coed dorms.

(alex)
Well, morning rolls around, and Gabbie's resolution the night before notwithstanding, Alexander doesn't seem to be moving out of Room 4.

It turns out Alex is an early riser. He's up by 6am, grabbing a quick shower before heading downstairs in training shorts and no shirt to blend three eggs, two bananas, a bunch of strawberries and two cups of milk into a protein shake. After he gulps that down he's out the back door at a fast jog.

It's still only 8am when he's back from the run and the gym. Wherever Gabbie bedded down for the previous night, Alex barges right back into Room 4, whistling jauntily while he throws off his clothes and changes into street wear. Jeans go on, a t-shirt, and then his fitted motorcycle jacket. He grabs his helmet and keys and departs again.

10:30am and he's back with shopping bags from Walmart. He strips Gabbie's sheets off his bed, even goes so far as to launder them, and changes on his own bedding: much cheaper, much lower thread-count, much crappier, and also shades of blue, deep and pale. It clashes like hell with the chocolate decor of the room.

Then he makes a couple phone calls, goes downstairs for lunch. When he comes back up he starts reorganizing the room, compressing all of Gabriella's stuff into exactly half the closet, half the dresser, half the bookshelf, and half the desk. Whatever he can crunch together, he does. Her underwear ends up piled on top of her tops. Her books end up lumped together haphazardly. Whatever he couldn't fit in her now-compressed space, he leaves on top of her bed in nice polite little piles.

At 2:45pm a moving truck comes, unloading three enormous boxes. Alexander hefts them upstairs one by one, balancing them on his shoulders as he stomps slowly up the steps.

By 5pm the emptied-out half of the closet contains three motorcycle jackets: one white and silver, one black and grey, one red and black. It also contains multiple pairs of beat-up jeans, a few button-up shirts, and amazingly, a rather snappy grey suit.

The vacated drawers in the dresser are full again: one stuffed with his underwear and socks and gym shorts, the other stuffed with his t-shirts and a few sweatshirts and hoodies.

His shelves on the bookshelf are full too. He has a few books, mostly pop fiction, and a lot of DVDs. Some are in their cases. Most are in a black binder, pirated, pages and pages of ripped-and-burnt movies. Some, judging by the names, are definitely pornographic.

There's also a small combination TV-DVD player on top of the bookshelf now, facing his bed. And an Xbox. And a spinning DVD-tower full of Xbox games.

Finally, he sets up an iPod dock/clock radio on his nightstand, plugs his iPod in, and turns the music on. Drum'n'bass, funk and breakbeats. Alexander throws himself down on his bed, stretches out, pulls his laptop out of his backpack and writes an email to his brother:

settled in at this hostel/dorm place calld the brotherhood, address is 221 w belden ave... i got my own mailslot so if u wnana send me stuff go ahead lol... dude u should come visit wait til u meet my roommate shes a fuckin lolfarm -A

At 6pm there's another delivery. This time there are actually deliverymen, and together, two coveralled guys and Alex get the fresh delivery moved carefully upstairs.

--

When Gabriella gets back to her room that evening, she'll find her armchair has been moved to her side of the room, between the room door and the closet door.

She'll also, unless she was returning after 10pm, hear breakbeats while she's still downstairs in the kitchen. It's far too vivid to be emanating from a bedside iPod dock. The snares have a sharp hiss. The toms have a crisp, clean kick. The cymbals crash; the bass drum thunders right through the walls, and the closer Gabriella gets to her own room, the clearer the beats become.

Open the door and Gabriella will find out why. Set up where her armchair used to be: a 6-piece Pearl Reference drum kit, the sort of thing that probably cost more than all his other belongings put together. Sitting behind it, drumming away without missing a beat, Alexander looks up and flashes her a grin.

"Hey, sweetpea!" he calls over the noise. "Welcome home!"

(hatchet)
It is not sweetpea.

It's whatever nickname Alex has in his head for the tall blond drink of water who beat his face in recently. His eyes are bloodshot, there are deep dark circles under his eyes, and he's scruffier-looking than before, he other than that he seems fine.

He leans against the doorframe, without blocking the door completely, and just listens.

(alex)
Alexander Vaughn
Mon 8:11 pm
Roll valid
to Alexander Vaughn
(i kan has drum solo?)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 6, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

--

It's not the best he's played, but let's be honest: Alexander's not bad. At all. His rolls are smooth as shit, his beats fluid, his style all quick fingers and loose wrists. The playing doesn't falter as he expects Gabriella walking in, but it's ...

... not Gabriella.

It's the werewolf that bashed his face in, and whatever he said to Gabbie the night before, it's definitely apprehension and wariness he feels when he looks up to see Hatchet darkening his door. The bass drum misses a beat, but he spins it into a break, then finishes the groove out with a descending roll across the toms and onto the crash cymbal.

