nine point eight [pafp | m/m] is my acceleration

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    Oh yes//


    Kit pushed his way down the sidewalk as the morning sun touched the pavements, awakening people and their noisy mouths. He was no longer cloaked in dark clothes that would blend him into the shadows and hide his face. Of course, that didn’t mean much. Most could recognize him by his face, a fact he could tell by the way people’s eyes lingered over his frame, how the crowds seemed to veer away from him.


    He set his jaw and made it a point to keep his stride confident, telling himself that he would have to be quick. Kit would get into the cafe, get his morning fix of liquid drug and then bug out before anyone could say pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. No police would be called. Not yet, anyway.


    He slipped in through the door, patiently waiting his turn in the line as he gazed across the menu. Once it was his turn, he promptly ordered a scolding tea and waited for his order to be finished. Kit settled into a booth as he waited, scanning people’s faces. He had always loved people watching, filling in missing words here and there, creating outrageous stories to go along with a simple gesture. It preoccupied his normally hyperactive mind along enough to let his body go still and take a break from its usual ticks and twitches.


    Kit’s eyes settled on a certain face, one that brought in flashes of darkness through his vision. It was that guy from the other night. What was it? Sorrel? He once again massaged his seemingly permanently scraped knuckles as he thought about the four dudes they had dispatched together, a small grin coming to his crested lips as he thought it over.


    A baddie beater like him in a pink-decorated coffee place like this. Who woulda thunk it?


    Sorry for late response; had to finish up some homework//

    The post was edited 1 time, last by Infj ().

    Being totally honest, Sorrel had actually completely forgotten about the dude from that night. After Ina had come by to clean shit up, he went straight home, passed out on the floor, and then headed off to classes when he woke up, and dismissed the young man as a hallucination. Or something.


    Evidently, he's an or something, because Sorrel looks up from his tea when he feels someone staring, and what do you know? It's the same giant from a week ago. Sorrel exhales slowly, pretending like he doesn't exist, and drains his tea, propping his cheek on one fist and curses under his breath when he's unpleasantly reminded of the bruise across that cheek, courtesy of one of Dumbass Quartet's bosses or something.


    He's still staring, and Sorrel resists the urge to get up and leave. The one time he comes out to get tea instead of making it... Yeah, the jackass is absolutely judging him for it. Or finding something hilarious in this situation. Ha, ha, Sorrel, the Red Reaper, enjoying tea in a public space. Sorrel hopes his displeased expression isn't showing on his face, but he figures it wouldn't make much of a difference, since he has a permanent resting bitch face, according to most people who talk to him.


    [ that's fine LMAO homework's a bitch ]

    A g r e e d//


    “Kit?” His name was called from the counter, drawing his gaze away from Sorrel’s face as he rolled to his feet, nodding a thank you to the server before grabbing his cup of tea. He paused halfway towards the door, three possibilities playing out in his head, each one taunting him just a little bit. He could leave, like he was planning to, and stay one step in front of the police, like he usually was. He could go back to his seat and continue to people watch or he could settle himself down right in front of Sorrel and strike up a friendly conversation.


    He debated with himself for a few moments, taking a sip of the scolding tea and letting it wash down his throat, spreading a warmth throughout his chest. What to do, what to do...


    Without realizing it, Kit’s feet were leading him towards Sorrel’s seat, leading him to settle down without an ounce of hesitance. “Hello, Shortel,” he said with a grin, more than a little happy with his nicknaming genius. He eyed the bruise plastered against the other’s skin, wincing lightly at the wickedly colored thing. “Bet that hurts,” his voice was comfortable, as if he were talking to a friend he had known his entire life. “Get ambushed?”

    Sorrel takes note of the name the other used for his drink. Kit. He glances at him once, and then snorts slightly into his drink.


    He exhales slowly when he notices him approaching, though, and then resists the urge to spill tea "accidentally" on the bastard at the new nickname. Shortel. He's not even that short, goddammit. Ina would be laughing her ass off if she could hear this, and that only causes him another wave of spite. Kit's friendly tone is not helping at all, either.


    "No," he grunts in response to his question. Sorrel doesn't do ambushed, and the only thing that really hurts is his pride and the fact that he actually managed to get punched in the face by some random dickhead. He's absolutely attributing it to his shitty ankle. "I'm offended that you would even think that. And I gave you a fucking name, jackass. Use it, or else I'm upending my tea over your head, Kitty."

