alta street

suchhaywoodtrash  asked:

10 and/or 12 for Ryan and Ray? (I absolutely adore your tag for them by the way... can I ask which one of them needs the caution label?)

(12: Insanity)

Sometimes, they play this game.

Ray, privately, calls it Pedestrian Pot Shot.

How it works is: they go to the tallest rooftop in the area, and Ray gets out his sniper rifle, and then he has twenty seconds to look down at the street below, at people walking, or sitting at the bus stop, or leaning up against buildings.

Then Ryan puts his hands over Ray’s eyes.

And Ray gets one shot to hit a pedestrian.

How the points work is: he gets ten points for hitting somebody sitting or standing still, and thirty points for hitting somebody who’s moving, and Ryan gets twenty points if Ray misses. Whoever has the most points at the end of the month wins.

So Ray’s looking down at Alta Street from fifteen stories up with the seconds ticking by in the back of his mind, eyes roaming—dark streets lit by neon, lit by yellowing street lamps, store front windows, car headlights, cigarette cherries bouncing down the sidewalk, held between fingers and lips, crushed under five hundred dollar shoes. People walking, bundled in coats, spread out few and far between because it’s late and it’s cold.

Twenty seconds means darkness. Means glasses plucked from his face, means Ryan’s hands from behind, warm, covering his eyes.

Ray lifts his gun, brow furrowed, thinking. Remembering. He aims at what he can’t see—listens, like he can hear the footsteps of the man who should be approaching the crosswalk—

—now.

Ray fires. Ryan keeps his hands where they are longer than he needs to and Ray leans back against him. Distant, horrified screams float up fifteen stories. Still blind, Ray grins.

“He’s not dead,” Ryan says calmly. Ray can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not.

“Rules don’t say he needs to be dead.”

“Rules don’t say he needs to be alive.”

"Thirty points,” Ray says firmly, because he invented the game, he makes the rules, and this month he wins. He puts the gun down, puts his hands over Ryan’s, and pulls them away from his eyes. “But let’s put him out of his misery anyway.”

Vista de la estancia y el vestíbulo, Casa en Lomas Altas (calle dirección desconocida), Lomas Altas, Miguel Hidalgo, Ciudad de México 1956

Arq. Abraham Zabludovsky

View of the living room and vestibule, House in Lomas Altas (street address unknown), Lomas Altas, Miguel Hidalgo, City of Mexico 1956