savetheearth | The Clock's Heart it Hangs Inside its Open Chest [Backdated to Jan. 9, Closed]

'Wear dark clothes', L had said. Cesar's memory was perfectly fine, but there was a line between 'unfashionably dreary' and 'blatantly robbing a place' and it had to be drawn somewhere. It was a small thing to worry about, but after the hours he'd spent worrying the night before he welcomed the reprieve. The anticipation was more than he could stand... He'd be glad when this was all over.

The shop is crowded, and at first it seems as though Cesar intends to join the long line to the counter. He bypasses it, heading towards L directly. As soon as he gets close to a verbal conversational distance, he lifts a hand and moves it near his head.

{Hi.}

Most of L's clothes are black these days, fitting his whip-thin figure closely. The change from the faded, drab, baggy garments he wore before he started receiving Pulses wasn't an entirely sudden one, but it was probably the most noticeable after he came back from the hospital following Moises' death. He used to dress like someone a stiff breeze could push over; now his steel-toed boots give his steps some weight, and the form-fitting jeans and jackets ensure that anyone who wants to hurt him will have to get close enough to feel that weight.

He glances up at Cesar's approach, probably seeming more surprised that is polite. "Oh, you... made it. I'm glad."

The implication, of course, is that he had doubts about whether or not Cesar would make it. He stands, leaving his coffee half-finished, slinging a heavy backpack over his thin shoulder.

"The next bus comes in five minutes. Are you ready?"

Cesar's face twists slightly, and the implications are not lost on him. It surprises him a little to realize that he's insulted.

{Are you?} he counters, reaching in his pocket for the bus fare he's already separated. He doesn't take it out; the gesture is reassuring, like checking that he has his keys, or his wallet.

He turns when the bag is settled, walking towards the door.

Lazarus shrugs and mumbles evasively, avoiding Cesar's gaze for the moment. "Maybe it's not really the right word..."

Is there any "right word" to communicate this kind of thing? No, perhaps not.

He follows close on Cesar's heel as he heads outside; the bus stop isn't far, and the route happens to be running on schedule. The driver barely spares the two dark-clothed figures boarding a second glance; there's nothing particularly unusual about a pair of young men out on the town on a Friday night.

Nodding toward two free seats, he tucks himself against the one nearest the window, leaving Cesar as much space as possible in the one beside him. Though they've committed to spending at least a few hours together this evening, he seems skittish and uncertain about casual, even accidental physical contact with Cesar, more than brushing covered thighs with a complete stranger.

This time around, Cesar is the one who's not paying attention. He's close behind L as they board, and when L climbs into his seat, Cesar is a little more casual with his own space. Their arms bump as he settles. He shifts, leaning significantly closer to avoid a large woman with an even larger handbag--and then he settles back, shifting his shoulders politely out elbow-rubbing range.

Touch is not on his radar. Not with his history of family and friends that were very comfortable with it.

The bus ride doesn't take long at all, and the longest delay is when they have to wait for an old man with a walker to inch his way out the door. A few stops later, and Cesar gestures to L to pull the cord.

L is bone-thin, and bumping into him isn't exactly comfortable. Leaning into him, regardless of how necessity it is to avoid crowded bodies and handbags, has got to be a lot like pressing oneself up against a bundle of sharp sticks. The way he tenses and stiffens at the contact probably doesn't help matters, and he relaxes only when the woman has passed and Cesar's given him a more comfortable amount of space.

Though the bus ride is short, it feels longer to L, because he's trying to decide whether it would be a strange question to inquire if Cesar works out at all. Appropriate, or strange, or alienating? It could sound casual, but it could also blatantly betray the fact that he noticed the well-conditioned muscles in the other man's physique. He starts, a tentative "Do you--" that dies on his lips after that point, and then their stop is up and he has an excuse to turn his eyes toward the window and the cord suspended above it, pulling and standing a little too quickly to exit the bus.

"His house isn't far from here, is it?" he asks, squinting to see their surroundings with the help of nothing but street lights.

Edited 2015-01-15 19:58 (UTC)

The question doesn't go unnoticed, but there's no time for L to finish it before they're disembarking. The bus lumbers away once they're off, and Cesar gestures.

{No, it's close. This way.}

When it looks like L is following his cues, he starts walking. They have a few streets to cover, and a hill or two, mostly because they're not cutting through gated parking lots. It means time that they have to burn, which means time to worry. Cesar already worried his biggest concerns into the ground the night before, and he's not eager to start again now.

