Wry and Watchful (wryandwatchful) wrote in solsticerp, @ 2009-10-23 21:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | jericho, june 7 2009, noah |
Sunday: Who Turned Out the Lights?
Who: Noah and Jericho
Where: the Anchor, Sandpiper Marina
When: 8:20 p.m.
Noah wasn't heavily into drinking. He was more of what could be considered a social drinker than anything, which led to him having a beer at the marina's pub at least a couple nights a week. "Thanks," he said to the bartender as he slid the cold mug down to him. It was a much better pub night than Friday or Saturday, he thought. Much less crowded. Noah wasn't really into crowds, either, although he was a fairly social guy. You could actually hear the music from the jukebox tonight.
He turned his head to speak to the guy next to him, someone he recognized and had talked with a couple of times before. Everyone who actually lived at the marina had met at least once. "Think they have any Skynyrd on that juke?" he mused.
"They have everything on that juke, kiddo," Jericho said with a grin. "But Skynyrd? Definitely." He, however, was into drinking. Drinking was fun. Maybe he was a social drinker, too, but he usually wound up more drunk than people like Noah. He was on his second beer so far, and he was definitely planning on a third, and probably a fourth. But then, that only got him buzzed, not all out drunk. "Places like this always have oldies and country, and Skynyrd is both."
"Not room for everything," Noah disagreed playfully, apparently not minding being called kiddo at the advanced age of twenty-six. "Everything would mean every song in the history of the world." He grinned and sipped from his beer. He loved old jukeboxes like that one in the corner. There was nothing like the sound of an actual vinyl record, in his opinion. All the MP3 players in the universe couldn't compare. "Skynyrd, Zeppelin, Pink Floyd. Nothin' like the classics," he added.
"Well, you gonna go check, or just sit there talkin' about it?" Jereicho tossed back, equally playfully. He'd chatted with this guy a few times-- not enough for him to actually remember his name, unfortunately, though he did try over the course of the conversation-- and found him the kind of guy Jericho liked: friendly, playful, easy-going. The kind of guy Jericho himself figured himself for.
"Guess I could check it out," Noah said agreeably, taking another long drink and then putting his mug down. He shoved back from his stool and made his way over to the juke, already fishing in his jeans pocket for quarters. He leaned over the curved front, looking at the titles. "Kashmir," he said, his tone almost one of reverence. "One of the best songs known to man." He plugged a couple of quarters in and punched the button, nodding in approval. Maybe there wouldn't be too many songs before it came up. He started to turn away from the juke, and at that moment, it died... along with every light in the place. "Well, shit," Noah said mildly.
"That's not even Skynyrd!" Jericho protested lightly, starting to get up and investigate what else there was in the jukebox. He only got a step or two before the lights went out. At which point he froze, looking around. There were a few surprised noises from the few other patrons, but what stood out was no-name-guy's "Well, shit". Which, of course, started Jericho laughing, even as he fished in his pocket for a lighter.
"Who turned out the lights?" he called cheerfully.
"Maybe not," was Noah's reply to Jericho's mild protest. "But I really wanted to hear it, and I am now shit out of luck." Even though he was complaining, his tone was still mellow. He began making his way back across to the bar, since hey! He still had half a mug of beer to drink, and if the lights stayed out, he wouldn't want to hang in here for too long. It'd get stuffy. Even now, a pub patron was propping open the front door so they could get some air... and hear the howling wind that had undoubtedly knocked out the power.
"The wind is plenty nice music," Jericho said firmly, heading the two steps back to his seat and his beer, which he downed in two more gulps before flicking his lighter on to help no-name-guy get back to his seat. "Much older and cooler than Led Zeppelin, anyway, and more musical besides." Well, to a selkie, anyway. Tonight he'd leave this sticky manskin on the boat and go for a swim so he could really hear its music, but that would have to wait a while.
With the help of the flame from the lighter, Noah reached his barstool again and slid onto it. "Thanks, my man," he said, nodding and picking up his mug to lift in a toast. "Here's to you." The rest of his beer went down nice, and he pulled out his wallet to set down some money on the bar for it before he forgot. Noah was, at times, absent-minded. "Yeah, I'm down with wind music. Makes for good sleeping weather on my boat." Most nights he could hear the wind and water even through the little round window, which didn't open, in his stateroom.