Silence falls over the room as Alexander spins the sticks in his fingers once, showy as fuck, and reaches out to mute the cymbal on his fingertips.

"What can I do for ya, Blondie?"

(gabbie)
Gabriella had slept in Room 7 last night, and it felt like a night in Motel 8. The walls were stark, void of her paintings and shelves and familiar figurines from childhood. She sheets were stiff and starched, the blankets and pillow unfamiliar. She'd rested uneasily and woke up at about seven in the morning. While Alexander is out running, Gabriella is retrieving her toiletries basket from the closet, taking a shower, and returning to the bedroom to dress. She'd locked the door for once while doing so, so this way she'd at least have a chance to yank the towel back around herself before the muscle-bound tattooed Kinfolk burst into her room.

By the time he returns from the gym, she's gone, out doing whatever it is she can in order to kill time. She visits some landmarks without really taking them in, has lunch, stops at an arts and crafts store to replenish her supply of oil paints in a certain color scheme that she had been running low on for the next project on her list. At the end of her run about the town, she's parked in front of the loft that she'd been living in a few months ago, listening to her stereo and running the same things through her mind that she has been all day.

How am I going to get rid of that jerk invading my space?
How do I approach Reuben about kicking him out?
When's Katherine coming back? Caleb said she would be.

Amongst other things...

When she returns it's a little after eight o' clock at night and she looks worn out, like she wants nothing more than to find her room back to the way it was (that is to day, Alexander-less), change into her pajamas, lay in her bed and consume the next few chapters in the novel she was reading. Reuben was preoccupied at the bar, it was Danny's night off, so Gabbie didn't go pester him. She'd just have to save that for tomorrow.

As she heads up the stairs, she can hear drums, and that confused her a little. It was new, something she hadn't heard anywhere outside of the music department at school. As she walked down the hall to the rooms, she spied Hatchet standing half in and half out of her doorway, where light and sound spilled out around him.

Of course. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Without saying a word, Gabriella adjusted the strap of her tote bag on her shoulder and moved to stand behind Hatchet, a little to the side, so she could duck her head around him and peer into her room. Several dresses were laid out across the top of her bed, book ends were piled near her pillow. A small pile of shoes had made the journey from closet to her bed as well, and her armchair was moved. It seemed that a television, iPod dock, a vast collection of movies and games, and a full drumset had manifested while she was gone, not to mention the god-awful cheap blue bedding that was now covering the spare bed (she refused to acknowledge it as Alex's).

For a few seconds she simply stared at this, then with a low sigh that carried a groan as well, she let her head fall against Hatchet's side, and turned it to press her face against his ribcage. A low string of curses was murmered, unintelligble and muffled, in French into his shirt.

(hatchet)
That much is true: Alexander's not bad. He's actually very good. Even when he misses a beat -- and Hatchet's head tips when it happens, his steely eyes sharp and his ear even more attentive -- he covers it, rolls with it. Alex has no idea what his name is, and probably doesn't care: he calls him Blondie. Hatchet smirks. If it were not for the fact that his Rage, this time of the month, veritably fills the entire room...if it were not for the fact that his bloodshot eyes make him look like he's about to snatch one of those sticks out of the air and make Alex eat it.

Then Gabriella comes up behind him, and he tenses, his nostrils flaring. He sees -- or smells -- that it's Just Her, and he calms...well. As much as someone like him can 'calm'. She leans on him, and buries her head in his side, and he looks down at her with a small frown of mild consternation on his face. He reaches down, puts a large hand on each of her slender shoulders, and moves her away from him.

His eyes go to Alex. "Did you see the notice about the bonfire?"

(alex)
"I..."

Just moved in. Thought you were going to put my head through the bass drum for making noise. Thought you were going to put my head through the bass drum for beating your pretty little friend up. Don't know what the fuck you're talking about.

All these possibilities flicker through Alexander's mind, and consequently, his eyes. He really doesn't have much in the way of deception in him, or even a mind-face filter. Or a mind-mouth filter, most days, but the moon is nearly full and the last time he met Blondie he ended up staying overnight at a hospital, and contrary to popular belief Alexander's not completely stupid.

He just has a massive, fragile ego. And buttons. And he reacts very poorly when they're pushed.

"...didn't, no." He scratches his temple with the butt of one drumstick. "Where is it?"

He sees Gabriella, then, and the million-watt smile he erroneously gave Hatchet a moment ago returns: this time he aims it at the right person. "Sweetpea! I put your shit on your bed, okay?"

(hatchet)
Taggart -- because that's his name, at least the one he goes by with Kin, the one that Gabriella may give to Alex later, not knowing that Liadan has already 'introduced' them, after a fashion -- watches all this wariness and edginess going through Alex's eyes. If he were here because he was annoyed by the drums or here because he didn't want Alex staying in a room with Gabriella, he might very well put Alex's head through a wall, rather than a bass drum.