He casts for something to distract himself.

{Question?} He points at L.

Sign Language is an immensely practical language in a lot of ways, but in the dark it tends to fall short. Fortunately, there's enough light to see by, and even if there wasn't, L's vision is good enough that he could probably manage to discern Cesar's gestures.

Though he isn't as tall as the other man and his legs aren't as long, he doesn't have too much difficulty keeping up; even after being ill recently, his stamina is greater than most people expect when they look at him.

He's turning on his focus, putting himself in the zone; unlike Cesar, L actually welcomes the anxiety, knowing that it means he's aware of the stakes and will perform better as a result. He's ready for anything... except, incidentally Cesar's reminder of the question he didn't quite get around to asking.

"Oh, you mean..."

He fumbles for the words, knowing what Cesar's referring to but self-conscious about returning to the subject after he'd thought he was in the clear.

"On the bus I noticed you were hard."

...shit. No. Could be taken the wrong way. Clarify.

"...your body, I mean."

Worse. For fuck's sake Lazarus.

"You work out, I... thought you must work out."

Better. Hardly saying much, but better.

His step falters: he trips on the sidewalk and almost drops his tablet. Then he looks down at himself (with a bit of panic), half expecting to find something he shouldn't. Then he looks at L, as though wondering why he'd been looking, and oh god if he even hadn't been and he still noticed Cesar sending up accidental flags, does that mean he thinks--? Cesar looks down at himself again, and then anywhere but either of them. His face is burning hotter than a house fire, and he tugs at his collar.

L finally spits it out, thank god. The embarrassment-damage is done, and Cesar is deliberately trying to play it cool. They're not teenagers, they can get past something like this.

"--"

Oh. Right. He can't speak. He clears his throat silently, wondering what on earth he'd say.

Edited 2015-01-16 08:05 (UTC)

He activates his tablet screen, and the light is blinding in the darkness. Cesar flinches and squints (his night vision is ruined), and doggedly types out a message.

'Yes. I do work out, sometimes.'

There's nothing about this conversation that isn't awkward, though at least he's recovering enough to pretend otherwise.

'Weights. Good eating.

It's self maintenance.

He winces when Cesar trips and nearly spills everything, from that hard, fit body to his tablet, onto the pavement. It's easy to follow the logic of what Cesar had thought that Lazarus was implying, and somehow that makes it even more embarrassing. He averts his eyes, even though Cesar is doing the same and will not benefit from the courtesy, pulling at the hairs on the back of his neck. Even if they're not teenagers, L's physical, mental and emotional ages are sort of all over the place. Parts of him are terribly stunted and damaged, and it really does fall to Cesar to get them started moving past it.

The light from the tablet is blinding, and it takes him a second for his vision to adjust. Once he's read the messages, he is reaching past Cesar's hands, fingertip finding the tablet's settings and working toward dimming the backlit screen.

Lazarus decides it's a good idea to follow Cesar's lead. They are talking about self-maintenance, now, something that Cesar objectively and demonstrably knows more about than he does. "I don't really eat meat, but I want to start," he says earnestly. "The texture and taste have always kind of put me off, but... maybe there's an alternative, like some kind of... I don't know, protein injection? All the benefits without any of the gagging?"

Edited 2015-01-19 23:17 (UTC)

Cesar's walking pace slows. The tablet stays held in both hands, and he's not sure which one will happen first: if his brain will dismantle itself and escape through his spinal cord at the idea that L is asking him the sort of advice he thinks he is, or if it'll burn up from the all-consuming need to figure out whether Lazarus actually realizes what he sounds like. Both are working as fast as they can, and his face is one of the only outlets his conflict has.

He stands there for a long moment, lips twitching uncertainly and eyebrows very low.

The answering silence makes Lazarus a little uneasy. He'd been trying to relate and giving it his best shot to grant Cesar some authority on a topic, but something has backfired. He watches for Cesar to type further on his tablet, and then, slightly anxiously, peers around to try to see his face. This approach is very unhelpful, as Lazarus' cheat sheet didn't describe anything even close to the brain-break written across Cesar's features.

Please don't make this strange... I thought we were moving away from that.

"I guess you don't know what it's like..." he says quietly. "I've never been masculine, so... if I sound weird, or even freakish, it comes from a place of wanting to improve in that area. If that means surrounding myself with meat, and choking it down, then... I really am committed. If I have a chance to be something like healthy, I don't want to blow it."