"Then I guess you'll be sleepin' well tonight. And the next few nights, if I'm guessin' right." Jericho thought he heard storming on the wind, but in this human form sometimes it was hard to tell. "Another?" he asked the bartender, holding up and shaking his now-empty beer bottle. "Hope you don't have any deep-sea plans for the next few days." Jericho had fishing for tomorrow, but hopefully he'd be docked again before any trouble actually brewed, whenever that trouble came along.
"Yeah," Noah agreed. "I never mind when it's stormy." Fortunately, considering where he lived, he never suffered from seasickness. He pondered another beer and then decided he'd rather not. He hoped to get some writing done before he settled in to sleep for the night. "Nah, I hardly ever take my boat out of the slip," he told Jericho. "I just like living at the marina. Gets my creative juices flowing for some reason. I'm a writer," he added as explanation.
"And here I live on a boat so I can catch fish," Jericho snickered, popping the cap off his newly-deposited third beer. "Does living on a boat actually help a writer? Really? Or is it just a nice excuse for a cheap house that happens to move all the time?" He'd never live on land for anything, especially not for work. Writing? Deadlines? Yuck. Fishing was much more his speed.
"I could write anywhere," Noah replied, running both hands through his close-cropped hair and then crossing his arms on top of the bar. "But I think it gives a unique vibe to it. Especially when it's stormy out. I write horror novels," he explained, since he knew writer could mean any number of different things. He could've written newspaper articles, magazine articles, textbooks. "So how do you do with the fishing?" he asked. "Guess you have to go far out, with the water as rough as it is around here."
"Oooh, horror is fun," Jericho grinned, his face half-shadowed by his hair in the lighter's light. "I might have to grab one of your books-- you got any on your boat? I'll hafta swing by on my way back in." He downed half his beer in one go, made a contented noise, and added, "I go a ways out, yeah, but it's not too bad. I get decent hauls. I don't need much to pay for living, which's all I want, really. It's the freedom to do whatever that I like, anyway, not the money."
Noah chuckled. "I'm the typical narcissistic author-- I have advance and mass-market copies of each one of the damned things. Be glad to loan you one if you want." He had three published and was busily working on number four. He nodded to Jericho's comments about his chosen vocation. "Freedom, yeah, I get that. I'd think fishing would be pretty excellent. Out on the open water and all." He felt that any job would be freeing as long as it was something about which you were deeply passionate; he was that way about being a novelist. It was something he'd wanted to do-- the only thing he'd wanted to do-- from a very young age.
"You should come with me some day you're not busily writing away," Jericho suggested, silently reminding himself to remember not to forget about picking up a book or three on his way home. He'd probably forget, anyway, though, unless no-name-guy remembered for him. "Just to get away from the daily grind of... uh... words. We could even bring some of your books!"
"Sure, I'd like that," Noah replied right away. He was sure going out in a fishing boat would be a different experience from sailing his boat, and who knew? He might want to write about a deep-sea fisherman one day, and he'd have real life details to draw from. "Good thing about being a novelist is I make my own schedule." He couldn't imagine working a job with set hours; that would drive him nuts in no time. "We might want a book or two if it takes a while to catch anything," he added with a smile.
"Oh, I'll probably make you work," Jericho promised with a big grin. "I don't use poles unless I don't really need to catch anything but my own dinner." And even then, he tended to skip the poles and just go swimming. Seals were very efficient fish-catchers. When using the boat, though: "I use nets. We'll see what we come across, and whether we need the books in the end." And whether Jericho remembered to drag him out one day. He finished off his beer and considered another.
Mmm, probably not. It was getting stuffy in here already. "Wanna head out, or you aiming to wait until the power comes back so you can get your Led Zeppelin?"
"I'm not afraid of hard work," Noah said amiably. He was keen on running and working out, and he figured hauling nets would be good exercise, if nothing else. "So sign me up." When Jericho asked him if he was ready to go, he nodded and pushed his stool back to get up. "I'm ready," he said. "I'll have to get the Zep fix another day." It was getting stuffy in here, even with the door propped open.
"Let's get out of here," Jericho agreed, and he pulled out some cash to leave for his beers before making his way to the open door. "Hope you didn't have too much to keep steady in the wind, matey! Sounds like it's still blowing." And, given the plastic bag that just blew by the open door, it looked like it was still blowing, too. Jericho, three beers or not, was just fine in the wind. It took a whole hell of a lot more than that to make him lose his footing, even on land.
"I have everything fastened down pretty well," Noah said, following Jericho out the propped-open door. "It only took me a couple weeks of losing things off the deck for me to get smart." And his boat was anchored securely, so he felt he was as ready for a stormy night as anyone else would be. They began the walk across the paved lot toward the slips, and he observed that the lights were out for as far as he could see... well, except for the occupied boats that had their own power sources.
