#⋆ girty : threads .

[mcthmancometh]

Girty's nod, such a small, simple thing, had August letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He had fully expected her to say no, to shoot him down and disappear off into the night without him, leaving him waiting like a starved dog begging for the table scraps of her attention, few and far between as they were. But here she was offering him a whole feast, or an olive branch at the very least, and he couldn't help the seed of hope that took root in his chest, even as they walked to the bar in relative silence that hung heavily between them, a constant reminder that things still weren't the same and likely never would be. As Girty scurried off to the bathroom, August grabbed them a table, which wasn't hard — the Salty Bear was rarely all that crowded, and most folks had better places to be tonight, it seemed, with the Festival going on outside. He craned his neck to try and catch sight of whoever was working, but before he could the sound of a too-familiar laugh made his ears prick. He caught a glimpse of long black hair streaked with red out of the corner of his eye as he whipped his head back towards the bench across from him, but once he was actually looking, it was unsurprisingly empty. "Not tonight," he whispered — begged. "Please, please not tonight." He was only answered with dead air. When the waiter came over a minute later, it was enough to startle him out of staring at something that still wasn't there, and he ordered for both of them, but the tension in his shoulders didn't quite drain until Girty was filling the space across from him, real and alive. He couldn't help the small smile that snuck onto his face as she cussed the table out, and it grew into a soft laugh at the fingers wiggled in his face, the warmth from the one that bumped his nose lingering long after she'd moved her hand away. "Nah, I took care of it. No magic required," he told her, and practically on cue their drinks were delivered — a Jack & Coke for him, a Long Island iced tea for her. He lifted his glass, but before bringing it to his lips he asked a familiar question: "What are we toasting?"

How could she have looked into those eyes and said no? A single taste of that soothing green mixed with her own, and all the walls she had constructed around herself were ready to crumble, like cookies crushed in a toddler’s eager fist. So, of course, her answer to his invitation—the one she practically twisted his arm into making (it sure felt that way)—was an eager, lovesick nod of her head. Doomed from the start. Tough, weak creature. Funny, wasn’t it? How the lights coloring their path would’ve served as a beautiful backdrop if things were different: if she weren’t so emotionally unskilled, if she hadn’t clawed him out of her life with the desperation of a rabid dog trying to spare its owner from heartbreak, if he had chosen her from the start… If he had chosen her. The thought was so repulsive it silenced her for the rest of the walk (an unprecedented occurrence), her hands shoved deep in her pockets to avoid the slightest graze against his. Thief. If, if, if. The thoughts kept nibbling and nibbling, relentless little pests. She excused herself the moment they stepped into The Salty Bear, nearly sprinting to the bathroom. Girt stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror—eyeshadow smudged, lipstick more stain than anything, hair doing its own unholy thing. She gave her head a single, violent shake, hoping to dislodge the cursed mantra. Useless. When that didn’t work, her hand dove into the tin box she always kept on her, pulling out two flat little pills that definitely didn’t resemble mints. Maybe some colorful courage would do the trick. Girty dropped onto the sticky booth, snorting instead of wincing when her knee collided with the table, a casualty of her careless movements. “Ouchpiece'ashit—” She muttered, but with renewed zeal, she rested her chin on her palm and turned to August. “Waiter take care of you already? Or am I gonna have to work my wiiiicked magic?” She widened her eyes, waving her free hand’s fingers right in front of his face, accidentally nudging his nose, a spark running up her arm. Yes, tonight could be normal. She would have a drink (more if she was lucky), shoot the shit, and scatter back to her dark and cozy corner of the universe — where she belonged.

[mcthmancometh]

If it weren't for the fact that anyone with working eyes and/or ears could've spotted Girty coming from a mile away, her sudden voice in August's ear probably would've made him jump right out of his skin. As it was, it still managed to startle him, but only a little. He couldn't say the antics themselves surprised him all that much, though — he'd gotten used to that sort of thing from her by now. "Trust me, I ain't tryin' to start fights with anyone," he told her, holding his hands up in surrender (hammer still in one of them) as he turned towards her. He'd been unwillingly dragged into more than enough of them already. He was just trying to make it through this stupid holiday relatively unscathed, or at least without more than the minor bruises he'd sustained from Marshall throwing him onto the ground that very first day. He raised an eyebrow at her, a bemused little smile on his face as he continued, "But it kinda looks like if anyone here's slackin', it's you. Am I gonna have to turn you into Miss Dottie?" The threat didn't hold any actual weight to it. August really couldn't care less whether she was pulling her weight or not, he was only putting effort into building the kissing booth because someone had to, and with all the drama and chaos that had plagued his work group since the start, they were running a bit behind schedule.

