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Post by pete monroe on Jan 19, 2008 16:42:20 GMT -5
 She keeps on waiting for time out there Oh love, can you love me babe Love, is this loving babe Is time turning around _______________________________ It was hard to believe but Pete hadn't always been so antisocial. He had had friends, he'd had crushes and people who loved and people had loved him back. So it hadn't always just been his Aunt Jane who had 'cared' about it if you could even call it that. Because Pete was nineteen he already inherited the money his parents had left him. Technically Pete was free he could go and do anything he wanted to do. He just didn't want to, he had grown content with London, and he didn't think he could bare going back to New York. At least not yet, he hadn't been back for seven years, and he thought he might as well another more seven, maybe things would be different then. He doubted it though, people didn't change all that often, and places rarely changed at all. London didn't change and that was fine with him. He'd spent seven years here and it was comfortable. He still liked Portobello Road, it was like some people said 'his favorite haunt' although he had many throughout the city. Portobello road was always fun to walk along on a lazy Sunday, although there were many lazy Sundays these days. It was fun to watch people, or at least fun for Pete. People were all really musicians they just didn't know it. They couldn't see that the way they walked carried their emotions or the way that they looked at people could say some many more things than worlds. It was the same thing for musicians. The way that they sang, the way that they jumped around on stage, or the way they didn't. Pete leaned up against on of the vendors wagons that lined the street, a cigarette in his hands, as he flipped through the pages of a first edition of some book by Louis Bell. He noticed the owner of the cart eyeing him. Like he was going to steal a four dollar first edition. He didn't look to sketchy, his oversized sunglasses over his eyes. He was dressed in his normal attire, black pants, black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a black skinny tie. You would think that he was going to a funeral with the way he dressed, it was his own funeral really. He watched a mother with her young son stroll by him laughing at something she was saying. He gave a sad smile and put the book he was reading down. He took another drag of a cigarette and started off down the winding road.
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Post by reed thomson on Jan 19, 2008 19:46:02 GMT -5
Reed Thomson [/font][/b][/i]    "talked to the angels
they cant make it out tonight
they crossed their hearts and
hoped we'd make it out alive"[/center] Though it wouldn’t exactly be his first choice for a Sunday afternoon, Reed found himself strolling along Portabello Road, his mind aflutter with many thoughts and daydreams. For some reason, he couldn’t get his mind off University lately, and all the possibilities for where he could go when he finished high school. Though he lived in England now, he was sure that eventually he’d make his way back to the states for school seeing as it’d always been his dream to attend Notre Dame, a school of wonders. He let his thoughts soar to visions of him, leader of a frat house, having the time of his life and getting a good education at the same time. He’d just recently applied to be honest, and he was certain with himself that his application essay was gold. He wanted so badly to be a lawyer, to make a difference in the world, and was convinced in himself that he would be one of the best. Also, he heard that Notre Dame’s football team was one of the best university teams in the world, so that excited him. He simply couldn’t wait to get up on his own feet. To be someone.
Almost as if god wanted him to stop thinking so big or something, Reeds thoughts ended as he ploughed into a neatly set up bookstand. As he hadn’t been paying all that much attention, it was definitely his fault and he watched in slight horror as books of all shapes and sized fell to the ground along with the wooden stand. It would have been fine however, if the stand hadn’t toppled over on top of a boy that appeared to be about Reed’s age. Eyes wide, Reed scrambled to try and pick the heavy wooden stand up off the kid, but he kept dropping it down again, which really didn’t help much to the situation. His voice was shaky and worried as he apologized for what he’d done. “fuck, I’m so sorry. Like, seriously, I’m SO sorry.” Finally managing to slip it off the other boys hips and thighs, he gave him his hand and pulled him back up to his feet. It was the least he could do for nearly flattening the kid.
Thinking hard, Reed looked the guy over. He was far from what Reed was used to in his own group, their clothing styles consisting of brightly colored Hollister polo shirts and ripped jeans matched smartly with a pair of sharp Pumas. This guy was well, different. He looked more like the soulful, sensitive song writer. The type that was all too common these days, trying to get to a girl through her romantic sense. The kind of guy who would wear those old Value Village leather jackets, and still look somewhat cool. Shrugging to himself, Reed decided it didn’t matter. He was basically nice to everyone, especially if he almost killed them. A wide smile crossing his face, he held out his hand once more, this time to shake. “Reed Thomson. Pleased to squish you.”
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Post by pete monroe on Jan 19, 2008 20:01:36 GMT -5
She keeps on waiting for time out there Oh love, can you love me babe Love, is this loving babe Is time turning around _______________________________ Pete had never been a big reader when he was little. He was more obsessed with his guitar than with words that meant things. it didn't mean that he was stupid or anything like that. Far from the opposite of that, he had only gotten into reading after he had left New York, since he had left all of his friends behind the books helped him with their stories some of them making him mad since he had such a great perception of emotions and all the emotions just seemed fake in those. Like real people could never feel that even if they wanted to. Other books helped him out with emotions, or just confused him. He loved those really weird Russian novels that had absolutely no point except to confuse you about who was who because for the first half of the book they called the character's by their nickname, then Christian, and then finally surname. It all just made for one big confusing task that would keep Pete occupied for days on end. Although he had never fallen head over heels in love with a book, they were about to fall head over heels for him. Before he could realize what was happening an entire bookcase had toppled over him and a boy about his age was desperately trying to pick it up uttering a few curses as he did so. After he had managed to get it off he yanked Pete up off the road before he could say anything otherwise. Pete picked himself up not looking up at the boy, figuring if he was like every other English guy they would take one look at Pete and walk off without an apology. Pete bended down retrieving an armful of books at a time and putting the back on the shelf before the vendor noticed. There was one thing that Pete hated even more than talking, was fighting with English people about stuff that wasn't his fault. Pete finally looked at the boy who was still there surveying him. Probably thinking that he was on his way to a funeral. Then he did something that surprised Pete he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Pete finished shoving the last of the books back into the rack, before turning and looking at the boy. He didn't look like anyone that Pete would ever consider a friend, or they would consider Pete a friend. They looked like day and night standing there. Pete pushed his sunglasses into his dishwater blonde hair and stuck out his hand hesitantly before giving his usual shrug. The shrug he gave to everyone when they asked him something, or said anything to him. "Pete Monroe," he mumbled out in that voice he had, that didn't match his singing voice in the slightest. People who listened to Pete on recording wouldn't believe that that voice came out of him when he sang. He would have to sing in front of them before they believed him.
