It wasn't that he was in such an angry mood. Angers purpose escaped the man. There was acceptance, which was interchangable with love. Then there was passion, which when sprinkled on love, caused the latter to blossom. There was fury and rage. The former was controlled, reptilian and numbing in it's sudden wave of shocking cold purpose. The latter was consuming, fiery, exhausting and destructive. There was vengeance, retribution and that pretty girl called irony. Did I babysit her? My my, look at her all grown up. Watch her dance, those little legs grown lithe and lean. Slightly sinister in it's deliverance, yet carefully honeyed of the ever brutal and relentless Truth. I rather think I like her, don't you? Of course...Insipid, she is. But then, who am I to pass the judgement out on those sly peoples, being something of a trickster myself, no? But anger...? Where did it get you? Trouble. Uncultivated, rough, uncouth. No, it was not anger he felt. Betrayal? Well, maybe. But that would mean admitting he felt something and G-d knows as well as I that he was not about to admit he felt put out or betrayed. Mistrust? Oh I wouldn't call it that...Okay, maybe a bit. The whole 'trusting leads to pain' is awfully tiring, I think. No, it's not that either. Wariness of making his feelings known might have been a part of it. Oh he was tired of thinking about how he felt. That was where the problem had stemmed from, right? Thinking about how he felt. Demmed nuisance, if you asked his last living relative. Demmed nuisance, demmed waste of time, demmed disturbed, sah! Uncle Tristram had been a funny man...Always been fond of Alistair, he had. But, I have a feeling that if I am tired of this paragraph, you must be nodding off.

The loud screeching from the partially open door to his left made Alistair pick his head up a little, his ears were used to the almost constant noise, but if it weren't for the small pieces of foam stuck in his ear, he doubted he would still have full use of his hearing. Sable in color, yet shining a rich chestnut in the large light that was heating the back of his head, almost black when in shadow was the colour of his hair. It stuck up untidily at the back, and grew thickly all over his head. Balding would not be a worry for this particular sentient. It stuck up in it's odd, half-gelled state, and then flopped down slightly as he moved. It did rather add to his refined, yet eccentric, very badass look if I say so myself. His keen eyes were dull, staring at the wall ahead with a lacklustre expression glazing his handsome face. The couple were still browsing, but he hardly noticed the clicking of the ladies stilettos, or the grunts of her companion. It was amazing how incredibly boring his work was. And he wasn't even sure why he continued with it. You would think that as a man who had graduated from Oxford Business School with honors and loads of recommendations he would have become something more worthy of his skill. A Financial Advisor or something...But instead, he was here, reading, tending to customers, and attempting to use the cash register correctly. It was very old, you see. In fact, everything seemed to be old in here, other than the clothing. The wallpaper was peeling away from the wall, the grungy designs that patterned the desk had accumulated the dirt and grime of ages. Alistair examined a small patch of sticky table with a clean fingernail, and grimaced as a waxy substance came away. The usual 'flick-flick' motion ensued for a few moments. Though the bell tinkled just now, he didn't hear it. He did, however, take his earplugs out and put them back in their box. They had started to itch. His finely muscles backside plonked back down on the chair, re-orienting his buttocks to the uncomfortable, albeit warm, wood.

The sudden slap of the door closing made him look up, ears pricked, eyes sharp, expression almost painfully expectant. Like a small ray of light penetrating the darkness of the whole place, somebody walked in. Careful, controlled, oh so graceful steps carried the newcomer in. Along with that half-shrink that comes with extreme cold or discomfort. He guessed the person was not a fan of loud music. That was all right though, from her look, she was not here to stay, or really to buy either. A familiar face, he certainly recognized, strode over slowly. He felt his slightly lop-sided, pleasant, infinitely charming smile slink onto the stage of emotions that was a face. The easy way in which he turned, the graceful flip-flop of his half-stiff hair moving was somewhat ruined by the fact that his manly face was covered stupidly by it. 'Bloody hell...This hair is getting way to long, I think...' He thought, slightly embarassed. However, he managed to turn his slight start at seeing who it was into an easy flick of the head that sent his hair out of his eyes. It settled back to it's less-tidy-than-otherwise fashion, and he was moderately pleased that he didn't look like a complete fool. His yellowish-hazel eyes twinkled as he smiled, and he half-stood up as the known, yet not entirely old news, voice seemed to slide out of the air, rather than be spoken. "Hello, Alistair." She said. Of course, it was Tosaku, moron, who else would it be?! Alistair smiled more broadly, and stood up fully. He was roughly a little over half a foot taller than her with her heels on; it brought his attention to her feet for a moment, but then he looked her up and down. A few times ago, she had been nearly naked. But he wasn't about to bring that up, as she obviously now had clothes on. The ever eloquent tongue began to work it's magic. Deep, yet not rumbling, smooth, yet not slippery. "All right, Tosaku?" It was, he knew, a rather lame responce, but he thought it fit the occaision. Asking her how she was would be the next thing, but it wasn't an opening sentence. Saying 'Hi' back would be stupid, and indifferent. At least, that's what he was hoping...

