ArchivedLogs:Don't Worry, Be Happy

Don't Worry, Be Happy
Dramatis Personae Billy, Ion	2014-06-24 Ion is a good influence!
Location <NYC> Brooklyn
The most populous of the boroughs, Brooklyn has nothing if not character. With a thriving music and arts scene, and a distinctive New York slant to its stereotypical gritty accents, Brooklyn ranges from the high-cultured to the very much working class. From botanical gardens to beachfronts, Manhattanites might like to think their borough is the only one that matters, but Brooklyn has a lot to offer of its own. It's been another rough day for Billy but this awesome falafel sandwich is going to turn everything around. The California-blonde just spent a little under twenty minutes waiting in line up the street at a gourmet food truck, which like most things in Brooklyn a.k.a. hipster central, was more expensive than it was worth it. Especially as Billy watches it slide from his hands and fall to the ground in slow motion. He takes a moment to register this, just standing there, staring down at it in disbelief. Slowly, his shoulders slump to an all new low. A girl passing by with long brown dreads and a tattoo of an ice-cream cone accidentally laughs. Her friends all laugh as well, enjoying their sandwiches. Ion, now, if he's having a rough day who's to /tell/. His arrival is heard -- and /felt/ -- before he can be seen, a throaty growl of a motorcycle rumbling down the street. It vrooms into view, a sleek black-and-chrome Harley with the vanity plate WIRED; perched on its back Ion is leaning into the handlebars, a rangy-ropy tan-skinned young man with a helmet obscuring his face, heavy jeans tucked into taaaall expensive shitkicker boots, a plain white tee with a leather vest over top. His leather kutte is unabashedly proclaiming in LARGE insignia on its back that can be seen as he rides past, MUTANT MONGRELS MOTORCYCLE CLUB; its logo amidst the words is a somewhat twisted-inhuman skull-and-crossbones, horned and fanged and in place of the crossbones there's a crossed pair of lightning bolts. The bike whirls back, at the laughter, turning back around and pulling up to the curb. Ion tugs his helmet off, dark curls mussed and sweaty and his brows lifted. "Ey-yo, that's a bad rap, man." His accent is /thick/, proooobably most Americans would call him Mexican but probably then he'd punch them in the face. /Amiably/. "The face you got on, though, vato, you'd think that's the last sandwich en la ciudad. Here come-come-come I tell you what son, I get you /two/ sandwich and something you wash it down with. Chin --" His fingers are gesturing. Like up-up-/up/! Billy looks up and bats his white lashes in surprise, actually looking to either side of him as if Ion might be talking to someone else. The girls too are surprised and impressed as they continue to walk away. He points to himself, adopting a scared, expectant look as he takes a hesitant step forward over the sandwich's corpse, "I'm sorry. Are you speaking to me?" "Si, blondie, you, you got this long, long. Longest face I seen all day, but I got," Ion says this with a grin, a sudden bright-wide flash of teeth that come with a widening of eyes as he leans in a little off the seat of his bike like he is /confiding/ in Billy, "I gotta /secret/ for you. This place," his finger wiggles in a circle around the street, "whole of New York, it's got a /lotta/ fucking sandwiches, dog. We'll find you another. On me." "Don't call me blondie," Billy smirks skeptically, coming closer and gesturing towards the bike, "You're really offering to buy me a sandwich?" He bites down on his bottom lip in thought, studying Ion and then moving on to the bike. He's never been on one before. "What I call you then? I'm Ion," he introduces himself cheerfully, "and sandwich guy, it don't, you know, it don't trip off the, uh, the tongue. You want a sandwich I buy a sandwich. I /actually/ I said, I get you sandwich /and/ a drink. You look like a man could use some drink in you no?" He twists around slightly on his bike, offering the helmet back to Billy. "You put this. No sandwich /and/ crack your skull open, /that/ would be a bad fucking day." "It's Billy," he says as he shakes out his hair and lifts the helmet over his head, "And you'd be the first person not to try and crack my skull open all week, Ion." Billy clips the helmet in place, tightening it a little as he lifts a leg up onto the back of the bike. After which, he isn't really sure of what to do. He holds up both hands, frowning. "For real, dog? There a lotta folk around here, either you got yourself one thick-ass skull or New Yorkers, they getting worse at skull-cracking than I remember." Ion turns back around, settling himself back comfortably on