Australian Convict Fantasies

Who: Peyton and Jesse
When: lunchtime
Where: around the band room

The lunchroom was a no-go for Jesse. It seemed to be a sensitive type day, though he was in a residually good mood from the parade and the hella-wicked candy that came with it the day before. He just didn't feel like sitting through inane bits of conversation and life that might not have even come from this lifetime flitting through his head. So he opted for the hallway, taking his tray with him. There were usually people in the bandroom around this time, and he knew that drumming wasn't really the most non-interrupty way of making music, so he stayed out in the hall. His big earphones covered both ears, blasting Led Zeppelin into his head, and his sticks were out, keeping time with the drum-heavy song on the history book resting in his lap. His eyes were closed, lips moving soundlessly, and it was obviously he was Grooving.

The lunchroom seemed to be a no go for Peyton as well. She had homework for math class to finish, and more than that, she wasn't hungry. So she decided on the music room instead, walking down the fairly empty hallway to her destination. She came upon the room, but was distracted by Jesse Jericho sitting on the ground outside of it and drumming upon his history book. She bit her lip to keep the smile at bay in case he saw her and stopped, leaning against the opposite wall to watch. Anyone who could get that into music was definitely okay in her book, no matter what his "status" in school. She just wanted to know what song was playing in his ears, but she couldn't quite figure it out by his drumming alone.

Jesse rocked out for another couple of minutes, pounding away on the abused book, until a stray memory that wasn't at all his drifted into his consciousness. It was of making out with Isaac St James. Whom, while mildly hot in his jockish way, wasn't his cup of tea. Behind his glasses -- which had gone a bit crooked with his head motions -- blue eyes popped open and landed directly on Peyton Marsh. Unsurprising. Who happened to be watching him. His sticks kept moving, along with the sneaker under his other leg, as though it were hitting a bass petal. He paused and pointed a stick at her, twirling the other on between his fingers all hair-metal style. "Guitar solo!" he declared, as though she were supposed to pick it up there.

Her lips parted, caught off guard and her eyes fell to the stick pointing at her. Guitar solo. Her? Crap! She patted herself down, but found nothing acceptable for a guitar before she started laughing. "I forgot my guitar," she told him, then realized his headphones were still on. She mimicked a guitar and then shook her head, lifting her hands in exasperation, hoping he'd catch on. He was weird - but it didn't bother her the way it did some people. He kind of made her laugh in a way that wasn't directed at him. It was more of the way people responded to the weirdness.

The blonde looked flabberghasted for a moment. She couldn't even air guitar? What the hell was wrong with people?! But it was an amused thought, and he flashed her a grin. He reached up to pull the headphones off, the tinny music becoming audible in the hallway. He was going to murder his ears, but it buried everything else for a while, and that was enough for him. "Where's a broom when you need one, am I right?" he asked rhetorically, giving her a grin. Peyton had never been one of the people who gave him shit, so he felt okay enough with her.

"I know, right? I was going to get my ruler out, but I think that would be more like a ukulele than a real guitar. And honestly, I can't even play guitar, and my air guitar is just as bad." She lifted her fingers to demonstrate. "I look like a total poser when I try to air guitar, because one? I'm not cool enough to pull it off, and two, my fingers get all awkward when I try to do it, which makes it even more embarrassing and then I think by that time, everyone just wants me to stop air guitaring all together. I think I try too hard to air guitar, of all things, and it kind of takes the fun and spontaneity out of it. But," she added with a smile. "I can totally air piano if you want some Elton John action up in here."

"Mmmph," Jesse said, twisting his mouth to one side as he pulled one half of the headphones up to his ear to listen again. "Nooooo ... don't think you can improve upon Zeppelin with a piano, sorry," he decided after a moment. "And I'm fresh out of Elton John, you'd have to offer up some Jerry Lee Lewis or Ray Charles or somethin'." He idly twirled both drumsticks and started tapping again, much quieter this time. "Did you know there are air guitar championships? Maybe if it's that much of a sore spot for you, you could find one of their trainers or something and do it up right." And lo and behold he had a vision of her brushing her teeth and looking about ten years old. Nice.

"I can't do Ray Charles, but I can do Stevie Wonder pretty well," Peyton said, resting her head back against the wall with a grin. "I do know they have air guitar championships. It's not really fair, because I've not heard of air drumming, or air piano championships and I still don't get why everyone thinks guitar players are like... rock gods or something. Okay, sure, some of them are, yeah but that's besides the point. What Zeppelin are you listening to?" she asked, nodding to his headphones.

He was of the opinion that drummers were far sexier than guitarists, but maybe he was a bit biased. "It was When The Levee Breaks, but it's moved on now to ... " He gave a little subconscious drumroll as he listened to the distant music, " ... Santana. Speaking of rock gods." He fished in his pocket for his little mp3 player to hit pause, then glanced up at her again. "You can sit if you want, I haven't put my name on all of it." Not that he'd mind if she didn't want to; he knew how most people saw him.

