The entire street was filled with the musical beat of a drum stick beating on the bottom side of three cans and a light pole to create a musical beat that three drunks, here on vacation and to have a good time, had actually stopped and tried to dance too.

Crete’s talents extended to real drums as well but he didn’t have the strength or the stupidity to carry a whole drum set down four flights of stairs every day and set it up on the street corner. Why when you have these handy dandy buckets?

Creek was sitting on an overturned bucket as well, his short, slim frame perched comfortably, his shoulders rounded as he leaned forward and over the buckets slightly. His rear nearly fit on the bucket, so slim he was. His head was buzzed to nearly bald and his face was shaven smooth and clean. Unremarkable Hazel eyes shone brightly, a smile was offered to each passing person that spared him a glance, a cheerful ‘happy Holidays’ for each person to drop a quarter or a dollar, or whatever loose change they found jangling in their pockets, into the small buckets before his display. A ‘god bless you’ to each elder couple and a ‘hello sweetheart’ to each child with lingering, curious eyes.

His voice was light and melodic, something you could listen to while drifting to sleep, something to put you at ease at the worst of times. Creek was dressed in a pair of blue jeans that hung down his waist, held by a woven belt. From his belt loop is a key and three key rings, a domino with three black dots on one side and five on the other, a black dice with white dots, and a clear little sculpture of a cat that turned bright green in the sunlight. His shirt was a white muscle shirt, a line of wetness beginning to show down the middle of the back and under the arms, even though it was only 20 degrees and there was snow on the ground.

A dull clank interrupting his constant thud of drum-made-of-plastic beat meant someone, a lady and man, probably Christmas shopping for their children, had dropped change in the bucket. He paused the beat.

“Thank you, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah.” Pleasant smile, check of the watch. It was getting late and he needed to find something for his mother for Christmas.

(Hope you don't mind me joining you.)

They were gone. Moonshine and Tonic had both left already for God knows what. Gin was sick, but he didn't stay home. He'd managed to skitter out of the door of his father's house and avoid physical contact of any kind. Chris was, as he found out later, still working. That left the teenager wandering the streets alone, wanting to go home but too afraid to do so. He didn't want to chance facing that demon of a man.

Coward. Scaredy-cat.

With every sound he heard he looked back and hurried away from it. When a trash can was knocked over with a crash, he bolted like a terrified horse. Sick, but overwhelmingly skittish.

At least he'd managed to get away from the bad end of town, but now he hadn't a clue where he was. It was cold. He was wearing an old black sweatshirt with bleach stains all over it and black jeans. Of course he sported a black bandana that covered his green hair as well.

The sound of music drew him closer. It calmed his nerves, so he followed the sound. He could feel some strange sense of... joy from here. Streets were lined with shops and stands. Gin vaguely recalled seeing this place before.

He drew closer, slowly, his stormy green eyes travelling over the area, inspecting it. Finally, he was near enough to toss spare change in the bucket. And he would've, if he had any spare change.

He lingered, saying nothing. He probably counted as one of the children with curious stares. He was almost too close to Cree by now. But something about this area drew him like a moth to a flame. The peacefulness that surrounded Cree and his make-shift drums was perplexing. Gin, unaware that it might be considered rude, kept staring, head cocked to the side ever so slightly.

Not at all my dear. Secretly I was getting a little desperate for an RP.


Cree didn’t notice the lad at first. He’d checked his watch and then proceeded to pounding out a beat that might sound familiar, the kind that bordered on being like a song but didn’t quite sound the exact same. Cheerful, fast, pouring his soul into it. It’s what he does. It’s how he survives.

Pounding on the buckets didn’t mean closing your eyes but half of the time he did, tossing his head back, the smile never faltering from his thin lips. It was when the boy was close enough to throw money into the bucket that he noticed him. His eyes looked expectant for only the briefest of moments, but after a few seconds had passed he knew there wouldn’t be spare change from those pockets but he offered a kind, light smile anyways, not ceasing to pound a beat.

Staring could be rude but, well, it didn’t bother Cree at all. After a moment, the lad was still there and he smiled for him again. For him or at him, because the smile never actually left his lips in the first place, it was simply directed towards the boy. More coins tossed into the bucket made a foul note in the middle of his song. He stopped the drumsticks, smiled at them.

“Happy Holidays, thank you!” His voice wasn’t masculine at all, in fact, it sounded very feminine. If you didn’t know any better, or had you not seen him sitting here in a very male body, you may have thought the voice belonged to a deep alto toned woman. Perhaps it was his size. He fixed his eyes on the young man. “Enjoying yourself?” The smile is even in his tone. He begins to play again, but his eyes remain on this little make shift audience of one outcast looking boy.

"Um, yes." His voice was small, soft, sort of weak. He was looking at the buckets now, gaze fixed upon them. "You're... really good," he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped back. Then to the side. He was still watching him from very close, but moved in case someone might want to toss some money in the bucket. He wished he had something to offer him, since the music was so nice.

He sort of bit the inside of his lip, but he was smiling weakly. He was watching him play, still. Something about the way he beat those buckets with sticks was so fascinating. The notes washed over him. He leaned his weight into his left hip.

