suicidemission | OPEN RP

[ When they move to Australia, Richard Becket promises it's — just one year, everybody; we're only going to be here for fourteen months, to which all of the kids argue that:

a) "That's still too long." — Yancy

b) "Australia is hot and yucky and I miss my friends." — Jazmine

c) "That's not a year, Dad." — Raleigh, after which she'd laughed at her very impressive number nitpicking, and had had to dodge the sofa pillow Jaz had thrown at her.

But the excitement is null and void until they actually get to Australia, until the jet lag fades and they've moved into their cute five bedroom house in some suburb or another that's close to whatever construction agency their father is consulting on dam hydraulics. Then it's kind of just like summer — it's warmer here and it'd ever been in Alaska, and proves to be an exercise in shaving her legs regularly and riding a bike in short shorts. For the first couple weeks at school (where they're pale, very American points of foreign interest, despite having nothing interesting to say about anything) Raleigh keeps forgetting all her pens and pencils and calculator because there's no need to wear her big bulky jacket with deep pockets. She makes some friends quickly enough by asking to borrow theirs and not chewing on them, making small talk and generally exuding that over excitable friendliness that she has. But she apparently also has the capacity to make enemies. Or an enemy, by the name of Chuck Hansen.

Enemy might not be the right word, but it's acceptable. While they're not pulling pranks on each other, not getting into fist fights or screaming matches, there's a certain frostiness between them that she has no doubt stems from that one time she'd laughed at rugby — because seriously, what? just play football — in front of him, only to then learn that he was as good as the captain and, ah, shit.

It all goes sour from there.

Until 11:30 on a Friday night, when the first text from a number she doesn't recognize. And it's an interesting conversation until she learns it's Chuck fucking Hansen, and then she gets angry. There's a lot of fuck you's thrown around, and then a few in your dreams's and a lot of you couldn't even handle me's. And then a lot of really, really filthy and explicit pictures painted. And while there's a distinct competitive nature to their messages, there's also an underlying arousal on Raleigh's end. Maybe his too, she can't tell, but suddenly it's not all just hype; every sultry text is being viewed as something that could actually happen, potentially. And when she closes her eyes and slips a hand down her pajamas, imagining what it'd be like for him to pull her hair like he said he would, she's a lot more interested in experiencing the real deal than sulkily touching herself after turning her phone on silent.

Interested enough, it turns out, — stupid enough, too — to break that unspoken rule where they don't interact and certainly don't talk about their texts in public. She corners him at the water table during a practice, all hands on her hips and chin held high, and something guarded in her features even when she sniffs and quietly mumbles: ]

Were you serious? About, you know —

[ you know. ]

[ It’s crazy, the affect those stupid texts have on him. It drives him crazy to get such raunchy messages from her at night and then during the day there’s nothing – no contact, no touching, barely even any talking. They don’t like each other and it’s plain for anyone to see. They don’t exactly hide it.

So he goes about his business, lets her wonder all while he himself just wonders and after their talks he throws his phone across the room and jacks himself off into a towel, swearing under his breath that it’s the last time.

It never is.

He’s surprised when she corners him at one of his practices – she doesn’t think much of rugby even though it’s clearly better than that American pussy sport they call football (seriously? All that padding? Lame)- and he stares down at her, clearly confused until she speaks up.

With that, he sort of sneers at her and leans a hand on the table, tilting his head in close and smirking. ]

And if I was?

[ Raleigh's really not the nervous type. She's a bit too full of herself to be easily intimidated, but something about the way he looks at her across that water table —

It either has her heart in her throat or is sparking her competitive streak because fuck you, Hansen, don't smirk at me. Her hands go onto her hips, and she lifts her chin defiantly, uncertain if she wants to smirk or scowl back. (Or grab him by his stupid...lack of...padding — seriously what was this sport — and make good on all those promises to snog him until one or both of them were bleeding.) ]

If you were I think you should stop smirking like that, because I'll just leave.

[ She had shit to say and one or both of them being brats would ruin it. ]

[ This smirk doesn't fade completely, but there's a distinct flash in his eyes - anger? Arousal? Something, even he doesn't know - and he leans over the table to bring them a little closer, and his voice drops. ]

Were you?

