fit of laughter. Maybe he's starting to realize that I'm not what he had in mind when he let me wheedle my way into becoming his accomplice — I'm never what anyone has in mind, I don't think — but despite the weight of my feet, everything is light and dizzy. Each breath feels warmer than the last, as if the very same string of laughter is looping back and forth between our lungs in a game of tag, you're it and no, you're it. Back and forth. Back and forth. Breathe him in, breath me out. "Maybe if you just ste—" I'm still giggling like mad when he suddenly lifts me up, all evidence of sound cutting off so abruptly that I could swear it had never happened to begin with. Surely this kind of complete and utter silence means that I wasn't cracking up a mere handful of seconds ago; this frantic heart means I was never easy with him; this undefinable panic means I was never the badass I thought I used to be. Yet, he smiles as he sets me down on his toes, as if all of that were nothing of consequence — to him, maybe. "See I've made a mistake in choosing my partner in crime here," he doesn't know the half of it yet, of what he's gotten himself into by meeting someone like me, "far too beautiful. They can't seem to take their eyes off you." Before I can process what's happening, I have to make a wild grab at his shoulders, wrapping my arms around his neck to keep from falling over. I know there's more than one reason I need steadying right now and that gravity doesn't have nearly as much to do with it all as I might like to pretend. Once I'm holding on, however, I don't feel quite so precariously balanced. For now, just as long as neither of us let go, no one will get hurt. With small, careful steps, we won't fall. At least, this is what I'm telling myself as I hold on, until our movement is so slow that his words finally manage to catch up to me. Far too beautiful — On my honor, I swear, I used to aspire to be made of rusted steel and broken noses. Bricks and pepper spray. Mysterious brown paper bags and the clickflarecatch of a lighter. My heart's reason for racing should be from the weight of the candlestick shoved into the back of my boot or the soft sound of crinkling that echoes from the painting rolled up against his waist each time we tilt and sway. So I tell myself it is, that these things are what's addictive about this moment and I think I'm only lying to myself a little. That piece of untruth is surely as small and relatively inexpensive as the teacup tucked within my sleeve, and this stranger doesn't have to know it's there any more than the people around us need to be aware of our stolen cargo, but I think he can sense it. Just like Bast, I think he must have an inkling about how easy I am to tease, his words a subtle taunt that I'm still not very good at this being-a-total-badass thing yet. Yeah, okay, whatever. He's not wrong, but I've still got some guts and not enough sense to stop myself from proving it. With a snort that is rather the opposite of his elegantly playful compliment, a jolt of amusement careens out of me in response as I look down at my tattered dress and back at him. Unlike the glittering, satin-sheathed girls around us, my skin is washed out with a powdered layer of ghostly white makeup and a halo of darkened under-eye circles peek out from the cutouts in my mask. There are a great many reasons for people to be staring at me in this moment, but I can't take being beautiful seriously enough to consider it to be one of them. The word might make my head spin as if it were a piece of our loot, stolen away from some other girl by his lips and offered to me as another challenge, but I know he's just messing with me the same as when he dumped a pile of umbrellas in my lap. "That's definitely it." I shoot him a look as if we're sharing an inside joke, reaching for evidence that I'm still as brazen as I was before I started fumbling both my words and my steps. "It was a terrible decision on your part, not to realize how devastatingly attractive allllllll this is." Waving one hand in a circle around my face as though there's actually something there to show off, I grin wicked and sarcastic as my eyes flicker over to the picturesque Libertine girl dancing beside us, thinking more about the way the blonde waves of her hair are practically poetic than how we should perhaps be concerned about being in such close proximity to her. "I mean, it's bad enough that people can't focus on their dancing with me around, but how are you ever going to make an escape when I'm here to distract you? If you were mortal instead of mythical, Icarus, I'd be a little worried for you." Turning my attention away from flawless Libertine, I reach up to flip the untamable madness of my own corkscrew curls over my shoulder, losing my balance in the attempt at bravado. A small shift in weight turns into an epic stumble and suddenly all I can think is: There's nothing careful about any of this. We're both going to fall. With one arm still wrapped around his shoulders, my other hand makes a grab for his jacket's lapel. Somehow — miraculously, considering my natural aptitude for coordination — my graceless feet find the floor again and we don't hit the ground. Instead we sway within our own momentum, caught in a freak midair earthquake of tumble-tossed gravity as I hold tight. There is a part of me that still feels like I'm falling, even as I silently attempt to reassure myself that we're not. Whether or not people were staring before, they certainly are now. I can feel their eyes burning into us and it's only now that I truly remember what we ought to be focused on trying to conceal. "Don't worry —" The hand holding onto his jacket loosens its grip and I take a moment to straighten it back into place, going through the motion of dusting off his shoulder as I attempt to pretend that I didn't just put the both of us in a rather legitimate kind of jeopardy. "— I got this." Without missing a beat, I grab his hand in mine and dramatically throw our arms out to the side. This situation requires serious dancing and so I set my face with determination as I lead us in an over-the-top tango aimed directly for the edge of the crowd. The arrow of our outstretched arms cuts through the sea of people as the song winds down and we reach the far side of the party in style. Here, it's darker, quieter, safer... and exactly as far as we agreed to go. A devilish kind of pride is tucked into my expression at successfully guiding him to the brink of escape, but if not for the dark, a hint of something else might be apparent as well. I try not to think about exactly what that is as I untangle my fingers from his and take an awkward step back, uncertain as to how to go back to separation after being so close. The ground seems unsteady and the sensation of falling returns to nag at me once more, but I remind myself about the stash of stubborn persistence hidden between my teeth and force a cocky grin at managing to navigate us out what was surely one kind of trouble or another.