    Kit couldn’t help but chuckle at the nickname from behind his raised cup. Kitty. Ah, yes, a nickname he had always hated with a deep passion. Between the shitty nicknames and annoyed curses, this conversation was already out to a great start.


    “Okay, Shor- I mean, Sorrel,” he grinned a little bit more, feigning the innocence of a true mistake before promptly continuing. “Ever since we took out those four dudes all those years ago, they’ve been tailing my ass, trying to corner me.” Kit’s eyes steeled a bit as he fought to keep the annoyance he felt towards the stupid gang under wraps. “And, I think, at least, I found one of their main hideouts.”


    The taller young man leaned back in his chair, forcing his tense body to relax as he felt too much excitement begin to stir in his chest. Heat rolled off of him in waves as he let out a small, soundless breath. “I scouted it, and I know I won’t be able to take them all out at once. So, that’s where you come in.” Kit leaned forward again, leg bouncing from under the table, fingers tapping against the sides of his cup. “Whaddya say, my dude?”

    Sorrel's fingers tighten a little on his cup. Physical assault is illegal, and you are a good citizen, he reminds himself, but that doesn't stop him from glaring at Kit balefully. He wonders if kicking Kit with a potentially fractured ankle would be worth it. Probably.


    He raises an eyebrow when Kit suggests they go off and fight the Dumbass Quartet's ringleaders though. Or one of them, at least. "You trust me enough to get me to watch your back, but I had to learn your name from a barista?" he asks, mildly amused by that.


    He shrugs and sets his now empty cup down, standing up and adjusting his fluffy black jacket. "You know what? I'm in. I have nothing better to do than help out ex-convicts turn in some drug dealers." The saddest part about that statement is that he may have said it in a sarcastic tone, but he absolutely means it. "However, we are not discussing this shit here. My place or yours?" It's only after the words leave his mouth that he realizes what, exactly, that sounds like, and prays, in vain, probably, that Kit doesn't take advantage of it.

    Kit grinned as Sorrel agreed and quickly downed the rest of the steaming liquid before rolling to his feet, standing next to the shorter male, more than a little excited about the whole thing. He thought briefly about what the other had said for a few moments, trying to reason it with himself. You trust me enough to get me to watch your back, but I had to learn your name from a barista? It’s not that he trusted this dude, no, he wouldn’t be turned his back on him anytime soon, it's that he didn’t have anyone else to look to and, quite frankly, he needed a badass by his side.


    Kit bit back a laugh at Sorrel’s word choice, playfully pushing him by the shoulder, feigning flirtiness. “So, I guess this was our first date, mm?” The other seemed to fume for a few seconds as the young male laughed his fill before finally able to catch his breath. “Yours,” he said, not letting himself think about his own home situation at the moment. He had been kicked from both his apartment and was no longer allowed at his folk’s place, leaving him to be a floater of sorts.


    Still chuckling, he gestured towards the door. “Lead the way, Mr. Escort.”

    Aaand yep, that was too much to hope for. Sorrel palms his face, using his other hand this time so he doesn't put anymore unnecessary pressure on his bruised cheek. "You are incorrigible," he tells Kit, shifting his weight to his left side slightly to catch himself when Kit pushes him, startling him a little.


    "Come on then." He heads out the door, heading for his apartment. It really doesn't bother him if people know where he lives; not like there's much shit to look at or steal, either way, since it's pretty bare, and there's nothing he has real emotional attachment to.


    It's pretty close by, which is why Sorrel had picked that particular cafe to visit. Walking's a bitch with an injured ankle. Hell, walking's a bitch period. (A lot of people--well, the few people that he talks to more than once a month--wonder why he does the whole vigilante thing if he's too lazy to even crawl out of bed half the time, but he has no real answer to that question.)


    They reach the apartment within a few minutes, and Sorrel opens the door. "Oh," he says nonchalantly when he realizes he'd left the door unlocked again. "Whoops."

