ArchivedLogs:One of Those Mornings

One of Those Mornings
"Seriously?"
Dramatis Personae Doug, Mal
In Absentia	2013-05-17 Mal has a rough morning, made worse when he breaks into the wrong apartment. Warning, contains nudity and men wrassling.
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. On a fairly chilly Friday morning, a window in one of the Village Lofts apartments slides open. This would bear no significance if not for what comes afterwards - a young nude man clumsily climbs out of it, appearing to be awfully in a rush. Stark naked, he actually looks to be in a very good physical shape, barring a few scars here and there. Firmly holding onto the window frame and pressing his bare feet against the cold stone, he looks down below, noting the long drop. Next, he measures the distance between him and the fire escape nearby. Determinedly, he swings back first, swings forth second and makes a leap of faith. The crash landing would not look pleasant to any onlooker, but neither is the flight - the daredevil flails in mid-air with both hands, feet and a certain something else, too. Ultimately, he crashes onto the railing of the fire escape, desperately throwing both arms around it to hook himself onto it. There is a brief exclamation of pain, following a frustrated, "/Fuck/!" With the entirety of his body throbbing with pain, he slowly brings himself over the railing. Then, he haphazardly swerves towards the staircase and begins his hurried descent. It doesn't look like his actions follow any sort of logic, and his sporadic, sore movements suggest as much. There are many ways to start off the day. This is not the worst morning Malcolm White has had, but it's definitely close. The fleshy feet tap resoundingly against the cold steel of each stair step, until finally he gives up on the idea of travelling further down still. He is instead attracted by another open window. He has no qualms about seizing this opportunity. And so, carried both by momentum and adrenaline, he decides to enter through the window in the most theatrical fashion, hurling himself into Doug's apartment with all abandon. Thud. The naked frame collapses and then rolls on the floor with all the grace of a cow tumbling down stairs. Awkwardly recovering from a roll, he hastily observes his surroundings like a deer caught in headlights. The apartment itself is quiet, when the intruder enters. Still to the point of seeming abandoned, the only signs of life are the two kittens curled up on the sofa in a calico-and-black ball. Beyond that, the place is relatively clean, although /clearly/ the home of a not-so-closet nerd. A laptop sits on the desk, closed and in sleep mode, its solo white light flashing slowly as it waits to re-awaken. A pizza box sits on the kitchen counter, a slice slowly dehydrating in its solitary abandonment. A soggy-looking sweatshirt hangs on a hook by the front door...but there’s no sign of life. That is, until dual thumps from the bedroom indicate the occupant of said apartment /is/ at home. The door, already halfway open, slides fully open, and Doug emerges. The blonde is clad only in a pair of boxer-briefs with a bullseye on the pouch, and his hair is bed-tousled. In his hand, he has...a tennis racket. For real. Old-school wooden frame and everything. It is raised as if the teenager means /business/. And he does. Look at his patented ‘don’t fuck with me’ New Yorker STARE. Only. It doesn’t last. Because there is a NAKED MAN in his living room. Naked. Which is not an /unusual/ thing, for Doug. But it is still enough to give the blonde pause. Or maybe he’s just enjoying the view, as his eyes rake Mal’s nakedness, then lift to his face. Okay. Not bad on the eyes, either. Then the tennis racket is slowly extended, like a sword. “I swear to God, if you’re not wearing a tag indicating that you’re a gift of some kind, I will volley your head right back out the way it came.” Whatever it is that Malcolm is fleeing from, it is clearly more intimidating than a barely dressed teenager with a tennis racket. It also looks like the naked man is not at all phased by his own nudity, or at least he doesn't show it - he shows no intent to hide his dignity, stands with his feet wide apart and his knees slightly bent to contribute to a stance that renders him ready to pounce to freedom, should the need arise. Both of his palms extend forward defensively. He may not look frightened, but he does still look awfully in a rush. "Woah, calm the fuck down, killer," he tells Doug with a crooked derisive sneer. "Don't hurt yourself. Not here to rob you. Well, not going to rob anything important, just some clothes." The measure of nonchalance that dominates Mal's tone suggests this sort of occurrence is everyday in the Lofts. The lone pizza slice is eyed, then. One of those raised hands shifts to point towards the food. "Mind if I finish that?" The fact that the man is so unbothered by his nudity, or worse, doesn't take the threat of Doug seriously, is enough to make the tennis lower slightly. The blonde’s brow furrows, and he juts his lower lip