Several long seconds if silence stretch on even further. Does he... Is Lazarus trying to say... But it sounds like a perfectly blundering question about food, and knowing Lazarus, it would be, wouldn't it? But if it wasn't--

Cesar drags one of his hands over his face, grits his teeth, and activates the screen again.

I'm not sure how to answer this. Can you ask me again later, with different words?

We should be focusing on the fact that we're about to break into a man's home, rather than 'meal planning'.

It's probably a blunder. Even so, he can't help that last remark, doesn't want to keep the dredges of his confusion from his face as he turns the tablet around. He's feeling guilty already, but what are the alternatives? Stand around and swap double entendres until their target gets home, and the whole evening is a waste?

No. Not here, now, or with Lazarus. Cesar's never seen anything like this coming from him, but even he had, he can think of several dozen reasons why none of it should continue.

Cesar's response is a longer time coming than is really comfortable, and when it does appear, it catches Lazarus entirely off-guard. He wonders what was wrong with his chosen words, and why the topic seems so disturbing to his companion.

"Are you nervous?" he asks, dark eyes wide. "I guess it's understandable if it's your first time, but... entering should be fairly easy. Preliminary remote stakeouts seem to indicate that the back door, leading into the cellar, is the most promising way in. I've got this," he assures Cesar, sounding the barest trace of impatient. He was willing to stop talking about the new and improved, protein-rich diet of the future, but it was hardly a distraction to the evening's aim.

"We should be coming up on it shortly, shouldn't we?"

Cesar pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes as though he could dissipate the headache through sheer force of will. (It doesn't work.) That's it. This is accidental, and that's all Cesar will respond to.

{Yes,} he gestures, glancing ahead. {It's up ahead. The fourth house. With the hedge and the truck.}

He can see a van behind a wooden slat fence, but he ignores it for now. The house is dark, and all vehicles are always present whenever he goes out drinking: none of this means the man is home.

The presence of the vehicles seems to give Lazarus automatic pause, but of course, he remembers that the man is, at least, sort of responsible when he goes out and gets wasted. He still halts in the middle of the sidewalk, kneeling and unzipping his backpack to remove a package wrapped in thick, brown paper. He sets it on the pavement, then also removes a sleek black case. "Lock picks," he says, explaining the case, before zipping up his backpack, straightening, and carrying the two items in-hand as they approach the dark house.

As they approach the fence and Lazarus reaches for the latch, a hunk of snarling mass slams into it from the other side. Hastily, he is pulling on a pair of latex gloves, pulling open the brown package and tossing something from it over the fence. The snarling on the other side stops.

"I'd thought there might be a dog," he mumbles, tucking his lock picks under his arm as he reaches again for the latch. As he pushes his way into the backyard, he searches for one of Cesar's hands, wrapping it around the fleshy casing of a long, firm, cylindrical object while Cujo goes to town on the sausage Lazarus had already tossed over.

Cesar's eyes are round, and they grow even wider when his fingers close convulsively around the remaining sausages, almost dropping them. He steps back, holding them up disbelievingly in the light--and then releases most of an enormous breath in a silent, incredulous laugh. This is ridiculous.

He separates the next sausage link, throwing it further than the first when the dog looks close to finishing.

The dog tears into the next one voraciously, and Cesar follows close behind L, keeping his eyes on it. If the dog changes its mind at any moment about how important it thinks the food is, they're screwed. Couldn't they have gone in through a different door? It's too late now: Lazarus is moving ahead, and Cesar refuses to leave him without backup.

Lazarus seems supremely unconcerned with the possibility of the dog coming back to menace them, though there's definitely a tetchy note to his voice as he addresses Cesar while he makes a cursory check for spare keys and then, not finding one, sets to work picking the lock.

"Please don't take offense at this, but you seem really distracted, and I'm going to need you to focus up," he insists, switching out one pick for another while the dog starts on the second sausage. "The goal is to get in and get out as quickly as possible, without being noticed, and if your head isn't in this... remember that you wanted to be here."

The third pick goes in, something gives, and the door swings open. "Don't touch anything," he instructs crisply, offering Cesar his own set of latex gloves as he steps into a silent, darkened kitchen and turns on a miniature flashlight to survey their surroundings.

"Basement," he says, nodding toward a very foreboding-looking set of descending stairs and starting toward them.

Cesar swings his gaze to face him, disbelieving. His mouth presses into a thinner line, and he gives a heavy nod, putting the gloves on. He'd been wrong, before, because getting that lecture now is more ridiculous, and he deserved every moment of it.