The music's noise level lowered to a dull roar. It has stopped entirely from flowing out of the heavy, dark, very expensive stereo above the desk on the ceiling, but it persisted in the music room. Alex disregarded his advice, and had gone back to the studio to continue and pound his poor guitar mercilessly. They were working on a song called 'Flying Cars'. Alex said, in his insipid, not-entirely-conscious voice that it was about love. The lyrics sounded like the last thing from love to Alistair, but he had silenced his complaints. 'It's not as if you've ever really been in love, though. You should just keep your mouth shut.' Was his wry, slightly pessimistic thought. There was Lily, but he had been young...Had he even known what love was? Maybe. It had certainly felt like it when he was in the midst of it...But had it really been? Panic seeped, but did not show. It never showed. The privacy was welcome. There were two edges to the knife, to sides to the veil. As I said, the worry, the fear, the hand closed over his head. He was starting to forget. What was her face like?! It was heart-shaped, with nice eyes, and red hair. A flicker of something might have crossed his face. Those frosty, guarded, always watching eyes of the clearest amber. Hawk-like, they missed nothing. If possible, they enhanced his appearance as a formidable man. They roved around the room for the slightest moment, distracted from their former examination of the lady-friend that stood in front of him. The ill-humor had left him, but a small bit of residue from its slimy hand had been left. Somehow the dark circles under his sharp eyes showed his previous thoughts, as dark, deep, and sunken as the nights he had been spending on his squashed futon at the Fawks. What had her eyes been like?! Green, he thought...Or where they blue?! It might have shown, then again, he might have been able to hide his thoughts. It was like he was...Losing what was most important to him. It had been nearly two years now...He needed to let it go. But he didn’t want to. ‘ Why should I?! It’s not doing me any harm, is it?!’ One side of him snarled to the other.

Its tone was a venomous and offended as a disturbed snake, rising out of the high grass, reading to strike, to bite whoever had stepped on its tail. ‘That’s what you think. Look at you, man, you’re a mess!’ The other said, passively knitting a pair of socks as it gazed blithely over at its testy compatriot. But he was not to be undone...’WHY do you always but in, you miserable old bat?! I can remember if I want to! I am not a mess! This is my life, this is the way I want it.’ And being him, the other side had to have its say...’Oh yeah? Well I beg to differ. Your life is a perfect mess at the moment. You need to pull yourself together.’ The snake struck, but it’s words were lost as the always irresistible tune tinkled out of the dear. She had a nice laugh, and even she couldn’t deny that. It held something...In its delivery. A merriment that was not jaded, nor very experienced. But still, there was a definitely alluring note to it, unexpected. Especially when you saw her eyes still had that wide-eyed look of youth. The one he had lost...Goodness so long ago. He thought it was that one time by the train station, the man has kissed his lady, and Alistair had followed her onto the train on his way to the sea side as a boy. She had shut the door behind her, and rushed into the arms of another man. He had looked curiously up at her, wondering what she was doing. The Nun had tutted, and shielded his eyes, but he had been too curious. A mop-haired boy with dirty trousers and a quizzical expression he had been, back then. And he had peek into their compartment on the way by. What was she doing?! The fleeting impression of some wrestling match he had seen on the telly crossed his mind, until he noticed that it was not two men or two women, but one of each. Disgust rolled across his young face, and he had started back. The youthful light had left, just like that. It was a wonder she had managed to keep it for so long...She spoke, in that way she did. “Well enough, I suppose.” Which was, in his opinion, the best response that one could’ve made to such a comment as he had uttered.

