Post by tatiana2 on Jul 15, 2009 4:33:07 GMT -4
i hope you won't leave yourself out
( WHEN WE TURN THE PAGES )
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[/b] He asked semi-politely with a hint of annoyance and superiority. What was this joker doing? Sure, he was a few minutes after two, but that didn't mean he had the right to come and steal his gig, did it? He would have to check the tour rule book when he got back to his bus... if there was such a thing. Maybe he could ask the tour director, although that seemed like an awful big waste of time. "Seriously."[/b] He added, scratching the back of his neck with his left hand -- the one that coincidentally had a dark mark tattoo across it, an eighteenth birthday present to himself. There was no denying the boy's love for Harry Potter, because even if he did front a band fond of death growls and noises that only Hades could possibly enjoy, he was a nerd at heart and he didn't bother hiding his tat. Half his fans didn't even notice, and the other half didn't know what it meant, so there was no worry, right?
Time was never something that Sam was good at keeping track of. He always knew where his keys were, he could remember the passwords for his computer and accounts, and he always knew exactly where his phone was and how much battery it had... but he could never seem to get himself where he needed to be on time without a reminder. Sure, he had band members to bug him right before a set so that he wasn't late, but when it came to personal signings, he was always stumped. His manager sometimes sent him a text about it, but he had forgotten to charge his phone the night before (hey, he knew where it was... it just wasn't where it should have been.) but he didn't get a change to read it. All he could remember was a couple nights ago when he was given the schedule for the week. He remembered two pm Thursday... it was Thursday, right? It had to be. Sam hopped out of his bunk, where he had been rereading Harry Potter & The Order Of The Phoenix. He hid the book under his covers, god forbid one of his band mates play a prank and steal the book from him -- it wouldn't be the first time. He slid on some plain black van slip ons, completing his completely plain outfit of skinny jeans, a black graphic t-shirt, and blue hoodie. Sometimes he didn't like to stand out, and although it was about ninety five degrees outside, he always had a jacket on. One of the perks of growing up in the heat was that he could handle it, even if he did have to push his sleeves up the minute he stepped out of the air conditioned bus.
Sam looked around, pushing a hand through his perfectly shampooed and conditioned hair. Even on tour he made sure that he got the first shower of the morning so that he could spend a little extra time and a little extra hot water on his hair. That was honestly the hardest part of being on tour for him -- not being able to take an hour long shower every day. His hair was even extra soft today, as he had purchased a new bottle of conditioner at Walmart the day before, and decided to splurge on some extra deep conditioning shit... okay yeah, there was no denying that he was not one hundred percent straight, and he didn't hide that fact. He didn't broadcast it either, but only because he didn't want to get hated for liking boys as well as girls. Most people didn't equate the vocal ability to scream with the fondness of penises and flat chests, and he didn't want to confuse the masses by putting the two of them together. Although everyone should have been able to guess it by his hair, because it was just too nice to be true. He looked around a little before spotting the tents -- they were brightly colored and really the only thing around, so it wasn't that hard. Sure, finding the exact tent would be a little difficult, but he could always follow the masses. That worked most of the time, especially since some people tended to follow him around as if they were stray cats and he was a garbage can full of rotting fish corpses. Not like that was a good analogy, because Sam had too nice of hair to be a garbage can, but you get the idea.
After nearly ten minutes of poking his head into every tent, he found the one with a large crowd and the words "signing" written on a giant blue banner with fancy yet simple lettering. As he moved into the white tarp faked walls, he noticed someone sitting down at the table. Someone who wasn't him. Someone who looked remarkably like another lead singer, perhaps someone trying to steal his spotlight? "Why are you in my chair?"
He looked at the person in the chair again, focusing on his features to try to identify his face. He was a singer, no doubt about that -- no regular band member would ever challenge his authority, right? The mouth gave it away -- okay, so mouths were really the first thing that Sam noticed about a person, and they were the thing that he used to tell them apart from other people in his head. This boy definitely had a signature smile, and t was one that of course stuck in Sam's head. The boy definitely wasn't bad looking, but the fact that he was sitting in the chair that he currently wished to be occupying peeved him more than a little. He exhaled sharply and tapped his foot on the dead grass, little flecks of green (well, brown) breaking off under his shoe. He was destroying the landscape, but it was alright, because by the time the day was over, half the grass would be trampled down too much to even exist anymore, and he knew some of the shrubs would die from urine or fire or vomit. Oh, the pleasures of a summer tour, with it's intense heat and lack of security on the teenage front. Anyone could bring in booze or drugs into the venue given they were good at hiding things and didn't do them right in the middle of the walkways, although he supposed they liked that about tours. Tours were great for everyone, right? "Well?" He asked again, his patience at an all time low. His mind kept wandering from the boy to what he was doing to the dead grass, creating a medley of thoughts and possibilities in his head. No one could accuse Sam Delancey of under thinking things, that's for sure.
TAGGED is Avalon.
WORDS are 1138.
NOTES are that holy fuck I'm tired/rambly.
[/blockquote][/blockquote][/size][/font]