crooked teeth, c

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AND I CAN BE THE BULLET YOU BITE DOWN ON

Home. It was another word for prison, a term he couldn't bite down to the last letter without grinding his teeth—as if to refuse poison from entering the trail down his throat. What was home but a shaken box full of broken glass and faded pictures? More than once had Reno caught his father erupt into fractured sobs, frame carrying the image of the love of his life tight in hands as murmured words of "Can you hear me?", "I miss you", slurred in the drunken haze.

He'd stand outside the doorway, hidden from view, arms crossed. Get over it. It's been three years, he'd want to scream—but the sixteen year-old lad didn't know if it was his own anger at himself that was speaking, that somewhere, deep down, maybe he was at fault for not being the stronger of the family that consisted of just he and his father. But he tried, time and time again—but the frustration that grew in the core of his stomach only pushed him further away from home, a stranger to what he used to know.

Wherever his legs decided to take him, he went with just his guitar—the things he needed—strapped to his back; there were times he'd find himself under a bridge, right by a pathway of water. Black was all he saw in the dimly lit area, the sound of soft ripples and gentle currents being the only indication of a liquid body. At other occasions, the park was where his feet destined him to be—and that was where they seemed to be headed as his eyes detected the lining of bundled trees in view.

Sun swallowed by the earth, having introduced a tint of purple in the sky, he pressed onward into the constructed nature, frown deepening upon locking his sight onto a limp figure strewn across the pavement. Near his usual place of rest: a wooden bench (which had his name clumsily written in permanent marker underneath it to thwart the few who have uttered "Your name's not on it!"). Pace quickening, annoyance rising up his veins, he braked before the unconscious man, eyes narrowed. Was he dead? If so, why did he have to die at this very spot? But alas, the slow swelling and falling of the figure's chest notified the redhead of the status that he was indeed very much alive. And that earned an agitated groan—because it meant the nameless man had to have purposefully sought the area out, and thus, purposefully make his night unnecessarily problematic. How dare he.

He jammed his foot onto the other's side, roughly rolling it forward and backwards, "Oi, get the fuck up!" ordered the boy, eyes traveling to a curious object—a case opened, contents empty—hugging the stranger's spine, and automatically did he realize that it was an instrument whose shape belonged to the container. Except it was nonexistent, gone. "Idiot! What are you, new to this homeless shit? You've been robbed!"

● FRANKLIN BEAUMONT

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AND I CAN BE THE BULLET YOU BITE DOWN ON

Involving himself in the affairs of a stranger was a notion he immediately rejected whenever a situation was presented with the choice to do so. It wasn't that he was unsympathetic to the plight of others, nor was it because he refused to do things without some sort of benefit or reward in exchange, but if it was a choice between himself and someone else, Reno would choose himself. He had only his back to watch, and adding onto that was asking for more weight he didn't want shoulder.

A dog-eat-dog world was what life was, and although the nameless man sitting on the floor looked far from harmless and more lethargic than anything, Reno remained alert and visibly vexed as the blonde rose onto his feet. Now scram, he was about to say, unsheathing his fists from his pocket, ready to take action if the other decided to be stubborn in claiming what was "his" territory. No resistance formed, however; the fellow just stood, and somehow, that made the Roslin teen more suspicious, bi-hued irises immediately examining the hands of the stranger for any activity that would hint or reveal a knife.

Nothing.

When the blonde spoke, a tinge of exotic essence riding on the hills of his tongue—consistent to the previous question of "what do you want" (whose accent Reno had passed off as slurred speech, a product of sleepiness)—he only shrugged, balled hands loosening just slightly, "Like I'd know," gruffly responded the lad, intending for the conversation (if it could be considered such) to cut exactly there. No more small talk, he had his bench, his space, and everything was as it should be.

And yet, as he graced the seat of the park property with his rear, Reno's capsules continued to wander to the robbed male, albeit unintentionally—and almost, almost guiltily. If it were him, if it were his instrument that had been stolen instead...

Sinking into the furniture, the brows above his eyes tightened, mind convincing his thoughts that it wasn't worth the effort to help the foreigner; it was his problem, and Reno had nothing to do with it. He had no responsibility, nor duty to look for the thieves—but the longer his conscience dwelled, speaking words in his head, Reno supposed he did have an inkling on where the stolen goods were taken. But that meant having to potentially deal with petty criminals looking for a quick buck, and that meant losing hours of sleep—and most of all, adding enemies to an already extensive list.

As easy as it was to suggest replacing the abducted items with new ones, the man's referral to the instruments as "babies" made it evident to Reno that they couldn't be simply replaced. And he understood—very well, in fact.

Sighing, Reno shifted off of the bench and nudged his elbow against the blonde's arm as he walked past him, a signal to follow, "If we find your stuff, and I'm not saying we will, then you're looking to owe me breakfast, got it?"

@frank

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