STATUS: open, capping at 2/4. EVENT: st. cupid's fest volunteer squad. TITLE: a showdown between your muse & girty... now kiss.

Unlucky for everyone roped into the whole volunteering shtick (since when had Valentine’s Day become that important, anyway?), the moment Girty was assigned to the grunt-work team, their names might as well have been stamped onto a list of death. Not a quick one either — a slow death, by distraction, by endless (and senseless) chatter. True, agonizing torture.

1) All day, she hadn’t done much of anything (sorry, Mabel — sorry, Rosie).  2) Her lack of doing anything had bitten her in the ass — boredom creeping in, turning her restless.  3) Instead of taking said boredom as a sign to be useful, she'd spent her time scanning the place like some kind of killer robot, desperate to find someone to sink her teeth into… 

And in the midst of all the hopelessness — of all the nausea-inducing hearts and cheesy decorations — a beacon of hope. She could practically hear a choir of angels singing. Halle-fuckin'-lujah!

Girty approached silently (which, for someone as subtle as a pink giraffe, was a lost cause), a stupid grin hanging off her bitten lips, pausing to fully slip into character. Then, she spoke screamed directly into their ear. Her voice came out deep, raspy, “Quit yer slackin’! I ain’t payin’ ya t’sit there ‘n look pretty…” She jabbed a finger in their direction, scratching her butt with her other hand — picturing herself as some old, angry foreman who hadn’t gotten laid in a decade. “Y’tryin’ to start a fight with me? Huh?” She added with a low growl, leaning in until her face was pressed against the side of theirs. A puff of air to mess with their hair. “Y’tryin’ to prove somethin’, hotshot?”

[mcthmancometh]

August couldn't hide the surprise on his face when she grabbed his arm — even if he tried, he was sure she'd see right through him. She had a way of doing that, like she was looking right into the hollow, rotten center of him past all the things he tried to bury it under, past every single wall he'd spent his whole life building. And maybe the worst part of it all was how bad he wanted to let her, something he was sure was written all over his face when his eyes moved from her hand on his arm back up to meet her gaze. She knew him in ways no one else ever did, would, could. Despite everything, that hadn't changed. "Well you know cold's never done me any favors," he said. He was the type to have cold hands even on the hottest and stickiest day of summer, like there just wasn't quite enough blood in his veins to go around. He guessed it made sense, in a lot of ways. The walking dead boy who couldn't seem to hang onto anything while it was still alive, no matter how hard he tried. He was pretty sure between the two of them, if anyone was a zombie, it was him. "And neither has this fuckin' festival, so... Somewhere warmer sounds good. A drink sounds even better. I mean — if you want me to get you one." It came out sounding hopeful, almost painfully so, but he couldn't help that, either. When Girty had started distancing herself, he'd never wanted to force his company on her if it wasn't what she wanted, and he really did get why she might not. But he'd felt sick over it constantly, and he couldn't help but hope that maybe one day she'd decide she wanted him around again after all. He doubted this change in heart was going to last more than the night — hell, it might not even last more than the drink he was about to buy her — but even being given this much had felt like too much to hope for, and he thought it was enough to sustain him for at least a little while longer.

