entrancelogs | time to take a stroll

Much like Kesha, the party don't start 'til America walks in. Unlike Kesha, who is a compassionate, intelligent woman, this asshole is the type who spends the national budget on a Halloween party. Their only similarities are that they're both blond and will bring the whiskey.

He's not sure what people from the future wear to beach parties, so he does a terrible thing and makes a vague request to his closet: gimme what people wear to beach parties.

The bikini top doesn't fit but god help you all he stuffs himself into the bikini bottoms. With unicorns on his crotch, whiskey in hand, giant scars visible and equally awful sunglasses perched on his head, he heads down to the beach with a huge grin on his face. He is the epitome of fashion and boy does he hope there's food.

Luckily everyone is spared the presence of his raptors but don't worry, he makes up for it with shoes.

This is clearly what everyone should wear to beach parties, he thinks to himself.

Between the hard drinking and the unicorn knickers, America deserves the bottle of water Luke tips over his head by way of saying hello. Never mind that Luke has complemented America perfectly by turning up to this party like a nun, rolling up the ankles of his jeans and the sleeves of his cardigan, and nothing else. The only other concession he makes to the beach is the sunscreen slathered on his nose, but it's doing nothing to keep him from turning into a lobster.

Loving greeting done, he nabs America’s sunglasses and uses them to push his hair off his overheated face. “Those are not the hi-tops I was thinking of.”

Squealing in surprise at the ice water he's suddenly drenched in, America spins around ready to either shove or hug his aggressor. Seeing his roasted boyfriend his face splits into a wide grin and he goes for the second option. (Besides, the cold is starting to feel kinda good, and maybe dampening Luke's clothes will cool him down before he boils alive.)

"There ya are! I didn't have no one to dress me proper, get me the right hoodies and hi-tops, so I had to make do on my own. And boy did I make a stellar choice."

Winking, he pulls back to get a full view of Luke's beach attire. It looks a lot like his normal attire. Sure, he's from an era where it's the norm to socialize in overly stuffy clothing, but c'mon. There's no need for fancy pretenses here in Wonderland; their society is a mishmash and few fucks are given to showing some skin.

"Yeesh, ain't you hot in that? Don't even wanna take the sweater off?"

He tugs playfully at the hem of the cardigan, pulling Luke closer in a gesture equally intimate as it is teasing him for his fashion choices. The irony.

Luke squirms throughout the hug. Like, ugh, America, he didn’t come to the beach to get wet. Just like he didn’t come to the beach to show any skin. If he gives in to boardshorts, it’s only a short step to a tanktop, and that’s one drenching away from every contour on his body being on show.

“Maybe I put it on so you can take it off,” he teases, coaxed forwards-backwards into the space between their bodies. He holds America's forearms and pecks him on the lips. "Just like I'm hoping you did with those unicorn things."

Closing the distance between them with small movements and a chaste kiss feels cozy. Maybe even better than the thrill that zips up his spine at Luke's flirting. A pleased noise slips out as his hands wander up to play with the buttons to see just how earnest Luke is about his undressing suggestion. Getting naked on the beach may not be on the agenda for either of them (though America doesn't have enough shame anymore to object to such a plan) but surely Luke wouldn't mind an outer layer getting stripped off, would he? For comfort. That's what America tells himself.

"Ya got me! But I got a whole lot less layers hidin' my skin. Not exactly fair that you're only one itty bitty strip of fabric away from the goods when you're all buttoned up like... well, like someone from my era!"

He snorts even through a twinge of sympathy. So many decades of wool uniforms in blistering heat, so many times he's collapsed from heat stroke. Well not today.

After a year of dating, Luke’s still not past that moment where his skin goes all tight and tingly at light grazes. He licks his lips, a trap invite to kissing because they taste of salt and chemicals, and then presses the back of his hands behind his arse, limbs opening up as he pushes his chest out. A flash of teeth encourages him to get a move on.

“Why don’t you put on whatever I take off? Then it’ll be fair when I do you.”

With the added benefit that his cardigan is long enough so no one will see this shame. His voice drops to a breathy whisper, partially due to dizziness. Stuffing yourself into long sleeves and jeans tight enough to scrape your hipbones is a bit foolish on a hot summer day, but Luke wouldn’t be English if he wasn’t permanently unprepared for the weather.

But the bigger headrush is just having an intimate conversation surrounded by dozens of of people, all of whom can see America’s hands straying into friendly territory. Nothing salacious, obviously, but this is the first time in public where they haven’t been careful to maintain an impersonal distance. Only the very dense could think they aren’t a couple.

[ clarisse, in part — no, entirely blames america for her presence at this party. why she hangs out with this weirdo she's still not sure, but he indulges her and she indulges him so i guess they just indulge each other in the most awful way possible, usually when guns and alcohol are involved. it's a very odd friendship, though it's one she might actually admit to, unlike most of her relationships with the people who are actually family. it's complicated, and it's only gotten more complicated since her death, especially since she gets the feeling everyone just wants to sit in a circle around a campfire and sing kumbaya and talk about their feelings. at least with america, she can forget all that shit, which may or may not be helpful, but it's better than feeling miserable.

she may not be the queen of fashion sense, but america's is honestly god awful most of the time. it doesn't really bother her, but somewhere in the back of her head she can hear silena screaming and it almost makes her wince. ]

You know, you make my fashion sense look decent. [ and she wears bright orange with camo. it's not good. ]

[ Admittedly it's not a usual thing to have friends return from such gruesome deaths, but America decides to use his preferred tactic of dealing with uncomfortable emotional experiences he isn't ready to face: stuff it down deep, deep inside, and then one day he'll die. If it doesn't leak out before then he considers it a job well done.

That's why he decides not to treat Clarisse with the sensitivity a murder victim should probably be given. She can talk if she wants, and since he's not in any mood to offer up his fucked up side of what happened, he figures it's best to let it lie for now.

Her insults runs right off him like water on a duck, if said duck was incredibly vain. He just grins, puffs up his chest like he's showing off and nudges the sunglasses over his eyes. How he's seeing right now, no one knows. Maybe a lot of squinting. Or contacts. ]

Whatever, I look cute. You just ain't as adventurous with clothes as I am! A closet gives me unicorn bottoms, I say bring on the unicorns. And it shows off my chest and legs real nice!

[ clarisse snorts and shakes her head, because really, he looks ridiculous. if he likes it, though, who is she to judge. especially when, you know, it does actually show off his chest and legs very well. not that she's looking because that would be weird (which means she's totally looking, just like how she totally never checked out percy while she was in his body, which is still bizarre enough to think about that she'd rather just not). she's just glad he didn't decide to traipse out here in a speedo, because those things are always awkward, regardless of how hot you are. ]

Yeah, alright, you keep telling yourself that. I'd rather not walk around half naked wearing unicorns on my crotch, but whatever floats your boat, cowboy.

[ which is basically just her nickname for america, since there isn't really a better one. how do you shorten america? the answer is you don't because it will always sound stupid, unless you just shorten it to A, which is lame. so cowboy it is. ]

time to take a stroll

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no prose for you i do what i want

how dare u

i dare