[ Because it goes both ways. He's not about to admit shit if she's jerking his chain and going to end up using it against him - no thanks. ]

[ If her chin gets held any higher, she's going to start getting a headache and will probably have to start seeing a chiropractor. But it's necessary to size him up, to evaluate whether or not he's going to string her along and humiliate her if she drops her guard and allows a couple moments of honesty.

Their impasse is silly, but somehow ends up requiring a whole lot of steeled nerves and arguably rash impulses to get past it. ]

Yeah. [ It comes out rougher than she intends, and Raleigh swallows; tries to clear her throat, opens her mouth to add something and then pressing her lips together. ]

I mean, kinda. About some of the things. [ Wow is it hot out here (probably, it's Australia) or is it just her face. She rubs the back of her neck. ] Like, um, the blowing you in the locker room if you said football was better thing.

[ His face twitches and he nods, teeth dragging over his lower lip and he nods, the verification what he wanted, what he needed. She still might be fucking with him but hell, if she is? He's got a phone full of dirty messages he can get back at her with.

Something, though -- something tells him she's not.

So he leans in, palms on the table and while he knows for a fact what he's saying is a goddamn lie-- ]

Football is better than rugby.

[ She's not fucking with him. She's squaring her shoulders and trying to play uninvested, unattached — like she won't be either elated or emotionally devastated by his response, and like she could walk away at any moment. But she's not going to.

How can she, he just admitted that football was better than rugby. And that's half victory and half exciting in an utterly terrifying way. Because now? ]

Um, yeah — good, I'm glad you agree.

[ Raleigh's gotta follow through. Oh, man that's going to be soooo terrible. ]

You, uh — you finish up here and I'll meet you. Text me, I know you know the number.

[ Now — now she can walk away. ]

[ He's waiting for some kind of rebuttal, a withdrawal but it doesn't come.

He pulls back, fixes her with that too heavy, too knowing gaze of his and gives a perfunctory nod before folding his arms. ]

Alright.

[ And he'll wait until the locker room is completely empty and he's showered (because he's fucking courteous like that( to text her. ]

All clear.

[ Aw yeah, bodily hygiene — and they say chivalry is dead.

There's no one in any of the hallways, but Raleigh still insists on sneaking; on walking on tip toes and peeking around corners, looking both ways before crossing the street and loitering around the locker room door to make sure no one's around when she slips through the door.

It's a stealth mission, and years of sneaking downstairs for late night snacks has her tactics perfected. But that doesn't mean Raleigh's not nervous — more so of not getting caught than she is nervous about being caught. But it's a good kind of nervous, a lot like butterflies in her gut spurring her to bigger risks at the promise of bigger reward. It's excited nervousness.

The kind that's almost quashed by actually entering the locker room, wow, this is no where near as sexy as she'd thought it'd be. ]

You didn't tell me it smelled like sweat socks in here.

[ Chuck just gives her a look then actually laughs. ]

What were you expectin'? Frilly loofas and air fresheners?

[ It's a mens locker room, where stinky guys leave their socks for weeks and forget about them. ]

[ It's far from sexy, but Raleigh can deal. She has an older brother, and she's athletic enough to have sweaty spandex/cotten blend clothes collecting in her hamper. It's no where near as bad as the rugby boys, of course, but she's not going to gag.

In fact, she's going to satisfactorily ruffle her feathers; smile because she made him laugh — and yeah, it might have been more at her than with her, but a laugh is a laugh and this seems off to an auspicious start. ]

So...

[ ...or not because Raleigh's stalling just inside the door and looking around like she doesn't know where to get down to business. No, young lady, stop dawdling. Pull yourself together, at least tease some. ]

So, what was that thing you said about football? Remind me...

[ He leans against the wall and smirks at herm arms folding and eyes fixed on her. ]

Pretty sure I said somethin' along the lines of football bein' better.

Edited 2014-02-09 18:20 (UTC)

So you agree, right? That helmets are a necessity?

[ raleigh doesn't particularly care for football, but had watched a game or two enough times to point out blaring differences between the most popular sport in her home country and the most popular sport here. all while swaying her hips as she approached him (in the most round-about, bench skirting way possible.) ]

And that penalty tries are stupid?

OPEN RP

how about YES ♥

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all i know about rugby i've learned from wikipedia...