It was sick—maybe even perverted—but she wasn’t so sure it was beautiful. As she stared at her friend (were they even friends anymore?), she felt as her teeth grew sharper, blood-thirsty. She could practically taste the skin… feel it give beneath her nails. Want was a wicked thing, a surefire path to trouble—one she knew too well. Yet, standing there, right in front of him and his kiss-like stare, Girty couldn’t shake the foolish desire to crack the door open, to let him back in.  She knew she should stick to what she did best: flash a noncommittal smile, say something stupid, turn on her heel and wave her fingers before disappearing—back to her trailer, back to the loneliness waiting for her, pulling her in like a familiar tide. Eve had been a close… No, a beloved companion. It felt wrong, like cheating (or stealing). But maybe she was exactly as selfish as every Mountaineer said.  A hand shot forward, desperately latching onto his arm, as if any second now he’d see the chaos laid bare before him and react the same way everyone else always did—give up, turn his back on the ugliness. In her eyes flickered a rare glint of vulnerability, paired with the awkward shuffle of her boots, like a schoolgirl caught in a moment far too big for her. “Well, my talented poet—” Not yours... Eve's. And instead of asking for his company, a shoulder to rest her head on: “How’d you like to whisk me away somewhere warmer, huh?” The one not clinging to him tilted the flask’s mouth toward the ground, giving it a few shakes—just a few sad drops lost to the snow. “I just ran outta poison.” It would kill her if he said no—it would kill her if he said yes.

[mcthmancometh]

August never felt the rift that’d formed between him and Girty quite so starkly as he did when she was standing right next to him. The absence of her always loomed in the background, haunting him just as much as an actual ghost, but when he was on his own, it was easier to look past it, to distract himself, to convince himself he could exist in a world without her in it.

But when she was there, really there, close enough to touch but more out of reach than ever, it just made the raw, hollow wound in his heart, the one that was shaped exactly like her, start gnawing away at him all over again. He didn’t know how he’d been walking around like this all this time, how he was supposed to keep doing it.

He watched as she took a swallow from the flask, watched as her attention seemed to wander, and his brain immediately started scrambling, trying to come up with some magic words, anything at all that might get her to stay, just for a minute. But then her eyes darted towards him again, and it was like exhaling after holding his breath, like when the storm clouds finally break, at least for a second. He’d take it. He’d take anything she was willing to offer.

“Guess it depends on the lore,” he replied, tilting his head a little. “Some of them don’t actually eat ‘cause they’re hungry. It’s just the virus trying to spread. So it triggers the hunger response to get ‘em to bite people. I guess if it were those kinds it might, especially if they’re not actually undead, just infected. But sometimes flesh and brains are the only things that’ll stop them from decaying. The only things that’ll stop them from feeling the pain of being dead as they rot away.” He paused for a second, then added, his voice softening a little, “It’s kinda beautiful in a sick sort of way, ain’t it? Needing someone so bad that the only thing you can do to feel alive is sink your teeth into ‘em.”

Life was a weird, tricky thing—one day someone could know you like the back of their hand, as if you were an essential part of their very being (oxygen to their lungs), and the next, you were a severed limb, tossed to the side. She couldn’t fault Auggie for the distance that stretched between them now; after all, she’d been both victim and executioner in this wicked game, chasing people out of her life as though it were a sport. One she’d always been particularly good at—sadistic in the way she sent everyone scattering, only to sink her nails and teeth into their flesh, desperately begging for their return.  Her usually quick tongue tangled itself into knots, words slipping away as her cosmic pupils played a frantic game of ping-pong across his face. Being so up close to him made her guts twist because, yes, she missed him terribly. I know that mole, I know the creases next to your eyes, I know that look of sadness because I put it there by pushing you away... when all I want is to crack your chest open and crawl inside you.  Yet Eve’s ghost clung to her shoulders, a spectral weight whispering she’d be selfish to indulge in those desires. Corrupt girl, you spoil everything—even with your gaze alone. She shuddered, masking the movement as a reaction to the winter chill, violently shaking her head as if the motion alone could exorcise those thoughts out of her skull. When that failed, she added another sip of burning alcohol to the mix. A powerful snort escaped, fur hurrying to swipe the liquid staining her chin and mouth. Play it cool, get a few words out, and walk away with your tail tucked between your legs. “That’s so shitty, man, ‘cuz my fridge’s fuuuuckin’ eeeempty.” She drawled, dragging out the words with exaggerated despair. “Y’think this zombie could live off a couple of beers?” Girty groaned pitifully, monster arms drooping, just like the undead. She really didn’t want to (or told herself that to feel better about herself)… but her heavy eyes flicked towards his face with hesitant curiosity—was he still looking?  God, she hoped he was.