He smiled and continued to play, turning on the bucket he was sitting on enough to face the lad while druming away. "Thank you, I try to be." The smile reached his eyes three times fold, shinning. He glanced at his watch again without pausing by turning his wrist towards himself in a minor movment. Eyes back to the lad. This beat is for the kid...because that's who he is looking at and speaking to, so it is who he's playing to. Not that any passer-bys cared who it was too, only that they were either feircly annoyed by the pounding sound of the wood sticks on plastic, concret, and metal or completly enjoying the music.

"How are your holidays going? No school eh?"

He took his thumbs out of his pockets and let them hang over the edge of them, a faint smile creasing his lips. "You're welcome," spoken so softly.

Then his smile disappeared. "Okay," he said. Just okay. "Yours?"

"No school." He did a sort of shrugging thing with his shoulders.

"It's going lovely, thank you. Though Christmas Eve in on me and I still haven't found my mother a gift yet." His laughter was as merry as his welcoming smile. he narrowed one eye to a squint, the other left open, as if peering through the lad. "Only Ok?" More coins in his bucket was accompanied by another jolly 'Happy Holidays' and the beat stopped, he glanced at his watch and frowned. The frown owrked well with his smile and made it something more humorous then dark.

"I'm Cree," he offered. No hand. He'd learned recently that people were unsettled about physical contact with him, when they found out. It did not bother him and indeed did not dampen his smile.

"Plenty of stores here," he offered in a sort of meek, meaning to be helpful tone of voice. "...maybe you should give her something... that smells nice." He glanced over his shoulder for a second then looked back to Cree and took another small step backward. Briefly he pushed his bangs out of his sort of cloudy-looking stormy eyes. He was thinking about his mother. She was soft and smelled nice when his dad didn't get to her.

Of course he didn't say any of this. He simply nodded a little and repeated, "Just ok."

"I..it's nice to meet you. My name's Gin... like the drink." One of the normal things that bothered him was when people spelled his name with a J.

He shivered a little and coughed, covering his mouth with his hands.

(Sorry it took so long for me to reply.)

"Ah, I was never much of a drinker myself. Odd name, if I may say, very interesting," and then, as if he were afraid he may have said something that could be offensive he slackened his smiled, then brightened it. "Not that I'm one to talk. Apparently," he lowered his voice as if letting Gin on in a secret between them, "my mother thought it would be amusing to name her son Lucreta." He winked and pulled the change bucket close, dipping his hand into it and begining to count out change.

"Smells nice," he mused out loud. He gave him an apraising look. "She smells a little like old books stores and bay leaves. Any ideas on that?" He looked up for eye contact but his fingers were unfolding bills, straightening the edges of them. "Oh dear. Are you sick? You must be freezing," the frown said as much as a verbal apology might have. How inconsiderate to be keeping the lad from where ever he might be going, out here in the cold while he was sick, tsck tsck.

"Lucreta," he repeated the name, rocking forward on his toes just a little. "Well, if it's any consolation... I thing that's cool."

"Umm. Not much, sorry. Does she like books...? Maybe you could get her a book she doesn't have," he suggested quietly.

Then he nodded his head. "Yeah, but s'ok. Always am. Doesn' matter."

“It is cool, if you’re a girl.” He grinned and continued to unfold bills and lay them together. “She does like books. Romance novels and silly things like that. I think it reminds He used to be like.” Shrug. He folded the bills and tucked them in his pocket, then set about collecting the coins.

“Oh, no it does matter, honey. It matters a lot. You ought ought to go buy yourself some medicine and be tucked in bed with a book.” Warmth of a mother figure filled his tone now.

"I thought Lucreta was the masculine form of Lucretia...?" He rocked on his toes a little further. "Though I'm not certain..." He gave a little almost shrug.

"Maybe you could get her a book, then...? A really nice one? 'N if all else fails, flowers...? Mom's like flowers..."

He shook his head. "I'm okay. Really."

He just really didn't want to go back there, see...

"And I haven't any money, 'sides. I'll be fine."

He chuckled. "There isn't a masculine form. It's Roman. Unfortunatly it's the name of a girl that was raped." He shook his head and spilled some coins into his pocket and stood up. Aside from being very delicate in appearance, he was short too. "She pulled it from one of those said romance novels."

"Maybe I will find her a book."

"Well, maybe I've got something for you. I have medicine coming out of my ears." He laughed, however true and sad the fact was. "What are all your symptoms? A cough," he waited for more as he started putting the buckets in eachother.

"Oh. That's... hm. That doesn't sound like it fits you at all." He frowned, but with his pouty lips it made him look very childish and more 'pouty' than 'frowning'.

"Um... is everything a symptom?" He looked sort of sheepish.

"No, I didn't think so either."

Once the buckets were all stacked within eachother he bent and picked up his jacket off of the ground and brushed off the snow before tucking the wooden drumsticks into his back pocket.

"Well," he thought about that for a second. "Yes, everything can be if everything is bad enough. How about some symptoms that medicine can ease?"