He has his own flashlight, and he takes it out now. L doesn't turn any lights on yet, and he follows his lead, even taking point of Lazarus doesn't.

Whether Lazarus is completely unaware of how some of his previous comments could be taken, or he's blithely voicing things that are suppressed and subconscious, his focus is unparalleled; nothing about them is interfering with the break-in, aside from shaking Cesar's composure.

The steps are creaky and uneven; he murmurs a warning to that effect as he descends, and when he reaches for the dangling string and pulls it to turn on the light, they remain in darkness, save for their two flashlight beams. Seemingly, their shady would-be Numbered killer isn't particularly fastidious about replacing his lightbulbs, and it means that they'll be exploring a significantly creepier basement.

His beam falls on a velvet painting of a sad clown, and he responds to it with a bark of laughter.

"I want to steal this as a trophy, almost. It's so evocative," he chuckles, shaking his head. He turns, and his flashlight's beam falls on what appears to be a stockpile of pest-killing spray. "Not as evocative, but relevant..." he mumbles. "If you kept a person in an enclosed space, 2-3 cans of this would probably be plenty to kill them. There are too many here for me to think that he just has a rat problem."

Caesar walks over to look. There are a lot of cans, and when he shines the light around, he points to the left. There are the rest of the materials he described.

They're not alone. Rope is cluttered in with tattered rolls of duct tape, and a wide box of collector's knives occupies half the top shelf. Further off to the side--skulls. Small ones, and many of them, all bleached clean. Sometimes a rodent's full skeleton is arranged haphazardly behind one, with some bones misplaced but all of them present. Someone has a hobby. There's an empty amber bottle and the odd pair of pliers left lying here and there, crusted with dirt and lack of care.

Further down the way: a sealed cabinet, almost obscured by a tattered blanket. There's a few containers with warning signs on them arranged over its outer shelf, but the door itself is closed.

L's eyes follow the direction of Cesar's gesture, and he turns the beam of his flashlight on the indicated items. His eyes widen, and his brows knit in bewilderment when he sees the piles of little skulls with sharp teeth and sharp noses. He approaches, crouching and picking up an amber bottle, uncapping it and holding it to his nose. This is followed by a hasty withdrawal as he recaps it and presses his sleeve against his slightly burning eyes. He gives it a second before he stands again, because in hindsight, that was a terrible idea and even the residual chemical in the bottle has made him worryingly lightheaded.

He's inhaled worse things; he can shake it off, and he attempts to, standing and passing Cesar as he heads for the cabinet and his vision only spots a little. Cradling the flashlight between his shoulder and his jawbone, he takes out his phone and readies the camera function, clearly intending to photograph whatever they find inside, and bracing for the possibility that it will be grisly.

He coughs to clear his throat. "This is locked. I might have to go at it with my picks, so... could you come over here and hold the flashlight and my phone? Also let me know if you smell anything strange..."

Cesar's flashlight swings to the other man's back at the sudden withdrawl, and doesn't move away again. Did something happen? The bottle is set aside, and Cesar's eyebrows draw low. (Was that a sway? ... No, but it wasn't nothing, either.)

When L clears his throat, Cesar walks over, taking the flashlight, and accidentally tugging some of his hair in the process. He lifts both flashlights--one on the box, and the other immediately in front of Lazarus.

The cabinet has a standard design, with a simple lock. It's practically nothing more than a mechanism to keep the whole thing closed, really, and the container itself reminds Cesar vaguely of a run-down version of something he could've easily seen in a machineshop. When the door opens, it does so with a rusty screech, and the flashlight shines past it to show--

Oil cans. Unlabeled cans, paint cans, a few plastic containers--Cesar, for his part, is slightly disappointed. Not that he was hoping for a secret storage locker with grisly contents, but what they've found is borderline mundane.

Oh. There's a crumpled paper bag stuffed off to the side, too. It's clearly been opened and returned a few dozen of times, and there's not much clue as to its contents. Cesar eyes it, but lets it be.

Lazarus hisses and stiffens slightly as Cesar pulls some of his shaggy hair when he takes the flashlight, but says nothing, bending over and making short work of the lock. It's nowhere near the complexity of an outdoor lock, and it falls to the floor as he pulls the doors open to reveal...

...extremely boring contents.