the bike and snorting at Billy's confusion. He reaches for the other man's hands, putting them around his waist. "No homo, dog, aight? We're going the no-skull-cracking route I thinked." The bike growls back to life, thrumming beneath them (he doesn't seem particularly concerned about his /own/ skull, no helmet for /him/) before he pulls away from the curb. Yeah, no homo. Billy shifts his eyes, "Oka--" His voice trails off as the bike rumbles onto the road and if he wasn't actually gripping Ion before, he sure as hell does now. This is a guy that doesn't even go on rollercoasters. What the fuck was he thinking?! Clearly Billy was thinking that the BEST thing to cheer him up would be a nightly jaunt with a guy who seems to think things like speed limits and road signs are kinda -- /suggestions/. Or maybe it's the fact that Ion fell into city-riding habits during the zombie apocalypse that he hasn't really shaken yet. Because VROOM, he's veering off through the streets -- wait no is that an alley -- that one might not even count as an alley so much as kinda a garbage access -- okay wait back to definitely a street again whoosh -- with only the flimsiest regard for their /rules/. He does at least stop at red lights. Mostly. And he hasn't hit any pedestrians by the time he rocks up to a surprisingly gentle halt in front of a rather blandly nondescript row of brickface buildings to park his bike and mercifully kill its engine. "Vato, you alive back there still yah? Not-so-sure my ribs is." It takes a moment or two before the response does, meekly, "Yeah, I'm alive." Billy peels his hands away from the leather jacket, leaving two clean white hand prints. "I just need to like, stay still for a minute. Very still." He carefully removes the helmet, pressing a hand to his stomach. Deep, slow breaths. Eventually, he hops off. ...but there's a little bit of a sway to him, as if he might fall over. "Sorry, I get motion sick sometimes." "Oh/shit/dog." There's laughter in Ion's voice, a giddy sort of /yelp/ of amusement as he slides off his bike and looks down at his kutte and the new handprints it bears. "{The fuck have you done to me, that's excellent. Like your own fucking /imprint/ right here on --}" His Spanish flows much more readily than his choppy English, fluid and easy if, admittedly, still in kind of ghetto-urban cadence. "What's this, you make that? White? Happen? How you do?" He reaches a hand absently to sling around Billy's shoulder when the other man sways, plucking the helmet from him and tucking it under an arm as he starts to lead Billy off inside. "We go. This place, is got. Like. Best of /all/ sandwich, okay? Shwarma. So good." "Yeah, watch out for that," Billy nods in confirmation, not even knowing what Ion is saying. He continues slow, rhythmic breaths of recovery as he's marched off - starts out drunkenly relying on Ion for support but eventually begining to stand up a little straighter, "I don't even know if I could handle a sandwich right now." He runs a hand across his stomach, and then just holds the base of his throat. "Shawarma." Apparently, being sea-sick doesn't interfere with know-it-all-ism. "'kay. No sandwich, we just get you some, what. Baklava. And beers. They got some good beers." And those are /totally/ easier on a queasy stomach, /right/? Ion tugs the door open into a cosy small cafe, meats roasting on spits behind the counter, a large plethora of other vegetables and dressings laid out behind the counter. Ion just deposits Billy into a /chair/, dropping his helmet into an empty one at the small table, darting off to the counter to return shortly -- no sandwich, just a pair of Taybehs that he cracks open against his belt, handing one of the beers to Billy. "So /everyone/, huh? What's you /done/ then? Make everyone want your brains out your skull?" Billy frowns, shrugging theatrically, "I'm the worst." His mouth flattens and his eyes widen, maintaining eye-contact as he holds up a beer to cheers. "And some of them were zombies." "What's wrong? You haven't pissed anyone off this week? I refuse to believe it." "Ohshit, those {fucking biters} want /everyone's/ goddamn skull." Ion clinks his beer against Billy's, swallowing his laughter in a quick swig of beer. "Shit, vato, I piss people off every-damn-day. This {fucking shithole} you can't turn the hell around without pissing off some uppity {cocksucker}." His profanity is tossed in casually littered Spanish, snippets of native tongue lazily discarded through his speech. He drapes himself back in his chair, hooking one arm over its back as he rests one boot on a rung of the empty chair that holds his helmet. "But you, you said what. What-what-what. I was the /first/ person who /didn't/ have it