The 9th part of the song was being sung, and Alistair couldn't help but look over at the music room, wincing as the screams came pouring out of the room. Either Michael had dropped the piano lid on Eric's fingers, or Flying Cars had reached what was meant to be the peak of ecstasy. It sounded like something a sparrow would do in the wooded part of Shropshire. A snide little smile crossed his face, somehow increasing his great looks. A critical remark was about to be spilled, when he realized who was there. Snapping his eyes away from the room, he gave a casual sort of 'what can you do?' look to Tosaku, rolling his eyes slightly at them. He noticed her discomfort, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he made perfectly normal glances to the window and the other objects around him. The walls of Da Bloody Spike were black and neon green, the latter of which was bright enough to make your eyes water if you stared at it too long. Someone had gotten the idea in their head of splattering one side of the more grungy or emo section of the wall with blood-red paint, but most of the crimson color was obscured by posters of post-punk, and indie-music that Alistair recognized, although never recalled actually liking. A large poster of Chris Martin and his gang had been his gift to the place when he began to work here, and it hung, framed and signed by the man himself, above the cashier. It was well-lit in some placed, but darker in others, which the owners seemed to have intended. Hard, cement walls gave it a strange, alienated feel, but kept it cooler than most building in the boiling summer. As it was still winter, it would have been frigid in there, but several employees had complained and the manager had installed a heater sometime last month. Now it just smelled faintly of sweat in some places, mixed with the brief odor or Alistair's expensive cologne, and turpentine. The air didn't clog nostrils, however, and once you got used to the general noise, it was pleasant enough.

Flying Cars seemed to have ended, and Alex, Eric and Mike walked out sullenly as some Asian man about Alistair's own age edged into the room nervously, clutching a harp. Our man's attention was caught by the bloke, and he gave a small nod to the frightened looking kid, who returned it was a nervous throat bob and titter. They were always like that. Alistair lazily imagined him to be the next Yo-Yo Ma of harps in 5 years time. They all started out somewhere, and Da Bloody Spike had a reputation for churning out a good batch of ivory-ticklers ever few years. Along with supporting outrageously bad musicians to their deaths from the over-dose on some cheap, over-the-counter drug. It was a sad lot to be dealt in life, but he did not dwell over the depressing state that most young band hopefuls lived in. His gaze, which had in actuality only lingered away from her for a moment, returned to meet her shining, dark brown eyes. He couldn't help but broaden his smile as he saw her blush slightly. He thought he knew what she might have been thinking about, but decided not to say anything. Even if he had wanted to make a reference to their last encounter, he couldn't get his head around how to do it in a way that wouldn't embarrass either of them. His nonchalont glances had rewarded him with the sight of light flakes falling slowly from the sky, coating the street in an every so thin, quickly melting drip of new snow. A clock ticked at his side on the desk, and he had found that it was precisely 5 minutes into his break. Had she planned it? Maybe. He wouldn't put it past Tosaku to be craftier than he had first judged her as. Either way, it was a convenient little detail. Tapping his dark-washed jeans with one, large hand, he listened for a moment, heard the harp music start up, and was thankful he would not have to raise his voice for his friend to catch his words this time. "I'm glad to hear that." Was his pleasant response, his straight, yet not excessively white, teeth flashing in a slightly shy smile.

He was confident enough, but he did not want to let all of it show. It was a ready way to lose ones confidence if all went ill. An idea struck him suddenly, unplanned, slightly daring, but friendly enough. "Are you busy? My break just started and I thought we could take a walk." The weather was being good to him, he thought. It was not excessively cold, but it was chilly, as it had been all week. Last week it had rained cats and dogs, and the week before, his car's windshield had been chipped by a heavy speck of hail. He was hoping she would say yes, and tried not to think of what he would say if she didn't. He felt like a child, being to unguarded, but knew it was much too late to act cooler. She would, of course, notice, and then it would all go to pot. Alistair's skilled fingers fiddled with something in his pocket as he waited, warm smile still in place, and mussed hair still attempting to creep over his eyes. A guitar pick was in his pocket, large, marbled brown, and partially transparent. It had been a gift from his first guitar teacher when he was young, and the pick had never failed him before. It always seemed to be there when he wanted to play a tune, always seemed to be at hand to play anything that took his fancy. Useful, handy, you could say. His wallet was nestled beside it, still with the stray five pound note tucked in one pocket or other, old habits died hard. A few credit cards, a membership to the local library, and a picture of two women in their late-eighties in robes, smiling up at whoever opened the brown leather folder of sorts. Time seemed to go slowly as he waited for her to respond. It could very well have been seconds, but it seemed like longer. Thoughts darting in and out of his head at the speed of light, the man wondered if it was humanly possible to be so alert, or whether he was a hybrid between a Greek deity and a hyper-active sugarglider.

