"'Ee's a bloo'y flamer, ma'e." Ankles were crossed on the lip bordering the perimeter of the roof while the jackal attached to them lounged in a lawn chair, cigarette in hand.
No he's no'. He's a musician. Just because sommon has a bit more class than you do, doesn' make them gay. The dragon was beside him; he felt him there, mocking his own pose with proper posture.
"I fink yer a flamer too." The half-serpent's hues were swept aside to observe his companion with a small smirk. Unwanted as the fragment may be, the thing was growing on him despite that Draconian trait that forced him to sound condescending at all times. Stitch looked ahead again, peering across the gap between buildings where an illuminated window allowed a sneak peek into someone's life. "So tell me abou' 'im. Sommat I dinno. I know ye saw i', don' bover lyin'." The shell of a peanut was broken off for the prize within; the casing discarded, sailing over those crossed ankles to rain upon the streets seven stories below.
The translucent creature sighed impatiently and cast identical greens to the heavens: dark and littered with stars. He lives a completely differen' life when he's around. It was only last night he infringed on yours. The lizard paused, debating on whether any more information should be disclosed, or if the jackal should find out on his own. Name's Patrick, if it's anything t' you.
Stitch pulled the hood of his sweater up, casting a shadow over his eyes. A wince, however, was apparent. "Yer serious." A question of sorts. A thoughtful drag of his cigarette coated his lungs with all types of harmful chemicals, then he exhaled. "So 'ee plays th' saxophone, 'ee dresses like th' Blues Brovas--in a metro sor'a way..an' wiffou' th' sunglasses--" he was listing them on fingers as he went, "'is name's PATRICK..," clearly this was the most upsetting, "..An' 'ee's nice? 'Ee wen' t' the inn instead o' 'is Poetry club across town--which I don' b'lieve, by th' way, I fink yer a f*ckin' liar-- an' 'ee was nice." A hand lifted to rub at his face.
"Me life is unravelin'."
It was never in order t' begin with, mate.
No he's no'. He's a musician. Just because sommon has a bit more class than you do, doesn' make them gay. The dragon was beside him; he felt him there, mocking his own pose with proper posture.
"I fink yer a flamer too." The half-serpent's hues were swept aside to observe his companion with a small smirk. Unwanted as the fragment may be, the thing was growing on him despite that Draconian trait that forced him to sound condescending at all times. Stitch looked ahead again, peering across the gap between buildings where an illuminated window allowed a sneak peek into someone's life. "So tell me abou' 'im. Sommat I dinno. I know ye saw i', don' bover lyin'." The shell of a peanut was broken off for the prize within; the casing discarded, sailing over those crossed ankles to rain upon the streets seven stories below.
The translucent creature sighed impatiently and cast identical greens to the heavens: dark and littered with stars. He lives a completely differen' life when he's around. It was only last night he infringed on yours. The lizard paused, debating on whether any more information should be disclosed, or if the jackal should find out on his own. Name's Patrick, if it's anything t' you.
Stitch pulled the hood of his sweater up, casting a shadow over his eyes. A wince, however, was apparent. "Yer serious." A question of sorts. A thoughtful drag of his cigarette coated his lungs with all types of harmful chemicals, then he exhaled. "So 'ee plays th' saxophone, 'ee dresses like th' Blues Brovas--in a metro sor'a way..an' wiffou' th' sunglasses--" he was listing them on fingers as he went, "'is name's PATRICK..," clearly this was the most upsetting, "..An' 'ee's nice? 'Ee wen' t' the inn instead o' 'is Poetry club across town--which I don' b'lieve, by th' way, I fink yer a f*ckin' liar-- an' 'ee was nice." A hand lifted to rub at his face.
"Me life is unravelin'."
It was never in order t' begin with, mate.