Ask About the Lion

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

The twelfth of May was a date permanently marked onto the ink manipulator's skin. She wore it on her wrist, plain as anything. But she never talked about it. No one ever asked. The two-year old ink had settled - never moved - until someone asked. Until she asked.

Now, it was irritated. Like it was dying for the chance to move; to be displayed someone not so open.

Usually, Lucy found some sort of comfort in her own room instead. But today of all days, that felt like a danger. The last thing she needed was a dramatic call from either of her parents asking how she was. Or rather, asking how Nica was. So for the afternoon, she'd retreated to a better place. The only other place anyone would likely find her.

Here, in the art room, the Australian felt more at ease than she could anywhere else. Despite the paint flecked jeans and the colour amidst her hands, there wasn't an unsettled drop of paint anywhere in the room. She cradled a pencil between her fingers, twisting it idly as she stared down at the pages in front of her. It wasn't right. For whatever reason, it just wasn't. She grazed the edge of the graphite tip in broad strokes across the page, eradicating what once was. And she raked her fingers across the page, drawing it away and curling it between her hands into a ball.

Tossing it idly, she allowed it to fly and fall wherever it was.

[Greg Mackenzie]

Ever since Greg first got shipped to Hammel, the hallways by the art studio – and all the other arts classes – had always been his little study sanctum. He discovered it during his second week, and whenever he needed a place to collect his thoughts for an English paper or read a fifteen-page History excerpt, he’d always sit by those huge windows. It was perfect. Not a lot of students loiter around the halls, and it had an excellent view of the courtyard. It was also indoors, so the telepath didn’t run the risk of being exposed to the elements.

So there he was, minding his own business – highlighter on hand, iPod on shuffle and bananas and Nutella to munch on – when the angry thoughts came rushing it. It began like a minor itch at first, albeit something he couldn’t really scratch. While he’s good with controlling his own thoughts from pouring out, he’s still a bit behind on making sure other people’s thoughts keep to themselves. Turning the volume up his iPod did the trick for about three minutes, but then the anger and hurt and irritation just kept going up and up that, well, damaged eardrums just wasn’t worth it.

“Umm, excuse me,” he said as he opened the door without even knocking, popping two pills to dull the pain, “Would you mind toning the anger down? Range, angst and hurt are so 2013 – well, angst actually is probably 2009 even – and so do not look pretty. On anyone.” He instinctively reached up and caught the tossed paper with minimal effort. Without really thinking, he opened the crumpled paper and didn’t bother hiding his amusement. “This though, would look so pretty. In my wall. In a gallery. Anywhere.”

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

The last thing Lucy really expected was someone starting in on her, regardless of the way they went about it. Glancing at the door, she took in the recognisable face and erratic looking hair with little interest. She watched for a second or so as he rambled on; midway through she deftly raised two hands and offered the guy duel middle fingers. Even if it didn't silence him, it'd give him something.

He wasn't the first telepath she was close to, but he was the one she knew with the least control.

Fuck off Gregory.

"How's that grabbing you, sunshine?" Lucy spoke verbally now, sarcasm and wit by buckets as she lowered her hands and continued to fiddle with the pencil between her fingers, "As gently as you always dreamed it would?"

[Greg Mackenzie]

Greg let out a barely audible “Aaah!” when Lucy decided to cut him off midsentence. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t hear his hiss of pain; his face showcased it with exquisite detail. “Didn’t even let me finish,” he said, only half-joking.

Like the first guy I met on Grindr. Never. Again.

He folded the Serrano-original and put it neatly in his back pocket. IfWhen Lucy makes it big, who knows, selling these supposed scraps would probably be enough to pay for a car, or even a yacht. Those snobby art sluts would pay big money for anything attached to a name, even if it’s just a splatter of colour on a blank canvas. Or at least that’s how he saw it anyway.

“Better. Like being fucked by a chainsaw.” He grabbed a chair and sat behind Lucy, tilting his head to the side as he tried to make sense of her new creation. “And this entitled what, ‘I can’t help it if I’ve got a heavy flow and a wide set vagina!’?”

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

Lucy quirked her eyebrow when he sat behind her, feeling a spike of irritation when anyone tried looking over her shoulder. She dropped the book to the bench with a glorious slam, shutting it and pressing a hand to the cover.