Frowning, he tips a few cans forward, viewing contents where he is able and finding exactly what the label or shape of the containers would suggest. He sighs, seeming disappointed, before catching sight of the paper bag about the same time Cesar does. Unlike Cesar, he reaches for it, readjusting his gloves and taking a deep breath just in case it's something unsavory.

A small plastic bag with plant matter falls out, followed by a packet of glossy photographs that had seen many... exposures, judging by the creases and occasional cloudy blotches. His dark eyes go wide as he thumbs through them, and he becomes increasingly gladder that he is wearing those gloves.

"It's... clowns," he says, wincing as he peels two stuck-together pictures apart. "Clowns that are forcing extremities into trees, while making prolonged eye contact with librarians. Making him a... coulrodendrobibliophiliac, I guess, that is so bizarrely specific..."

He offers Cesar the photographs.

The light temporarily swings at a wall as Cesar snatches his hands up and away. Can he say 'No thank you' loudly enough for this? No, he definitely can't. Body language will have to suffice anyway, especially when there's no alternative. He makes an ushering motion, pointing at the pictures, bag, and cabinet.

Put them back.

L would normally have more faces to add to his repertoire here, but the flashlights aren't aiming at Cesar right now.

The sudden movement and averted flashlight beam gets a sharp yelp from L, and he goes from on-guard to annoyed when he realizes that there's no trouble except for the evidence of a bizarre fetish's existence in his hands. Along with another kind of evidence, which they probably won't be needing. He resists the urge to seal one of the stickier photos in a plastic bag.

"You're pretty easily shocked, aren't you?" he observes flatly. "We live in a world where literally anything can be pornography. I guarantee that even the most innocuous subject has someone out there treating it like..." he waves a hand, grasping for a unanimously attractive name, staring at Cesar and seeming at a loss for the kind of person that would appeal to him in such material. "...like whatever gets you off," he mumbles, rearranging the photographs in the order they were found in and turning his attention to the bag of weed. He picks it up, seeming conflicted about whether he should put it back or pocket it.

There's a brief moment of discomfort as L tries to guess Cesar's porn tastes, and Cesar is glad when it passes. Then he's watching L look at the weed bag a little longer than he'd like, and he points firmly back at the cabiet once, then again.

No. They've already broken into this man's house, rummaged through his unexpected porn, and will be keeping him under surveillance for possible murderous intent. The last thing either of them need is for them to tip the man off when he finds his weed stash missing.

Cesar holds L's flashlight out towards him, prompting him to put one of the things he's holding down so he can take it. They need to keep moving. (He gestures at the rest of the room, flashlight swinging around.)

The discomfort for L seems to continue past that brief moment; this is something he will dwell on, because, for whatever reason, he fancies himself adept at drawing a bead on people in this regard. It bothers him that he can't immediately pin Sasha Grey, Jeff Stryker, or even simply "feet" onto him, even as a hypothetical.

He sighs impatiently, putting the baggie back with the niche pornography and ensuring that the paper bag's position hasn't moved significantly from the spot they originally found it. He straightens, taking a moment to switch out his gloves for a fresh pair and sealing his contaminated ones in a ziploc bag before taking back his flashlight and nodding his agreement with Cesar.

He takes a moment to photograph the rat bones, amber bottles and pest poison. "I think that's it for the basement. We should go upstairs, so... after you, Cesar."

Edited 2015-01-25 19:32 (UTC)

Cesar needs no further prompting, and he takes the stairs two at a time.

The house upstairs is cluttered and unclean, and there's no signs that anyone else has ever lived here but the man who's still out. After swinging the light around for a few seconds, Cesar turns his flashlight off. The streetlights outside are good enough, and Cesar is glancing out the partially open windows, checking to see if anyone is watching. He doesn't see anyone.

He steps just inside the next room, looking around uneasily.

L does a quick once-over, making sure that everything is locked up and left the way they found it, and then follows after Cesar, taking the stairs at a somewhat more relaxed pace. Since his experience with the Mafia, he simply doesn't feel nervousness or fear the same way anymore; the physical aspects, sweating and rapid heart rate and a stomach turning somersaults, just don't affect him. Whether this makes him seem brave or just incredibly foolish is up for debate.

Once they're upstairs and exploring the rest of the house, though, he's noticeably uncomfortable. It takes a lot of willpower to resist cleaning some of those filthy dishes, or straightening the books and magazines that are littered all over a living room that is dirty as well as messy.

When he speaks, it's sudden in his typical tone of voice, and it might startle the hell out of someone who is on-edge.

