ringing in the new year

[beastkeeper]

For the most part, the beginning of every new year on the block is the same. There's the party, held down in the common room (barely distinguishable from the lobby, but hey, who cares), and the reminders that go up in the week prior, telling people to bring food to share (not that everyone does — the witch provides more than enough, anyhow). There are, of course, smaller parties, held in the apartments upstairs or on the grounds, and the combinations of creatures always rotates (more or less), but the overall air remains the same. The end of one year and the ushering in of another is cause to celebrate.

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[faunas]

[ It's late and it's dark and the courtyard is dimly lit by the thin light that manages to filter down from the windowed walls that rise on all four sides of the courtyard (forming the block, closing it in, keeping them). In one of those deep swatches of shadow a tiny orange speck hovers and then glows; it floats and bobs closer and then resolves itself to the end of a cigarette as Jordan shambles his way out of the darkness, fedora tilted on his head at an angle that threatens with looking ridiculous without ever arriving there. There's something always a little not there about Jordan, whether it's in the amble of his words or his walk, the way he talks even when he thinks no one's paying attention. If he's just helped someone out, it's doubly so, his eyes sleepy and unfocused, his knees threatening something like a faint.

Not now, though, now Jordan's all here. It's obvious in the way his mouth crooks to one side and he easily stoops to gather Sprague's lighter for her from the ground.

Ka-shik and a flame sparks to life between them. ]

No need for the pell-mell, sister gazelle. What's the story, morning glory, or is there no tale to tell?

[fleeing]

[ Cupping a hand around the flame, she inhales until the tip flares and the tobacco starts to burn. The first puff is short but the second is longer — Sprague uses that time to smile at him, grateful all the same. The thing is is that Jordan's weird but they're all pretty weird (it's a regular fucking zoo of weird). Truthfully, he's one of the few she never bothers to reevaluate everytime she crosses paths with him. He's good for it like that, she figures, all calming with his beat poetry or spirit rap or whatever.

Besides, staying here has taught her a few things. One of which is that, when in doubt, always be glad it's not J. Hadley that found you. ]

Drunk as a skunk, boy-o. [ She flashes him a grin, wide and lazy. Her hand-eye co-ordination's a bit off but she makes do anyway, reaches out to give that slanted fedora a light tap on the brim. ] Welcoming the year in style, as always.

[faunas]

[ His crooked smile just grows more crooked which is his version of grinning, perhaps. A grin's too sharp, too broad, too committal — even though it's not beyond Jordan's style to dabble in the beatific. He just nods, agreeably (everything about him is agreeable), perhaps even a little more loose and lazy than usual, as if some of her drunkenness has slid of her her and onto him. (His breath smells like smoke but that's about it; smoke and cocoa and nothing else besides. Not a drop to drink for this one; his hippie parents back home on the commune in Connecticut would've balked.)

With a finger, Jordan reaches up and touches the brim of his hat right where Sprague has just touched it herself. ] Be kind, rewind, be mindful of the clock's chime. Not saying it'll be doormice and pumpkins for you, Cinderella, but those stairs? [ He gives an easy tip of his head back towards the doors that lead into the project, a flight of stairs separating them from inside. ] Make sure you're still playing princess come midnight, ya dig? Glass slippers and gossamer; no Humpties or Dumpties.

[ In other words: don't trip, you drunk little thing. ]

[fleeing]

No Humpties or Dumpties, [ she repeats, pursing her lips to pop the p's. It makes her grin. ] Everyone knows you're a lot better than all the king's horses and men.

[ Sprague gets his point though. Well, she hopes she does — it's kind of part-game, part-guesswork when it comes to something as simple as talking with Jordan. Holding the burning cigarette between the pink of her lips, she takes two very deliberate steps away from him. (Steps that require much more focus and effort and frowning of the brow than Sprague would have first guessed, but it's New Years Eve and nobody cares about a silly thing like dignity.) Then, perhaps not half as gracefully as she'd like, Sprague picks up her imaginary skirts with forefinger and thumb and curtseys.

When she straightens, her mouth falls open as she exhales. The haze of grey drifts up and up and up. ]

I get you. No plants for you, no falls for me. Gotcha.

[faunas]

Flora and fauna, horses and men, [ Jordan reaches over and places a long, graceful finger just underneath Sprague's chin, pushing her jaw upwards just so in order to close her mouth again. ] Ain't lookin' to put you back together again, sister. So, Holly, go lightly on Quetzal's account. [ That hand floats in the space between them, not really intending to go anywhere or do anything. In the end, he finds Sprague's elbow, urging her to stand a little straighter and on legs that seem reluctant to give any real support. Jordan decides his hand will stay there for the duration, so long as she lets him and doesn't try to vault away. Carefully, he steers her back to sitting on the steps and goes as so far as to pluck the hat on his head and place it onto hers to keep her a little more warm. ]

I'll walk you up later, that suit you just fine? New Years is meant to end with bangflash, not staircrash.

[fleeing]

[ Her mouth shuts with a small clack of teeth. She has half a mind to protest (I can walk, I can walk, Jesus) but she swallows that instinct as quick as it arrives. Sitting is a good idea. In fact sitting is a great idea, and this way putting a foot in-front of the other doesn't feel quite so arduous. (There's his hand on the dark of her jacket, too, right there at her elbow and his hand looks pale. He needs more sun, she decides. Sun and like, vitamin C or D. Whatever the blood and bone equivalent for people was.) ] Mmhmm. Go lightly. Wotcher.

[ Sprague takes a seat that seems more like a complete collapse rather than actually sitting, but it gets the job done. The sudden addition of a weight on her head surprises her, but she gives the top of it a light pat and a wide smile as soon as she places what it is. ]

You're good to me, Q. [ She tips the brim of it, following up with a light wink. ] I'll try really hard not to throw up in this thing.

[faunas]

[ Jordan tips his head up towards the sky and laughs, his breath pluming with both cigarette smoke and warm breath. He leans back farther, farther still, a hand lifted to his eyes to shield them from no light in particular. It's an easy, breezy sort of action and leave it to Jordan to be able to conjure such a mood even now, in the dead of night at the height of winter. What little wind there is rustles his hair, he brushes it back with his long fingers. ]

Got plenty more where that came from, but only one gazelle in my pack. So if the goods get going, go on and get 'em gone. A hat's a hat, a cat's a cat, and this hep cat's full of wine. [ He points at her vaguely, then rounds his neck, his body still tipped backwards, so as to glance at her again.

Jordan smiles. ]