, seas would rise

[rohan soule.]

( PEOPLE MOVING ALL THE TIME )

i n s i d e a p e r f e c t l y s t r a i g h t l i n e [/font][/center]

[/font][/i] And its job it did, for a man's arm extended out from under the thin sheet, long fingers finding the volume knob and turning it gently before enclosing itself within the sheets once more. 'My fingerprints are there now,' he thought to himself, as if this were vital information. It might be, of course, if he were any kind of criminal. Why the thought crossed his mind was simple: his brain was already programmed to function as a CSI Agent's would. It was his chosen field of work, after all. For this he was proud. Though the body was encased in a protective, deaf shell of unnecessary warmth, ears still heard the words mumbled from the waking machine. "We're looking at the mid-nineties, cooling gradually into the afternoon," there was a pause, but the ears still waited for more, and more did come. "Newly inaugurated President Obama ordered Prison 'Gitmo' to close. He informs press that--" and the voice was interrupted by the fingers once again. This time, however, there was a pressing of the 'off' button, and a ruffle of the sheets that had protected him earlier. From what, though? The boiling room? As it was made clear the sheet was not protecting him, but instead providing an uncomfortable temperature to add to the already unbearable weather, it was thrown off and bare feet hit the ground in near silence.

By the time the young man had made his way to the shower and back to his room to change, his day was planned out. His mind wasted no time with trivial things - unless the were necessary of course. He would think of things that did not really matter after he got what he needed to do done. Rohan Brody Soule had a clear mind, if it was a normal day in the life, and today seemed to be one of those days. The morning wasn't wasted with wondering what to do. It was seven AM by the time he had finished showering and dressing, picking his outfit in record time from the organized closet. Now a cell phone was pressed to his ear, his hands grabbing the keys that dangled from the hook by his door - right where they belonged. Starbucks was his next destination. Did he have school today? No. Saturdays meant no school. Right, ri-- his thoughts were interrupted. "Yo yo yiggidy fuckin' yo, you've reached Alanis. Leave a message... Wait for the beep, dumb-ass," his sister's smooth, predictable voice was in the same waiting ears as the morning news had called for. This time, however, the information was not wanted, nor was it needed in this case. A beep sounded, but Rohan waited. He hadn't fallen for it the first time, and he wouldn't now. Another tone - this one real - sounded and Rohan began. "Ali, the key's under the doormat if you get here earlier than I get back. If you don't, just knock. And don't mess with anything. Bye." he shut his flip phone and closed the distance between him and the 68' Ford Mustang resting in his driveway. He placed his laptop carefully in the passenger seat, hoping to get some work done in the next hour or so. The sharp young man let out a sigh, reminded of his current worry - his sister Alanis.

Alanis Piper Soule was, to put it lightly, a hand full. Always had been, always would be. If she didn't change when she killed their father, then she probably never would, or so Rohan had thought at the time. Alanis really didn't show much of a change anyway. From the time she was born she was a fighter. Love was not a question, but an action that could be tossed about without a thought. It left her empty-handed, but she wiped her tears away and got back up to dance again, crazed by her own persona and choices. Sitting out or dancing to her own beat - which she would choose was rationally obvious. Doors never closed for her, they just kept opening. She chose whether to leave the certain room that had been opened up to her or not - abandon it to tend to the next room. If it proved to be a complete bust, somehow Alanis almost always wheedled her way back into the other room again until another came by to sweep her away. It was the way she was programmed to function, and Rohan could not argue with her intricate design - it was a death wish. The truth was, Rohan loved his sister very much. It was a given, considering how they were family. Despite what she had done in the past, despite what she would do in the future (this frightened him to think about at all, the horrors to come crossing his mind with a furrow of his brow), Rohan would always love her. He couldn't help it, if you wanted the truth, and if you didn't - well. It was because Rohan chose to deal with loving that little pain in the ass called Alanis Piper Soule. That was the plain-as-the-nose-on-your-face truth, and Rohan would have to deal with it in the days to come because - yes - Ali was coming to live with him.

Driving through Palm Springs to get to Starbucks wasn't exactly the most pleasurable thing to do in life while living here. No, because Rohan would rather be making his own coffee and finishing up paperwork at home. School had crept up on all the students of Brinton Academy and Allerton University (where Rohan himself attended) and the twenty-three-year-old couldn't help but admit that he was a little rusty in the skill of keeping up with work. For one, Isla Laurent had distracted him with a party. Not that he had much fun, and he would have left, too. The fact of the matter was, however, was that Isla really didn't have a safe ride home. Was it such a crime to be concerned for her? And what was more - one of her siblings was there. Her only sister, Nanette Laurent. Something about that young woman pressed Rohan to dig deeper, to befriend her. The girl was obviously broken, and it was slowly killing him, for some reason. A poison that he couldn't cure unless he got closer to her, comforted her. She needed to know that everything was alright, and Rohan wondered if he could do such a thing. She was a reasonable amount younger than he was, but somehow age didn't matter in this instance. You see - Rohan didn't have the mind of most men. Or rather, he chose not to. It was what Isla said that brought this issue forward. The glowing screen mocking his tired eyes as Isla slowly persuaded him to go to the party in Old Las Palmas. Rohan was in the process of defending dear Nanette, who seemed to have no clue how to do such herself. "She's not going to put out, if that's what you mean," Isla had said bluntly, and this had Rohan taken a back. Or it should have, anyway, but with the way Isla thought he wasn't surprised at all. He didn't want to grow intimate, he just wanted to be there when nobody else was. Something about her sweet, innocent face and beautiful personality drew him in, and it was slowly driving him to iron thought.

Whether he would ever begin to heal from the poison that dripped through his veins (the only cure being befriending smile, his pocket already out and thin, green bills feathered over to the woman, who handed him a receipt as a result of Nanette Laurent) was gone unsaid. He wouldn't worry about it now... "Just a Grande Coffee, please," he flashed a friendly smile, handing over his payment. "Thanks," he said, a heart-melting grin shown on his features once more before he picked up his coffee on the other end of the counter. Money had never been a problem in their family. Their father, a successful chef as his father was before him, brought in more than enough. Though it wouldn't be necessary either way, their mother had inherited quite a bit from her own parents, as she was an only child and had quite a wealthy background to boot. The sick truth of Palm Springs was that anyone living here had a wealthy background or at least a good wad of cash in their front pocket. Whether it would stay there was the real question. Forget this cliche 'to be or not to be' bull. You had to know this stuff or you'd die painfully in this type of place. Some had learned that the hard way. Rohan shook himself from these thoughts as he found a window corner, placing his laptop on the table, also carefully setting his coffee down. The table was small, an empty seat across from him. He wondered if Alanis would track him down here and fill that seat obnoxiously, disagreeing with his obsession with responsibility. Was it a crime to want to get things done? No, but here in Palm Springs to the party people it most certainly was. In fact, if they had their way he would probably be gagged and cuffed right about now, behind bars and rotting away - possibly in a mental institution to get help for his 'problem', where they would teach him to be less organized. If that made sense, then pigs could fly, Rohan thought to himself, taking a sip of his coffee as his Mac started up. He immediately opened the word documents, with no time to respite, and there he would sit secretly hoping somebody would provide him company, even if he had work to be done.



STATUS / Finished.
TAGGED / Nanette Laurent.
WORDS / 1,712
MUSIC / Viva La Vida - Coldplay
CLOTHES / I used to rule the world.
NOTES / It got lengthier than I expected. My apologies. [/ul][/color]