Jericho laughed, slinging an arm over the guy's shoulders as they walked-- he was an affectionate sort of person, really. Or maybe just touchy. "I meant alcohol, man. Sheets to the wind and under the table and all that. Whether you drank too much and you were gonna fall over at a stiff wind! Though you're obviously doin' all right." Since he wasn't weaving or anything.
Noah didn't really have a problem with the sudden arm around him. He was easygoing all the way around, and he was also the sort who'd randomly throw an arm around someone if he felt like it. "Aw, hell. Listening comprehension for the win." Anyone would think he'd had too much to drink, right? "I just had one, so I'm makin' it fine. Wanted to finish the chapter I'm working on before I head to bed."
"What's happening in this chapter?" Jericho asked with a grin. Well, the grin never really went away, especially not now that they were out in the sea wind. He tilted his head back to let it play with his hair. "Does anyone die? Does anyone get lucky?" A horror story wasn't complete without a love interest and a little messy sex at some point, after all.
"There's webcam porn," Noah said, amused. "Does that count? The next chapter's the first death." And yes, there'd be more messy sex too, possibly involving dismemberment. Good times. Some people who read his stuff thought he had to be sick as hell to write the way he did, but honestly, Noah was disgustingly normal. Well, except for being a shapeshifter, and that was neither here nor there.
"Ooooh, yeah, webcam porn counts." If Jericho thought he could figure out how to work a computer, he'd have to get into some of that. But he doubted he could figure out a computer. "Who dies? And who did it? Don't worry about spoiling me, I doubt I'll remember by the time the book comes out, what, in a year?" Yeah, he'd probably have forgotten the author by then. Rather like he still couldn't remember said author's name.
"Dude, several people die," Noah pointed out as they stepped onto the wooden dock that would lead them to their boats. "The murderer is the last guy most people would suspect-- the Episcopalian priest. Well, nobody's gonna suspect him until toward the end." Generally he hated telling plot details ahead of time, but this guy was asking such vague questions that he didn't really mind it so much.
"Oh that's great!" Jericho laughed. "I love when the good guys turn out to be bad guys. Priests? Hell yes. Is he totally psycho? Does he toss body parts around and leave bloody messages on the walls? Or is he one of those guys who thinks he's a good guy?" Quite honestly, Jericho preferred the complete psychopaths as his bad guys, even if they hid it. Trying to see the bad guys from a sympathetic perspective gave him headaches.
"He's definitely psycho," Noah said, "but he has it together enough to fool everyone around him. Hopefully it's a real creepy vibe that'll leave everyone's skin crawling a while after they're done reading the book." He'd been told he was good at conveying that sort of nuance, anyway. This was probably the least sympathetic villain he'd ever written, and he looked forward to seeing how people reacted to him.
"Oooo, do you usually write creepy villains?" Jericho asked with a bright smile, one that probably didn't go well with the subject matter. "I'll love you books, if so. I love the really creepy ones." What could he say? He hated being scared in real life, but scary books were awesome. "What else've you written? Can I borrow a couple?" Had he asked that already? Who cared. "We'll be getting to your boat first, I think."
"Most of 'em are pretty creepy," Noah said. "A few of 'em have semi-rational motivations for what they do, but I don't think that detracts from anything." At least Jericho seemed enthusiastic about reading his stuff. That was cool. "Sure, you can borrow some," he said, digging in his pants pocket for the key to the cabin door of his boat. "This is mine right here," he said, nodding to the white and blue boat bobbing in the slip just ahead.
Jericho was almost always enthusiastic, at least when it came to something he saw as enjoyable. He was just an enthusiastic person. He dropped his arm from no-name-author's shoulders and pulled his hair out of his face again. Silly wind. "Bit fancier than mine," he commented. "Mine's a little beat up!" After all, while it had been quite modern when he'd bought it, that was eight or nine years ago, now, and it had been well-used since.
"I got a good deal on it," Noah said with a shrug, stepping from the dock onto his boat. It wasn't a yacht, certainly, but it was nice. He had no complaints about living on it. "C'mon aboard and I'll fetch you a book or two," he added, walking carefully across the swaying boat to the door that led down to his living quarters and unlocking it. He tried to think if he'd left a mess below with scattered clothes and used glasses, but he couldn't remember. Sometimes he was lucky to remember his name when he was writing.