    Kit stayed silent for the most part on the way there, trailing behind Sorrel, weaving between the incoming crowds. It wasn’t even noon yet and the streets were already peppered with people. Another thing he didn’t like about the city, no matter where you went there was always someone there, talking, listening to you talk, bumping into others haphazardly. He had never wanted to live in the city, but it was where he was born and where he was raised; he didn’t have much of a choice. He was bred for it.


    He watched the other closely throughout the journey, noticing the slight limp in his walk. Kit briefly wondered how it was injured, but made no sound to question. For now, he kept the weakness in his back pocket, just in case the new ‘friends’ would have to go toe-to-toe. Sorrel injured gave Kit a better chance of winning; a thought that calmed his naturally suspicious nerves. Everything would be fine.


    “Whoops,” Kit echos, looking over Sorrel’s head and into the apartment. It was easy to see it wasn’t much, but at least it had air conditioning. “Is that what you’re gonna say when you come home to see half your shit missing?” He asked, walking in after the shorter male and glancing around.


    The apartment was bland, for the most part. It gave him no real sense of Sorrel’s personality; no family pictures or pets or art on the walls. It was a mere husk, it seemed, bringing a small distaste to Kit’s mouth. He would never be able to live in such an.. emotionless place.


    "So," the young man started up again, making himself at home and settling down into a chair, resisting the urge to take off his shoes; he didn't know how Sorrel would feel about that. "Where do we start?"

    Sorrel shrugs nonchalantly. "Doesn't really matter. Besides, it makes it easier on the poor bastard who's gonna come clean my shit up after I die in some dirty alley somewhere." He removes his shoes without his hands, adding, "Take off your shoes, jackass."


    He shuts the door with his foot, locking it and taking a seat on the couch. It's pretty worn out, since he sleeps on it more than he does his actual bed. "Where do we start," he echoes, shrugging again. "Hell if I know. I don't know anything about this situation. If you don't remember, you were the one who invited me."


    Peering at his bad ankle, Sorrel dispassionately reaches for the bandages out on the table and figures he might as well wrap it. He's got some experience with doing so--breaking bones often kinda does that to you--so it's done without hassle. "So, tell me what you know."

    Kit huffed lightly to himself before he kicked off his ratty old shoes, quickly tying the laces together before tossing them towards the door. He fought the urge to fold his legs under him, much like a child would, instead keeping his socked feet planted to the ground. He watched as Sorrel retrieved bandages and began to wrap his ankle, causing Kit to cock his head lightly.


    "So, tell me what you know."


    He nodded lightly, tearing his eyes away from Sorrel and glancing down to his battered hands, leaning forward in his eat, elbows propped on his knees. He thought for a moment, staying quiet as he wrapped his mind around everything he did know. How he got all the information he did in so little time, even he didn’t know. Kit’s mother used to call him a shark; once he got ahold of something, he didn’t let up until he was either dead or satisfied. He hadn’t died yet.


    “They have shipments coming in all week, drugs, obviously. Heavily staffed, more than usual. I’m thinking, what, maybe 20 or so guys? Maybe more, counting in delivery and unloading; most will be armed. The manager is a guy named Samuel-” he turned his eyes to Sorrel’s face, looking for any sign of acknowledgement at the name, “-very popular when it comes to this type of shit.”


    Kit sighed lightly to himself, a hand coming up to clasp the back of his neck. “If it were up to me, I would just blow the entire thing up, with all of them inside. But,” he smirked ever so slightly, eyes closing. “That didn’t seem like a very heroish thing to do.”

    Sorrel takes in the information without a single change in facial expression, snipping off the last of the bandage and setting the roll back on the table. He sets his foot against the floor again, grimacing very slightly when pain shoots up the appendage, but it's not so bad. Well, if it's a fracture, he really shouldn't be walking on it, but who gives a rat's ass anyway? Sorrel sure as hell doesn't.


    The name Samuel sounds vaguely familiar, but Sorrel's never been good with names, and he does have the whole punch first thing going on. Not to mention... it's an awfully popular name. He shrugs. "Hey, don't come to me looking for a hero," he mutters, shifting on the couch, his fingers absently dancing over the fabric. "I don't follow the law myself, and I do it for less than heroic reasons."


    He clears his throat. "So. Ringleader for drug dealing. Name's Samuel, and we gotta take him out. Great. Give me a description of what he looks like and where we find him."