exsiliumlogs | closed; we're working on a suntan, we're seeing lots of new bands

Entry tags:

closed; we're working on a suntan, we're seeing lots of new bands

Date & Time: Dec 28-30
Location: Venice, California, 2015
Characters: Peter Rumancek and Stanley Lucerne
Summary: The boys go on a sunshine run, with a side of open mic night. Officially, they're supposed to be getting some supplies. Which, you know, they might. But first, thawing out and kicking back.
Warnings: Open mic night. Dirty mouths. Teenage boy stuff. Shoplifting. Maybe some mild drug use but nothing scary. They're not into violence, at least?

Stanley had stripped off the farmer's boots, Lily's sweater, and Jaime's coat before they left, assuming that it had to be fairly warm in California. He could handle anything that wasn't snow. Maybe he should have kept the sweater, but it didn't feel like it when they arrived to a sunny late morning. The temperature was almost 70, and that was such a relief that Stan opened his arms and fell backward into the sand with a soft, contented sigh. Sure, they had an objective to get around to. In a minute. The sun felt too good, soaking into his skin and bones. He shaded his eyes from it and glanced up at the spot where he was fairly sure Peter was standing, unable to help making a mildly giddy remark while he soaked it all in.

"I can feel my fingers."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Peter looked down at Stanley, sprawled out in the sand, and laughed. He had also dressed for California weather, down to only two shirts, a vest and his leather jacket, boots sinking a bit into the sand.

"You are never gonna get that shit out of your clothes, man. Or your hair."

Which wasn't enough to stop him from sitting down beside Stanley, arms wrapped around his knees. The sun felt good, actually warming instead of just bouncing off an endless amount of white. He tilted his head up to the light and breathed deeply, smelled city and ocean.

"Fucking excellent location choice, Stanley."

"Good economy." Stan murmured in reply. It wasn't quite the non-sequitur it probably sounded like, but he wasn't going to take the time to explain it right then. He was too busy getting sand all over himself, stripping his t-shirt and socks off too, squirming around and letting the sun-warmed sand warm his back.

"Mmm...wake me up in like half an hour."

It'd suck to bring back a sunburn as a souvenir.

Peter nods. "Good." That meant they could take what they needed guilt-free. Or at least that Peter won't bother to feel bad about it. The wealth around them is obvious to his eyes, people walking by with their electronics and jewelry and expensive clothes. "Might pick up a few extra things, then."

He watched Stanley bury himself in the sand. "You got a watch?" Because Peter sure didn't. "Or I can guess by how pink you get."

That was the idea, actually. Stan might've pointed it out, but it seemed obvious to him. And he didn't even question that Peter would understand without the need for confirmation. Yes, these were people that wouldn't miss a few 'borrowed' items.

"Mmmmf." Was as close to a reply as Peter would get out of him at the moment. He would get down to business eventually, really. It was just too hard to pry himself away from the good feelings the sunshine and sand and sea breeze brought out.

Peter took that as a 'no'. But he wasn't complaining about just sitting for awhile. Being cold all the time was tiring, and it was good to just sit and be for awhile, warm and outside and without anything immediate to do or hide from.

While Stanley drowsed, Peter surveyed the area. "Take your nap, I'm gonna see what there is to see." He stood, brushing the sand off his jeans and heading back to where the majority of the people and shops were. Tourists, mostly. Easy pickings. By the time he needs to go wake Stanley before he burns, Peter's picked and tossed three wallets and thus scored some cash, a couple packs of cigarettes, and two coffees from Starbucks--a luxury he'd never bother with if it wasn't someone else's money. He's got no idea how Stanley takes his coffee, so he guessed light and moderately sweet, took the two cups back down to the beach and sat down again, bumping Stanley's leg with his calf.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty. Got you some coffee and smokes."

Edited 2013-12-29 08:11 (UTC)

Stanley snorted up some sand and sat up quickly, trying to brush it away from his face. Ugh, now his lungs were grainy. What was going on...?

Oh, hey. Coffee. Nice. He blinked, still a bit out of it, but accepted the drink. Woah. Sweet. Okay. He could handle that.

"Hmm?"

"Sorry, didn't know how you took your coffee." Peter flipped a pack of cigarettes into Stanley's sandy lap, then started to tap out his own. "Should've bought you some sunscreen, maybe." He shrugged and lit his cigarette, took a long drag before exhaling up into the air over his head.

"Good nap?"

The coffee was fine, he didn't have particularly strong preferences one way or another about coffee. The caffeine was the point of it, and the toasty warm feeling and reassuring taste. You're not on the moon now, a good cup of coffee said. Or even a shitty cup of Starbucks, not that Stan really knew the difference.

The cigarettes, however, were what got his salivary glands going. Oh, god. He hadn't had one of those in way too long. The pack was eagerly snatched up and opened, and Stanley leaned forward to steal a light from Peter's flame. Oh, god. That was such a heavenly lungful of tar. He hummed softly, appreciating it for a moment before responding.

"It's good. This whole...yeah. It's good."

Not quite fully conscious yet, but starting to come around. The caffeine and nicotine help.

Peter chuckled. "Cigarettes, right?" Like that summed up everything there was to say about it. He shook his head. "Fuckin' a, cigarettes." Somehow that was the thing that brought it home, that they're back in modernity, in a world at least mostly like the one he came from. A woman in a bikini top and yoga walked by and looked at them oddly, and Peter gave her a salute with his coffee.