[loren]

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[atrb=cellSpacing,5,true][atrb=cellPadding,5,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border-left: 30px solid ffffff; border-right: 30px solid ffffff; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 430px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] i c a r u s f a l l s Staring at the bottom of your glass Hoping one day You'll make a dream last But dreams come slow And they go so fast "That's definitely it," she agrees dryly, shooting me a glance like a blameless bullet tearing flesh and cocky facades away to leave me naked and painstakingly babbling raw truths my tongue was too eager to spit for me to refine. "It was a terrible decision on your part, not to realize how devastatingly attractive allllllll this is." And as she waved her hands about to further her point and I laughed sores to ache the cores of my bones I suddenly found it easy to be seventeen and not give a damn about alibis. The dulled pains spread from the curvatures of my ribs to my chest and heart and throat as I kept laughing like a bastard with a narcotic addiction. But with her hand in mine we kept swaying to the greatest melody I have ever heard I was sure I would forget the moment it stopped. "I mean, it's bad enough that people can't focus on their dancing with me around, but how are you ever going to make an escape when I'm here to distract you?" I shrugged, tightening the edges of my mouth into a taut line, "'s beyond me, really. Usually my plans are a bit more elaborate." Which, although a joke, carried heavy tones of truth encased in its gossamer costume of impassivity. The initial goal of the night was to get in, grab as much as my hands could bear, and get out. I really had no intention of belonging to the night or Taggerty Eames, for that matter. "If you were mortal instead of mythical, Icarus, I'd be a little worried for you." I smirked at the thought, Tags being worried for me. As if we weren't a pair of crooks trying to sail the same sinking ship into the shore. And I opened my mouth only to be muted by the threat of capsizing unto the dance floor, the sum of the two of us threatening to bombard the ground. My hand instinctively raised to cup the back of Taggerty's head and keep it shielded from possible concussion. But once more she struck me in awe, proving herself more than capable of protecting the two of us from an almost certain outing. She never ceased to amaze me yet, how she could be her own damsel and savior at once. "Don't worry —" she whispered, fixing the front of my jacket and dusting some imagined filth off my shoulder. And I silently thanked any of my "mythical brothers" that might've been watching from above or below for the blaring music that deafened all the attendees' ears as if it weren't for the great roar of bass and soprano flooding the air I swear each and every dancer in attendance would be able to hear the gears turning in motion beneath that wild flare of curls. In our short time together, I had yet to decide whether Tags' scheming was reason for celebration or evacuation. "— I got this." As the more masculine of the two, I was almost completely sure I was the one to lead the dance, and Tags to follow. But she didn't seem like one for shepherding, and I knew a fire when I saw one. I knew how to identify the piercing light in shrouded darkness, giving off warmth and comfort in the most unfamiliar of places, never bowing to uniformity in the most beautiful of ebbing dances only to ask for one thing in exchange: freedom to run and burn. And in any other case, with any other partner I would shake my head to decline such a gaudy samba and walk away to find another who did not mind the numbing bore of a taciturn tango, but it wasn't another case. And I was completely over pretending Tags was just another pretty face and soft pair of hands. So I sauntered alongside her every shameless step as best I could, becoming a mess of melodramatically tossed hands and legs, completely aware that after the morning broke I could never pretend Taggerty Eames was just another "Love," I said once we were far off enough to cast the rest of the dancing crowd as extras and the swelling waltz as a supporting role. I looked down at the onyx dress shoes dusted with the small footprints of a public danger across their tops and laughed. "So Love, we really put on a performance tonight." Quite convincing. For a moment there, I thought your tongue would give me the grace of saying my name for more than a single night. I thought that perhaps, for once, a "goodbye" wouldn't taint the taste of our last words. And I wanted to say it, but couldn't bring myself to. Couldn't collect gratitude and my promise to her to form a slightly articulate sentence to instigate what was to come. "You were great," I said, taking her hand in mine and smiling softly, not daring to bring my eyes to hers. The goodbye was hardly a lethal wound, but listening to her steps as she'd walk away. In the end, everyone always walks away.