out for you this week. That's a special week, yo. I piss someone off every day. A week I piss off /every/ person, that's a week I'm thinking I gotta smoke me up some more weed, chill the fuck /out/." "Yeah, yeah. So, uh, there was the zombies. Then, I ran into my old bully from high school," Billy narrows his eyes, taking another swig, "Then I got shot at in a grocery store by some robbers. Where the high school bully was, also." "And uh, then today this like, vampire dude who actually did save me from the zombies went psycho on me. Pretty uh, pretty standard week in my life. I did blind one of the robbers, though! That was uh... real scary." Billy looks down towards the helmet in the seat, shaking his head, "I've nev-I don't smoke." He stops himself from fully calling it 'marajuana.' "Shit, dog, you shoulda punched 'em. The bully." Ion squinches up an eye. making a fist to mime a gentle punch towards Billy's jaw. His hand drops back to the table before the punch connects. "/Vampire/ dude?" His brows raise in sudden curiosity at this descriptor though it's followed with, "Good on you with the robbers though. That's how you do it. Don't take no shit from nobody, huh? Too much shit in life. Can't take it all. You'll just be under a /giant/ fucking. /Pile/ of shit in no time." His tongue clicks lightly against his teeth, and he pulls another swig from the beer. "Nah? No? Maybe that's a start. People who I'm pissed at, people pissed at me, half the time, I smoke 'em up, we forget what's our problem was." Though he snorts after this with the admission: "Don't work on the goddamn zombies." "You just get your enemies stones?" Billy grins, nodding sagely, "I guess that's a solid plan. I'm not /actually/ used to making this many in such short amount of time. I think it's been like, four years since I've really pissed people off." ... "I guess I was due." "And the bully, /she/ is scary as /shit/, now." Alright, half a beer and Billy starts cursing. Now we know! "She's got like, bird of prey things happening." He gestures around his face for 'things.' "Who is the last person you pissed off and then smoked out?" "Christ, yeah, man, you due. I piss people off all the fucking. Every day. Every -- shit." Ion taps the lip of his beer against his teeth, huffing out a quick laugh. "My boss," he answers Billy cheerfully. "Bird of prey? For fucking real? You saying that like, uh, like she a killer instinct or like she got /talons/ on her and a stabby /beak/ because boy some the people I roll with you never know." His head shakes. "I did punch a dude in the face and then take him for beer the other. Day. Not a smoke. Same idea. Still works good. If smoke ain't your bag. S'mellower though. Wouldn't always roll with beer. Course, sometimes just fucking throwing /down/ with someone'll get it all out there. Move on, be friends after, aye?" Even if when Ion isn't speaking another language, as far as Billy is concerned, he might as well be. The energy is infectious, at least. He continues to grin and laugh, "I've uh, never punched, /anybody/. I don't think I've ever /technically/ been in a fight. I mean, I guess I have but never one-on-one." "Yeah, she's got like scary bird eyes and wings and stuff. I don't really know." "Never?" Ion splutters at his beer, eyes widening with sudden incredulity. "Ay, boy-o, we, you-and-me," his forefinger waggles between the two of them, lopsided grin bright on his face, "we /ain't/ hanging in the same parts of New York, huh? I swear to god fists it's how my brothers say /hello/." The back of his wrist wipes against his mouth and he clinks his beer down on the table, glancing over to the cashier and then standing up to shed his leather vest, drape it over his chair. Beneath his shirt is just white, a little grungy, a little crumpled against the lean hard muscles of his chest. His palm taps against his chest. "C'mon. You know how to make at least a fist? Proper fist?" He traces a small X over his solar plexus. "You make one. Put it there. Then you can't say no more you never throw a punch." "Wait, I know this. Thumb goes outside," Billy stands, stumbling a little thanks to a low alcohol tolerance. He balls up a small, bony fist with one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other. The muscles are a distraction and it should be noted, nothing at all like Billy's wiry frame. He feels self-conscious and it translates into the pathetic excuse for a punch he lays into Ion. He actually almost falls over in throwing it. Ion's grin flashes bright when Billy gets that first step right. It ends in a small /chuckle/ at the punch, though it's not a mocking one; his hand lifts to steady Billy when his balance goes unsteady. "Okay-okay-okay. There's a punch. You