Stanley watched the woman walk past silently, not offering so much as a smile. It was tough to think whenever they did that, for frustratingly inexplicable reasons. Instead, he sipped the coffee when the swaying motion of her hips stopped hypnotizing him in that unfortunate way that hips sometimes did, and thought for a moment.

"I asked for a couple days. So. Uh. Guess we're here for a while?"

Peter's eyerake was no less thorough, but maybe slightly less mesmerized. "Damn, knew there was something else I missed about good weather." Then he tuned in to what Stanley had said. "Couple days, huh? Whelp. Should be able to scare up enough cash for a shitty motel. Wonder if they card around here." He shrugged. "Besides getting piss drunk and stocking up on smokes and the shit we're actually here to do, any plans?"

Hotel? Oh, man. Could they do that? Could they have beds to sleep in tonight? Stan glances up quickly, the spell of the opposite sex completely broken by the thought of creature comforts. Oh, man. There might be a hot, running shower. That they could use as long as they wanted, no five minute timer. Oh, man. They could eat. Not just sweet oats or potato and leek broth from the farmer's gentle wife when he was away. Real, actual food. His mouth watered at just the thought.

"What? Plans? Oh. Yeah. I mean, no. Just that stuff."

Peter had no idea which of the things he'd just said grabbed Stanley's attention, but he figured it didn't really matter. It hadn't occurred to him that all of these things hadn't occurred to Stan until his face went all surprised like that. "You any kind of pickpocket? We got enough to eat on but a motel is somethin' else."

"Never tried it before." Stan admitted, shrugging. But they were in the wealthiest area he'd ever been to in his life, so if anyone could take a bit of pickpocketing on the chin it oughta be these people. Why not?

"What do I do?"

Peter gave a little laugh and scratched under his chin. "Walk with me and watch. This isn't one of those explainable skills." Peter wasn't sure anybody ever explained it to him, exactly. Nic had taught him slight of hand, the dozen silly little coin and card and juggling tricks he knew, and making other things disappear became just another one of those tricks. "I'd like to not be talking to any fuckin' cops."

Probably best to leave out the fact that Stan has regular run ins with the law. Nothing's ever stuck to his ribs before with that shit anyway, so it's alright. He'll just have to try not to get them both caught. He can do that. He casually falls into pace beside Peter and watches what the other boy does.

Peter wasn't going to share his stories about the police, so it's all good. His method of pickpocketing was pretty standard but effective--mostly he made wallets and other items in unprotected purses or pockets disappear into his pockets when people stopped in groups at a crosswalk or in front of a store, and then dropped wallets emptied of cash on other corners when they stopped again. He picked his targets carefully, aiming for people who obviously weren't going to be hurt by losing what he took.

It didn't look hard when Peter did it. Then again, he was trying to watch from the corner of his eye. Staring at someone was a sure way to get other people's attention focused on them.

Stan was nervous to try it himself, though. He hesitated, and after a moment broke away from the general crowd to sit down for a second and try to shake the nerves. He'd do it, he could totally...try. He just needed a minute to steel himself. It was a new and weird experience. But it would probably be good practice, before the pharmacy. That was going to take a lot of nerve.

After a moment, Peter followed and sat down beside Stanley, who was looking very obviously nervous. He bumped Stanley's shoulder with his shoulder.

"Hey, chill. It's cool, nobody's twisting your arm."

Edited 2013-12-31 05:50 (UTC)

Stan smiled a little at that. Did it show? It probably showed. He was always such a shitty liar. But it kinda sucked to leave everything up to Peter, too.

"It works, you know."

Twisting his arm, that is. People did it all the time, and he always eventually did what they wanted him to. It was nice that Peter had never done that to him, actually. He felt an odd rush of something at the realization. Gratitude, maybe? Friendly affection? He liked Peter. Peter didn't want to break everything and everyone around him the way most people seemed to.

But he was still in over his head when it came to picking pockets. Stanley stretched his legs out and glanced up, skyward, admiring the warm sunlight again. They had caffeine and nicotine and warm, glorious sunlight. A bed would be great, but even if they didn't get that, it wouldn't be a bad trip. Or maybe he just didn't mind because even before getting science-magic zapped into crazyland he'd spent plenty of nights sleeping on floors and pool decks and the swings in people's backyards. And Peter didn't seem too high maintenance either. They'd be fine.

He was about to ask about that when the poster in the window directly across from them caught his attention. $2, 500 prize? That would be useful. And for an open mic night? Shit. They really had crash landed in some alternate reality where everyone had cash to throw around, hadn't they?

"Maybe there's something else."

"Yeah, not really a fan. I'll save it for the important shit." Arm-twisting, he meant. Most of the time, Peter was pretty allergic to authority from either side of the thing. Taking orders chafed for obvious reasons, and giving them implied responsibility, which also chafed. If Stanley didn't want to pick pockets, that was fine by him.

"Something else?" Peter raised his eyebrows at Stanley, then followed his gaze to the poster. $2,500 would go a long way to solve their problems. "Shee-it. Can you sing?"

"I'm not tone deaf."

That was as close to a yes as Stan was comfortable giving. He sang sometimes, sure, but he couldn't be sure whether it was any good or not. No one had ever bothered to tell him one way or the other. "You?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm no choirboy, but nobody's ever complained." He looked at the sign contemplatively, scratching under his chin. There were worse things to do with their time, really, even if neither of them had a shot at winning. "I'd need a guitar, though."

"Mine's in 2011."

And on another continent, but that's beside the point.

"Yeah mine's in 2012 and across the country and in another world." Peter shrugged and sipped his coffee. "So I guess we should see if they've got a shit one in a goodwill somewhere or we can try to bum one off somebody."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject