SUNJATA
you wanna know if i know why, i can't say that i do
don't understand the evil eye, or how one becomes two
don't understand the evil eye, or how one becomes two
It was an attempt to get out of the overreaching fingers of his father – to move out of the way, into his own space, not on a nice street down in Malibu but somewhere grungier, somewhere rougher, somewhere that even his father likely wouldn’t look at too closely. And so far, for this month, it’s worked. He’s managed to spend the time working on his studies, the books spread across the room he’s renting from someone whom he doesn’t know very well, who seemed just as surprised as he did that Sunjata had answered the ad.
But it had worked out. He kept to himself, cleaned up whenever Nate wasn’t around, kept his space pretty minimal. And for the most part, they’d left each other alone. Until today, that is, the knock on the door insistent and the nickname? What the fuck was that about? He tosses over in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, throwing back the covers of his bed and sits up. He squints at the clock, five ‘o clock.
He contemplates letting Nate go on until he tires out, but he realizes the sooner that he pays his rent, the sooner it’s over and he can go back to sleep.
He trudges to the door, his hair sleep tossed and a five o clock shadow on his face (fitting if not for the right am/pm timeframe), nothing more than a pair of shorts when he opens the door a crack, his steel gaze full of exhaustion with a hint of a glare. “It’s five am.” He says matter of factly, stepping back to open the door wider, letting Nate step into his surprisingly clean room full of books on boring things like law and notepads full of notes he’s torn out and kept organized in a different folder. “And my name’s not Sunshine.” He adds on as if for emphasis, though he doesn’t even know if Nate’s listening. He scoops up his pants from the night before, fishing out his wallet, pulling out the cash to turn to Nate and scans him. “Next time can it wait until nine? You’re lucky I had it on me.”
But it had worked out. He kept to himself, cleaned up whenever Nate wasn’t around, kept his space pretty minimal. And for the most part, they’d left each other alone. Until today, that is, the knock on the door insistent and the nickname? What the fuck was that about? He tosses over in his bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, throwing back the covers of his bed and sits up. He squints at the clock, five ‘o clock.
He contemplates letting Nate go on until he tires out, but he realizes the sooner that he pays his rent, the sooner it’s over and he can go back to sleep.
He trudges to the door, his hair sleep tossed and a five o clock shadow on his face (fitting if not for the right am/pm timeframe), nothing more than a pair of shorts when he opens the door a crack, his steel gaze full of exhaustion with a hint of a glare. “It’s five am.” He says matter of factly, stepping back to open the door wider, letting Nate step into his surprisingly clean room full of books on boring things like law and notepads full of notes he’s torn out and kept organized in a different folder. “And my name’s not Sunshine.” He adds on as if for emphasis, though he doesn’t even know if Nate’s listening. He scoops up his pants from the night before, fishing out his wallet, pulling out the cash to turn to Nate and scans him. “Next time can it wait until nine? You’re lucky I had it on me.”
i just can't recall what started it all, or how to begin in the end
i ain't here to break it, just see how far it will bend
i ain't here to break it, just see how far it will bend
