riotous_head: (Default)
*he arrives home from teaching with a song welling in him--something catchy that he'd heard on the train, some pop song in waltz time that he can't get out of his head. he puts his bag down by the door, humming to himself softly. what were the words? something to do with love and loneliness, and dancing alone--

he leans over Guildenstern's shoulder and kisses his brow* We should go dancing tonight.
riotous_head: (Sword Tricks)
*Laertes has an unholy hatred of airports. he finds them altogether too crowded, too uncomfortable, designed more to usher people out than to give them any kind of ease when they stay. despite this avowed animosity, though, he's sitting on an uncomfortable plastic bench, watching the luggage carousel swirl around, waiting to hear his phone ring or to see a familiar flash of red hair*
riotous_head: (Thought and Affliction)
*Laertes is washing dishes, his hands in hot and soapy water almost to his elbows. the effort pleases him; even if his hands are rough from soap and his fingers ache from feeling for crusted-on food, clean plates come from this labor, and he enjoys knowing that. when at last he lets the sink drain, he glances up and calls quietly* Rey?
riotous_head: (I Dare Damnation)
*from the landing comes a horrific, shrieking, squealing sound--eerily reminiscent of a cat being slowly strangled to the tune of 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik.'

... or a violin that hasn't been played in over a decade and a half.*
riotous_head: (Girl!Laertes)
*she is standing on her head at the moment, somewhere in the middle of the park--slowly stretching her legs, scissoring them, curling them until her knees nearly touch the ground and then extending them again. her shoes lie neatly beside her*
riotous_head: (I Dare Damnation)
*Laertes has never actually been to a daycare center before--he's a little dazed by the bright colors, the drawings hanging on the walls (he thinks, I draw like that). his face is greyer than it was when he was last in Denmark; he's grown a little beard and lost about twenty pounds. he smiles less often--but when he sees Forti, he can't help but smile just a little* Hey, there.
riotous_head: (Thought and Affliction)
*he's tired, angry, and in debt--and, what's worse, in Denmark. Laertes catches a bus from the airport scarcely three days after Forti had called him; he is somewhat hastily shaven and very poorly packed, and yet he finds himself straightening his shirt as he knocks on a door that only a month ago was his own*
riotous_head: (Many Years Gone)
*almost the instant Laertes gets home from work, the phone rings--he hangs up his keys and picks up the receiver, listening for a moment and then calling* Rey? Kate's on the phone--
riotous_head: (Do You See This O God?)
*there are boxes now scattered about the living room--a box of books in one corner, a box of clothes beside it, a long box carefully packed with fencing equipment balanced atop them. it's quite clear that Laertes will be leaving soon for France; perhaps that makes it somehow significant, that he's putting together dinner for the prince of Norway's arrival. it's only sandwiches, but we suppose that the thought counts*
riotous_head: (I Dare Damnation)
*when the prince drops off Reynaldo after their evening (and night) of dinner, Laertes is waiting for them in the lot, wearing a jacket against the morning chill and running a hand over his short hair--nervous energy. for all he straightens and looks calm enough when he actually catches sight of Forti's car, the fact remains that he's on edge, and it might be audible in his voice when he catches Forti's arm and says* Hey--mind if we have a talk?
riotous_head: (Bad Day)
*France, last year--Laertes is leaning against a wall, clutching his head because the lightspoundingheatsweatsound of the club is giving him a godawful headache. he lost sight of Julius an hour ago, and he's almost certain that Julius has lost sight of him by now. he is sick to death of bad French punk music and bad French clubwear and bad French pick-up lines.*
riotous_head: (Default)
*after an attempted bonding-with-Forti experiment became a humiliating tennis defeat for Laertes, he has determined to try a sport that he actually knows how to play--and this is why he says, casually* Rey said you fence?
riotous_head: (Out of Time)
*Laertes has one night off a week--Saturday night--and tonight, he's determined to take Hotspur out to see a film with his own money; whether Hotspur actually lets him pay is another matter--*

(the typist would also like to inquire as to whether Rey and Guil are en route to Denmark?)
riotous_head: (Shaved Head)
*whenever Rey returns from his picnic and hiking adventure, Laertes will be on the iron balcony--not waiting for him and Forti to return, but merely leaning comfortably against the wall and smoking, one hand in his coat pocket (Rey always hates it when Laertes smokes indoors)*
riotous_head: (Shaved Head)
*Laertes gets home perhaps nine-thirty, after spending a long evening reading in the park, then the coffeeshop, then the library--as soon as he gets in (a brief, noncommittal hello to Reynaldo), he'll grab a pair of scissors and lock himself in the bathroom--and when he emerges, he will be unusually taciturn.

and also bald.*
riotous_head: (Bad Day)
*when Reynaldo does get home from his extended stay with the prince of Norway, he will find Laertes stationed at the computer desk, an expression of grim determination on his face--he'll glance up when he hears the door open* Good to see you home.
riotous_head: (AU!love!)
*the scene: France, Laertes's apartment. he's bent over his desk, attempting to compose a letter, but it always seems to say, 'do you still love me?' even after he's crossed it out, crumpled the page, tossed it away. he hasn't even heard from Guildenstern for almost half a year (even though Laertes sends letters religiously, once a week), and he's beginning to wonder if he ever will again.

Laertes may or may not be alone at the moment.*
riotous_head: (Thought and Affliction)
*a bright sort of day in mid-May--Laertes's boxes are all piled in his living room; his bed has been disassembled, and the mattress leans on its side against the wall beside the pieces of the frame; only his futon has been left intact, because that is where he will sleep tonight. his shelves have already been taken to the nearest charity thrift store, and their former contents are now in boxes labeled (in French) 'poetry' and 'textbooks' and 'thesis research.' somewhere in the lattermost box is a certificate indicating his completion of the French Language and Literature program at the University at Elsinore; somewhere in the formermost is a small, ill-bound book with the letters 'L&G' written in shaking script in the margins.

on the rusted-iron balcony sits the lord of this chaos of transit, a new tattoo scrawled at his wrist, the skin around it swollen-red and stinging.

tomorrow, his friend Jehanne will arrive with a van to help him move to France.*
riotous_head: (Do You See This O God?)
*Laertes has to admit--it's sort of nice that Reynaldo's found somewhere else to live, even if it does feel empty with Rey gone and Horatio and Guildenstern regularly staying at their dorms. it's sort of nice not to have to weave his thesis out of whole cloth, but to have time to savor the revision process--even if he's restlessjumpy without the project to eat away his time. he's simply not used to having free time, to sleep and practice and work and think--

--and it's the free time to think that concerns him most at the moment. he's sitting on Guildenstern's floor, his back against the bed--*

--and what will you do when you've completed your degree and left school, exactly?
riotous_head: (Default)
*ever since the rather unusual incident in which Horatio and Guildenstern slept together, Horatio's visited fairly frequently--not to continue a torrid affair, but rather to spend time with Reynaldo, who's living with Laertes over break. the arrival of Christmas has occasioned much debate among the factions within the flat--

--therefore, scene: Laertes drilling in the living room as he talks, the pointy object in his hand dissuading any conversational partners from coming too near*

It's not a bloody Holy Mass--just a decent dinner--I fail to see how you object to that--
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