Hey Kid I have to question, What's with the violent aggression? Details blurry, lost 'em too early Hey Why won't you listen? Can't help the people you're missing It's been done, a casualty re-run//I see you're a king who's been dethroned Cast out In a world you've never known Stand now Place your weapons by your side It's our war In the end we'll surely lose But that's all right- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
If there was anything Damien hated the most: it was having to come in before the sun was up. He hated being cooped up in this shitty place when the sun was out. Proper people came in at this time. Boring people. People who always made an effort to judge the ginger as he tried to sketch in his book.
Who the hell were they to judge how he lived his life? So what if he didn't want to live by the rules. If he wanted to steal things while he still had a job? Wanted to go around and terrorize everyone. It was what he grew up doing. What he knew by heart. Why go and try to fix something that isn't broken?
It had been years since he'd crossed through the Portal. Had taken him just as long to figure out was you could and couldn't do in this world. It didn't take him long to find out he hated it though. This world was a crock of shit and he just wanted to go back to Halloweentown. Though, from what Jack had told him on their faithful encounter, their home was probably overrun. Making it impossible for them to go back.
Every time he thought of that conversation he wound up in a fight. He just couldn't control himself with those thoughts running through his head.
So as the day went, he sat there with his sketchbook out trying to add some details to his last sketch of the red-head from the diner, he was interrupted.
Whenever he picked up his pencil someone walked through the door. As lead touched paper that stupid fucking bell would tinkle and someone would want assistance. Was it really that hard to read for yourself? No. Just because he worked there doesn't mean he knows what the hell he's working with. He wasn't use to working with sober people. He liked working with the idiotic alcoholics and under-aged teenagers. He could ignore them easier than the sober folk.
After just having reluctantly helping a lost tourist, he sighed heavily as he sat behind the counter, letting his head roll back and his hair fall over his shoulders. Today was going to take for fucking ever. He could feel it. He would never get the chance to finish what he was working on. Would never get a chance to be alone.
Digging into his bag, he searched for his lifeline. Searched for the one little treasure that would make him feel better. C'mon. Where were you, you son of a bitch. Sifting through loose candy, used and abused pencils, crumbled pieces of paper, some socks, even his wallet, he finally managed to find what he was looking for.
"About fucking time!"
Shoving his clenched fist into the air, he let his bag fall to the floor as his fingers hastily went to ripping the plastic open and flipping the small red ball up into the air and catching it skillfully in his mouth.
A pleased grin spread across his face as the small little ball exploded in a fiery frenzy in his mouth. "Oh Mista Firebaw- how eye've mizzed you." There was nothing like the burn of a fireball to the red head. There was just something about them that made him feel all sorts of good inside. Taking a glance at the clock that was barricaded behind the thick plexiglass, he huffed through his nose as she switched the small ball from one side of his mouth to the other.
Now. To wait until freedom found its way to him.
Slowly time passed, and he was thankfully undisturbed. It gave him time to chill the fuck out and enjoy his fireball, while adding some final touches to his sketch. Sitting up, he stretched, hearing his spine pop and crack as a pleased moan escaped his lips. Damn that felt good. With another huff through his nose, he shut his sketchbook and tucked it away in his bag. The sound of a plastic wrapper being ruffled caught his ears and he practically dove headfirst into his bag in search of the little ball of fire. It was eluding him, and he wanted it.
His legs were wrapped around the stool and he was bent over with his head actually in the bag when he heard the muffled tinkled of the bell and the terrible echo of a 'dingaling' that followed it. Stilling in his position, he listened for something to follow, and groaned loudly into the bag as only one person called out: “OH HONEYYYY! I’M HOMEEE!” Fucking Ender.
Letting the bag drop to the floor he flipped himself up and let his hair fan out like a splatter of blood. It was one of the cooler features of having long, red hair. "Hey Asshat. What the hell brings you all the way over here?" He grinned at the younger boy and leaned against the counter, his chin resting in his hands. "And why the hell don't you have a sandwich for me?"