Bullet for your Dreams
I like guns. And shooting things. And other obscure sports you've probably never heard of. I'm Olympic level and yeah, I excel basically.
And I fuck shit up.
[Photos]
[Para]
[Self-Para]
I-I-I’m sorry… -turns quiet and begins to cry to herself- You can leave me alone, thanks.
Carson notices her trembling now, and that the wetness on her face wasn’t just from the pool water—and his mind shouts obscenities. “Haha, funny, but no—” Carson takes the towel wrapped girl and lifts her bodily into a bridal carry, “YOU ALMOST DROWNED.”, and ignoring any all protest, he steers them into the warmth of the house.
Carson strode into the bar, already half-drunk and with a grin on his face at the promise of more drunkenness. This time with flames and a guy that also smokes. So everything was sort of okay.
The house had been boring. Deathly boring as of late, and Carson had been digging deeper into his vices to a) get rid of the annoyance for the world for putting him in this hell and b) overcome the boredom.
So he was still grinning when he saw…Beau? “BEAU!” already at the bar, blonde and sort-of-easy-on-the-eyes and sort-of-total-stranger. Carson slid into on of the bar stools and rambled without preamble. “Shots with flames. Where…? And also, here…” He threw down a pack of 20s cigarettes. “Amusement!”
Carson spent a good while in his self-inflicted solitary confinement, but realized that his stuff were all waiting downstairs for him to haul up to his actual fucking room. Which brought him to where he was now, about to enter Room 1, bags slung over shoulder, wishing fervently he was anywhere else but here.
He grit his teeth and strode inside confidently, chanting ‘Please be empty, please be empty, please be empty…’ But of course, as usual, the world had to bite Carson in the ass, as he saw Patrick or something other—Peter! Harris in the room. Tommy’s so called ‘bestfriend’… ‘BOYFRIEND IN DENIAL’ the chorus in Carson’s head shrieked back at him.
“Oh…you.” was all Carson could say as he let the door slam close and automatically threw his bags over to one of the beds away from the jock in the room. “Well, shit. Hi.”
Jamie ran a hand through his hair, both excited and nervous while he waited for Carson in the recording studio they were going to record the song in. Really, he didn’t remember how he convinced the gunman to actually duet with him in a song about freaking materialistic girlfriends. Well, whatever, what’s done is done anyway. He played around with the keys in the piano, though he’d already finished recording both the piano and guitar parts, having done the bass and drums (percussion, really) done by some of the people in Band that he knew.
“Give you this, give you that, blow a kiss, take it back…” he sang quietly, playing the low notes on the piano. He had the sheet music (which he wasn’t an expert in reading) in front of him, scribbling notes and possible lyrics on the margins. He tapped his fingers on the piano’s speakers, then rewriting it with a clearer script on another sheet of pad paper.
All the way to the recording studio Fuzzball had specified, Carson nursed a headache—and by nursed it meant he snapped at random, slow, passersby.
He huffed a deep breath as he reached the studio, and for the millionth time, asked himself: What the fuck led me to this…? He walked in and was treated to the Fuzzy Clements playing around on the piano, singing softly. Carson sighed, taking off his coat and flinging it somewhere. “Fuzzy, holla. What the fuck are you singing?—-We singing?”
Joy was bursting with…joy. She quickly got dressed into a more appropriate outfit: A button-up shirt with a black sweater over it, and knee length black skirt. She tied a holster around her right thigh, placing an empty revolver in it. She ruffled her skirt, making it look like nothing was hidden underneath. She went out of her dorm, combing her hair with her hand.
Great! A subject where I can test the new trick on. she thought while walking through the hallways. The freshman looked at the doors, counting. 157…158…159…160…161…162! She stopped infront of the door, knocking it thrice. “Carson? Are you there? It’s me, Joy.” She said.
The minute this Joy-person confirmed she was coming over Carson moved to get his guns, checking for any sort of defect. As usual there was none. But you just can’t be too sure.
He brought them over to the bed and laid them out, there were three: His Desert Eagle Mark XIX, his Browning L9A1, and his Taurus Revolver. They weren’t that special, really, but they were his first. And he ended up polishing/oiling them a bit more before disengaging and removing their loads. Can’t be too careful either. he thought, as he put the bullets away just as he heard the knock and call at his door.