out stubbornly. “I’m serious, dude. What the fuck are you doing in my apartment? Naked?” He sounds more put out about the break-in than the casual nudity. When the man indicates the pizza, Doug’s attention flicks to the kitchen counter, and back to Mal’s -- face. Yes. It’s /totally/ his face that the teenager is looking at, and not...well, it’s definitely his /face/. Confusion coats Doug’s expression, and the tennis racket comes all the way down. “You broke into my place for a /snack/?” It’s pure disbelief, and Doug gestures with the tennis racket. “Help yourself,” he says in a baffled sort of tone. “Or would you rather I make you some pancakes and sausage?” For some reason, this offer makes the blonde redden around the ears, and his gaze drops to someplace lower on Mal’s form. Then immediately back up, the red deepening in his features. Doug gets a dismissive, "One night stand gone wrong." One has to wonder just how wrong of a turn it must have taken to necessitate breaking into someone else's apartment as naked as the day you were born. Still, Malcolm refuses to elaborate on the story further, instead eyeing Doug's face, either waiting for the permission to snack or actually observing the owner of the apartment. It may very well be both. Tracking the path of Doug's gaze and watching the other man's features redden, Mal straightens up. It's not the lowered tennis racket that lessens his defensive posture, it turns out, but rather Doug's bashful reaction. The matter of breakfast is put aside for the moment. Instead, Mal chuckles derisively before giddily voicing his realisation, "Wait, are you kidding me? Of all the places I could break into, I break into a queer's place?" On any other day, the slurs would have been worse. Today, this actually entertains the intruder. "/Un-fucking-believable." Casually making his way towards the nigh empty pizza box, Mal remarks dryly, "Pizza will do." As he grabs the pizza, he decides to share more of his story. "Lady upstairs can sense bodies. She can also make you /feel/ things you didn't know you /could/ feel. Best sex I've ever had, man. Problem is, she's not one for one-offs and she gets a /little/ emotional." As he explains his story, he wildly gestures with his hands, wiggling the flaccid tip of the pizza slice in a disturbingly symbolic manner. "And I don't feel like getting lobotomized or some shit." The story sounds ridiculous enough to be true, but who knows? He tears his teeth through the rubbery pizza. With his mouth still full, Mal mutters, "Anyway, got any clothes? Like, underwear, jeans, T-shirt? That would be great." Another cold mouthful of pizza is chomped off. "What's your name? Francis? Scooter? Rudy?" “Are you serious?” Doug’s color returns to normal when Mal moves into the kitchen, and his brow falls into a deep crease. “Did you just call me a queer and then tell me some locker room story like we’re friends?” He follows, the tennis racket raised again, perhaps for delivering The Business. He doesn’t comment when the last piece of stale pizza is stolen; perhaps it’s been licked by cats, or something. There’s a small scrubbing at his face with his free hand, and then Doug makes an exasperated noise. “Who /are/ you, dude? And why did you break into /my/ apartment?” The flapping pizza earns only the faintest of blushes, but the teenager soldiers on. “Not that I’m complaining about waking up to naked men in my place. But ones I don’t know need a bit of qualification, particularly when I wasn’t drinking the night before.” The tennis racket gets another sword-like waggle in the air. “So, spill it, Don Juan, or I’ll give a shout up the fire escape and tell them to let Theresa know where her new /boyfriend/ ended up.” Before the game-changing threat arrives, the newly raised racket is noted dismissively. In fact, Mal makes a point to summon his best unimpressed facial expression, which frankly looks like he's nauseated. This is gradually overridden by a growing smug grin; his amusement eventually overpowers him. Doug taking offence and the demanded introduction both seem to entertain the intruder, brightening up what is otherwise a terrible start to the day. The last slice of pizza is devoured quickly, regardless whether it was tasted by cats before. Although initially shaping his lips to say something, Mal instead stays quiet, savouring Doug's confusion with this whole ordeal. Then the name Theresa is uttered, and Doug finally finds out what can make the dark-haired stranger talk. His amusement vanishes in an instant, and if it weren't for unabashed nudity, the way he stares at Doug might have been more intimidating. "Name's Brady Wilson." The pathological liar has enough fake names thought up to fill a telephone book, but this one is the same one he gave to the woman. The sound of a drawer opening can be heard. "I'm a mutant," he admits. Thin metal drags across an identical surface. A knife slowly floats to Brady's lifted hand, the sharp tip pointing towards Doug. "Your window was open, man." "Now, what you /are/ going to do is go to your dresser and throw me