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Post by reed thomson on Jan 19, 2008 20:16:13 GMT -5
Reed Thomson [/font][/b][/i] "talked to the angels
they cant make it out tonight
they crossed their hearts and
hoped we'd make it out alive"[/center] The boy opposite Reed seemed troubled, to say the least. The way he nearly cowered inside himself, standing with such a slouch that it looked like he had some kind of back problem was the first clue. He looked like he needed someone to be nice to him for a change. However, Reed was different. He wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart, he was doing it because this particular boy actually seemed like an interesting person to end up talking to. He seemed like one of those people who’d traveled to great places, and had story upon story bottled up inside, ready to explode their words into the ears of an onlooker like Reed. And he was so eager to listen, for some reason. Lately, life had been all about him and to be quite honest he was getting pretty sick of his fake personality and his fake friends. This guy seemed genuine, though a hard code to crack. The type of guy who would walk away without a word. So Reed needed to keep him interested. Make him stay.
Continuing with his genuine smile, Reed spoke once more, his fitting voice floating around them like music. “seriously dude, I’m so sorry. I can be such a klutz sometimes. Daydreaming and shit, you know?” Blinking a few times, he tried his best to make eye contact with the boy, but didn’t exactly have too much luck. Having a slight case of Attention Deficit Disorder he fiddled a bit, shuffling his body weight from foot to foot, impatiently waiting for an answer, if he was destined to receive one at all. It was likely that the boy opposite him would think he was a total meathead and trot off the way he came, but then again you never knew with people in London. It was a complete change in scenery for Reed, and though it was hard to get used to, he was having a great time. The Miami boy was trying his best to fit in.
Coughing slightly, he looked around a bit before taking another shot at conversation. “you from around here? I’m from Miami, but this place is really nice, don’t you think? I go to this place Hoffman Academy for school.” Why was he telling this kid his life story again? A complete stranger he was, and making a complete and utter ass of himself at that. Why could he never keep his cool around people that seemed interesting? Maybe it was because he always seemed to come across as a huge dork. However, he simply shrugged it off as he always did, and took a final stab at things. “can I buy you a coffee? Latte? Milkshake? I feel really bad. Seriously.” Jesus Christ. What a guy.
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Post by pete monroe on Jan 19, 2008 20:33:14 GMT -5
She keeps on waiting for time out there Oh love, can you love me babe Love, is this loving babe Is time turning around _______________________________ Pete started to fidget. Most people thought that he fidgeted because it was a nervous habit, that he was ADD or something like that. The real reason was, when Pete hadn't had his fix in quite a while and then had to talk to people he would fidget. Most often with his sunglasses opening and closing their arms, twirling them in his long fingers. Or it was the black skinny ties that he always sported. He would start loosening it and then he would tighten it. He knew that most of the time he would people up the wall fidgeting. He didn't use to fidget, then again he wasn't always a coke addict. Although this guy seemed to be just as fidgety as Pete was. Although from his clean cut appearance, unlike Pete's he just guessed that the guy was either really nervous around new people, or he had ADD. Pete took his time answering, the next statment made. He wasn't use to striking up conversations like this and most of the time his mind wasn't on words. "It's not you're fault," he said shrugging yet once again. He wasn't surprised that this guy, Reed, didn't have an English accent. His clothes were too American. Pete didn't want to say out of place because lots of English guys dressed just the same way. They were just different. Pete hadn't been back to America in seven years, but that didn't mean that he didn't know what American's dressed like. Pete had never really wondered about his own accent, it was a little muddled from being here so long, but he hadn't lost his Yankee twang from his childhood in New York. Of course, it wasn't very hard to get where this guy was from, since that was the next thing that came at Pete. He nodded his head, of course this guy went to Hoffman. Who didn't these days. He'd just met a girl at a restaurant who he swore he had never seen in his life and she went to Hoffman. "I'm from around," he said shrugging, which wasn't true. He had lived in New York and London only, but it seemed the appropriate thing to say. "I go to Hoffman," he said starting to play with his sunglasses. It wouldn't have bothered him if this guy didn't know who he was. From what he could assume from the dress, this guy was an actor. Or a theater major as they liked to put it, and from what he could tell he knew that he wouldn't know who Pete was even though he had been at Hoffman for four years. It wasn't like he made a splash, sure he was one of the best guitarist, but the only time people noticed him were at the end of the year performances. Without thinking he took out his cigarettes, finally noticing that the cigarette that had been in his hand was on the ground. He reached out a black booted foot and squished it for good measure and then he lit up a new one. His fingers didn't leave the lighter thought, flipping it open and closed again and again waiting to see if the boy would make another stab at him. Not to his surprise, Reed did, although this time Pete didn't just shrug this off. He took a drag of his cigarette, blowing a perfect smoke ring away from them and then turned back. "I know a good coffee shop around the corner," he said shrugging once more.
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