Peyton began to slide down the wall slowly, moving her feet outward to help with the descent until she landed unceremoniously on her butt. She shifted her bag around to her lap and pulled out her iPod. "I've got only a few Santana songs on here. I've got plenty Zeppelin though." She lifted her eyes to him warily. "What else have you got?" The content of someone's music player said volumes about them as a person, in Peyton's opinion. If he liked The Clash then he was more than aces to her.

There was definitely some of The Clash that lived on his player. It was a vast smattering of all kinds of music, a good chunk of it punk, some more of it Arabic and African hand-drumming, some more of it obscure hard rock that it seemed no one else had ever heard, some progressive underground rap, a teensy bit of classical, the works. He started flipping through it and naming off things. There was no way in hell he was going to let her touch it, so he just went that way, cycling through a bunch of African-sounding stuff last. "... mostly hand drums, it's great stuff," he told Peyton, glancing over. "You name it, I've probably got at least one track."

"I doubt I could name anything and hear you've got a track," Peyton pointed out with a smile. She drew her knees up to her chest, her thumb scrolling idly through her iPod. "Why don't you go in the music room and play a bit? It's got to be better than using your history book. Can you play in front of people?" Which might have been an odd question, but she couldn't, not really, so surely that meant other people might have the same kind of stage fright.

"'Cause um ... usually Harkin's in there," Jesse said, still absorbed in looking at the little screen on his player. He waved his free hand vaguely. "I can play in front of people, no problem, just don't want to fuck up another man's groove, yeah? Drums equal not quiet." He glanced over, and caught a glimpse of Peyton in bed, being attacked by a shadow with claws. The same ones he'd had so much fun with. His eyes lingered on her for a second before moving away again.

Peyton glanced toward the closed door. "He's not always. Sometimes I'm in there and no one bothers me. Is he in there now?" She shifted to try and listen for music, but it was difficult to hear anything with the doors shut. "Who knows? Maybe you'd add to his groove! My brother plays the drums and he plays with me sometimes... helps me keep a steady beat. Do you play with a band? Or just for yourself?"

Jesse laughed a bit, at the idea of jamming out with Thom Harkin. Not that he was a bad guy, they'd never had a problem. He was just the school's resident Broody Rockstar. And a total hottie to boot, so that was just ... yeah probably not ever happening. "Dunno if he's in there or not, didn't check," he said, reaching up to tuck some stray blond hair behind his ears. "Play just by myself. Unless it's ... y'know ... band-band. I march and drum. Or sit and drum, whatever the situation. ... you only play piano? Real piano, or do you just do air?" he asked, as though it were a total valid question.

She settled back against the wall, wishing Thom wasn't in there - not that she knew if he was - but she didn't want to pull open the door and interrupt if he was, and if it was empty, she'd probably let Jesse go in instead as he was there first. "I play, yeah. Real piano, I mean. Air piano's more something I break out at parties to entertain." She set her iPod down and wiggled her fingers. "I like to play by myself though. Or like, with my brother. Is it true what they say about the band?" she asked, grinning widely. "Like you guys have your own little society and stuff?"

He snorted and gave her a meaningful glance. "If it is? Then I'm like ... their criminals they sent to Australia, y'know? I am the village idiot of the band-society." And that was probably saying something. "So I don't really know, I kinda stay out of their way. Pissed off band geeks are a force to be reckoned with." He got another flash, a prairie-esque life, cows, a child drowning in the pond. Her's but not her's now. He flipped through his mp3 player some more.

She wanted to say that she doubted that, but it was probably true, so she said nothing. Jesse was just someone who seemed to march to the beat of a different drummer, which kind of made her giggle, considering the drumsticks he carried around, but she bit her lip to keep them at bay. "Happy band geeks scare me enough, so I'll be sure to steer clear of pissed off ones. And pfft, being an outcast con sent to Australia sounds a hell of a lot more exciting than being a band geek in Marquette, so I say embrace your inner band criminal."

"If you were an outcast con sent to Australia, what would you want it to be for? Bank robbery? Horse stealing? Avenging your father who got shot in a bad poker game?" he asked, mind latching on to the concept for some reason. It was just better than talking about anything else, including how painfully unpopular he was. Because it wasn't painful anymore, he couldn't give two fucks about it. He knew those bastards for who they didn't let anyone else know who they were, and that was that. He tapped out a different, slower beat on his book, looking at her.