That isn't why he's here. He watches the other male briefly, thoughtfully, and either has no recollection of smashing his face in or simply doesn't find this fact terribly important. He doesn't, truth be told. In his mind, people fight. Garou and kin. Male and female. They brawl. So Alex got knocked out. So Aidan shouldn't have jumped in. He doesn't know that Alex later came around and put Aidan in the hospital. He doesn't know that Lee threw a laptop at him.

Seriously, people don't tell him anything. But a man with that much Rage, looking that on-edge, looking this exhausted and twitchy, you wouldn't tell him shit that might upset him, either.

"It's on the bulletin board in the common room," he answers simply. "Lee's setting something up. She mentioned performers." Hatchet lifts his chin, gives the drums a nod. "Give it a gander," he says, and then turns to leave the room.

(gabbie)
Taggart's hand fell onto her shoulder, today covered with the thin, delicate material of a floral blouse she'd opted for this morning, something she'd matched with a pair of ankle-high brown boots and snug, dark denims. He moved her away from him a step or two, and she blinked in mild surprise when she glanced up at him, though that surprise was directed more inward than outward.

She'd forgotten herself and acted on first impulse, and was gently reminded her place. There was a mild sting, not as strong as it may have been a few months ago, but present none the less.

Shaking her head a little, she slipped into the room around Taggart, and when she'd done so Alexander spotted her, split his face into a brilliantly energetic and happy smile, and greeted her with the nickname she felt to be very similar to a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe in ninety degree weather-- unpleasant but not going anywhere.

I put your shit on your bed, okay?

"I noticed," she replied blandly, picking up an elegant but uniform looking black slip of a dress, one that Hatchet may or may not recognize as the one she wore when playing in her orchestra. Rubbing at one side of her face with her free hand, she walked over to the closet, opened it up, and reached to put her dress back where it belonged only to pause and stare. Her things had been crammed together unceremoneously to make way for some leather coats, a suit, and other odds and ends. Her violin case was balanced precariously atop a traveling trunk, and her easel was stuffed behind some blouses. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and bit it hard to keep from throwing something of a verbal tantrum and making a complete ass out of herself.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

Another deep sigh, and she slipped the dress in amongst the others that had been left in the closet, then started to remove the three thick winter jackets and rain trench that were taking up space on 'her side' of her closet. These could go elsewhere since the weather was warm, this way all her dresses could hang up.

What. A damn. Headache.

The bonfire had been mentioned, of course, but either she'd forgotten or was purposely ignoring the conversation. 'Lee' had set something up, organized performers, and seemed to manage just fine without her help. Whatever, let there be fire, booze, and brawling. She was seriously considering sitting that party out.

(alex)
Apart from the greeting, Alex's attention stays mostly on Hatchet. If Hatchet suddenly decided to come at him, Alexander was going to run the fuck away. And if he got cornered, he was go down fighting. Either way, alertness and vigilance was called for.

But Hatchet doesn't come at him. Hatchet doesn't even seem to remember who he is. Which sort of rubs Alexander wrong too, but in the grand scheme of things, was probably better than spending another night at the hospital.

So all he does is stare a bit. And then he says, "Okay." Pause. "I'll check it out, man."

Hatchet turns and departs. Alexander rolls his head on his shoulders, and then casts Gabriella a puzzled glance. When he's reasonably sure Hatchet's out of earshot:

"So uh. Is Blondie amnesiac or something?"

(gabbie)
Gabbie's kneeling, tucking the winter jackets under her bedskirt once she's sure that she'd cleaned reccently enough that she didn't have to worry about kicking up a cloud of dust in doing so. She glanced toward the doorway when Hatchet moved away from it, and frowned softly when he departed. However, she said nothing, and instead rose to her feet to start transferring the gowns laid out on her bed to the space created by ridding her coats from the closet.

Alex asked if he was an amnesiac, and Gabriella glanced over to him as she hung a short glittery turquoise number up. "No." Even though he really was and she didn't know, because he never told her. "He's just that way. You bothered him then, so he took care of it. No doubt he's under the assumption that you learned your lesson, and even if that isn't the case," she doubted it was, "you weren't bothering him just then so he didn't hit you."

Her slim shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug, and when all of the gowns were hung up she moved to the dresser to grab some pajamas. "He isn't the type of man to hold a grudge. A little off balance, but he manages--...." She fell away from what she was about to say when she pulled open a drawer to find her undergarments crammed in on top of her tank tops, tees, and camisoles. Her face went blank for a second, then she shut her eyes tightly and lifted a hand to rub at them with her thumb and forefinger.

"Jesus Christ, Alex, you touched my panties??"

(alex)
"Huh." Alexander considers this for a moment. Then he scratches an itch in the middle of his back with the tip of his drumstick. "Okay. That's fair."