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Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missin' home
Only know you love her when you let her go

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[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/jgie03.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius: 25px; border-radius: 25px; opacity: 1;] "Love," and the way he says it makes me feel crooked. Like the fake names I covet; like a legend whispered in the dark. It suddenly occurs to me that he hasn't once called me Tags, despite my quippy introduction and the way the nickname slips easy from the tongues of everyone else who knows me. Each address from him comes with a new name, as if he doesn't quite know what to call me yet, the idea of me unsettled or in constant flux. "So Love, we really put on a performance tonight." It's unfamiliar, but I think I like it. To this person, I could be anything. I've always wanted to live another life, chasing my ideas of danger as if adrenaline could make me more alive or interesting or something other than just Taggerty Eames. Tags. Tags with the brown paper bags and what are surely the most boring secrets in the world. Not tonight; tonight I'm Dollface, tonight I'm Miss Taggerty of the Infamous Pawn Shop Heist, tonight I'm Love and when he says — "You were great." — I don't correct him with a sigh of no, I'm just Tags. Because I'm not. Right now I'm anything I want to be and I want to be great, so when he reaches across the distance for me, I grin and go with it. Braiding my fingers into his, that crooked feeling twitches through me until I'm giddy with it, bouncing slightly on my toes as restlessly as I fidgeted with the stolen loot weighing our pockets. This subtle rush is my favorite part — not the prize of precious metal or china, but this is my endgame. "Yeah," my voice is breathless as I swing our hands in victory against the empty air, "we were great. Really great." Disentangling myself from him, one hand reaches down to grab the heavy candlestick from my boot as the other plucks at the watch chains strung around my neck, pulling them up and over my head. Silver in one hand and gold in the other, I press my ill-gotten gains into his palms. "You should take these though, a girl like me doesn't really have a use for them." I sputter with laughter, because I was obviously never in this for financial gain, my motives greedy for something much less tangible. He can have the money, just so long as I can have the rest. Give me the stomach flips and covert whispers, the mysterious identities and a tale to tell. Give me a secret and let me keep it. "I just want to leave here with one thing, so taking all of that too would be overkill. I mean —" Falling still, I cock my head and tap at the underside of his chin until he looks me in the eye. "— you meant it, right? I can have whatever I want from you? Any one thing." It's too obvious, that little hitch in my voice that's trying to play it cool and pretend I'm not pleading with him to keep his promise. Maybe it's greedy of me, but I can't just walk away empty-handed now, so I cross the distance between us one last time. Taking a step closer to him, until the noses of our shoes are kissing in the shadows below, I pull myself up onto my tiptoes before he has the chance to backtrack on his earlier promise. Shamelessly, I reach up to ghost my fingers up over his jaw, skimming across his cheekbones until I'm holding the sides of his face within my hands, fingertips buried in the edges of his hair. I don't really know what the price for a trio of finely crafted pocket watches is, but anyone who might try to tell me I chose wrong at the end of the night is the real fool. Sucking in a breath, I hook my thumbs under the edge of my prize and — before he has the chance to drop the treasure he holds in favor of the one he's about to lose to me — I slip the black satin mask from his face. "Gotcha." The word is a devil's whisper from between my lips as I memorize the angles of his cheeks, his thin eyes, and the slope of his nose. Stomach twisting itself into nothingness as I quickly take a step back out of his reach, my hands clutch satin as butterflies bloom to life within the newly discovered vacancy. Despite how difficult it is to see now that we're this far from the bright epicenter of the party, the details of his face don't escape me now that I've claimed his secret for my own. Boots crunching against a loose scatter of gravel as I continue to back away slowly, my lips curl up into a Cheshire's grin, wicked with self-satisfaction. I don't want to turn my back to him, but he can't stay and I can't follow him if he doesn't go, so I tell myself to be cool, casual, something difficult to name... and I begin to walk away, pulling my own simple disguise off to exchange it for his — a black satin mask and a hint of something mythical, maybe. Turning to face him one last time as a darkly ironic mirror of his former mystery, I pull the elastic of my displaced white mask taut between my fingers and slingshot it at him, giggling as it hits him dead in the chest. "See ya later, Icarus." My voice is as crooked as the rest of me, but I mean every word. let's have an a d v e n t u r e head in the clouds but my gravity c e n t e r e d