some decent, not-queer clothes to wear. And then I'll be out of your apartment, simple as." Tipping his head to the side, he reconsiders his request. "Do you smoke?" “Big deal.” Doug’s jaw sets when the announcement is made and the knife appears, and his grip on the racket tightens. “You’re not the first mutant I’ve met. If you’re trying to be intimidating, you’ve got a ways to go.” His eyebrows twitch, and he takes a step forward. “Especially with your dick hanging out.” He smirks, and glances down. “I mean, it’s /nice/ and all, but it’s not exactly fear-inducing.” There’s a long moment where the blonde studies the older man’s face, and he narrows one eye. Maybe he’s considering the new plan. “No,” he says to the smoking question -- or maybe it’s just in general. “What /you’re/ going to do is put that knife away, because you don’t want any trouble.” He smiles tightly. “Unlike most of the cops, /I/ have no problems with taking down a naked man, as hard as is necessary.” A pop of eyebrows. “So, maybe you want to think of a better way to ask for help from the occupant in your B&E, and try that.” "Really?" Mal appears genuinely surprised, although his expression downplays just how much. Curiously, he examines the knife floating next to him, as if to make sure it is very much a knife. "It's sharp and everything, y'know?" Still, he doesn't argue much further, politely positioning the knife back in the drawer where it was taken. In truth, of course, that knife had never left the drawer. "Fucking New York, it's either guns or nothing." "Actually," he then argues, "cops /will/ tackle you naked. When you're naked, I mean, not the cops." There should be nary a doubt the man doesn't speak for experience. Placing both hands on his hips, Mal stares at Doug, seemingly at a loss to do, although his gaze might as well suggest him wondering at what angle to throw a punch. It's hard to tell with this man; his nudity and his confident stance may as well suggest he is going to /pounce/ on Doug any moment. He breathes in as an overture to words spoken, but before he can sneak a reply in, there's a muffled knock on the door to Doug's apartment. Malcolm looks in the general direction of the sound, largely unimpressed. There it goes again, ever so persistent - tok tok tok tok. “Actually,” Doug corrects watching the knife slide back into the drawer. “The cop that takes /me/ down is often naked, as well. You know, my /boyfriend/?” The lie is easy enough, faced with an intruder, and is really more of an exaggeration. Still, it’s delivered confidently, and the teenager raises his brow pointedly. At the knocking on the door, he offers a small smirk. “Maybe that’s him, come by for his morning go-to-work fun. Who is it?” He raises his voice to the door, unwilling to turn his back on ‘Brady.’ “Just shout through the door, ‘cause I’ve got my hands full, here.” ‘Brady’ gets another long look. “Or I’m about to.” The knocking ceases for but a moment. Perhaps the person on the other side of the door is about to give up. Truth is, Mal has to pause for a moment as he looks on to Doug in disbelief. The cop comment shoots both of his brows up. Gradually, he's starting to regret breaking into this apartment, and it shows. "Seriously, man? Too much information. /Way/ too much. Keep that shit to yourself." Lifting a hand, he cups his jawline and grinds his palm against his face in exasperation. The knocking against the door continues, rising in intensity. "Your man's pretty aggressive. What's your name, by the way?" His surprise lessens by now, making space for frustration. One might think he is trying to distract the owner of apartment, and they would be right in assuming such. "Maybe we can strike a deal, y'know? You give me clothes, I don't punch your lights out the old-fashioned way and rob you blind. That sort of thing." TOK TOK TOK. “He is,” Doug agrees about his ‘boyfriend’s’ aggression. “He likes what he gets here, and he’s /wicked/ jealous about sharing. In fact, if I don’t open the door, I bet he’ll knock it down.” It’s a contest of who’s the Best Liar, apparently, since he doesn’t move to open the door. In fact, he seems to be /relaxing/ against the counter, bouncing the tennis racket lightly against his shoulder as he regards the frustration building in the other man with amusement. “I have a better deal,” he says. “You stop threatening me in my own house, and /I/ won’t call someone up here who can render you into a drooling pile of meat and bones who can’t even tie his shoes.” There’s no heat in the counter offer (lie), the blonde looking over the naked man pointedly. “Unless you can come up with a...” he smirks, looking back at ‘Brady’s’ face with a pop of eyebrows. “...more /enticing/ offer.” The knocking is ignored, still. Doug is in no hurry to see who’s knocking so aggressively. Further sharing of what Doug's cop friend is like is merely scoffed at, if only because it is information that Mal is unwilling to register. It's not until a counter-offer is suggested that Malcolm finally stirs. Throwing both hands up to gesture to his surroundings, he