"Hmm," she mused, eyes squinting in thought. "That's a really good one. Bank robbery would be cool, but only if it were like a master heist and I had a cool getaway car and machine gun. I'd much rather be like Bonnie than the idiots who wear ski masks these days. And I don't think I'd do the avenging thing... no! That's good. I would join a bad poker game, but I'd shoot everyone for trying to hustle me and take their money. Then while I was on the run, I'd rob a bank, taking a really hot hostage with me." She paused, eyebrow quirking with interest before she looked at Jesse. "Then we'd have hot monkey sex in a dingy motel, the police would catch up with me, surround the building and I'd go down in a blaze of glory. Oh! Only I have to be an outcast con... okay, so maybe I try to go down in a blaze of glory, but they shoot me in my leg instead and send me off to the land down under." She nodded, tapping her finger on her knee. "What about you?"

Jesse was silent for a second, before he burst into laughter. It was the 'hot monkey sex' that really got to him. Or trying to picture her in a hat, shooting big-mustached guys who were trying to cheat her at poker. Now there was a mental picture. In all their co-existing in school, he didn't think he'd ever heard Peyton Marsh even curse. "I don't ... even think I could top that," he said, amused. He pushed his glasses idly up on his nose and chuckled. "I'd probably go for something stupid, like forgetting to pay my taxes or some shit. And then I'd run around in the outback, yelling about how I don't belong there. Wander out and live with the wallabes and dingoes."

"Pfft. You can think of something cooler than not paying your taxes. But I could totally see you chillin' with the dingoes! If you want, you can help me rob the bank. Everyone needs an accomplice right? You can drive the getaway car and yell 'you'll never catch us, coppers!'" Peyton paused. "Wow, I've totally made us like, 1950's bank robbers. I was hoping more like high tech spies, but pinstripe suits and big hats are just as good. You'll be infamous and all of the band geeks will be totally jealous."

"That's more like 1930s bank robbers," Jesse corrected with a bright grin. "But it sounds like a plan to me. We can be like Bonnie and Clyde only ... Peyton and Jesse. And not like that, you can have the hot monkey sex with somebody else, I value the bones in my face." He laughed a bit. "They had more style than high tech spies anyway, Mission Impossible can suck my ass." His hands continued to beat out a rhythm on his history book, without his having to think about it much. There were always beats going on in his head, after all.

"Shit, is that 1930's?" Peyton muttered, trying to think back on her history eras. "You're probably right. We'll be this generations Bonnie and Clyde without the monkey sex." Because Isaac wouldn't like that, nope. "Spies with high tech gadgets need them because they have no style, so they have to have things that make them look cool. But back then, bank robbers had wits and courage. And wow, I'm totally like defending bank robbers," she marveled. "Awesome." She nodded to his drumming. "Do you write your own music?"

"There is romance in fedoras and tommy guns," he more or less agreed, amused. His drumming paused as he considered. "Not ... really. I am of the firm belief that there isn't a rhythm anywhere to be found that hasn't been found before. It's not really like other instruments, yeah? You're finding the pulse of the universe and following along with it, that's all. There are just lots of them." Another vision flashed across the top of his brain of a mutilated Halloween pumpkin and he blinked past it.

"That's probably true," Peyton said. "Not much music these days is original. Everything had influences and not many people are influencers anymore. Do you have like, a favorite drummer? I figure everyone who plays an instrument has someone who they consider their musical idol, right? I don't know many famous drummers..."

"Oh god, there's so fucking many," Jesse said with a breathy laugh. He reached up to run a hand through his hair, though the drumstick was still in his fingers. "Michael Shrieve, Mitch Mitchell, Dave Grohl, Danny Carey ... they're all great in totally different ways. I dunno that I could just pick one. How about you? Anybody tickle the ivories that you couldn't stand to be without?"

"Well, that depends on if you care about genre. Obviously I love Mozart... I was taught classical music growing up. Uhm Diana Krall, Tori Amos, Bach, Ray Charles... there's really too many to name. I guess I can't pick a favorite either," Peyton said with a sheepish smile. "You should let me hear you play sometime! Other than watching in the marching band I mean. Or on your history book."

He was amused that she had the same predicament she did. There was just too much talent in the world to narrow it down to one. He looked a little surprised that she wanted to hear him play and raised one eyebrow. She lived with a drummer, she knew that they weren't very ... melodic. "Sure, sometime," he agreed with a small sheepish grin. He scratched the back of his neck and glanced at his oversized watch. "Now, though ... I told Mr. Carter I'd be in a lil early," he said.

"Crap!" She tugged at her bag. "I was suppose to finish my homework. Got distracted I guess." Fudge. Peyton sighed but smiled anyway. "Thanks for humoring me during lunch. It's not often I get to talk about my Australian convict fantasies." She shifted and stood, stretching before slinging her bag over her shoulder. She didn't get why so many people thought he was weird. Okay, Jesse was weird, but Peyton didn't think it was in an odd, uncomfortable way. "I'll catch you later?"

Even though he had to be somewhere, Jesse wasn't getting up yet. He just laughed instead and nodded. Yeah, they'd probably catch each other later. Seeing as how it was a small pond. He gave her a little salute with one drumstick. "Don't let the bedbugs bite," he said by way of parting, and started to tuck his stuff away in his bag.