Carson huffed a bit, feeling his hangover pounding again at the back of his mind as he opened the door and stepped back, saying. “Well hello there, oh Joy-full one.”
Carson went to the fountains carrying two glasses, he had mauled through the drinks table looking for something that wasn’t spiked/illegally brought in. If he was going to be honest with himself he was a bit worried, (a) because he didn’t want Tommy to know he’s the reason the drinks are what they are, and (b) he’s still sort of (very) inebriated and he was going to Tommy of all people.
He reached the fountains and after a few moments of looking he found her sitting on one of the father benches, near the gardens, illuminated by soft lights as compared to the neon-explosion of the courtyard.
“Hey, choo.” he called softly as he neared her, placing the drink of sparkling juice (this exists I tell you) beside her. “How’ve you been?”
Jamie dragged Carson all the way to the stage, covered in black and white cloths and such and such things that made it look like Vegas from the era of monochromatic television. He was careful to swerve him so that the drink on the other’s hand wouldn’t spill on him.
Once they were both on stage, he handed Carson a microphone and went over to the karaoke machine. Jame scrolled down the alphabetised list of artists, until he reached ‘O’ and zeroed in on ‘One Direction’. He grinned when he saw the song that he was looking for, then pressed play.
The music stopped suddenly, and a light turned on them. Jamie’s palms started sweating, and he wished for alcohol right now. But the music started, and so he plastered on a smile and waited as Carson sung his part.
Carson’s mind was muddled already, though he would never admit it, and never in a few thousand years would he have done this…but he had alcohol. So as Jamie was preparing their imminent freak-show, he downed it all again.
He took the mic Jamie offered him, “Ease up, Elphaba.” he grinned, before turning towards the attentive (slightly tipsy) masses as the first notes started playing. He took a deep breath.
You’re insecure, don’t know what for
You’re turning heads when you walk through the do-o-or
Don’t need make-up - to cover up
Being the way that you are is eno-o-ough
He smirked as he looked towards Jamie, winking.
“Fucking finally.”
Carson took the small tubs of gelato from the obviously shaken employee, shoving a few bills onto the counter. He didn’t bother with the change as he trudged on out of the store and made his way to the hospital.
It was a bit of a ways away, and he liked to walk, but he was a breathing a little heavily from the exertion when he reached Tommy’s door. Exertion. Of course it was from the exertion.
Fuck.
Should he have sent a message that he was coming first? Ask her what flavor she wanted—then again he had bought every flavor available but—Screw it. It’s not like he asked for permission when he first visited her here.
Carson shook his head a bit and knocked sharply on the door. “Tommy? It’s Carson.”
Tommy felt a whole hella better now that she could move again. Of course, the doctors had advised her not to move around so much and just stay in place, but that wasn’t how Tommy dealt with things, wasn’t it? Specially now because she was going to share truffles with someone she’s never met. Well, she was used to interacting to strangers anyway. She got up and removed her dexterous (she’s going to be killed later when the nurses find out) and searched the room for fresh clothes. Eventually she found her usual over-sized sweater, shorts and her boots. They were all washed cleaned, and the girl thought of people who possibly brought her these.
Must be Ms.Wilkins or Peter. She thought, shaking her head as she grabbed a paper bag filled with truffles. She opened the hospital window and looked outside. Lucky her, it was only on the second floor. Oh. Second floor, right. This is going to be easy. Tommy looked left and right if anyone was around. None. She took a deep breath and jumped out of the window, landing on the ground with her feet flat on the ground. She felt her body shake for a moment, and her head pound, but that was nothing.
Tommy looked around again, grinned to herself and proceeded to walk towards the garden as if nothing happened. “Truffles~”
Carson wanted to slam his head onto something hard. Repeatedly. He had no idea what madness came over him that drove him to react to that Tomlinson girl, and to agree to this truffle-sharing insanity.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck—ran through his head as he made his way to the hospital garden. This would have been so much easier if I was allowed to be my damn self…but no, I have to be ~nice~. As if wasting thousands of dollars on those truffles wasn’t damned nice enough.
Carson reached the place in record time and made his way to a bench underneath a huge tree. Maybe I should have a sign on my head: ‘Absurd idiot waiting for escaped hospital patient to eat truffles with.’ Carson thought, settling down and looking around.
But that was a just a bit too insane, so he simply sent a message to the girl saying he was where he was.