asks pointedly, "Your own house, huh?" Air ripples around the intruder. Reality itself is torn apart as it is overridden by a sight entirely different. "I don't think so." The apartment shifts to a busy New Yorkian street, some of the passers-by pausing to double-take at the two men - one naked, another almost - while some are actually willing to dismiss the sight. The counter Doug was leaning against is changed for a newspaper stand. Mal seems undaunted - he lowers his hands to his side, taking two steps towards the blonde-haired teenager. "So, what if I threaten you /here/?" The slow shift of reality doesn’t go unnoticed by the teenager. He tenses as the city street appears, and glances around with a bit of self-consciousness as he shifts his weight. Good thing he’s a little smarter than the average joe, or he might be a bit more panicked by this. Once it’s clear that most of the passers-by are going to ignore two naked men in the street (it /is/ New York), Doug’s brow lowers, and he sets his mouth at the other man. “Teleporter, huh? Why didn’t you pop yourself back home?” Wait. /That/ thought snags in his brain, and you can see it work its way through his face. “Waaait a minute....” Once he is asked why he didn't just teleport himself back home, Mal tips his head to the side thoughtfully. "That's a very good point. I'm not a good thinker when naked," he admits. It could be an actual explanation in regards to Doug's inquiry. Truth is, the justification was a mere rhetoric, one that Mal aimed at himself. By far not the first time, the man silently advises himself to think through his illusions first. Car alarms go wild. The ground cracks and asphalt shoots up, sending the vehicles into the air before toppling over. Windows of buildings begin to burst and shatter one after another. A handful of individuals among the streaming crowd shriek in terror. Reality tumbles into incomprehensible chaos, and the reason for this is simple - diversion. Mal charges at Doug, extending both hands to hopefully push him aside and make way for Mal - or Brady, as he introduced himself. When the world begins to destabilize around him, Doug is indeed distracted. The tennis racket is raised defensively, although what good it’ll do against flying cars and cracking pavement is uncertain. “What the fuck?” is about the best vocalization he can offer before Brady is flying at him, and he takes the full weight of the older man, stumbling backwards with a startled exclamation. It might be instinct that tells him to drop the racket and latch onto the other man’s arms as he tumbles backwards. Maybe he’s taking ADVANTAGE of the situation. But he does tumble backwards, attempting to haul Brady over his body while driving a well-placed soccer kick at what is called a taint on the street. If it connects, perhaps it’ll stun him long enough for the teenager to get the upper hand again. If he ever had it to begin with. Although it is not yet in view, Mal aims to sprint towards the general direction of the open window. It is where he keeps his sights, too, even if this particular illusion is devoid of it. That is why he completely misses Doug snatching up his arm and pulling him to the side of the intended path, causing him to lose his balance and stumble awkwardly towards Doug. In a way, it's not exactly a smart idea, because Mal uses this newly gained momentum to fling a punch at Doug's solar plexus. Despite the strength and precision with which it is thrown, the owner of this attack is unfortunately not there to admire (or be dismayed by) the result, because Doug's own attack comes, and it goes for an area surprisingly more sensitive and vulnerable than the celiac plexus. Ow. "Oh, /fuck/," he wheezes. Digits drag against Doug's body should he be nearby, but in either case Mal ultimately collapses to the ground, which happens to be not the cracked asphalt, but the floor in Doug's apartment. The kick dispels the illusion, fortunately. "Come on, man, being a /faggot/ is n-not an excuse for this," he forces the words, hissing through gritted teeth as he writhes on the ground, trying to regain his composure amidst pain. Doug does his own bit of wheezing, the punch to the solar plexus driving the air from his lungs even as his foot makes connection. So the result is a sort of sprawl of nakedness; ordinarily something that’s a bit more fun, under normal circumstances. “Didn’t do it ‘cause I was a fag,” he chokes out in a snarl, rolling to his knees and dog-walking over to the writhing man. “Did /that/ ‘cause you’re a sneaky asshole.” He lifts a fist, and narrows his eyes at the older man. “/This/ one is fighting like a faggot,” he clarifies. And he drives his fist into the meat of that writhing curl, back at the already wounded area, intending to further the man’s discomfort. If Mal had any doubt before, it is now officially settled - this is the worst start to a day he has had yet. One hand leaves the pain-ridden crotch to land firmly onto the ground for much needed support. Nude hairy legs wriggle and kick about ineffectively as the intruder