"It's bothering me. Why would he keep his porn in the basement, and presumably make use of it there? It seems so uncomfortable, and like so much trouble to go through for gratification. I assume he has a bed, he at least has a couch, and he lives alone, so why go that extra measure for secrecy? He must have some really... really deep-seated issues with shame, or something. Which he should, but not for those reasons, I just... want to dump bleach on the floor and scrub. I can't believe a man lives like this."

He shines his flashlight on the cluttered coffee table, settling the beam on an ashtray.

"He smokes upstairs, too. It probably stinks of weed in here."

He pauses.

"Does it? You'll have to confirm that for me, my sense of smell is almost nonexistent."

It does startle him, and he jerks at the sound, turning. All it is is L speculating out loud, and after a sentence or two Cesar looks away. He lifts a flashlight, looking at dusty pictures. Three men, each holding up a large fish. A woman who only appears once. Adults and children with the house's owner, standing together like family.

L pauses, and Caesar looks back, sniffing once. He knocks on air at shoulder level, making sure L can see. He pinches his nose.

He only notices it because he's facing the right way, but the reaction is instantaneous. Caesar points with his full arm towards the window, sinking into a hunted crouch: there are voices outside. A car has pulled up beside the curb, and a man's figure is trotting up the sidewalk, calling back to the car.

What do they do? He's not supposed to be here, yet, he's supposed to be out getting stone drunk. Will they be caught? Cesar never made plans for getting out of jail, or having to avoid his neighbor for the rest of his life.

Though Lazarus does prattle on, his eyes follow Cesar's flashlight beam as it roves over the photographs. They tell a fragmented story of someone with a life and relationships, despite seeming so isolated and lonely. He shrugs and nods at Cesar's confirmation that the drug use is apparent in more ways than just visually.

He's about to say something about the pictures, and is heading toward the staircase to investigate the upstairs rooms as he mulls it over. But Cesar is crouching, pointing in frozen fear at the headlights outside. Then there are voices too, and L stiffens, recognizing the importance of treating the situation like one requiring quick and orderly action.

"Shit," he says mildly, pinching the bridge of his nose before his eyes dart back toward the kitchen and the back door.

"Walk. Don't run," he says in a low voice, glancing outside and noticing that the man is, fortunately, lingering for a few extra moments to say goodbye to his friends, with his back turned toward his darkened home. He leads the way, surprisingly soft-footed for someone in steel-toed boots. "We're going around the hedge by the driveway, using it for cover, and waiting there for the vehicle to leave."

He opens the door, bracing his palm against it to muffle the sound as much as possible, grabbing Cesar by the arm and coaxing him out ahead of him so he can softly lock and close it just as he hears the front door starting to budge.

The dog looks lazily toward them, but doesn't make a move to attack from its relaxed position on the ground. "Sedatives in the sausages," L explains in a soft murmur, before slipping through the gate and pulling Cesar down beside him in the shadow of the tall hedge. They're much closer together now than they were on the bus, but any discomfort L would normally feel about the proximity is obscured by the focus required to time this absolutely flawlessly.

L maneuvers Cesar through the door, and they both slip outside just in the nick of time. The back door closes behind them. No shouts or running footsteps, the neighborhood is quiet, the dog is lazy, and everything is more or less in perfect contrast to the way Cesar's heart is pounding in his chest.

They're almost out.

Lazarus doesn't stop, and Cesar finds himself ushered into the bushes, where he agonizes and Lazarus waits. They're crushed in together, slipped at odd angles to fit in the gap they're in. Cesar finds himself partially stooping over Lazarus, his upper arm getting dug into by the other man's boney shoulder. He's broken into a cold sweat at some point, and the places where the two of them are in contact seem unbearably warm. Is L as uncomfortable as him? Can he hear Cesar's heart jackhammering at this close a proximity, can he smell Cesar's shampoo or his sweat? Does he know his hair is tickling Cesar's face, and that if L looked towards him they'd be looking each other right in the eye--

Cesar looks at the two of them, and at how acutely aware he is of the other man's proximity, and his mind leaps to L's trainwreck of a question earlier. His face flushes hot, and he painstakingly inches away, restoring some of their personal space. There just isn't room for much more than that, not without rustling branches. Desperate for a distraction, he cranes his head by a branch, following L's gaze.

The car is lingering. The driver's face is lit up by the glow of a cellphone. There's motion in the passenger's seat, and he wonders if they're chiding the driver to hurry up. Cesar fantasizes that they are, trying not to be aware of their cramped, airless hiding place.