thrown a punch now." His hands both close around Billy's balled-up fist, holding it in place against his chest. "You relax some, vato? Stand natural. Stand easy? You lose your balance if you don't know where's your feet at. You don't need to throw your whole body in it? Just a /leetle/ twist." His tongue clicks against his teeth as he drops Billy's hand, putting his own hands up to demonstrate in slow motion -- small rotation of shoulder, a bigger twist of hips. Knuckles tapping liiight against Billy's ribs. "Now you do." Billy squares off, planting his feet and mimicking Ion's movements err- doing his best to, anyway. He doesn't actually stop laughing long enough to put give this his all. The second punch is thrown, this time quick like a viper with a liiiiitle twist. Billy makes a small explosion sound effect for it. "/Two/ punches, shiiit." Ion's laughing again, now, too, rocking back a half-step; the explosion sound effect comes with an /explosion/ as well -- or at least a tiny skitter-shower of /sparks/, brief and harmless save for a probably startling but not actually particularly painful staticky zap as they vanish. Thankfully not explodey /enough/, blocked mostly by the shield of Ion's body, to draw attention from the counter -- any /more/ attention than the small punching tutorial is drawing, at least. Which is, admittedly, not /much/ -- Ion's clearly enough of a well-known regular here that his antics are just kind of being tolerated with a patiently amused sort of resignation. He thwumps back down into his chair, knuckles bumping lightly against Billy's PUNCHING fist. "Movin' on /up/, I make a proper thug of you in no time, huh?" He picks his beer back up, tipping it in cheers to Billy. "This time next Monday you be throwing /six/ punches, by Independence Day, you can sock bird-of-prey and vampire-dude in the. Beak. Fangs. One-two. Bam-bam." Billy is shocked by the display of sparks in more ways than one, taking back his fist and cradling it in surprise. "No, I don't actually want to beat up, anybody," he sinks back into his chair, peering over at Ion, "Hey, can I ask you something? I don't know if it'll make you uncomfortable or not-" "Then," Ion suggests brightly instead, "pick up a bud. Smoke 'em up. Get yourself a cute li'l one-hitter if you don't want, uh, to waste too much good shit on 'em." He glances at the beer in his hand -- near empty! -- and taps its lip on his teeth again. "You need a second? I need a second." Though he doesn't stand quite yet, just lifting his brows to Billy. "What you want to know? Take a lot to make me uncomfortable, hermano." "Surrre," Billy slowly throws back the rest of his beer and setting the empty bottle down on the table audibly, "No, I was just going ask if you-" He lowers his down, "Rather, /do/ you think, uhm, we-erm. People like us- How do I work this?" He frowns, "Do you think it's okay to hurt people? Like regular people, I mean." Ion barks out a laugh, gulping down the rest of his beer and standing, too, to clap a hand on Billy's shoulder and squeeze. "You gonna need a few more lessons before you're there, yo, no worries." He hops over the back of his chair, jogging up to the counter to return shortly with two fresh beers. He drops down into his seat again, cracking one open to slide it across towards Billy and hanging himself loosely in his chair again as he opens his own. "You gonna pass me more, wasscalled. More context. On that one? I mean, shit, you know, I ain't lookin' to start no shit with nobody who ain't started shit with /me/, dog. Why would I hurt regular people? Regular people got no beef with me." Billy shakes his head, "No, I should just stop letting it bother me." He smiles, "You answered my question, anyway. " He gulps down some beer before abruptly stopping, covering his mouth, "Mmh-Cheers! Again!" "S'what the beer's for." Ion tips his bottle towards Billy, amusement sparking in his dark eyes. "Rid that long face, 'member? Enough it, won't /nothing/ bother you no more. You can trust me, huh, nothing bother /me/ none. We done, you'll be the unbotheredy-/est/." Just -- ignore that Ion was the one who drove here and everything'll be Totally Okay. No worries at all! The blonde is either too intoxicated already, which may actually be the case, or too smitten to even remember that drinking and driving is a viable concern. Christ, the last time he was in a car was probably around the last time he had a drink ...which was ...when? "I trust you. I'ma gonna be like that." Billy continues to laugh and grin through the night. Cut to four hours later when Billy's violently puking. Is this home? Is he at his apartment? It'd be a first this whole week that he made it there but God damn it, he hopes so.