Welcome to Gaia! ::

Jon was busy grinding his knuckles into the sides of his head to keep it from splitting open. He didn't even have time to be groggy anymore. He was forcing himself to think, fingers massaging his temples, hoping that somehow his brain would reboot itself and he'd suddenly remember his schedule for the day. He had a small meeting at that God forsaken bookstore Vardaman was supposed to be pitching at in, what? a week? Jon wasn't usually so forgetful when it came to work, but he also didn't make a habit of drinking himself senseless (he wanted to add 'or going home with strangers,' but old habits were hard to break and he had definitely patched that habit up last night).

Right. Well, he'd just blame Reed for it.

Speaking of... Jon looked up sharply and turned around, panicked. He scrambled over to Reed and very nearly took him down again, hands busy running over his shoulders, pushing his hair back, as if looking for something, though his lips were a tight line of silence. The other marks - while garnering flashes of approval - bore little interest to Jon. After thoroughly frisking Reed's upper body, he sat back with a sigh and a muttered 'good.'

"Can't say we didn't try our damnedest," he snorted, eyes cutting upwards. As much as Jon wanted to squander at least a few more minutes, he couldn't afford to. If only those two weeks were his and not Reed's.

"I need to get out of here ASAP." Here he paused. Most of the alcohol had vacated his system and common sense seemed to be edging its way back into place. He looked imploringly at Reed, tried to win him over with his rusty charm he hadn't used since his was probably six, which only succeeded in making him appear utterly sheepish:

"Don't suppose you could give me a ride?"

Jon leveled Reed with a flat, unamused look, as though it would somehow make him out to be the better person when in fact he had been going through various duck-and-roll techniques in his head. But-- he was in a far better mood than he initially thought - despite the headache, the wrecked schedule, the phone call to his personal cell - because he seemed to consider his options. He leaned in a gave Reed a distracted kiss, eyes wide open and thoughts elsewhere.

"Well," he began even though he had not quite pulled away. "You showed me yours, I guess I can show you mine. Not as though I can stop you from coming, right?"

He gave a thoughtful hum, brows coming together. It was a casual meeting finalizing what Jon had already worked out before the move. Recon, if you will. But he needed a quick shower and a change of clothes. He didn't even want to see the state of his suit; he'd probably have to throw it out.

"Although I'll need to drop by my apartment first to pick up some things."

"I've been seen with worse, I'm sure," he shot back with a smirk.

Jon was just glad he had had enough sense to keep his things in a semi-tidy pile. Even when he was drunk, he was surprised to have some wits about him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked up his pants and shirt, tightening his lips at the creases in both; especially his shirt.

Oh well, where'd my briefs go? He sighed through his nose and gave up after a cursory glance around the room, tugging his pants on without them. He figured he'd just grab another on his way to the shower back in the apartment.

"If you ever come across my briefs, I dunno, when you decide to clean, just, uh-- throw them out," he said, laughing as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it in. He began combing his fingers through his frizzy curls, wincing as they caught.

Jon shook his coat out, using it to keep the cologne at bay before he-- he turned away and had a dainty sneeze against the inside of his elbow. He remained with his nose buried inside of his shirt until the coast was clear.

"Do you know where Cobblestone Terrace is?" he asked when he resurfaced. Considering where Reed crashed, he couldn't help but wonder if his apartment was well out of his way. He checked to make sure his cigarettes were in the inner coat pocket (priority first!) and picked up his phone.

"It was some blocks from the bar, I think...." Jon rubbed sleep from his eyes and life back into his face.

"Good to know," Jon snorted. "Let's get going. Punctuality will have to be secondary today. Damnit."

At this point, Jon was thinking out loud to himself, cutting past Reed to the front door. He played with his crumpled packet of cigarettes, tapping it rhythmically against his palm as his mind kicked on autopilot. He had a small, open window to get from point A to point B, gather his effects and head out again. He'd be at his meeting in no time!

That is to say if the bookstore wasn't far away. He rapped the carton against his head, mouth moving with unspoken words. Okay, minor details, minor details. Maybe I should call ahead-- what was the number again?

It didn't seem like he was bothered much about breakfast, so long as he got some coffee in his system. Which was unnecessary because he was running on something, jittery as he was despite the night before. He swung the front door open, squinted hard against the morning light and made his way towards the stairs.

In his past, Jon had used work to cope. He threw himself into his studies, then work, in order to keep himself out of peoples' beds and sex out of his head. It had become second nature for his thoughts to work a mile a minute, going over minute details until they became ingratiated in his mind. But he had had several years practice; interacting with others while going over particulars had been difficult at first. He'd had a tendency to block everyone else out in his pursuit of perfection, down to tie color. It took practice, but after a while he had mastered the art of attending full conversations about something as inane as weather or as intricate as stocks with attention enough to offer his own input. And now?

It had been undone in one night.

Jon dropped into the passenger seat, cigarettes put away in order to tap his foot against the floor of the car.

"Kingston Bookstore!" he half-blurted, turning in the seat to stare at Reed. He took a moment to recalibrate himself with a swallow and continued in a softer tone, "That's where the meeting's at. Do you know where that is too?"

Jon had similar eating habits, but for entirely different reasons. He liked tricking his body into thinking it wasn't hungry, which wasn't difficult when he was stressed. Today was a little harder than most. His last meal must have been yesterday at around noon or so, then he emptied his stomach at God only knew when, and then last night had been the most active he'd been in years--

"I'm fine," he said, looking away and forcibly stopping his foot with a hand to his knee. A hangover migraine topping a caffeine headache. Jon massaged the base of his ears with his free hand.

"Tattoos?" he parroted when he wasn't thinking about his room of unpacked boxes. Or his meeting. Or just how casual was casual. Jon settled his nerves, "Depends on where they are and what they are, I guess. Why, are you going to get one?"

He tried not to think of where, so busied his thoughts with tie colors.

"You're not the only one. Though I'm more concerned about coffee at this point. My head's about to split open. Well... would your job allow it? Or your little leather fetish, for that matter?" Jon smirked. "Permanent ink costs a pretty penny. Afraid of needles?"

Jon didn't mind needles, but he didn't think he'd ever considered a tattoo either. He wasn't too fond of the idea of having to look at the same ink practically sewn into his skin for the rest of his life. Other bodies? Sure, why not? Natalia had gotten one or two (that he knew of) much to her family's chagrin; she was probably braver than Alex and him. Scratch that, she was.

Ties are a no-go, he thought absently, digging out his cellphone. Waste of time.

He flipped the cell open to check his voice mail, head thumping against the window. Floor plan, strategic placement, hours, payment...

'HEEEY, fagmo!' Jon started up and held the phone away from his lowered ears. 'Just checking in to see how you're doing in the new city. I know it's late, but I figger you're unpacking. Or working. Or both! You packmule you!'

'He's drunk, Jon!'

'Shuuut the ******** up, Nat!'

'Let me say something!'

'No--ow, ********> Next message!

'Hiii, Jon~ It's Nat. On a*****e's phone. Just wanted to say hugs and kisses~ Hope you'll let us drop by soon! Miss you!'

'Give that back!'

'No! Bye-bye, Jon!'

He blinked and looked up with a wrinkled brow, half hearing his mother's greeting on the phone, "Playboys-- please tell me you're kidding."