scrambles to at least raise his upper torso, which he fortunately succeeds. Talking is a bit difficult, at the moment, so Mal's snark is currently absent. That means more effort put into the physical side of things. Planting his nude tush on the floor, Malcolm uses this newfound support to intercept the incoming low blow, shifting himself to kick Doug in the chest and - hopefully - knock him back. Even this attempt is not accompanied by insults, surprisingly; most of vocalisations on Mal's side of things are grunts and huffs. Doug catches the foot in his chest with a whuffing sound, and he rolls to his side, coming down hard on the floor with a visible wince. There might be some attempt on vocalization on his part, only it comes out as a series of wheezes. Still, he’s not so out of air that he’s going to let Brady get the advantage. He reaches -- clutches -- at the non-kicking hairy nude leg, attempting to lock his fingers around the man’s ankle and haul him closer. Or maybe to use Brady as an anchor to haul /himself/ closer. That seems more likely, as he other hand seeks similar purchase as he wriggles himself across the floor. Again, there could be a threat being vocalized, but it is merely wheezes as Doug GLARES at the older man. He is so dead. Indeed, Doug is the one who arrives to Mal, rather than the other way around, because the stubborn intruder desperately hangs on to his position. Adrenaline brews inside of him as he stares daggers right back up at Doug. There is a momentary pause as he breathes in deeply and exhales calmly afterwards, indulging in a staredown. Finally, his snark arrives. "You chose the wrong man to kick in the balls, pal." Playful and manipulative illusions are forsaken. A palm unravels, and fire spills forth from it, one thick wave upon another thick wave of flames streaming towards Doug. It's heat combined with pain-- It is perhaps not the most accurate representation of being burnt alive, but authenticity is believable enough, especially considering Mal brushed his shoulders with fire before. That is perhaps why intense heat is more pressing than pain, although the latter would be more the appropriate nerves just freaking out and stinging their owner. “You...” Doug’s breath finally resettles, and he forces the words out much like Brady did earlier, grinding them out through his teeth as he pulls himself closer, using his weight to try and pin the man’s leg. “Picked the wrong apartment to break in.” Then there is fire, and heat, and Doug actually makes a shout of mingled fear and pain, pulling back from the older man just a bit, and closing his eye against the blast of fire. “Oh, you fucking...” he manages, although it’s yelled even as he lets go and starts to scramble back, wiping at his face and batting at his hair -- just in case. The stream of the fire does not live for very long, even if it lingers on Doug a while. It is admittedly hard to focus when you've been kicked in that sensitive area below the belt. Still, Malcolm scrambles hastily to get to his feet. While on the ground, it may have seemed to him that he's recovered, but once his weight is put back on his feet, that's when he is sorely reminded that recovering from such a hit is not as easy, yet he falls prey to the opposite assumption time and time again. The realisation is momentary. Pain worsens when he begins to sprint, and it is at this point that the dancing and admittedly painful flames enveloping Doug's upper torso fizzle into, well, nothingness. There is an awkward echo of the heat and pain, like the fresh memory of a dream right after waking. The naked intruder is hazily sprinting towards the window where he came from, intending to end this adventure as spontaneously as it had started, essentially aiming to toss his weight through the window. There’s a fair amount of cursing mixed in with Doug’s mutterings and yelps as he bats at the flames. Brady’s escape is not unobserved, but it’s not until the flames actually flicker and die out that he tries to do anything about it. “Fucking kill you,” he growls, trying to roll to his feet before the other man can make good his escape. His body doesn’t seem to want to comply, though. Slam. God, that sounds painful. For a short while, it actually is, even if the sudden pain and the loss of breath are followed by a lingering unpleasant throbbing sensation. He summons what little concentration he has left while writhing on the cold steel ground of the fire escape, shrouding himself in invisibility. In a distressed state such as this one, it's the equivalent of holding his breath after punched in the gut - an increasingly uncomfortable affair that cannot last very long, but hopefully long enough. Nullifying the sounds of him rising, his invisible hands take a hold of the railing. It is difficult to move around when you don't see yourself, and even repeated practice did not make that much easier. The invisible naked man slowly moves to climb further down the fire escape, continuing his terrible morning and his currently fruitless quest to acquire clothing and a sound escape.