Edited 2015-01-26 21:18 (UTC)

It's going well, in that they haven't been caught, and judging by the calmness in the house and their surroundings, Cesar's neighbor has no idea that his house has been broken into this evening. Small and flexible, L has less trouble fitting into the tight spot than Cesar, even with his backpack, and he has a good view of the car... but Cesar is taller and bigger and seems to be having some difficulty hiding alongside him comfortably or with any kind of grace. He's close enough for L to feel his breath on his neck and cheek, along with the way his body heat makes the January night feel so much warmer.

It's a little bit distracting, to say the least. He keeps his own breaths light and shallow, and his eyes focused forward as Cesar tries to minimize the contact between his muscular physique and L's bony one. He's not aware of the precise position of Cesar's head, though, or how he's maneuvered it to properly watch the the tarrying texter. When he risks turning to tell Cesar what their next course of action should be, he misjudges the space available to him, his mouth bumping against Cesar's very, very warm ear.

He does his best to shift and give them more space, but he's already pressed pretty tightly against the shrub's trunk and base branches, and there isn't anywhere to go. So he makes the best of it, attempting to compromise between looking entirely away from Cesar and mumbling against his neck. The result ultimately finds the tip of his nose against Cesar's cheek while he communicates, to the best of his ability in a low whisper, where they need to go next.

"As soon as we can't hear their car anymore, once it's driven away... we're going down the driveway, out of view of the front windows, and then heading down the street in the other direction. Even if the temptation exists to go as fast as possible, it'll be better if we take it slow and keep it casual. Nothing draws attention faster than a couple of sweaty guys who have definitely been been moving strenuously."

Edited 2015-01-26 22:36 (UTC)

Lips burn against his ear as they pass. Hot, quiet breath on the side and back of is neck, and Cesar isn't focusing on their mission nearly as much as he should, or he'd be able to hear past going down, and temptation, and take it slow and casual. His eyes are perfectly round, and he hasn't been this physically close to another human being in even the most innocent of ways for months, and he's imagining the two of them walking out of there, sweaty, flushed--

Oh god. His mouth is dry and his mind has stopped working, and his brain is a cacophony of one side shrieking that L not move away, not bring himself back into a range where he can see Cesar and his horror over this moment, while the other side is urging Cesar to break cover and put as much distance between him and L as physically possible. This isn't happening. This is all Cesar's awful imagination, and it's finally gotten out of hand.

He doesn't want to stand up. A third part of him prays that the car will stay there long enough to get himself under control, so that when they leave Cesar won't even have his face still burning.

Wait, L is still too close, how long has this silence been carrying on? Cesar jerks his head up and down, moving the tiniest space that the motion can afford. He just needs space. Space and time.

If there is a merciful God, he has probably not been listening to Cesar's prayers in months. The car's engine revs, and the vehicle inches forward, and L lets his breath out in a soft sigh as its sound fades into the night. For him, the moment of tension has just dissipated, even though, for Cesar, it's apparently just beginning.

He looks to Cesar expectantly, noting that he seems reluctant to move. He tilts his head, then slips his backpack off, reaching past the other man to set it on the grass and out of the way. Then, briskly and without giving the other man much of a chance to react, he starts to crawl over him to pass him, using his shoulders for leverage and even briefly straddling him to get by without rustling the branches around them too much.

"Sorry," he apologizes blithely. "Your flashlight's kind of in the way... next time, maybe bring a smaller one."

Ground? Please swallow him up, now. Cesar jumped and frantically tried to maneuver L around, or away, and it just doesn't happen, and he's being climbed on, and fussing further at this point is just clashing with L, making all of this take longer. He can't believe this just actually happened. It's astounding that he's even survived this attempted murder by mortification. His face is several shades darker, or it would be, if L could see it in this lighting. Did he feel the heat radiating off of it, any one of those near brushes during his trip?

L is past him. Then the man turns and chirrups something back at Cesar, who stares. Then Cesar drags his mouth into the shape of a smile, nods once, and considers what to do next for all of two seconds.

No. This is too much, and more than he can handle. Cesar reminds himself that this is Lazarus, the man who was tortured by Albero and saw Moises' head blow out in messy chunks for a death that could've been prevented. It was Cesar's fault, and if Lazarus ever finds out the truth, he'll not just use everything against him, but torture him in all new sorts of ways, too.