He knew she was aware of more than she was letting on, but it didn't bother him that she wasn't asking more about his health. It was something about the way she blinked, maybe. Or was it the way the corner of her mouth twitched? Hmmm...Perhaps it was all in his mind. But then, her dark eyes seemed to stray to his face in that sensitive way...In that way that was silently accepting of his worries. The empty bottles that sat by the recycling bin, the single plate that lay on the shelf, alone and out of place; the lone glass, the one chair, the scarred table, the black lacquered box full of photos. Ah, he should have binned them ages ago. But every time he opened them, a bottle of liquor seemed to disappear from his store, and he never got far enough through them to decide which to keep and which not to. It was a monthly thing, the clearing. He would steel himself, open the box, and begin to mechanically sort through the little capsules of time; the little packets of joy and sorrow. Last time he had managed to throw four away, after about two hours of looking. It was over; he was very firm on that fact. The addict had closed his pill-box, the drunk tossed away his bottle. Very early next morning a man had run after a rubbish truck for nearly a mile before paying off the driver to have a look at the contents. The sodden pictures had been cleaned, and then set back in the box. Mind diverted by the sudden speech of his visitor, Alistair allowed his eyes to move to her quickly, and then on. She seemed troubled by something, but he didn’t ask, as he was too preoccupied by what the men would say to her. Alistair’s mouth had opened, ready to intervene, but Alex’s tongue was quicker on the draw. His usual, over-confident sneer came to bare. “I know, right? Hah, you should come ‘round here more often, I’ll take you for a drink sometime, maybe?” Eric looked uncomfortable; Michael seemed to be still tripping on whatever it was he was on, his glassy eyes following an invisible shape through the air. Our man closed his mouth and stayed silent, not wanting to speak for Tosaku, but not looking at her. He wasn’t really all that bad, Alistair knew that, but the musician was cocky, and from the look of his past girlfriends, not all that careful when he was drunk. He would explain it to her later, perhaps. It was good luck that the manager of the Spike came from the back room, just then, waving a hand at Alex and shouting. “Hey, dude, if you want to keep your studio privileges so you can continue to rape our sound systems, then you’d better get your arse in here or the deal is over. I don’t got all day, man!”

Alex jumped a little, his ultra cool stance ruined by the sudden burst of a voice, and he blinked several times before clearing his throat and giving Ms Amani a thoroughly unconvincing smile and a sappy wink. “Catch you later, baby!” Women found that attractive, right? Eric and Michael lumbered after Alex, and he strutted, like the peacock he was, to the backroom, his jumpy sort of limping walk hinting at his brimming confidence. Alistair gave a slightly mocking, yet good-natured, salute to Alex, as the man tripped over a rubbish bin and had to dodge sideways a little. “Be careful, mate, I’d hate to see you lose your killer fret-slappers over a trash can!” Came Alistair’s voice, filled with laughter this time. Alex managed a short chuckle, shrugging his shoulders in what might have been the most humble movement he had made all day. His clear eyes softened slightly as he saw Alex getting nervous with the boss in the back, and shook his head in amusement. “He can’t be much older than I am, and he acts like he rules the world because he won a prize for ‘Most Original Lyrics of 2007, Deathagos’. He’s all right though.” It was something of an over-statement, but Alistair tried to be as fair as possible when judging peoples characters. It wasn’t as if he was G-d or a cocky bastard like Alex, it wasn’t his place to decide. But after watching the brute slap a woman, and then write a song about love, our knight grew impatient with the hypocrisy of the music world, and stopped putting up with the childish adult. Inside, the large man from the British Isles was grinding his teeth. Something large, partially scaled, partially spiked and one hundred percent viscious was roaring in his gut. How dare Alex treat her like a piece of meat! He would have a word with the man later, it was inacceptable. A small frown crossed his face, a slight trickle of burned chivalry in it. Yes, he would certainly have a word with Alex, in private, after...She said she would walk with him then?! This was excellent, beyond excellent! And she was smiling. A swooping sensation in his stomach, the feeling that something golden was raining on the scaled beast and a distant rushing noise in his ears all combined accompanied the simple words. She was not busy, but...But best of all, she would love to come on a turn with him. Ooooh, that sounded good. “That’s great, I just need my coat.” He slid easily past the counter and walked quickly towards the coat hanger that held his infinitely fashionable black leather jacket that fell down to his muscular buttocks and buttoned like a pea coat. If she had followed him there, he would hold the door open for her with a small bow and follow her out, waiting for the lady to dance her petite way across the threshold. If, she had followed him, then he would hold out a gentlemanly arm for her, sharp eyes softening and watching her happily. If chance had it, she waited there, he would go back to her and wait expectantly for her to set off. A man of possibilities, you see, yes. Once outside, the dear will wait for a moment and then voice the query. “Where shall we walk?” There were a few parks around the area, and the streets that got there. The snow was still melting on the ground, and wouldn’t settle, but it might do the dreadful ‘settle in your hair and make it moist but not enough to look nice, just greasy’.

