Re: quicklog: atticus/matt
[Atticus laughed. Low, rumbling, only a hint of cough accompanying the sound this time.] Look like I'm withering away to nothing? [That was something Atticus had never been accused of. Had always been on the thick side. Even sickly, hospitals every week, he had always been on the thick side. Had never been thin. Had never been athletic. Had never been the type of man that stood out in a room. Wasn't starving. Wasn't eating much, belly was slightly concave, but he was big-boned. Mother had said that. Thick boned. Light wasn't good in the loft, especially away from the window as Atticus deliberately was, but wasn't dying of emaciation. Was scarred, old scars, noticeable with brighter light or touch, but wasn't dying of hunger. Would take a lot longer for that to happen.]
Glad my pulse passes muster. [Smirk accompanied that. Disenchanted, buzzed, lazy smirk that hardly reached Atticus' mouth. Still, a smirk.] Kerouac? Asshole. Most of the Beats were. They were changing the world. They were poets. Can't do those things without being an asshole. Nice guys don't cause change. [He anticipated Matt's protest.] Going to say Steve was a nice guy. Are right. But Steve was a tool. Used by the military. Not precisely the same. Good man in a harsh world. [Considered. Then deliberately flipped pages.] “What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.” [Set the book aside completely. Pulled his glasses off and set them on the book's cover.] Was an asshole, but was honest. Like in that passage. Leaving people is hard, so we compensate by looking forward. Life is just a succession of looking forward to the next thing, a series of forcing ourselves to forget what's in the rearview. [Atticus had taught. Could use full sentences when he felt like it. Just another sign of his terminal laziness.]
Was raised in a Brownstone. Even worse. [His smile was personal. Inside joke. Atticus' parents had been brilliant academics, but they hadn't been particularly tidy or concerned with manners.] Brooklyn. [He knew the accent. Atticus, himself, was mostly unaccented. The Bronx that should be in his voice wasn't there. Another malady of being raised by traveled academics and missing too much school due to illness.]
OK. Matt. [Atticus wasn't timid. His isolation wasn't timidity. Thought nothing of touching the man on the bed.] Asked her to come. Vampire. [Which he felt was explanation enough. Didn't know PJ was having trouble. All Atticus knew was that PJ had feelings for this man with the metal arm. Was too wasted to think about that at present. Was too messed up in the head to think about it. Wasn't sure he'd had a clear thought since all those days in the cold cellar of that house in the woods. The cigarette burned down. Atticus brought it to his mouth again. The horizontal scars along Atticus' left forearm became evident with the raise of cigarette. Wasn't worried. Assumed Matt had cataloged all his scars previously.]
Look young when you're surprised. [Didn't withdraw his hand. Banked the cigarette and leaned his head back against the wall. Closed hazel eyes. Thumb traveled against collarbone.] Where does it lead? [The scar.]