Walking across the deck like it was the most natural thing in the world to compensate for the way it shifted, Jericho followed amiably. "How many books have you published, anyhow?" he asked curiously, peering around to get the boat's specs in his head-- sail, motor, generator, estimated yardage, whatever-- and deciding his boat was bigger. But then, his had a hull for fish, and usually smelled fishy. This boat smelled almost too clean.
"Three," Noah said from over one shoulder as he began descending down into the living area, leaving the door open so Jericho could follow him. "Working on number four." He'd been lucky that his first novel had caught on so well. It had resulted in him being offered a three-book contract, and hopefully once he finished this one, there would be another contract to follow. He glanced around as he reached the foot of the steps. Eh. Not too bad. At least he'd rinsed his dishes from the morning, even though they were still stacked on the edge of the small stainless-steel sink.
It was cleaner than Jericho's little boat. He'd have to remember to clean up a little before anyone showed up. He especially wouldn't want to leave any of his skins lying around-- which they were, at the moment. "How long does a book take to write?" he asked curiously, poking his nose into cupboards, well, nosily.
Noah had wandered over to his small bookcase in the main living area, hunting for his books amidst the stacks of volumes that filled it and surrounded it. When he heard Jericho opening cupboards, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Don't mind the axe and the severed head under the sink. I'm gonna get rid of them one of these days." Maybe it was a tiny bit odd for the guy to be poking around like that, but much like the arm around him, Noah couldn't have said he really minded. He was so easygoing sometimes, his younger brother had used to complain, that people had to prod him to see if he was dead. "Oh, it depends. I wrote my first one in five months, and the second one took closer to twelve."
Of course, Jericho immediately had to drop to a crouch to check under the sink. Sadly, there was no severed head. Though if there really had been, Jericho didn't know what he'd have done. Probably screamed and run away. So it was probably a good thing there wasn't one. "Five months?" he said, peeking up over the sink-cupboard's door. "Seriously, you wrote a whole book in five months? That's insane." Jericho didn't think he could write even half a book in five months. That was, of course, assuming he could write half a page before he got bored.
Noah chuckled, unable to help himself. Did the guy think he'd been serious? Maybe he was just joking around since Noah was. "Five months to first draft, yeah," he told him when he asked. "That's rare. Usually takes longer than that, but that was pretty much all I did for those five months." He located his mass-market copies of Last Mile and Uncommon, the first two of his three books, and pulled them out of the bookcase. "I guess you can judge for yourself how well I did in five months when you read the first one."
Nope, not joking. Not really, anyway. Just a bit literal, and a bit low in the IQ scale. Straightening up and closing the cabinet doors again, Jericho came over to take the books from him and look them over curiously. "I'll do that. I can read these when it storms. It'll give me something to do." Well, provided the storm lasted a couple days. Jericho wasn't the fastest reader ever. The best thing about getting the books, though, was that now he knew Noah's name. "Thanks, Noah."
"You're welcome, man," Noah replied, clapping him on the shoulder and feeling mildly guilty that he didn't remember his name. He felt sure they'd introduced themselves before. Well, maybe it'd come to him later. "Hope you like 'em." His brand of horror wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but fortunately they were someone's. They generally sold pretty well right after they were published.
"I hope so, too," Jericho said. He was starting to feel a little itchy, though, which meant it was time to go. Once the itches set in, it was only a matter of time before so did the nausea, which meant he needed to go for a swim. He scratched at the side of his neck, and said, "Once the storm rolls over, I'll drag you out to go fishing, and then we'll be even. You have a good night, though, a'ight?"
"Sounds good," Noah said with a nod. "You have a good one too. Take it easy." He planned to have a most excellent night, himself. A cup of hot chocolate and an hour-- or two-- spent writing would send him off to sleep very nicely. He wandered over to the foot of the stairwell, planning to follow Jericho up so he could double-check that the boat was anchored securely and everything tied down.
Jericho bounded up the stairs, books under his arm, and held the door for Noah-- whose name he could keep in his head at least for a little while now!-- when he reached the top. "I always take it easy," he agreed cheerfully, then hopped back over to the dock. "Night, Noah!"
Noah braced his feet on the deck to keep from being blown over by the gusts of wind that were rocking it from side to side. "'Night!" he called, raising his voice to be heard over nature's sound effects. "Seeya soon!" Then he turned his attention to checking the moorings and squinting out at the dark skies and the churning waters of Sandpiper Cove. Yep, it was going to be an excellent night for writing horror. He could just tell.