| Welcme back to town, woah I should lie down, everything's brown and uh oh. . |
[Mar. 7th, 2008|12:24 pm] |
Who: Angel and Collins
Where: E. 6th street, New York City.
When: Early morning hours.
Warnings: Entirely possible, if Angel gets him drunk/stoned enough, not that he isn't high off his as XD
Dropping into the world stoned wasn't the best way to arrive but not entirely the worst either. At least he wasn't minding the biting cold too badly. He was aware of it, certainly, but he couldn't have cared less. He sat up against a building, laughing at every object or person that went by, consciously avoiding taking out another roach to smoke since his Mami had told him not to. It wasn't long before Collins could smell her on the air, hear the delicate clicks of her heels and remember what it had been like all that time ago.
Fuck, she was really alive. Standing, he was suddenly very sober and very aware, and he rubbed at his eyes under his shades to glance in the direction those reminders were coming from. "Mama, 's that you?" |
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[Feb. 25th, 2008|09:50 pm] |
Who: Angel Dumott Schunard and Raymond Wood
What: Dancing, flirting, etc.
When: Flashback, about a week ago, whilst Greg is being awkward and Angel wants to make friends
Warnings: Drag. Flirting. Past that, I'll let you know.
Angel had finally gotten into the swing of things, concering the ballroom, her line, and her life in general, and had decided that there was entirely too much work involved, in running the party scene. She was looking for a day off, to let someone else run the show for a while. Having tried to contact the new acquaintances she'd met over the boards, and failing, she decided to do some snooping of her own, remembering one of the boys had said something about a dance studio.
A bit of creative detective work later, she stumbled upon the studio in question, walking up the steps and heading inside, immediately giving a little shimmy at the upbeat latin music blaring from the speakers. She stuck out a bit- plastic dress under a mess sweater, hardly typical Samba attire. But she believed she looked fabulous, and that was all she cared about.
Heading to the desk, she struck up a conversation with the secretary, idly watching the dancers in hopes of seeing the owner. |
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