The blush fades like water thrown on coals, and the warm feeling in his gut is replaced by sinking lead. Even the hysterical bit of hilarity he was seeing in all of this has cooled. Cesar turns and crawls out from behind the bushes, and when he straightens, he just happens to not be facing him. His hands go in his pockets. Then he turns, without shame.

The change is dizzying, and part of him wants to laugh a little, wondering if that wasn't an overreaction. The cold and sober part of him's reply is no, it wasn't. They can be acquaintances, and perhaps even superficial friends, but anything closer than that would cascade into one huge mistake. Cesar knows his own nightmares won't stay at bay forever, and that sooner or later L will actually learn to figure out when Cesar is hiding something in person. It wouldn't take much; he's a quick study, and Cesar refuses to underestimate him.

He tilts his head towards the driveway, and starts walking. He feels bizarrely hurt by his own actions, but all it does is exhaust him. Now they can at least be ordinary friends, with as normal an interaction as they ever have.

Edited 2015-01-27 03:27 (UTC)

He frees himself from their confinement, brushing the dirt and bristles away from his clothes and hair as he straightens and puts his backpack on again, cocking his head to the side as he watches Cesar follow and face away from him for a significant amount of time before they make eye contact again. There's a question in his eyes, but he opts to let it go, even if his eyes are the last part of him to turn away from the other man.

He joins him in starting toward the street... but stops once they've rounded the rest of the hedge, staring in the general direction of the driveway. He sets his jaw, taking in the large vehicle sitting in the driveway that hadn't been visible when they'd first approached the house.

Morty's Pest Removal Services

The painted side of the van announces its purpose, along with the giant fiberglass rat sitting on top of it.

He crosses his arms over his chest, staring hard at it as if to burn it into his brain and in that one small way, make up for it not being the first damn thing he noticed on the property. Before, say, the man's personal porn collection.

He turns wordlessly, and starts walking away, down the street, as he said they would, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Edited 2015-01-27 04:12 (UTC)

Cesar comes to a stop, mouth dropping open. For an eternity, his mind is filled with the sight of the fiberglass rat, and all the little pieces of the puzzle are flying together, like an old film showing a rewind of a tree's leaves falling.

L starts walking again. Cesar is significantly less subtle, and frees one hand from a pocket to wave at the car. Then he starts walking again, raking fingers through the hair at his temples in agitation. Did that really just happen? Did he really put both of them on a useless venture by not having done his own research on his own neighbor? He's seen that truck! He should have realized it belonged there.

Cesar draws even with L, looking exhausted and discouraged.

If L doesn't break the silence first, Cesar will eventually call his attention. {I'm sorry,} he'll say, and he seems to mean it. {I had no idea. My fault.}

L stares blankly at Cesar as he signs his apology, complete with expressions befitting remorse and thorough humiliation.

"I need a drink."

The words come out sounding flat, but firm, no room for arguing. He glances Cesar briefly up and down, seemingly weighing his merits as a drinking partner.

"...you need one, too. Where is the closest dive bar with dim lighting?"

Will he go drinking with Lazarus, after everything else?

Caesar jabs a thumb over his shoulder. {That way.}

Yes, he will. L's right: He needs something strong. It's amazing how a rollercoaster evening like this can leave a person utterly exhausted. Cesar touches his hair absently, notices he's still wearing the gloves L handed him earlier, and tries working it off with that same hand. There's a slight hesitation, before he takes his other hand out, and takes both gloves off. He pockets them, but doesn't hide his hands like before.

Before starting the indicated direction, Lazarus grasps the material of Cesar's sleeve, tugging briskly as he sets off as if to ensure that he will be accompanied and not just sent off by himself.

Then he's also removing his gloves and stuffing them in his jacket pocket as he keeps his strides long and purposeful. If they never speak of the outcome again, he won't be unhappy, but admittedly, the process was not unpleasant.

Cesar is led by L again to follow him, and he doesn't resist. He also doesn't try to chat, at least not right away; Lazarus isn't the only one who would probably be delighted to never speak of this again, for perhaps even more reasons than the ones L has.

When they get to the bar, it'll be loud, full of the Friday night crowd, and comfortably relaxed.

By the evening's end, even Caesar will have to admit: it's a good way to spend a night of drinks.

The Clock's Heart it Hangs Inside its Open Chest [Backdated to Jan. 9, Closed]

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Possible CW for the bag!

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DEFINITE CW FOR THE BAG LOL

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