Punk | Joey Ritchie (oioioi) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-21 20:22:00 |
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Entry tags: | goth, punk |
Who: Punk and Goth
What: Punk's having little sister-thing over for dinner and drunken confessions.
Where: Punk's place just outside SoHo.
When: Tuesday evening.
Warnings: Language, without a doubt.
He'd stayed out of the city for a reason. A good reason, Punk thought, but a few short years later and here he was. Back home, even though the place took the best out of him and left it dead on the floor. At one point in time he'd thought it a fair deal -- not a good deal, this agreement he had with New York, but a fair one nonetheless. Thirty years later, the young-old New God realized that he'd been as naive as every one of his mortals was back then.
Standing in his cramped apartment's unusually large kitchen, Punk banished the thought of times past. Like it or not, he was back home -- the only other place to ever make him feel so alive was London, and try as he might he hadn't been able to make it back there. With people like Simon Cowell and Kylie Minogue in the country, it was probably for the best. He may have been history in New York City, but damn if it didn't feel right here.
Besides, tonight wasn't about him. It was about Goth and her embarrassing taste in fuck-buddies. (And why was she the one getting laid, anyway, when he at least knew better than to screw a Christian?) After her flailing bout of insanity and Rave's subsequent plea for help, Punk had felt eye-rollingly obligated to invite Elvira Lite over so as to knock some sense into her. He'd given her his address and instructions to bring vodka. After that, it was just a matter of the sun setting. It gave Punk enough opportunity to start putting together a meal, and perhaps to pray that Goth wouldn't pick at his old-man vices, his need to cook and create. To control something or bring it to a state of anarchy depending on his mood.
He'd been strangely blank during prep, moving about the kitchen with no expression on his lined face. (Sure, the living room was small and the bedroom was a closet, but the kitchen had a window and the pantry was a reach-in.) He'd headed out to several markets throughout the day in hopes of looking up old faces. Punk had returned home with bags full of thick-cut proscuitto, branches of fragrant mint leaves, shelled peas that finally let a man know spring was here, and the knowledge that too many people he'd known were dead. The chefs, the serious ones, they were the closest thing he had left to the good days.
Going through the motions in the kitchen -- boil, salt, ice bath -- Punk sneered to himself. He didn't have a heart to break, never had. No point in mourning the bodies because there was no future to begin with. Just make the damn meal, turn up the music and wait for Goth to arrive.