it's been a long october.

[afterdrop]

Who: Charles Rowland and YOU
What: Monthy catch-all
When: Throughout October
Where: Around Milton

Content Warnings: Specifics TBD; general warnings available here.


𝒊. 𝒚𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝒔𝒂𝒓𝒅

[A short jaunt up from the town center, where the road gets rougher and the sparse trees begin to climb towards Milton House, there's an overgrown, decrepit cottage tucked back in the trees. Blue once, maybe, but faded into a mildewy grey, its windows utterly piled with what hasn't been worth scavenging.

At least, until today.

It's been almost six weeks of squatting in the near-hoard, stuck between pretending that he wouldn't be here long and feeling overwhelmed by the monumental task of making this place livable, when Charles finally wakes up, opens the front door, and starts dragging shit outside.]

Sorry, mate. [He gives a sideways little wave, plunking down a plastic cat carrier.] Just trying to clean up a bit, yeah?

[If it looks like it might have belonged to a 70-year-old woman prior to the apocalypse, it's sitting in the front yard now. Several ceramic horse figurines. A needlepoint pillow with a Bible verse on it. An ornate mirror, slightly scuffed. Use your imagination liberally. Surrounding it all, however, are items in much worse shape. The mattress looks like someone may have died on it, judging from the stains, and there's plenty of busted, broken furniture that's ripe to be chopped into firewood.]

Nick whatever you want. Don't think Gladys'll miss it much, will she?

𝒊𝒊. 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆

[There's one thing he won't part with from the old lady's house - an old, crumbling stick of black eyeliner he found in a bathroom drawer. With a tragic lack of sufficient inside light, however, he's toted a compact mirror down to the lessening hours of the town's unfiltered sun, and sat down against the back of the hunting supply store.

After thirty years of spiritually manifesting his eyeliner, it's harder than he remembers, especially with the scavenged pencil.]

Fuck. [Someone's having a hard time.] Bloody piece of shit.

[If you approach, he'll have one of a couple of reactions. Older men, particularly those broad or bearded, or otherwise classically masculine, will have him scrambling to conceal the pencil behind his leg, quickly barking out a, ] What're you looking at?

[If you have the good fortune not to remind him of one Paul Rowland, however, his reaction will be much less hostile. Instead, he'll give the pencil a little wave and offer a crooked smile.] Bit harder than back home, innit?

𝒊𝒊𝒊. 𝒐𝒐𝒄

[Contact me at ghoulsonfilm or pantsghost @ discord to plot a custom starter. Brackets are prose are both fine!]

Comments

[afterdrop]

The blazers. Charles can just barely remember the feel of them, scratchy at his wrists, bunched beneath his arms. Pins poking at him since he couldn't afford to get his tailored like the other lads.

"Hilarion was ours. St. Hil's." He says it like it's a curse, like it tastes bad in his mouth. "Named after some old codger who starved himself to death 'cause he was embarrassed about being randy."

There isn't much he remembers from his classes, but that one was amusing enough to stick with him. The stunning result of ten years of formal education culminating in two helpful facts: the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, and Saint Hilarion killed himself because he wanted to fuck.

"Poor old Hilly would have lost his mind knowing how many blokes were sneaking their girlfriends into his school after hours for a shag."

[ployboy]

Tim snorts, but he's grateful for the returning shadows that might hide the hopeless red of his ears. He's learned a lot since getting chased out of Ari's house with a shotgun trained on him after an unfortunate misunderstanding of two high school freshman. He now knows where babby come from- not from hand holding, Steph had told him with a nudge of her elbow.

No, Tim's no prude. He's pretty sure.

But this talk has never been his-- scene. He shakes his head, still good natured and enjoying the moment but he- like, not if they're going to be talking about girls. He says, "I only did co-ed for some months before I had to transfer. Then Brentwood, all boys' school, had dogs on the grounds after hours."

Timothy Drake, chastises his last remaining brain cell, the dog was a pug.

"Nobody went in or out, but that didn't stop the fun. It was alcohol and gambling in my wing. We even had a big 3-letter agency investigation once."