Irony: he's the same way. Other than being a total shithead to Aidan every time they met -- which is possibly something he would've done anyway -- he considers that score more or less settled. Alex spins the sticks on his fingers, brings them right down into a slick, bass-heavy groove.

Which he halts mid-measure as Gabriella addresses him again. "Not my fault you put 'em in the bottom drawers," he says cheerfully. "Don't worry, you're not my type. Too damn prissy. I didn't wank on 'em, Princess."

And he starts playing again.

(gabbie)
"Privacy, Alex, is the point. Types aside, and I assure you we're in agreement there, they're my very personal and very intimate belongings."

Pausing, she glanced about, then murmered something else in French, words harsh enough that she wouldn't dare speak them if she thought anyone was going to understand her. Why the hell not? He'd already seen them all anyways. The undergarments were lifted in handfulls and tossed onto her bed, then the drawer was pushed closed.

The end tables that she'd provided for both beds had three small drawers in them, and this was where she started to transfer her undergarments-- panties in one drawer, braziers in the next, and nighties and sleep outfits in the last one down. As she worked, she half-grumbled to him, but loud enough that it was more grumpy conversation than muttering.

"You could have been patient and asked, and you know what? I probably would have complied." Beat. "By the way, your bedding is awful. You didn't need to switch them out, I wasn't concerned about you using the sheets I provided."

She was just concerned about him in general.

(alex)
"I like my sheets. What's wrong with my sheets?"

This time he doesn't stop playing. He keeps it relatively slow and simple compared to the complexities he wrought before she and Hatchet stepped into the room, a standard rock beat on kick, snare and ride, and talks right over it.

"Anyway, I figured I'd move your shit over and my shit in before you tried to throw me out again. Jesus, sweetpea, if you ever live in a college dorm you're in for the shock of your life. I'm far from the worst roommate you could have. I'm clean, I sleep at 10pm most nights, I'm not going to drop acid and smoke pot in the room. I already promised not to bring girlfriends home and I'll even throw your bad boyfriends out for you if they bother you." Beat. "Or me.

"So," he concludes, "you should really count yourself lucky. You could have a furry tower of doom as a roommate."

He shuts up for a minute to hammer out a complex break, a roll, a crash so energetic his ass comes up off the stool for a second.

And then, settling back into his seat and his groove, Alex continues in the same laconic tone, "By the way, that red thong was nice. Damn, girl. I didn't think you were the type."

(gabbie)
"At least the furry tower of doom would have had respect beaten into him already." The girl that Alex knew nothing about, save for the type of underwear she preferred, really couldn't be older than twenty. Obviously a college student. Nothing else that she could be, right? She wasn't even bothering to look at him now, just going about her business of straightening up the mess that he'd left on her bed.

Decorative bookends were, after some rearranging, tucked into the bookshelf, and her shoes were placed in neat rows under the bottom of her bed.

There was a lot she wanted to pick out, and had no restraint to do mentally. His sheets were cheap, probably didn't even get washed before put on his bed, just taken out of their plastic container and thrown over the mattress, and they clashed horribly with the rest of the room. The drums were bulky and loud, certainly not her kind of music. Pornography had been shoved on her bookcase, there was a TV balanced on top of it and a game console as well.

It all made her want to scream. Or whip a pirated DVD at Alex's head. Something.

Standing up at the foot of her bed after tucking her shoes away, she pressed her hands against the small of her back and tipped her hips forward to stretch her spine out after crouching down for a period of time, and she peered over at his face after his comment about the one scandelous undergarment she had.

"However generally college dorms aren't co-ed. Your being male is the root of my problem." Some pajamas were pulled from the drawer that she'd just tucked them into-- a silky camisole-shorts set in yellow and robin's-egg blue. Tucking these under her arm and retrieving her toiletries basket from wherever the hell that wound up, she commented as she made her way out of the room to get herself ready for the night.

"I don't have bad boyfriends, either."

(alex)
"Sure they are. Berkeley's had coed dorms since the dawn of time. Harvard. Stanford. Cornell. Columbia. Caltech. Brown. All the best schools, sweetpea. Living with guys makes you smarter. Look it up."

Then there's a period when conversation is absolutely impossible. Alexander sets up such an energetic series of beats and rolls that he wouldn't hear her if she spoke to him, and wouldn't be able to reply even if he did. He finishes with a flip of one drumstick high into the air while the other dances across the crash cymbals, catching it just in time to strike off the last beat. You have to hand it to him: Alex knows a thing or two about showmanship.

He gets up from his stool, then, setting the drumsticks carefully atop the bookshelf behind his TV/DVD and his XBox. Then he grabs his toiletries off the dresser, throws a towel over his shoulder, and heads out the door.

"I'm going to wash up and go to bed, Princess. If you're gonna change in the room, you've got, oh, 10 minutes."