It was a strange feeling. Something...Thrumming through him physically, a high he was caught on and couldn’t fully appreciate that was part of the charm. He was hyper-sensitive and yet...He felt nothing, nothing at all. The world moved through oil, through a haze, he felt stupid and clumsy and yet...Sharp, and excruciatingly on edge at the same time. She touched his arm, and goose-pimples exploded out along his neck, but he thanked his natural poker-face for the fact that is showed none of his nervousness. A soft smile curled his lips up in a cat-like way, loosing some of the mockery and adding a little more warmth. Her words had made him laugh inwardly, and it traveled like sound from within to out. A small chuckle reverberated in his chest and out, before he stifled it a little and answered her in his oh so eloquent, practiced tones, deep and rumbling. “He’s just Alex, I think he’s from Virginia. Don’t mind him; he speaks in slang that even I don’t understand sometimes. He was just saying he liked you, basically. But...I would stay away from him.” A delicate crease framed his brow, and he continued. “He’s not very friendly, though he hardly looks it.” Speaking seemed to ease the tightening in his mind, relaxing his jaws—which were oddly set. It was just everything about her. The way she moved, the way she spoke, the way her eyes would flick up to his with that innocent twinkle in them. Her entire manner, it knocked his breath out. Chest tightening as if in response to this sudden thought, Alistair moved his eyes away from her, realizing he was staring. The man felt as a child might, playing with his little friends in the dirt, and then being tempted to raise his head for but a moment. In the act of lowering his head again, however, his attention was caught. There was a crowd of people around them all, bustling and moving, but she seemed...Different. And it wasn’t even the way she looked, because anybody in their right mind would love Ms Amani for her appearance, but...Something. He would walk through the crowd of people, eyes wide, following the beautiful woman through the throngs, noticing how she seemed to be separate, and divided. ‘As oil with water she is with the world....’ He thought, musingly. Although she seemed not to notice it, she was walking in a small bubble, made from the finest crystal, diamond or glass, and he would only dirty the reflections by pressing his nose against it. But he did, anyway. His desire for closeness, his pull to be part of that bubble was too great; it would not give over without a fight. A part of him, that is of what we speak, a part. This part of Alistair felt small around her; small, scab-kneed, and infantile, clumsy and ungainly compared to her innumerable grace. It was intoxicating.

Then there was the other half. As she turned, she seemed to notice him, standing there, soiling her crisp bubble with his hands and fogging it up with his breath. He took a step back, readying himself to flee in case she showed a temper not quite as sweet as her face. She smiled, he smiled back. He grew, he grew ever so tall! Larger, stronger, more poised, and elegant he evolved. She made him feel better, faster, more complete, in a way. Alistair felt guilty for feeling so, one part of him did. The other half was too lost in the sheer enjoyment of her smile, how he lost herself in the shadows that danced across her neck as she laughed. Even just the way she tilted her head to the side, or bit her lip when she thought...It made him want to smile stupidly back. She was not like the rest of them, she was something else entirely. Not filled with scorn, or hardened experience, or a weathered distaste for everything not to her style. Tosaku did not know the definition of scorn, or derision...And that was how they should all be. It inspired him, to be less sarcastic and more humorous. To be less cold, and more openly warm. But...He reasoned that this was just the state of perfection that could never last. That an actual relationship between them would not be as one long Kodak moment, but filled with trials and tribulations, and fights and disagreements...But Tosaku seemed to have a better idea of the whole ‘thought’ business. She was an extremely intelligent person, he knew that, but she was almost cleverer than he because she knew the subtle art of ‘feeling’ and ‘knowing’, rather than over-thinking something and making a pudding of it. His mind was jerked back to the present by an unseen mental hand. He needed to focus, needed to concentrate on the moment, not on silly thoughts of how he felt about her...Though it was tempting simply to look at her, and have her look back, and just...Stay that way. “There’s a nice place just around the corner, a park, and it’s not too far, in case the weather gets foul.” His gaze sharpened, as he attempted to pick out the correct path, and he stepped gently out with his long leg, shortening his stride to something suitable for her. Setting out at a slow, yet not sluggish, pace in which they would reach the park’s entrance in a few minutes, or more if she decided to stop the progress for whatever reasons her mind might divine. Moving subtly closer to her, Alistair brushed his thick coat softly against her side as he made the motions to prance forward in his little way. If she was cold...All that she need do would be huddle a little closer. His arm was, after all, at a very convenient distance for such a faint stroke, little more than a twitch as far as he was concerned.

ooc; the wait wasn't even funny; sorry for taking so long, and thanks for your patience <3