"Don't need the bloody kinks of your love life, mate." She pointed out idly.

Turning in her chair, the Australian made the imperative move to face him. "I'd rather figure out what the hell's brought you to a place like this." She started, quickly raising a hand before he managed to answer. Because she bet he always answered quickly. "You were bullied at your last school for being the biggest, gayest queen in the whole place, and you finally found a way to squeeze all that tortured pain into your gloriously written one man show about how okay it is to be gay."

Instantly, Lucy grinned. And the warrior girl tattoo on her upper arm matched the look. If ink could properly articulate emotions, of course.

[Greg Mackenzie]

Greg made a face that he described as something that’ll perfectly encapsulate the feeling of oh-shit-did-I-do-something-wrong-LOL-long-hair-don’t-care-but-maybe-I-care-slightly-but-don’t-tell-Lucy. He may seem a little tall and a bit more built than an average sixteen year-old boy, but deep inside he’s barely a thirteen year-old girl. Not that Lucy didn’t know that yet.

He had just opened his mouth to say something when Lucy held her hand up. He let out a little hiss and (playfully) threatened to bite her hand off. “It’s actually being adapted to a movie now.” His eyes widened just a bit as he gave her the fakest smile he could muster, hopefully being enough to warn her not to interrupt him again or else. “So fun being the casting director and sleeping with all the breakout star hopefuls.” He gave Lucy a wink. “I’m looking for someone to play the crazy lesbian lady friend. Interested?”

“And why are you here? Killed someone with your fanged vagina?” adding some loud chomping noises for ‘realism’.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

Feigning her best expression of interest, Lucy nodded as Greg played along with the joke he offered. It was something she appreciated about him; his ability to seemingly joke along without really caring. "Christ, no." She replied, her grin broadening as she raised her free hand to run her fingers idly across her jaw, "But hey, if you ever need a few words of discouragement to fuel your fucking hatred for society, I reckon I can help you out."

Her nose crinkled at his question. And the noise he offered with it. Anything to stop herself from laughing, but she wasn't about to take the whole thing seriously either way, "This's where I hang out, y'know." She replied instead, "When I'm trying to lure in by best buddies like you. Worked, didn't it?"

[Greg Mackenzie]

“Hatred? What’s that?” asked Greg, channeling his eight grade girlfriend Brenda Smith in hopes to give Lucy a believable dumb blonde that’d make her roll over the floor laughing. At the rate he’s going though, it’s less smart dumb blonde and more annoying little bitch that needed to be drowned. Asap. “Emotions are for ugly people.” He rolled his eyes and gave the fakest smile he could muster, blinking like those creepy murderous dolls the horror movies of the nineties loved.

And it might seem like a joke, but a more positive version of that had been Greg’s motto ever since his parents had their divorce. Mind you the divorce wasn’t messy, but it was still too much for six-year old Gregory to process. Learning to laugh at himself and roll along life without a care became his defense mechanism, as much as he hated using that word. (Negative connotation and all).

The telepath let out another snort – he’s with Lucy, so fuck caring if he looked like a disgusting Neanderthal – when the Aussie told him why she’s in the room. “Best buddies? Us? Oh shit darling.” Now the telepath tried to look serious and concerned, complete with the lip bite, thousand sighs, darting eyes, pleading stare and nervous scratching of the head. So he watched a lot of TV. Sue him. “It’s too fast. I…I can’t do commitments, and you know that.” He got off his seat and walked towards Lucy, holding both her hands and getting their faces way too close for comfort. “I think we should break up.”

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

"Ah, cause you're such a damn looker, aye?" Lucy asked, unable to stop the short breath of laughter she offered at the phrase he offered.

Lucy did her best to drop her smile and adopt a more serious expression when Greg went on a rant about them breaking up. She watched each little fake tick he offered the Australian. And she glanced down at his hands when he took hold of hers. Immediately her hold on his hands tightened, clear cut desperation evident in her eyes as she caught his gaze again.

"Fuck, I dunno how to tell you this. I've been cheating on you wicked hard." And with that, the serious expression she wore broke into pieces, and she was grinning again. And trying to shake his hands off hers. Contact wasn't always her forte; "So where the fuck didja come from, baby?"